World Shaking Down (Part 2/?)
Title: World Shaking Down (Part 2/?)
Author: talesofyesac
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Merlin, Arthur (gen)
Word Count: 4,891
Warnings: Some violence and eventual character death (minor character). Also, spoilers for 2x13 and anything before that.
Summary: You can't save the dying with words... and, yet, Balinor is still breathing. Arthur would know. He saw it. All of it. Including the part where Merlin did magic.
Disclaimer: Nope, don't own any of it. Just playing around.
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There is blue. It smears over above him, swirling with white-or the white swirls with the blue. Something. It does… something, running all together when Merlin’s vision shifts, dizzy, and he blinks slowly, trying to bring things back into clarity. Unfortunately, he has only limited success at first: one blink, then another, then somewhere half a minute later, he does at least bring himself around far enough to realize that the swirling colors are the sky and the clouds in it, rushed along across the horizon by the wind.
Of course, then reality chooses right then to smack him-no reason for that particular moment, really, but still a short, sharp shock regardless of timing.
What has he done?
He-oh, he’s just-and-
Jerking upright, he promptly bends right back over and retches everything he’d had for breakfast back up into the dirt beside him. It’s a terrible feeling, like he can’t breathe; his eyes tear up as he gasps for air and grabs at the ground as best he can to steady himself.
The end result is dirt ground into his palms, the knees of his trousers soaked through by the dampness of the earth, and the feeling that what just happened with Arthur never really started or ended, not in all the ways that count, and how terrifying is that?
He doesn’t feel that different, though-not inwardly (and isn’t that really the scariest thing of all?). His body is screaming in protest, yes, but his magic feels oddly settled. Relief might be the best response to that-he hadn’t been sure, really, what would happen--wasn't sure if he could even do this. But Arthur-he’d asked, but he would’ve let Merlin go anyway-and Merlin couldn’t say no. Not with Arthur looking at him like that, not when Merlin had gone boneless with relief. It hadn’t been the fact that Arthur wasn’t going to turn him in. He’d never truly believed Arthur would. But after years of hiding, any kind of eventual acceptance from Arthur, even if it was preceded by a bout of choking-and he won’t lie, that hurt-means everything. If this-whatever Merlin has just done-is what Arthur wanted as a show of good faith, how could that be denied him? Not with the knowledge of Merlin’s magic hanging between them. This is worth it. Anything is worth it. This is nothing when he looks at the alternative.
Of course, any sort of worth to this situation assumes Arthur’s made it through better than Merlin.
A quick roll of his head-and, oh, not good, because the world should never spin like that-reveals Arthur sprawled next to him, unconscious and, at the moment, not showing any signs of waking. He looks okay, though, and once Merlin manages to control the dangerous tipping of the earth, a quick check of Arthur's pulse and breathing doesn’t seem to indicate any immediate danger. And honestly? If he’s fine, Merlin’s not in any hurry to get his royal pratness up off the ground. After all, what Arthur has asked of him is achingly unsettling-it is not something Merlin regrets, but he can’t quite find it in himself to entirely deny that small part of him that resents the request.
The thing is, though, he doubts Arthur even knows what he’s asked. He probably never considered anything beyond his own desperation-and Merlin can’t begrudge him a little shock. Anyway, he thinks as he pulls his fingers away from Arthur’s pulse, it’s not like Arthur is the most empathetic person even at the best of times. He tends to see things only his way, with whatever Merlin’s thinking or feeling becoming at best an interesting conundrum that might be taken under advisement if Arthur is so inclined and has the time to think on it; but, more often, it’s a minor annoyance, sometimes even something worthy of a good scoffing.
Right. Maybe Arthur deserves that time facedown in the dirt for a little more than just one unreasonable request.
Anyway, it’s not like Merlin doesn’t have something to occupy his time while he waits for Arthur to wake.
Before Arthur had seen his magic-during, actually, he corrects himself-Balinor had been breathing again. He’d been alive. Merlin is sure: he’d felt the pulse, messy and erratic under his fingers, but there, and his father’s chest had been rising and falling under his palm. But-that-he can’t assume that lasted.
The thought is akin to a bucket of water poured over his head-not like he doesn’t know the feeling, since Arthur’s done exactly that to him-and why hasn’t he moved yet? Stupid, so, so stupid, and he shoves himself up and off the ground-oh, still a bit dizzy-toward his father. He never quite makes it to a standing position, but that’s okay, because when he falls, he at least manages to land next to his father. Proximity. Yes. Good. Doesn’t matter how he got here (Arthur isn’t awake to comment on his lack of grace, after all) so long as he manages to get to his father.
His father. Who is still breathing. Just like he was when Merlin left him, except even a little steadier.
It shouldn’t have been possible. To save a life, a life must be taken. Except, maybe that’s not always true. Or maybe the requirement was satisfied in a way Merlin can’t see or understand. What if one of Cendred’s men might have lived but was instead swapped for Balinor? Is that such a terrible prospect?
In some ways it is, yes, and it’s really just easier not to ask why that is. Instead, Merlin runs his fingers under his father’s chin, catching on the stubble as they go to his neck where they settle against the comfort of Balinor’s pulse. It should be enough to occupy him, but even as the pads of his fingers are searching for life, he can’t help thinking that he doesn’t want to be the one to weigh life. He shouldn’t have that right. He didn’t do this-didn’t trade someone’s life for Balinor’s-but the prospect of making that decision with any life but his own-it cuts at his control to the point where, if his hand wasn’t supported, he’s willing to bet it would be shaking.
Balinor’s pulse jumps under his fingers.
Thank God there’s life there. Life. He didn’t put it there-didn’t take anyone else’s-so perhaps he can just be thankful it is there now?
Yes.
Sweaty, sticky skin is almost tacky to the touch, enough so that when Merlin jerks back, his fingers pull slightly at Balinor’s skin but don’t slip away. Still, he can feel the grime on the ends of his fingers-years worth of running, of living in caves, of being no one in your own eyes and the eyes of the world. No one but someone to be hunted.
