Merlin: After the Fires
Title: “After the Fires”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: PG
Timeline: hypothetically post-series 3 [spoilers for all aired episodes]
Summary: “They took turns at not noticing. It was Merlin’s turn.” Finding out about Merlin’s magic was one thing. Coping with it - now that’s something Arthur isn’t entirely sure he can manage.
Disclaimer: Merlin belongs to Shine and BBC.
A/N: Blame the occasionally weird and choppy style on my reading too much of Annie Proulx. And yes, this is my first normal story in what, 4-5 months? Aren’t we all proud of me?
AFTER THE FIRES
Arthur thought he knew.
Thought he knew what he knew. Or maybe he didn’t. But for Merlin to be something more than Merlin was like Arthur being something less than Arthur.
And Arthur chose the easy way out. He refused to believe it.
* * *
Merlin wanted to tell him, but the fear was written into him like detestation for magic was written into Arthur. Arthur already claimed to think Merlin was an idiot; having the prince detest him would be too much.
Merlin had a little control over fire. He could hold it in his open palm like a tremulous bird. But the fire at his execution would be too strong to hold off.
* * *
Some days that half-knowledge got too big, obscuring the kingdom, obscuring father, Gwen, everything. On days like that Arthur would almost ask the question, but words failed him. Really, what would he ask? Are you a sorcerer? Do you use magic? Have you been lying to me?
The problem was, he didn’t need to ask. He knew Merlin had been lying. Worst of all, he would have done the same.
* * *
Some days Merlin just wanted to talk. About magic, about Will, Freya, Morgana, about everything. He asked himself if things would have been different if he had revealed himself to Morgana. They could have been friends, but they weren’t.
* * *
Arthur put two and two together a thousand times over, so that the score was now going on bloody millions. There were the little things: a hole in his shirt, but no wound on his body; shady fragments of memories that felt like dreams; that he should be aided by Strength and Magic, but Gwaine possessed no magic, of that Arthur was intrinsically sure. The fights, the spirit, the-
Merlin was busy keeping his secret, while Arthur was struggling to figure out what to do with his.
* * *
“If you had something to tell me, would you?”
“Would I what?”
“Tell me.”
Merlin wrenched out a smile.
“I told you a secret.”
“Oh yeah?” Another smile. “When was that?”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “About my feelings for Guinevere, you dimwit.”
“Oh, that was a secret?” Merlin ducked in time to avoid a boot flying in the general direction of his head. “Anyhow, you didn’t tell me, I figured it out.”
Dimples in the corners of his mouth when he smiled. An open book written in a language Arthur could not read.
* * *
Arthur gave in once. Sent Merlin away with some ridiculous assignment - and then followed him, feeling miserable, feeling stupid.
Nothing happened.
Arthur waited. Started locking doors and hiding keys, hoping to catch Merlin using some silly little spell to open them. Started hiding things and berating Merlin for it, hoping to see him searching with magic.
Arthur remembered he hadn’t spoken a word to Gwen for days, and reminded himself that he was in love with her, not with Merlin’s stupid, non-existent magic.
* * *
Once Merlin wondered if Arthur actually knew. If by some miracle the fire would not rise to the sky, devouring his body, because Arthur would not open his mouth and the words, “My manservant is a sorcerer, arrest him!” would not ring through the stone halls of the castle.
The thought dribbled down through the roof of his mouth, leaving a spicy tang of excitement bubbling in his throat.
He considered telling Gaius, but Gaius had a story to tell while they were sorting herbs, and the story reeked of the charred flesh of another person burnt for sorcery in Camelot.
Merlin looked away from the candle.
* * *
Arthur did something he had never done with his knights. He surrendered.
When he surrendered, it finally came to pass.
It was almost nothing. A candlelight dancing between Merlin’s fingers, descending gently upon the wicks and igniting them. By the time Arthur entered the room, Merlin had already finished.
Arthur saw everything.
He didn’t say a word. His mouth was dry as a desert. He dismissed Merlin with a casual gesture and couldn’t sleep all night.
* * *
“You know, your village,” Arthur said, rolling a loaf of bread across his plate, “is technically under Cenred’s rule.”
“Mhmm,” Merlin said, cleaning up.
“So in theory, say there was a magic-user there-.”
“There are good people in Ealdor,” said Merlin, a bit of steel in his voice.
“But there was a magic-user there,” Arthur pressed, gently. “That friend of yours, what’s his name?” He remembered. The man had saved his life after all.