“Father.” He won’t think about how strange that feels on his lips. Is saying this word something that’s learned? Maybe he’s behind-sort of inept at it. He never had any practice growing up, after all. “Can you hear me?”
If Balinor can, he gives no sign. And, yet, he’s breathing. That, at least, is steady enough to be comforting, and it gives Merlin the ease to sink back on his heals, looking down at his father’s still face.
He doesn’t see much of himself there, which, to some degree is disappointing. He’d always thought that seeing his father would answer things he hadn’t understood, maybe even things he hadn’t known to ask. It’s not that simple, though. Balinor is half of what Merlin was created from, but they’re not the same person-it’s not like he’s exactly half of this man. Still, he’d expected something more, something that would immediately scream at a relation. He’d always thought he’d just know when he met his father… but this man, if Merlin didn’t know who he was, would only be a stranger. There’s just not enough there to make the connection without help. Still, there’s got to be something: maybe the dark hair. But his eyes aren’t Balinor’s, and the lines of his face are too pronounced for Merlin to really be able to notice much else about him that might have, at one time before the weight of years set in, hinted at a relation.
Would he become like this if he experienced what his father had? Is that a part of him too? There’s really not an answer to that, or at least not one that can be found with anything but experience, and for all that he wants to make a connection with his father, Merlin would prefer not to be run out of Camelot and into exile in a cave.
“Merlin?”
And speaking of those who have the power to do that…
Leaning back, Merlin peers over his shoulder at Arthur. Already, Arthur is rolling himself over, refusing to stay still a moment longer than necessary, just simply because that’s who he is… and Merlin admires it. Arthur doesn’t stay down-not ever, if he can help it. Of course, Merlin is a little less appreciative of the fact that, even groggy and sitting on the ground, Arthur still has the presence of mind to wrinkle his nose in disgust at the mess Merlin had made when he’d been sick. There’s reassurance in that, though-if Arthur is well enough to be acting like his usual pratish self, he’s well enough altogether.
“I’m right here,” Merlin says simply, though he makes no move away from his father.
Instead, it’s Arthur who comes to him, and, honestly, that’s not as much of a first as his highness would like to think. When it happens it usually involves a lot of yelling and threats about the stocks, but in this situation, that doesn’t seem likely.
At least not quite yet. When Arthur finds out who Balinor is to Merlin? That yelling might (will) become a bit more of a reality.
To begin with, though, all Arthur does is settle down beside him with enough self-assuredness to make it seem entirely natural. He even does an admirable job at hiding the dizziness that Merlin would bet is still there, though he does sink to the ground a little harder than he might have normally. “Is he-?”
“He’s alive.”
Arthur just nods. “Good.”
“There’s something you should know.”
“More?”
A wide grin cracks over Merlin’s lips. He’d never thought this confession would be easy, but surely this can’t be anymore of a violent reveal than the magic, can it? Of course, he does rather hope Arthur won’t go for his throat this time: as much as Arthur tells him to shut up, it’s somewhat doubtful that he actually wishes Merlin to be rendered permanently mute.
“You can’t be serious! There’s more?”
Looking back down at Balinor, Merlin shrugs his shoulders. “Are you really surprised?”
“Honestly, Merlin, you’re not supposed to be this complicated!” Apparently, yes he is that surprised: there’s that particular high strain of voice that Merlin has mentally classified as Part of Arthur’s Voice That Never Changed During Puberty that only comes out when Arthur’s tipped past incredulous.
In a less serious situation, Merlin might mock him for it.
Behind him, it sounds like a palm has just hit flesh, probably in exasperation. “Wouldn’t want to bore you,” Merlin answers, more easily than he feels.
“Oh, yes, quite the chance of that now, wouldn’t you say?”
The rustling of boots against dirt and leaves is enough of a warning to signal when Arthur slides a little closer. Though he kneels down closer to Balinor, he doesn’t touch him, and if anything, he seems to be trying for Merlin’s attention more than he’s looking to assess Balinor’s condition. “Get on with it then!” he commands, waving a hand in Merlin’s general direction-and also conveniently in front of his face, breaking the stare Merlin’s fixed on Balinor.
When Merlin glances up at him he’s a bit surprised at the… nervousness he finds. It’s not obvious, but there’s a hint in the way Arthur’s brows have drawn together just the barest amount, and in how he’s really seeing Merlin: there’s concentration in his eyes, and it’s the manner in which he scrutinizes something when he’s determined not to miss the slightest detail in fear of what will happen if he does. Merlin has all of his attention at the moment, and if there are nerves in Arthur’s gaze, they’re certainly there in Merlin’s mood as well. Call it self-preservation born from the necessity of not being seen too closely for fear of exposing his magic, but Arthur’s intensity makes him suddenly feel very inadequate: no position is right for his hands, and looking Arthur in the eyes is as bad as looking away.
“He’s my father,” he finally says.
Arthur looks at him blankly. “Your father.”
“Yes.”
“Balinor.”
“Yes.”
If they were in Arthur’s room, no doubt the prince would be staring out the window, looking over the courtyard, thinking, probably with one hand to his chin and a look so pensive that Merlin wouldn’t have thought Arthur capable of it when he first came to work for him. But here, staring at Merlin apparently works just as well for him as a window and a courtyard.
“That does explain your mood the past few days, I suppose,” Arthur concedes.
Admittedly, Merlin might have done a bit better job at concealing just how undone he was by the idea of meeting his father. “I need to try to wake him. Do you-?“
At first, Arthur doesn’t catch his meaning. Then, a very pointed look later and a rather awkward wave of Merlin’s hand and wiggle of his fingers, Arthur is jerking back, nodding too quickly for it to be natural. Nevertheless, it’s the reassurance Merlin wanted, and so he turns back away from Arthur and leans over his father.
Whether or not Arthur knows his secret, it’s no less awkward to quietly hiss out the words that channel his magic. This will take some getting used to, and maybe until it gets a little easier, he’ll just not let Arthur see his eyes while he’s doing this. The gold-well, it would probably make Merlin more uncomfortable than it would Arthur, but logic aside, it still seems like a bad idea.
Still, even with the tension of the situation, the feel of magic rushing through his limbs and leaking out his fingertips into his father-it still sets something in Merlin alive. He can feel the magic going into his father, pulling at him, stroking his consciousness and trying gently to coax it back out.
And then the link snaps.
The sound he makes comes out like a garbled swear, or maybe just a grunt. Either way, he’s swearing for real a second later-or he would be if he could catch his breath properly. Mostly he just drools out nonsense syllables until he finds the good sense to close his mouth and swallow down the confusion before trying again a few moments later: “What-what was that?” he eventually manages to grind out between clenched teeth in Arthur’s general direction… though the message may not be so much for Arthur as it is for himself. Words out loud have power; in that context talking to himself doesn’t seem quite so strange.
Of course, maybe he shouldn’t be doing that.
Because Arthur? He might actually be the one who knows what just happened.
He’s certainly looking guilty enough, though that emotion is somewhat mingled with the layers of curiosity and scrutiny. Finds this interesting, does he? Well, maybe he thinks it’s fascinating to see Merlin discover that his magic is suddenly blocked inside him, like a barrier has been raised to dam up the flow, but Merlin finds it anything but, and he lets Arthur know it in the scowl he levels at him.
“How are you doing it? You didn’t say anything.”
Arthur’s expression doesn’t change. “I thought it.”
“You-you-what?”
“Exactly what I said. I thought it.”
And that-it’s just-it can’t be-
No. This is-this isn’t what was meant to happen. When he’d given Arthur a way to stop his magic, it wasn’t supposed to be like this, like some kind of mental link. This-it gives Arthur power that shouldn’t be there, more than a need for a verbal command would. Whatever this check on his magic that he gave Arthur, it’s-damn it, it’s beyond what it should be. It’s in his core-that place that’s only supposed to be him. It wasn’t supposed to be this deep, and the idea of that alone is enough to make him want to run, storm off like the child he’s not, just to regain a little of that distance, even if it’s now clearly only superficial distance. He can’t run from himself-and if Arthur’s in his mind, that’s exactly what he’d have to run from.
And running wouldn’t do any good anyway.
Neither does panicking, though that’s a small deterrent.
His magic. It wasn’t meant to be like this. When he let Arthur have power, it wasn’t supposed to be this easy for his to wield. Just a thought-it’s too much, too easy, and suddenly it doesn’t feel like Merlin’s magic anymore, not when it can be taken so easily. But it is his, though, so much of who he is, and Arthur-he would die for Arthur, but he’s not ready to be so inextricably linked to him. Two sides of the same coin could not have meant this. Not this literally.
It’s just too much.
“Merlin?” There’s concern there, but Merlin’s too strained to acknowledge it. Better to just keep looking away from Arthur-if he looks, Arthur will see far too much. “I-Merlin, don’t-I’m not going to-“
That not looking thing? It suddenly seems a lot less important than the rage bubbling up in his chest.
“What?” he snaps, reeling around to lock his gaze with Arthur’s. “What are you not going to do? Control me with just a thought? You’re not going to do that? What exactly are you doing then?”
He’s looking confused, apparently-really, honestly taken back, like he’s not quite sure why Merlin is so disturbed. And for a man who’s so used to owning everything with just his words, doing it with his mind isn’t such a large step, is it?
“Look,” Arthur says, holding a hand out, pointing a finger, “you knew this was going to happen. You knew I was going to be able to stop you-“
“But not with thought! With a word, Arthur. With something else. Not this. This-it’s too easy-“
Oh, what he wouldn’t give to smack that look off Arthur’s face-that blank, uncomprehending look that wouldn’t be so out of place if directed at a small child who failed to understand a simple lesson. But Merlin-he is not child, and Arthur shouldn’t be able to lack comprehension to this degree, as though he just can’t believe what Merlin is saying. Even the way he shifts closer, one hand stretched out to take Merlin’s arm, manages to be offensive and terribly entitled… and maybe it is. Because this is Arthur, thinking he can make everything better, thinking he can fix this because it was never really a problem in the first place, and silly Merlin for thinking such a thing-
Arthur’s fingers close around Merlin’s arm. “I understand why you’re upset-“
The anger in his chest goes from a bubble to a flat-out boil, and Merlin yanks away, rolling his shoulder violently, just to make sure Arthur understands how very completely he doesn’t want this right now. “No, you don’t. You couldn’t. Arthur-“
Merlin trails off. He can hear the crunching of dirt under his heals as he takes a few steps back, trying to ignore the shaking of his legs. He can even feel a slight breeze against his cheek from the movement. It’s all very real, and yet the moment feels anything but. “Arthur, what if-“ he tries again, hands jerking up to the sides of his head until his fingertips skim at his hair, “What if someone had the ability to stop you from using your skills in combat? What if they could do it with just a thought? Just a thought and everything you’d trained to be your entire life would be gone, all at the will of someone else.”
Arthur’s hand, which, strangely enough, up to this point was still extended, drops, clenching just once at his side before he straightens it almost too deliberately. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“You just did.”
Arthur says nothing. That, in Merlin’s opinion, says everything anyway.
“You see?” he asks, smiling humorlessly as he arches an eyebrow.
“Merlin-“
“Think how you’d feel if someone did it to you-“
For the first time since he felt his magic short out, Merlin sees a bit of a spark of anger in Arthur’s eyes. “It’s different. You-“
Oh? Different? How is it different? Because he’s not a crown prince? Because he’s not Arthur?
Furiously, he wrenches himself back toward Arthur, stopping scarcely a foot away. It does vaguely cross his mind that this is completely unacceptable-that what he’s doing right now is toying with treason-but, honestly, that’s just laughable at this point. If Arthur wants to have him executed, he’s already got what he needs.
“Go on,” he whispers, holding Arthur’s stare. “Finish that thought. I dare you.”