“Will,” Merlin said, eyes damp and glimmering.
Arthur nodded to himself. “Good man.” As if magic and goodness could go together.
* * *
They took turns at not noticing. It was Merlin’s turn. He couldn’t help but wonder what all the looks meant. He watched Arthur back with red, sleepless eyes, noticed his frightening, feverish attention - and couldn’t place it.
Things carried on in the same fashion, stale, peculiar.
* * *
Sunlight washed into the room. Merlin was heating bathwater and smiling, babbling something.
I give up, Arthur spat. Cold settled against his skin. He had seen Merlin with the dragon. The dragon that he, Prince Arthur, had supposedly slain.
Merlin stood straight, looking alert, as if waiting for the you-are-the-worst-servant-I’ve-ever-had lecture. He was ridiculous with his big ears and his smiling eyes and his magic.
Arthur swallowed back every word.
* * *
Merlin enjoyed saving Arthur even if he couldn’t openly boast about it. But the knowledge was there, and Arthur was too proud to knowingly want to be rescued by magic anyway.
Merlin noticed that lately the prince was looking at him with the mixture of curiosity and exasperation. Almost as if… A touch of taciturn, unspoken gratitude sharpened the feeling, made it heavier.
Merlin fought back a hot pang inside.
* * *
Arthur hadn’t thought about Gwen for weeks. Hadn’t thought of anything. Had been drilling Merlin with wild, pleading eyes. Tell me.
The castle closed in on them like a cold sack of stone. Light struggled through the shutters, catching on splinters.
Merlin was silent as a grave.
* * *
Then, one day:
“I never asked you…” Merlin faltered. “What’s your personal stand on magic?”
Arthur would have said: magic is evil.
“I just don’t think…” Merlin looked away, flustered. There had been another fire.
Arthur snorted irritably like a horse.
“Care to talk about obvious things? The grass is green, the sky is blue, you’re a sorcerer.” Wanted to say, “a liar”. “Happy?”
Merlin blinked, a picture of childlike confusion.
Mouth twisted, “How long?” like it pained him to swallow.
“A while.” Arthur shrugged. Added hotly: “Did you honestly think I wouldn’t notice?”
Merlin bit the inside of his cheek. “You didn’t. The first couple of years anyway.”
Arthur’s breath came out in a short gasp. “Get out of my sight. I can’t stand liars.”
“I didn’t lie to you-.”
“By omission, then!” An unpleasant conversation. Arthur thought he could use a drink. Merlin continued shifting his weight, looking too guilty for his own sake. “It’s bad enough we’re in this together now,” Arthur huffed.
“Are we?” Merlin moulded a weak smile on his badly bitten lips. “I told you the truth once. In front of everyone. You thought I was covering Gwen.”
“Weren’t you?”
“I was, but that’s not the point!”
Arthur slammed his first into the table-top. Wanted to kick the table over and walk away, but Merlin fixed him with his ludicrously hopeful eyes.
“There’s a thing,” Arthur said, his annoyance waning, sinking into him like lead. “I won’t tell anyone and I’m not sacking you, but that’s as far as it goes. Keep your magic away from me. And if you get caught, I don’t know anything.”
* * *
“He hates me.” Merlin banged his head against the table-top like he had been doing non-stop for the past ten minutes.
“He does not,” reasoned Gaius.
Days went by. Arthur remained frozen in his realisation, doing nothing.
“He’s too lazy to look for another servant, that’s why he’s not banishing me or something.”
Gaius patted the back of Merlin’s head where the hair stuck up in a funny way.
“You know him too well to consider this.”
* * *
Magic was everywhere. Fragments of Merlin embedded into every waking hour were making their way underneath Arthur’s eyelids come night.
Once he caught Merlin cleaning his helmet - or rather, Merlin was hastily swallowing the remains of his breakfast and the brush was sliding up and down the item of its own accord.
Arthur yelled at him for that.
“So you’re still mad,” Merlin deduced, having daydreamed through the angry tirade.
“Damn right I am mad! I told you to keep it away from me.”
Merlin scowled. Idiot, happy-go-lucky, worst-servant-he’s-ever-had Merlin.
“Are you mad because I didn’t tell you or because I have… it? Because if that’s the case, I’ll have you know I didn’t ask for this. It’s the way I was born, and I’m not going to apologise for it!”
Merlin was yelling now, eyes radiant and furious. Arthur shrugged, coolly.
“It makes my job easier, though,” chuckled Merlin.
Arthur threw the brush at him and hit him on the forehead.
“Your job isn’t supposed to be easy.”
* * *
“Who else knows?”
Merlin was inescapable. Arthur had managed to go some time without talking to him, but his thoughts wheeled back to that magic thing every time the insufferable manservant was in his field of vision.
“Gaius,” Merlin said, taking Arthur’s armour off piece by piece. Off came the bracers and the gardbrace. The hauberk jingled up, the sound too noisy at the backdrop of the evening tranquility.
“Obviously.”
The jacket came off next, and the shirt traveled down the prince’s body oddly slowly. Arthur tensed.
“Lancelot,” Merlin whispered, a touch of finality in his voice.
“What!?” It came out louder, more emotional than Arthur had planned. Merlin’s jerky breath ghosted between his shoulderblades. “How the hell does he know before me?”
Arthur shut out the useless stream of “it just happened, okay?” and “I know you don’t want to talk about it, so why are we talking about it?” He wondered vaguely if Gwen knew. He hesitated to ask because he didn’t want to regard her as a stranger as well. Instead, when Merlin threw a clean shirt around his shoulders, he took a breath and muttered, “Morgana?”
“No.” The word was quiet and ice-flavoured.
“Did you know… about her?”
“Yes.”
Arthur didn’t ask him why he hadn’t told him. He simply pretended Merlin wasn’t there, and soon, he wasn’t.
* * *
Perhaps his father was generally right about magic. It drove people mad. At least that would explain why Merlin was holding him locked up in some ancient cell underneath Camelot.
“This is not funny,” Arthur bristled. “I’m still your prince, I’ll have you in stocks for this.”
“Been there, done that.” Merlin’s bony shoulders jerked up in a ragged shrug beneath the frayed fabric of his shirt. He was blocking the door, arms folded over his chest, a tiny stain of coated blood on his lip where Arthur had temperamentally hit him once he found out there was no opening the door, as it was held shut by magic.
Arthur shook his head. “You can’t do this forever.”
“No. But I’m getting something out of it. At the very least, a thank you.”
Arthur leaned against the wall, roughly, twitching as if the contact with stone had sent a jolt through his body. He mimicked Merlin’s posture; only it made him look even more weary and irritated, whereas Merlin, with all his sharp lines and angles, managed to look imposing. Arthur listened to him come clean, listing all the times that something inexplicable had happened and he had been behind it (like Valiant’s shield, or that strange old sorcerer that had taken the blame for Arthur having supposedly been enchanted by Gwen, or the strange fire that had let them escape from the slave-trader). There must have been much more of that really. Arthur wondered how many things were left unsaid for noble reasons. The thought that they had almost executed Merlin once suddenly sickened him.
“What about the dragon?” Spot-on. “Don’t look so surprised. I know he’s alive.”
Merlin very nearly flinched. “I may be… a Dragonlord on top of all.” Arthur laughed curtly, venomously. Merlin sounded defensive, voice brittle. “I wasn’t always. Not before Balinor.”
“Big help it was.”
“It was. Dragonlords’ powers are passed down from father to son. Through death.”
Arthur glanced up, and shut his mouth so quickly that his jaws mashed against each other in an almost painful way. He felt like biting his tongue off.
“I’m sorry.” He meant it, but he wasn’t sure it sounded sincere. He wasn’t sure of anything.
He slid down on the floor, getting dust all over his clothes. Merlin joined him. He smiled, a small, trembling smile that took ages to come up.
Arthur still couldn’t wrap his mind around any of this.
“I can’t even throw a pillow at you,” he said, “because you’ll deflect it by magic.” It sounded like an accusation.
Merlin stared at him and broke out laughing. Arthur poked him in the ribs to curb that uncalled for outburst of merriment.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Merlin promised.
“Can you make me forget?” His heart leapt at the thought.
Merlin’s face darkened. “I don’t think I can.” A breathless pause. “Do you want me to?”
Arthur stared decidedly at the flickering candle. No, he didn’t think he wanted that.
“How can I, Merlin?” he muttered. “How can I accept it after-?”
Morgana, was left suspended in the air. Merlin understood. He flicked his fingers and the barred door cracked open. Finally. Arthur got up and walked towards it and then made a mistake of briefly looking back over his shoulder.