Corners of his eyes wrinkling, Arthur’s gaze narrows to something like slits of blue. Sharp slits. Like he’ll cut Merlin open with the look alone. “You’re a sorcerer.”
Merlin just stares at him. His own face feels tight enough to almost suggest that the skin will split open over bone at any moment. Everything is just so sharp.
But Arthur isn’t done: “You’re a sorcerer, and I’m letting you live. What right do you have to protest this? It’s more than anyone else ever has or ever will get while my father sits on the throne. You know this. So be a little thankful.”
“Thankful that the laws are unjust?” he snarls. “Do you know how many times I’ve saved your life? And you want me to thank you for this?”
Strangely enough, that eases Arthur off, though not in the way Merlin would have thought. “I want you to see the situation for what it is,” he answers, voice a bit more even. His eyes ease again too, smoothing his face back into something less frigid… almost more worried.
That may be exactly the case.
“What?”
“You would be killed, Merlin, and I won’t let that happen.”
It’s not a declaration or a promise-it’s almost an ultimatum. A challenge, even, because Arthur will be as dogged in this as he is in everything else he cares about. Merlin should have seen it, honestly-he knows Arthur-but he hadn’t thought that Arthur would consider it his right to protect Merlin’s life.
He really should have, he supposes, though it’s a bit pointless to think so now. Anyway, if he was at all confused about it, that’s been cleared up quite nicely by the newest turn of events.
“So this is your solution?” he asks Arthur icily. “What about what I want?”
Arthur simply quirks an eyebrow in a gesture plainly declaring just how absurd he thinks this whole line of thinking is. “Do you want to die?”
“Not particularly. But it’s my life to bargain with. Not yours.”
“Really? That’s odd, because I could have sworn I’m your crown prince. Magic or not, your life is forfeit to the crown if I say it is. That goes for any of Camelot’s subjects.”
Right. Because it’s just that simple. Entitled clotpole, Merlin thinks sourly. “Arthur, I’d die for you if it came to that. You know that. But I can’t give you this. Think what you’re asking.”
If there were any chance of Arthur understanding, it would be now: Merlin can see it in the way his face softens, brow smoothing out and skin relaxing around the corners of his mouth. He does know what he’s asking, then… it’s just not enough to change his mind.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters after a moment, hands going to his hips. He shifts his weight more like he’s frustrated than sorry, but from what Merlin can tell, the frustration is created from actual regret. “I can’t pretend to know just what I’m asking you, but I understand your reasoning. But, Merlin, it remains that you’ve got something that is punishable by death in Camelot. I don’t believe you’d use it for harm, but I-I can’t take that chance. I’d say that about anyone. Because you could still be tricked into making a wrong decision, coerced-anything could happen. People-they would use you, and if the wrong person were able to find a way to do that, it wouldn’t matter that it’s you, Merlin. You’d still be deadly. And I can’t just leave that possibility open.”
One step back. Another. He stumbles backward like he’s been slapped.
No. Just-no-
Maybe that argument wouldn’t hurt so much if it weren’t true, but of all the things Arthur could have said, this is the most effective, if only because it’s Merlin’s own fear. What if someone did find a way to control him? It almost happened with Cornelius Sigan. What would have happened if he hadn’t been able to fight Sigan off? And the dragon-it had manipulated him into setting it free. Both of those things had led to disaster, and it didn’t matter that he hadn’t meant for them to end the way they did: he’d still been a conduit for harm.
The memory alone is enough to raise the hair on his arms.
“And what gives you the right to be that person?” Merlin croaks out finally in a voice that is far, far shakier than he’d like. He sounds ill-feels that way too, actually: if he had to bet, he’d wager his face is the color of spoilt milk right about now.
“Because I am your prince. And because I won’t see you killed.” Pausing, then, his lips purse, just once, before he stops and inhales deeply. “I won’t abuse it. You have my word. Only what’s necessary to keep you and the people of Camelot safe, Merlin. I promise.”
Behind Arthur, the leaves of the trees rustle slowly in the wind. An animal moves in the undergrowth. A bird calls out. Neither of them truly notices, though: Merlin simply stares, ignoring the background of the woods, the sky, the world, because right now, that isn’t where he’ll find his answers. The only place he’ll get those is in the terrain of Arthur’s face, in every small pull of muscle and blink, and maybe in the half-apology he sees there.
“You have my word,” he says again, more slowly this time.
And that? It is something Merlin trusts. Arthur’s word is good. Arthur is a good man. Arthur will be a great king. Those are things Merlin really believes, and it’s not enough to settle this situation by any means, but it’s all he has.
It’s still not enough.
Merlin turns away then and moves back toward Balinor, trying to pretend that every step doesn’t feel like a concession.
If he did doubt Arthur’s sympathy, the way Arthur sighs and comes to crouch down next to him beside Balinor would probably convince him. He takes the gesture for what it is: a peace offering. A way to let this drop for now and pretend that their whole world hasn’t shaken down to the foundations.
“If I try to heal him--?”
Arthur waves his hand in Balinor’s direction. “You should. Do it. We need him healed.”
Not “I care because he’s your father” or “I know what his death would do to you,” though Merlin hadn’t really expected anything of the sort. Although, it still creates a sort of ache in his stomach to hear his father so carelessly reduced to just a need for Camelot. Arthur might see him as those other things too-it’s impossible to tell-but he will never, ever say so, and Merlin can’t see how just thinking something like that is enough.
“All right,” he says slowly, almost losing the words in his exhale. “All right.”
Icy skin comes up to meet his hands-or he reaches down for it, although it really doesn’t seem that way-and he flexes his fingers lightly against his father’s chest. Sibilant whispers and flashes of gold are almost normal to him now, though not to Arthur. They probably never will be to Arthur, who kneels just behind him, dirty hair in his face and eyes fixed on Merlin’s hands. Only seemingly half aware, he swipes the stray pieces out of his eyes and keeps on looking, even after Balinor’s eyes have fluttered open.