Three long pale orange tongues of flame were flitting a few inches above the candle-sticks, guided by the slow, deliberate movement of Merlin’s fingers. It was a parlour trick compared to what Merlin could supposedly perform, yet Arthur found himself unable to look away.
“I do that sometimes,” Merlin murmured, apologetically. “When I feel like this. My mother would get really upset. She said I was special, but I shouldn’t tell anyone.”
Must have been lonely, thought Arthur despite himself. Little flickering fires danced around Merlin’s hand, warm and inviting and deceptively innocuous. Arthur waited for Merlin to ask if he wanted him to leave Camelot. After a few minutes of pregnant silence, the prince walked up to him and lowered himself on the ground with a quiet, defeated sigh. The little lights died, pouring sparks all over the floor.
Arthur imagined he was a child, unburdened by conditionalities, wanting to see more magic tricks.
“Do it again,” he asked simply.
Merlin grinned. He didn’t have to be asked twice. He whispered something into his fist and when he opened it, there was fire burning right in the middle of his palm.
Arthur stared.
It was innocent. Nothing of the dangerous craft that would sow evil in the hearts of men. Just the purity of fire clasped in his friend’s hand. He would take it slow. Baby steps.
* * *
They walked back slowly, Arthur looking studiously at the small burn on his finger, the result of his trying to touch the fire flaring on Merlin’s palm. It’s still fire, Merlin had chuckled.
Maybe just this once things would turn out all right. There was still much to discuss, Morgana and Kilgarrah included, but not right now.
“I hereby promise not to deflect pillows or anything you throw at me,” Merlin droned, trying to sound solemn and failing miserably. “Unless it’s potentially life-threatening.”
“When I’m king,” Arthur said pointedly, “I might make you my court wizard.” Merlin grimaced, unable to figure out if Arthur was joking or not. “You’d look great in a star-embroidered robe and a pointy hat.”
Okay, he was joking. Definitely joking. Merlin cringed.
“In the meantime,” the prince went on, “you are still my servant and my armour still needs cleaning.” He allowed himself a small, innocent smile. “Well, get to it!”
Merlin darted up the stairs, snorting with laughter, dropping a squeal of, “yes, sire!” in his wake. As far as Arthur’s coping mechanisms went, this was not the worst.
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: PG
Timeline: hypothetically post-series 3 [spoilers for all aired episodes]
Summary: “They took turns at not noticing. It was Merlin’s turn.” Finding out about Merlin’s magic was one thing. Coping with it - now that’s something Arthur isn’t entirely sure he can manage.
Disclaimer: Merlin belongs to Shine and BBC.
A/N: Blame the occasionally weird and choppy style on my reading too much of Annie Proulx. And yes, this is my first normal story in what, 4-5 months? Aren’t we all proud of me?
AFTER THE FIRES
Arthur thought he knew.
Thought he knew what he knew. Or maybe he didn’t. But for Merlin to be something more than Merlin was like Arthur being something less than Arthur.
And Arthur chose the easy way out. He refused to believe it.
* * *
Merlin wanted to tell him, but the fear was written into him like detestation for magic was written into Arthur. Arthur already claimed to think Merlin was an idiot; having the prince detest him would be too much.
Merlin had a little control over fire. He could hold it in his open palm like a tremulous bird. But the fire at his execution would be too strong to hold off.
* * *
Some days that half-knowledge got too big, obscuring the kingdom, obscuring father, Gwen, everything. On days like that Arthur would almost ask the question, but words failed him. Really, what would he ask? Are you a sorcerer? Do you use magic? Have you been lying to me?
The problem was, he didn’t need to ask. He knew Merlin had been lying. Worst of all, he would have done the same.
* * *
Some days Merlin just wanted to talk. About magic, about Will, Freya, Morgana, about everything. He asked himself if things would have been different if he had revealed himself to Morgana. They could have been friends, but they weren’t.
* * *
Arthur put two and two together a thousand times over, so that the score was now going on bloody millions. There were the little things: a hole in his shirt, but no wound on his body; shady fragments of memories that felt like dreams; that he should be aided by Strength and Magic, but Gwaine possessed no magic, of that Arthur was intrinsically sure. The fights, the spirit, the-
Merlin was busy keeping his secret, while Arthur was struggling to figure out what to do with his.
* * *
“If you had something to tell me, would you?”
“Would I what?”
“Tell me.”
Merlin wrenched out a smile.
“I told you a secret.”