Nothing, Merlin knows, is ever going to be the same.
Author: talesofyesac
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Merlin, Arthur (gen)
Word Count: 4,891
Warnings: Some violence and eventual character death (minor character). Also, spoilers for 2x13 and anything before that.
Summary: You can't save the dying with words... and, yet, Balinor is still breathing. Arthur would know. He saw it. All of it. Including the part where Merlin did magic.
Disclaimer: Nope, don't own any of it. Just playing around.
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There is blue. It smears over above him, swirling with white-or the white swirls with the blue. Something. It does… something, running all together when Merlin’s vision shifts, dizzy, and he blinks slowly, trying to bring things back into clarity. Unfortunately, he has only limited success at first: one blink, then another, then somewhere half a minute later, he does at least bring himself around far enough to realize that the swirling colors are the sky and the clouds in it, rushed along across the horizon by the wind.
Of course, then reality chooses right then to smack him-no reason for that particular moment, really, but still a short, sharp shock regardless of timing.
What has he done?
He-oh, he’s just-and-
Jerking upright, he promptly bends right back over and retches everything he’d had for breakfast back up into the dirt beside him. It’s a terrible feeling, like he can’t breathe; his eyes tear up as he gasps for air and grabs at the ground as best he can to steady himself.
The end result is dirt ground into his palms, the knees of his trousers soaked through by the dampness of the earth, and the feeling that what just happened with Arthur never really started or ended, not in all the ways that count, and how terrifying is that?
He doesn’t feel that different, though-not inwardly (and isn’t that really the scariest thing of all?). His body is screaming in protest, yes, but his magic feels oddly settled. Relief might be the best response to that-he hadn’t been sure, really, what would happen--wasn't sure if he could even do this. But Arthur-he’d asked, but he would’ve let Merlin go anyway-and Merlin couldn’t say no. Not with Arthur looking at him like that, not when Merlin had gone boneless with relief. It hadn’t been the fact that Arthur wasn’t going to turn him in. He’d never truly believed Arthur would. But after years of hiding, any kind of eventual acceptance from Arthur, even if it was preceded by a bout of choking-and he won’t lie, that hurt-means everything. If this-whatever Merlin has just done-is what Arthur wanted as a show of good faith, how could that be denied him? Not with the knowledge of Merlin’s magic hanging between them. This is worth it. Anything is worth it. This is nothing when he looks at the alternative.
Of course, any sort of worth to this situation assumes Arthur’s made it through better than Merlin.
A quick roll of his head-and, oh, not good, because the world should never spin like that-reveals Arthur sprawled next to him, unconscious and, at the moment, not showing any signs of waking. He looks okay, though, and once Merlin manages to control the dangerous tipping of the earth, a quick check of Arthur's pulse and breathing doesn’t seem to indicate any immediate danger. And honestly? If he’s fine, Merlin’s not in any hurry to get his royal pratness up off the ground. After all, what Arthur has asked of him is achingly unsettling-it is not something Merlin regrets, but he can’t quite find it in himself to entirely deny that small part of him that resents the request.
The thing is, though, he doubts Arthur even knows what he’s asked. He probably never considered anything beyond his own desperation-and Merlin can’t begrudge him a little shock. Anyway, he thinks as he pulls his fingers away from Arthur’s pulse, it’s not like Arthur is the most empathetic person even at the best of times. He tends to see things only his way, with whatever Merlin’s thinking or feeling becoming at best an interesting conundrum that might be taken under advisement if Arthur is so inclined and has the time to think on it; but, more often, it’s a minor annoyance, sometimes even something worthy of a good scoffing.
Right. Maybe Arthur deserves that time facedown in the dirt for a little more than just one unreasonable request.
Anyway, it’s not like Merlin doesn’t have something to occupy his time while he waits for Arthur to wake.
Before Arthur had seen his magic-during, actually, he corrects himself-Balinor had been breathing again. He’d been alive. Merlin is sure: he’d felt the pulse, messy and erratic under his fingers, but there, and his father’s chest had been rising and falling under his palm. But-that-he can’t assume that lasted.
The thought is akin to a bucket of water poured over his head-not like he doesn’t know the feeling, since Arthur’s done exactly that to him-and why hasn’t he moved yet? Stupid, so, so stupid, and he shoves himself up and off the ground-oh, still a bit dizzy-toward his father. He never quite makes it to a standing position, but that’s okay, because when he falls, he at least manages to land next to his father. Proximity. Yes. Good. Doesn’t matter how he got here (Arthur isn’t awake to comment on his lack of grace, after all) so long as he manages to get to his father.
His father. Who is still breathing. Just like he was when Merlin left him, except even a little steadier.
It shouldn’t have been possible. To save a life, a life must be taken. Except, maybe that’s not always true. Or maybe the requirement was satisfied in a way Merlin can’t see or understand. What if one of Cendred’s men might have lived but was instead swapped for Balinor? Is that such a terrible prospect?
In some ways it is, yes, and it’s really just easier not to ask why that is. Instead, Merlin runs his fingers under his father’s chin, catching on the stubble as they go to his neck where they settle against the comfort of Balinor’s pulse. It should be enough to occupy him, but even as the pads of his fingers are searching for life, he can’t help thinking that he doesn’t want to be the one to weigh life. He shouldn’t have that right. He didn’t do this-didn’t trade someone’s life for Balinor’s-but the prospect of making that decision with any life but his own-it cuts at his control to the point where, if his hand wasn’t supported, he’s willing to bet it would be shaking.
Balinor’s pulse jumps under his fingers.
Thank God there’s life there. Life. He didn’t put it there-didn’t take anyone else’s-so perhaps he can just be thankful it is there now?
Yes.
Sweaty, sticky skin is almost tacky to the touch, enough so that when Merlin jerks back, his fingers pull slightly at Balinor’s skin but don’t slip away. Still, he can feel the grime on the ends of his fingers-years worth of running, of living in caves, of being no one in your own eyes and the eyes of the world. No one but someone to be hunted.