“Oh yeah?” Another smile. “When was that?”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “About my feelings for Guinevere, you dimwit.”
“Oh, that was a secret?” Merlin ducked in time to avoid a boot flying in the general direction of his head. “Anyhow, you didn’t tell me, I figured it out.”
Dimples in the corners of his mouth when he smiled. An open book written in a language Arthur could not read.
* * *
Arthur gave in once. Sent Merlin away with some ridiculous assignment - and then followed him, feeling miserable, feeling stupid.
Nothing happened.
Arthur waited. Started locking doors and hiding keys, hoping to catch Merlin using some silly little spell to open them. Started hiding things and berating Merlin for it, hoping to see him searching with magic.
Arthur remembered he hadn’t spoken a word to Gwen for days, and reminded himself that he was in love with her, not with Merlin’s stupid, non-existent magic.
* * *
Once Merlin wondered if Arthur actually knew. If by some miracle the fire would not rise to the sky, devouring his body, because Arthur would not open his mouth and the words, “My manservant is a sorcerer, arrest him!” would not ring through the stone halls of the castle.
The thought dribbled down through the roof of his mouth, leaving a spicy tang of excitement bubbling in his throat.
He considered telling Gaius, but Gaius had a story to tell while they were sorting herbs, and the story reeked of the charred flesh of another person burnt for sorcery in Camelot.
Merlin looked away from the candle.
* * *
Arthur did something he had never done with his knights. He surrendered.
When he surrendered, it finally came to pass.
It was almost nothing. A candlelight dancing between Merlin’s fingers, descending gently upon the wicks and igniting them. By the time Arthur entered the room, Merlin had already finished.
Arthur saw everything.
He didn’t say a word. His mouth was dry as a desert. He dismissed Merlin with a casual gesture and couldn’t sleep all night.
* * *
“You know, your village,” Arthur said, rolling a loaf of bread across his plate, “is technically under Cenred’s rule.”
“Mhmm,” Merlin said, cleaning up.
“So in theory, say there was a magic-user there-.”
“There are good people in Ealdor,” said Merlin, a bit of steel in his voice.
“But there was a magic-user there,” Arthur pressed, gently. “That friend of yours, what’s his name?” He remembered. The man had saved his life after all.
“Will,” Merlin said, eyes damp and glimmering.
Arthur nodded to himself. “Good man.” As if magic and goodness could go together.
* * *
They took turns at not noticing. It was Merlin’s turn. He couldn’t help but wonder what all the looks meant. He watched Arthur back with red, sleepless eyes, noticed his frightening, feverish attention - and couldn’t place it.
Things carried on in the same fashion, stale, peculiar.
* * *
Sunlight washed into the room. Merlin was heating bathwater and smiling, babbling something.
I give up, Arthur spat. Cold settled against his skin. He had seen Merlin with the dragon. The dragon that he, Prince Arthur, had supposedly slain.
Merlin stood straight, looking alert, as if waiting for the you-are-the-worst-servant-I’ve-ever-had lecture. He was ridiculous with his big ears and his smiling eyes and his magic.
Arthur swallowed back every word.
* * *
Merlin enjoyed saving Arthur even if he couldn’t openly boast about it. But the knowledge was there, and Arthur was too proud to knowingly want to be rescued by magic anyway.
Merlin noticed that lately the prince was looking at him with the mixture of curiosity and exasperation. Almost as if… A touch of taciturn, unspoken gratitude sharpened the feeling, made it heavier.
Merlin fought back a hot pang inside.
* * *
Arthur hadn’t thought about Gwen for weeks. Hadn’t thought of anything. Had been drilling Merlin with wild, pleading eyes. Tell me.
The castle closed in on them like a cold sack of stone. Light struggled through the shutters, catching on splinters.
Merlin was silent as a grave.
* * *
Then, one day:
“I never asked you…” Merlin faltered. “What’s your personal stand on magic?”
Arthur would have said: magic is evil.
“I just don’t think…” Merlin looked away, flustered. There had been another fire.
Arthur snorted irritably like a horse.
“Care to talk about obvious things? The grass is green, the sky is blue, you’re a sorcerer.” Wanted to say, “a liar”. “Happy?”
Merlin blinked, a picture of childlike confusion.
Mouth twisted, “How long?” like it pained him to swallow.
“A while.” Arthur shrugged. Added hotly: “Did you honestly think I wouldn’t notice?”
Merlin bit the inside of his cheek. “You didn’t. The first couple of years anyway.”
Arthur’s breath came out in a short gasp. “Get out of my sight. I can’t stand liars.”
“I didn’t lie to you-.”
“By omission, then!” An unpleasant conversation. Arthur thought he could use a drink. Merlin continued shifting his weight, looking too guilty for his own sake. “It’s bad enough we’re in this together now,” Arthur huffed.
“Are we?” Merlin moulded a weak smile on his badly bitten lips. “I told you the truth once. In front of everyone. You thought I was covering Gwen.”
“Weren’t you?”
“I was, but that’s not the point!”
Arthur slammed his first into the table-top. Wanted to kick the table over and walk away, but Merlin fixed him with his ludicrously hopeful eyes.
“There’s a thing,” Arthur said, his annoyance waning, sinking into him like lead. “I won’t tell anyone and I’m not sacking you, but that’s as far as it goes. Keep your magic away from me. And if you get caught, I don’t know anything.”
* * *
“He hates me.” Merlin banged his head against the table-top like he had been doing non-stop for the past ten minutes.
“He does not,” reasoned Gaius.
Days went by. Arthur remained frozen in his realisation, doing nothing.
“He’s too lazy to look for another servant, that’s why he’s not banishing me or something.”
Gaius patted the back of Merlin’s head where the hair stuck up in a funny way.
“You know him too well to consider this.”
* * *
Magic was everywhere. Fragments of Merlin embedded into every waking hour were making their way underneath Arthur’s eyelids come night.
Once he caught Merlin cleaning his helmet - or rather, Merlin was hastily swallowing the remains of his breakfast and the brush was sliding up and down the item of its own accord.
Arthur yelled at him for that.
“So you’re still mad,” Merlin deduced, having daydreamed through the angry tirade.
“Damn right I am mad! I told you to keep it away from me.”
Merlin scowled. Idiot, happy-go-lucky, worst-servant-he’s-ever-had Merlin.
“Are you mad because I didn’t tell you or because I have… it? Because if that’s the case, I’ll have you know I didn’t ask for this. It’s the way I was born, and I’m not going to apologise for it!”
Merlin was yelling now, eyes radiant and furious. Arthur shrugged, coolly.
“It makes my job easier, though,” chuckled Merlin.
Arthur threw the brush at him and hit him on the forehead.
“Your job isn’t supposed to be easy.”
* * *
“Who else knows?”
Merlin was inescapable. Arthur had managed to go some time without talking to him, but his thoughts wheeled back to that magic thing every time the insufferable manservant was in his field of vision.
“Gaius,” Merlin said, taking Arthur’s armour off piece by piece. Off came the bracers and the gardbrace. The hauberk jingled up, the sound too noisy at the backdrop of the evening tranquility.
“Obviously.”
The jacket came off next, and the shirt traveled down the prince’s body oddly slowly. Arthur tensed.
“Lancelot,” Merlin whispered, a touch of finality in his voice.
“What!?” It came out louder, more emotional than Arthur had planned. Merlin’s jerky breath ghosted between his shoulderblades. “How the hell does he know before me?”
Arthur shut out the useless stream of “it just happened, okay?” and “I know you don’t want to talk about it, so why are we talking about it?” He wondered vaguely if Gwen knew. He hesitated to ask because he didn’t want to regard her as a stranger as well. Instead, when Merlin threw a clean shirt around his shoulders, he took a breath and muttered, “Morgana?”
“No.” The word was quiet and ice-flavoured.
“Did you know… about her?”
“Yes.”
Arthur didn’t ask him why he hadn’t told him. He simply pretended Merlin wasn’t there, and soon, he wasn’t.
* * *
Perhaps his father was generally right about magic. It drove people mad. At least that would explain why Merlin was holding him locked up in some ancient cell underneath Camelot.
“This is not funny,” Arthur bristled. “I’m still your prince, I’ll have you in stocks for this.”
“Been there, done that.” Merlin’s bony shoulders jerked up in a ragged shrug beneath the frayed fabric of his shirt. He was blocking the door, arms folded over his chest, a tiny stain of coated blood on his lip where Arthur had temperamentally hit him once he found out there was no opening the door, as it was held shut by magic.
Arthur shook his head. “You can’t do this forever.”
“No. But I’m getting something out of it. At the very least, a thank you.”