“Father.” He won’t think about how strange that feels on his lips. Is saying this word something that’s learned? Maybe he’s behind-sort of inept at it. He never had any practice growing up, after all. “Can you hear me?”
If Balinor can, he gives no sign. And, yet, he’s breathing. That, at least, is steady enough to be comforting, and it gives Merlin the ease to sink back on his heals, looking down at his father’s still face.
He doesn’t see much of himself there, which, to some degree is disappointing. He’d always thought that seeing his father would answer things he hadn’t understood, maybe even things he hadn’t known to ask. It’s not that simple, though. Balinor is half of what Merlin was created from, but they’re not the same person-it’s not like he’s exactly half of this man. Still, he’d expected something more, something that would immediately scream at a relation. He’d always thought he’d just know when he met his father… but this man, if Merlin didn’t know who he was, would only be a stranger. There’s just not enough there to make the connection without help. Still, there’s got to be something: maybe the dark hair. But his eyes aren’t Balinor’s, and the lines of his face are too pronounced for Merlin to really be able to notice much else about him that might have, at one time before the weight of years set in, hinted at a relation.
Would he become like this if he experienced what his father had? Is that a part of him too? There’s really not an answer to that, or at least not one that can be found with anything but experience, and for all that he wants to make a connection with his father, Merlin would prefer not to be run out of Camelot and into exile in a cave.
“Merlin?”
And speaking of those who have the power to do that…
Leaning back, Merlin peers over his shoulder at Arthur. Already, Arthur is rolling himself over, refusing to stay still a moment longer than necessary, just simply because that’s who he is… and Merlin admires it. Arthur doesn’t stay down-not ever, if he can help it. Of course, Merlin is a little less appreciative of the fact that, even groggy and sitting on the ground, Arthur still has the presence of mind to wrinkle his nose in disgust at the mess Merlin had made when he’d been sick. There’s reassurance in that, though-if Arthur is well enough to be acting like his usual pratish self, he’s well enough altogether.
“I’m right here,” Merlin says simply, though he makes no move away from his father.
Instead, it’s Arthur who comes to him, and, honestly, that’s not as much of a first as his highness would like to think. When it happens it usually involves a lot of yelling and threats about the stocks, but in this situation, that doesn’t seem likely.
At least not quite yet. When Arthur finds out who Balinor is to Merlin? That yelling might (will) become a bit more of a reality.
To begin with, though, all Arthur does is settle down beside him with enough self-assuredness to make it seem entirely natural. He even does an admirable job at hiding the dizziness that Merlin would bet is still there, though he does sink to the ground a little harder than he might have normally. “Is he-?”
“He’s alive.”
Arthur just nods. “Good.”
“There’s something you should know.”
“More?”
A wide grin cracks over Merlin’s lips. He’d never thought this confession would be easy, but surely this can’t be anymore of a violent reveal than the magic, can it? Of course, he does rather hope Arthur won’t go for his throat this time: as much as Arthur tells him to shut up, it’s somewhat doubtful that he actually wishes Merlin to be rendered permanently mute.
“You can’t be serious! There’s more?”
Looking back down at Balinor, Merlin shrugs his shoulders. “Are you really surprised?”
“Honestly, Merlin, you’re not supposed to be this complicated!” Apparently, yes he is that surprised: there’s that particular high strain of voice that Merlin has mentally classified as Part of Arthur’s Voice That Never Changed During Puberty that only comes out when Arthur’s tipped past incredulous.
In a less serious situation, Merlin might mock him for it.
Behind him, it sounds like a palm has just hit flesh, probably in exasperation. “Wouldn’t want to bore you,” Merlin answers, more easily than he feels.
“Oh, yes, quite the chance of that now, wouldn’t you say?”
The rustling of boots against dirt and leaves is enough of a warning to signal when Arthur slides a little closer. Though he kneels down closer to Balinor, he doesn’t touch him, and if anything, he seems to be trying for Merlin’s attention more than he’s looking to assess Balinor’s condition. “Get on with it then!” he commands, waving a hand in Merlin’s general direction-and also conveniently in front of his face, breaking the stare Merlin’s fixed on Balinor.
When Merlin glances up at him he’s a bit surprised at the… nervousness he finds. It’s not obvious, but there’s a hint in the way Arthur’s brows have drawn together just the barest amount, and in how he’s really seeing Merlin: there’s concentration in his eyes, and it’s the manner in which he scrutinizes something when he’s determined not to miss the slightest detail in fear of what will happen if he does. Merlin has all of his attention at the moment, and if there are nerves in Arthur’s gaze, they’re certainly there in Merlin’s mood as well. Call it self-preservation born from the necessity of not being seen too closely for fear of exposing his magic, but Arthur’s intensity makes him suddenly feel very inadequate: no position is right for his hands, and looking Arthur in the eyes is as bad as looking away.
“He’s my father,” he finally says.
Arthur looks at him blankly. “Your father.”
“Yes.”
“Balinor.”
“Yes.”
If they were in Arthur’s room, no doubt the prince would be staring out the window, looking over the courtyard, thinking, probably with one hand to his chin and a look so pensive that Merlin wouldn’t have thought Arthur capable of it when he first came to work for him. But here, staring at Merlin apparently works just as well for him as a window and a courtyard.
“That does explain your mood the past few days, I suppose,” Arthur concedes.
Admittedly, Merlin might have done a bit better job at concealing just how undone he was by the idea of meeting his father. “I need to try to wake him. Do you-?“
At first, Arthur doesn’t catch his meaning. Then, a very pointed look later and a rather awkward wave of Merlin’s hand and wiggle of his fingers, Arthur is jerking back, nodding too quickly for it to be natural. Nevertheless, it’s the reassurance Merlin wanted, and so he turns back away from Arthur and leans over his father.
Whether or not Arthur knows his secret, it’s no less awkward to quietly hiss out the words that channel his magic. This will take some getting used to, and maybe until it gets a little easier, he’ll just not let Arthur see his eyes while he’s doing this. The gold-well, it would probably make Merlin more uncomfortable than it would Arthur, but logic aside, it still seems like a bad idea.
Still, even with the tension of the situation, the feel of magic rushing through his limbs and leaking out his fingertips into his father-it still sets something in Merlin alive. He can feel the magic going into his father, pulling at him, stroking his consciousness and trying gently to coax it back out.
And then the link snaps.
The sound he makes comes out like a garbled swear, or maybe just a grunt. Either way, he’s swearing for real a second later-or he would be if he could catch his breath properly. Mostly he just drools out nonsense syllables until he finds the good sense to close his mouth and swallow down the confusion before trying again a few moments later: “What-what was that?” he eventually manages to grind out between clenched teeth in Arthur’s general direction… though the message may not be so much for Arthur as it is for himself. Words out loud have power; in that context talking to himself doesn’t seem quite so strange.
Of course, maybe he shouldn’t be doing that.
Because Arthur? He might actually be the one who knows what just happened.
He’s certainly looking guilty enough, though that emotion is somewhat mingled with the layers of curiosity and scrutiny. Finds this interesting, does he? Well, maybe he thinks it’s fascinating to see Merlin discover that his magic is suddenly blocked inside him, like a barrier has been raised to dam up the flow, but Merlin finds it anything but, and he lets Arthur know it in the scowl he levels at him.
“How are you doing it? You didn’t say anything.”
Arthur’s expression doesn’t change. “I thought it.”
“You-you-what?”
“Exactly what I said. I thought it.”
And that-it’s just-it can’t be-
No. This is-this isn’t what was meant to happen. When he’d given Arthur a way to stop his magic, it wasn’t supposed to be like this, like some kind of mental link. This-it gives Arthur power that shouldn’t be there, more than a need for a verbal command would. Whatever this check on his magic that he gave Arthur, it’s-damn it, it’s beyond what it should be. It’s in his core-that place that’s only supposed to be him. It wasn’t supposed to be this deep, and the idea of that alone is enough to make him want to run, storm off like the child he’s not, just to regain a little of that distance, even if it’s now clearly only superficial distance. He can’t run from himself-and if Arthur’s in his mind, that’s exactly what he’d have to run from.
And running wouldn’t do any good anyway.
Neither does panicking, though that’s a small deterrent.
His magic. It wasn’t meant to be like this. When he let Arthur have power, it wasn’t supposed to be this easy for his to wield. Just a thought-it’s too much, too easy, and suddenly it doesn’t feel like Merlin’s magic anymore, not when it can be taken so easily. But it is his, though, so much of who he is, and Arthur-he would die for Arthur, but he’s not ready to be so inextricably linked to him. Two sides of the same coin could not have meant this. Not this literally.
It’s just too much.
“Merlin?” There’s concern there, but Merlin’s too strained to acknowledge it. Better to just keep looking away from Arthur-if he looks, Arthur will see far too much. “I-Merlin, don’t-I’m not going to-“
That not looking thing? It suddenly seems a lot less important than the rage bubbling up in his chest.
“What?” he snaps, reeling around to lock his gaze with Arthur’s. “What are you not going to do? Control me with just a thought? You’re not going to do that? What exactly are you doing then?”
He’s looking confused, apparently-really, honestly taken back, like he’s not quite sure why Merlin is so disturbed. And for a man who’s so used to owning everything with just his words, doing it with his mind isn’t such a large step, is it?
“Look,” Arthur says, holding a hand out, pointing a finger, “you knew this was going to happen. You knew I was going to be able to stop you-“
“But not with thought! With a word, Arthur. With something else. Not this. This-it’s too easy-“
Oh, what he wouldn’t give to smack that look off Arthur’s face-that blank, uncomprehending look that wouldn’t be so out of place if directed at a small child who failed to understand a simple lesson. But Merlin-he is not child, and Arthur shouldn’t be able to lack comprehension to this degree, as though he just can’t believe what Merlin is saying. Even the way he shifts closer, one hand stretched out to take Merlin’s arm, manages to be offensive and terribly entitled… and maybe it is. Because this is Arthur, thinking he can make everything better, thinking he can fix this because it was never really a problem in the first place, and silly Merlin for thinking such a thing-
Arthur’s fingers close around Merlin’s arm. “I understand why you’re upset-“
The anger in his chest goes from a bubble to a flat-out boil, and Merlin yanks away, rolling his shoulder violently, just to make sure Arthur understands how very completely he doesn’t want this right now. “No, you don’t. You couldn’t. Arthur-“
Merlin trails off. He can hear the crunching of dirt under his heals as he takes a few steps back, trying to ignore the shaking of his legs. He can even feel a slight breeze against his cheek from the movement. It’s all very real, and yet the moment feels anything but. “Arthur, what if-“ he tries again, hands jerking up to the sides of his head until his fingertips skim at his hair, “What if someone had the ability to stop you from using your skills in combat? What if they could do it with just a thought? Just a thought and everything you’d trained to be your entire life would be gone, all at the will of someone else.”
Arthur’s hand, which, strangely enough, up to this point was still extended, drops, clenching just once at his side before he straightens it almost too deliberately. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“You just did.”
Arthur says nothing. That, in Merlin’s opinion, says everything anyway.
“You see?” he asks, smiling humorlessly as he arches an eyebrow.
“Merlin-“
“Think how you’d feel if someone did it to you-“
For the first time since he felt his magic short out, Merlin sees a bit of a spark of anger in Arthur’s eyes. “It’s different. You-“
Oh? Different? How is it different? Because he’s not a crown prince? Because he’s not Arthur?
Furiously, he wrenches himself back toward Arthur, stopping scarcely a foot away. It does vaguely cross his mind that this is completely unacceptable-that what he’s doing right now is toying with treason-but, honestly, that’s just laughable at this point. If Arthur wants to have him executed, he’s already got what he needs.
“Go on,” he whispers, holding Arthur’s stare. “Finish that thought. I dare you.”