Arthur leaned against the wall, roughly, twitching as if the contact with stone had sent a jolt through his body. He mimicked Merlin’s posture; only it made him look even more weary and irritated, whereas Merlin, with all his sharp lines and angles, managed to look imposing. Arthur listened to him come clean, listing all the times that something inexplicable had happened and he had been behind it (like Valiant’s shield, or that strange old sorcerer that had taken the blame for Arthur having supposedly been enchanted by Gwen, or the strange fire that had let them escape from the slave-trader). There must have been much more of that really. Arthur wondered how many things were left unsaid for noble reasons. The thought that they had almost executed Merlin once suddenly sickened him.
“What about the dragon?” Spot-on. “Don’t look so surprised. I know he’s alive.”
Merlin very nearly flinched. “I may be… a Dragonlord on top of all.” Arthur laughed curtly, venomously. Merlin sounded defensive, voice brittle. “I wasn’t always. Not before Balinor.”
“Big help it was.”
“It was. Dragonlords’ powers are passed down from father to son. Through death.”
Arthur glanced up, and shut his mouth so quickly that his jaws mashed against each other in an almost painful way. He felt like biting his tongue off.
“I’m sorry.” He meant it, but he wasn’t sure it sounded sincere. He wasn’t sure of anything.
He slid down on the floor, getting dust all over his clothes. Merlin joined him. He smiled, a small, trembling smile that took ages to come up.
Arthur still couldn’t wrap his mind around any of this.
“I can’t even throw a pillow at you,” he said, “because you’ll deflect it by magic.” It sounded like an accusation.
Merlin stared at him and broke out laughing. Arthur poked him in the ribs to curb that uncalled for outburst of merriment.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Merlin promised.
“Can you make me forget?” His heart leapt at the thought.
Merlin’s face darkened. “I don’t think I can.” A breathless pause. “Do you want me to?”
Arthur stared decidedly at the flickering candle. No, he didn’t think he wanted that.
“How can I, Merlin?” he muttered. “How can I accept it after-?”
Morgana, was left suspended in the air. Merlin understood. He flicked his fingers and the barred door cracked open. Finally. Arthur got up and walked towards it and then made a mistake of briefly looking back over his shoulder.
Three long pale orange tongues of flame were flitting a few inches above the candle-sticks, guided by the slow, deliberate movement of Merlin’s fingers. It was a parlour trick compared to what Merlin could supposedly perform, yet Arthur found himself unable to look away.
“I do that sometimes,” Merlin murmured, apologetically. “When I feel like this. My mother would get really upset. She said I was special, but I shouldn’t tell anyone.”
Must have been lonely, thought Arthur despite himself. Little flickering fires danced around Merlin’s hand, warm and inviting and deceptively innocuous. Arthur waited for Merlin to ask if he wanted him to leave Camelot. After a few minutes of pregnant silence, the prince walked up to him and lowered himself on the ground with a quiet, defeated sigh. The little lights died, pouring sparks all over the floor.
Arthur imagined he was a child, unburdened by conditionalities, wanting to see more magic tricks.
“Do it again,” he asked simply.
Merlin grinned. He didn’t have to be asked twice. He whispered something into his fist and when he opened it, there was fire burning right in the middle of his palm.
Arthur stared.
It was innocent. Nothing of the dangerous craft that would sow evil in the hearts of men. Just the purity of fire clasped in his friend’s hand. He would take it slow. Baby steps.
* * *
They walked back slowly, Arthur looking studiously at the small burn on his finger, the result of his trying to touch the fire flaring on Merlin’s palm. It’s still fire, Merlin had chuckled.
Maybe just this once things would turn out all right. There was still much to discuss, Morgana and Kilgarrah included, but not right now.
“I hereby promise not to deflect pillows or anything you throw at me,” Merlin droned, trying to sound solemn and failing miserably. “Unless it’s potentially life-threatening.”
“When I’m king,” Arthur said pointedly, “I might make you my court wizard.” Merlin grimaced, unable to figure out if Arthur was joking or not. “You’d look great in a star-embroidered robe and a pointy hat.”
Okay, he was joking. Definitely joking. Merlin cringed.
“In the meantime,” the prince went on, “you are still my servant and my armour still needs cleaning.” He allowed himself a small, innocent smile. “Well, get to it!”
Merlin darted up the stairs, snorting with laughter, dropping a squeal of, “yes, sire!” in his wake. As far as Arthur’s coping mechanisms went, this was not the worst.