Corners of his eyes wrinkling, Arthur’s gaze narrows to something like slits of blue. Sharp slits. Like he’ll cut Merlin open with the look alone. “You’re a sorcerer.”
Merlin just stares at him. His own face feels tight enough to almost suggest that the skin will split open over bone at any moment. Everything is just so sharp.
But Arthur isn’t done: “You’re a sorcerer, and I’m letting you live. What right do you have to protest this? It’s more than anyone else ever has or ever will get while my father sits on the throne. You know this. So be a little thankful.”
“Thankful that the laws are unjust?” he snarls. “Do you know how many times I’ve saved your life? And you want me to thank you for this?”
Strangely enough, that eases Arthur off, though not in the way Merlin would have thought. “I want you to see the situation for what it is,” he answers, voice a bit more even. His eyes ease again too, smoothing his face back into something less frigid… almost more worried.
That may be exactly the case.
“What?”
“You would be killed, Merlin, and I won’t let that happen.”
It’s not a declaration or a promise-it’s almost an ultimatum. A challenge, even, because Arthur will be as dogged in this as he is in everything else he cares about. Merlin should have seen it, honestly-he knows Arthur-but he hadn’t thought that Arthur would consider it his right to protect Merlin’s life.
He really should have, he supposes, though it’s a bit pointless to think so now. Anyway, if he was at all confused about it, that’s been cleared up quite nicely by the newest turn of events.
“So this is your solution?” he asks Arthur icily. “What about what I want?”
Arthur simply quirks an eyebrow in a gesture plainly declaring just how absurd he thinks this whole line of thinking is. “Do you want to die?”
“Not particularly. But it’s my life to bargain with. Not yours.”
“Really? That’s odd, because I could have sworn I’m your crown prince. Magic or not, your life is forfeit to the crown if I say it is. That goes for any of Camelot’s subjects.”
Right. Because it’s just that simple. Entitled clotpole, Merlin thinks sourly. “Arthur, I’d die for you if it came to that. You know that. But I can’t give you this. Think what you’re asking.”
If there were any chance of Arthur understanding, it would be now: Merlin can see it in the way his face softens, brow smoothing out and skin relaxing around the corners of his mouth. He does know what he’s asking, then… it’s just not enough to change his mind.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters after a moment, hands going to his hips. He shifts his weight more like he’s frustrated than sorry, but from what Merlin can tell, the frustration is created from actual regret. “I can’t pretend to know just what I’m asking you, but I understand your reasoning. But, Merlin, it remains that you’ve got something that is punishable by death in Camelot. I don’t believe you’d use it for harm, but I-I can’t take that chance. I’d say that about anyone. Because you could still be tricked into making a wrong decision, coerced-anything could happen. People-they would use you, and if the wrong person were able to find a way to do that, it wouldn’t matter that it’s you, Merlin. You’d still be deadly. And I can’t just leave that possibility open.”
One step back. Another. He stumbles backward like he’s been slapped.
No. Just-no-
Maybe that argument wouldn’t hurt so much if it weren’t true, but of all the things Arthur could have said, this is the most effective, if only because it’s Merlin’s own fear. What if someone did find a way to control him? It almost happened with Cornelius Sigan. What would have happened if he hadn’t been able to fight Sigan off? And the dragon-it had manipulated him into setting it free. Both of those things had led to disaster, and it didn’t matter that he hadn’t meant for them to end the way they did: he’d still been a conduit for harm.
The memory alone is enough to raise the hair on his arms.
“And what gives you the right to be that person?” Merlin croaks out finally in a voice that is far, far shakier than he’d like. He sounds ill-feels that way too, actually: if he had to bet, he’d wager his face is the color of spoilt milk right about now.
“Because I am your prince. And because I won’t see you killed.” Pausing, then, his lips purse, just once, before he stops and inhales deeply. “I won’t abuse it. You have my word. Only what’s necessary to keep you and the people of Camelot safe, Merlin. I promise.”
Behind Arthur, the leaves of the trees rustle slowly in the wind. An animal moves in the undergrowth. A bird calls out. Neither of them truly notices, though: Merlin simply stares, ignoring the background of the woods, the sky, the world, because right now, that isn’t where he’ll find his answers. The only place he’ll get those is in the terrain of Arthur’s face, in every small pull of muscle and blink, and maybe in the half-apology he sees there.
“You have my word,” he says again, more slowly this time.
And that? It is something Merlin trusts. Arthur’s word is good. Arthur is a good man. Arthur will be a great king. Those are things Merlin really believes, and it’s not enough to settle this situation by any means, but it’s all he has.
It’s still not enough.
Merlin turns away then and moves back toward Balinor, trying to pretend that every step doesn’t feel like a concession.
If he did doubt Arthur’s sympathy, the way Arthur sighs and comes to crouch down next to him beside Balinor would probably convince him. He takes the gesture for what it is: a peace offering. A way to let this drop for now and pretend that their whole world hasn’t shaken down to the foundations.
“If I try to heal him--?”
Arthur waves his hand in Balinor’s direction. “You should. Do it. We need him healed.”
Not “I care because he’s your father” or “I know what his death would do to you,” though Merlin hadn’t really expected anything of the sort. Although, it still creates a sort of ache in his stomach to hear his father so carelessly reduced to just a need for Camelot. Arthur might see him as those other things too-it’s impossible to tell-but he will never, ever say so, and Merlin can’t see how just thinking something like that is enough.
“All right,” he says slowly, almost losing the words in his exhale. “All right.”
Icy skin comes up to meet his hands-or he reaches down for it, although it really doesn’t seem that way-and he flexes his fingers lightly against his father’s chest. Sibilant whispers and flashes of gold are almost normal to him now, though not to Arthur. They probably never will be to Arthur, who kneels just behind him, dirty hair in his face and eyes fixed on Merlin’s hands. Only seemingly half aware, he swipes the stray pieces out of his eyes and keeps on looking, even after Balinor’s eyes have fluttered open.
Nothing, Merlin knows, is ever going to be the same.