World Shaking Down (Part 6/?)
Title: World Shaking Down (Part 6/?)
Author: talesofyesac
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Merlin, Arthur (gen)
Word Count: 6,060
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 used magic.
Disclaimer: Nope, don't own any of it. Just playing around.
Arthur has spent time in the dungeons before. Yes, it smells, the straw is uncomfortable, and the darkness strains a person’s eyes until a headache almost inevitably digs in behind the eye sockets, but it’s not intolerable. Or, more specifically, it’s never been intolerable for him, not when he’s never had to accept this place as the last thing he’ll ever see beyond the headman’s axe or a funeral pyre. To spend his last days here-he can’t imagine… not that he’s ever really tried. He hasn’t had much reason to until now.
Now, though-now that he’s standing just beyond the iron bars, staring unashamedly at the man within the cell, he can’t quite settle his uneasiness. Those few times he’s displeased his father enough to warrant a stay in the dungeons, he’s always had the assurance of an eventual return to warm room and a comfortable bed. Balinor-he doesn’t have that. He really doesn’t have anything anymore, despite being no guiltier of a crime than Arthur is.
The air suddenly feels a little more chilled.
Catching his thumb on the inside of his shirt cuff-half for warmth, half just for the sake of making some movement to take his mind off the itch that feels suspiciously like guilt-he notes that Balinor hasn’t yet acknowledged his presence. Whether that’s because he’s ignoring Arthur or he hasn’t registered his approach, it’s uncertain, but either way, Arthur is at least willing to give him ground on this. This is something he can understand: no one wants to see an enemy when the hours of your life are slipping away.
The dragon lord is curled in the back of the cell, one knee up, his arm perched haphazardly on it. The other leg juts straight in front of him, and he leans back against the wall, head resting on the cold stone. How he’s tipped his chin back pulls the black mess of hair-clearly it’s been a good long while since he’s combed it-away from his face, leaving Arthur with a clear view of that blank expression and those closed eyes.
“I do know you’re there, boy.”
The gruff tone is a bit startling-not that Arthur would ever admit it. It doesn’t seem like he needs to, though: watching Balinor’s lips curl, not cruelly, but with near bitter amusement, he’s fairly certain Balinor knows anyway. And why not? He wouldn’t have hidden so successfully for this long if he hadn’t known whether people meant him harm or… not kindness, probably, but mere indifference, sometimes probably pity. By this point Arthur would be willing to bet that he’s an expert at reading people’s intentions, feeling their presence.
“Where are the guards?” Balinor asks after a moment, opening his eyes and tipping his face back forward.
“At the entrance to the cells. We’ve a bit of privacy for the moment.”
“Oh?” One eyebrow arches. “I’d have thought your father wouldn’t allow it.”
Under normal circumstances? He wouldn’t have… and there’s really no reason to hide what changed the situation. It is, after all, what he’s here to discuss.
“If you disappear, my father has promised to execute Merlin in your place. Apparently, he believes that even if I think this is unjust, I value my manservant’s life more than yours. Guards or not, he doesn’t think I’ll try to get you out.”
Now, finally, Balinor leans his whole body forward away from the wall, a bit of real, genuine interest showing for the first time since Arthur arrived. Merlin. Apparently, all it took was mentioning Merlin. “And do you value his life more?”
“Yes.”
“You answer quickly.”
“Merlin has never been anything but loyal to me. I’m not in the habit of repaying loyalty with betrayal.”
“Not so like your father, then.”
The slow, ironic drag of the words shouldn’t make that a compliment, but Balinor’s gaze is not unkind, nor is it particularly accusatory. Bitter, yes, but the sharpness of the word “father” gives away exactly whom that bitterness is meant for.
Arthur’s a bit surprised to find he’s pleased it’s not him.
Of course, that doesn’t mean he’ll stand the insult to his father. “My father is a good man. A good king,” he snaps back. Because he is. It’s only in the area of magic that something in him seems to twist. That one twist, though-surely it can’t make him evil, can it? Flawed, yes, but that’s just like any man.
“A good man does not avoid what he knows to be right just because it becomes too personal.”
“You know nothing of what my father has faced!”
Balinor’s brow arches again, but while the gesture should be mocking, it’s only a shade of that. It’s hinted at, certainly, but Arthur is more struck by the pity… and damn it all, he hates pity.
“I was here in Camelot when you were born. When your mother died. I know very well what your father faced.”
No. He doesn’t. Just because he saw it doesn’t mean he knows. “He’s done what he’s thought was right.” Not with Arthur’s agreement, but, then, he’s well aware that Uther doesn’t need it.
“If you can’t even see the evil of what he’s done, you’ll never right his wrongs.”
He despises the condescension of that, and, temper rising, he jerks his leg, pushing the toe of his boot harder against the ground. His foot doesn’t move forward, but the resistance of stone against leather is at least a conduit for his tension. “I didn’t come down here for a lecture.”
Balinor just nods. “Then what did you come for?”
“Merlin wants to see you.”
If Arthur hadn’t witnessed the manner in which Balinor regarded his son, he wouldn’t think it was possible to genuinely interest the man in anything beyond his own self-interests. Too many years alone. Too many betrayals. This, though: the way he braces a hand on the straw-littered floor and pushes himself to his feet at the mention of Merlin is enough to tear down that assumption. Merlin interests him-not that anything about that ought to be surprising. Merlin should interest him. He’s Balinor’s son.
Reality be damned, though: Arthur still can’t quite get his mind around that.
“I can’t risk it,” Arthur continues, swallowing past the dryness in his throat. “After that scene he put on after the dragon-his relationship to you is already suspect. This would-” He breaks off, rubbing a hand at his forehead. “This would be seen as more evidence of his guilt. And I don’t want anyone looking for a connection. If he hadn’t been so foolish as to rush in without thinking…”
Again, Balinor nods, though it’s impossible to tell what he’s really thinking. Is he considering where Merlin might have gotten that trait? Because Hunith didn’t strike Arthur as particularly impulsive, and that’s got to come from somewhere. Is Balinor wishing Merlin had better sense?
Arthur can’t believe he’s the only one who’s thinking those things.
No, shake that thought off. Easier just to step closer to the door, to stare over at Balinor with as much authority as he reasonably feels is due to him. After a man holds your kingdom in his hands, it’s difficult to regard him as entirely controllable. Authority is something he’s owed, but what exactly is owing when you don’t have the means to make someone pay?
“And if I bring him down here, it’ll be much harder to have an excuse to knock him out-not when this place,” he says, gesturing to the walls around them, “is literally built to contain. It would seem logical to just throw him in a cell. Anything else would seem…” Suspicious. Foolish. Like he was trying to hide something. All entirely correct assumptions, unfortunately. “And, anyhow, I doubt knocking him out would do much good: you kept him out until we reached the castle, didn’t you?”
Balinor gives him no answer, but there is a slight tug at his cheeks, flickering down to the corners of his mouth. Even when he blinks and looks down, there’s nothing smacking of denial in his manner.
So, that’s a yes, then.
“I should thank you for that, I suppose. I haven’t found many efficient ways to keep Merlin silent.”
Ironic, since he’s can’t seem to find any ways to get Merlin’s father to talk. Perhaps it’s just best to lay out the actual reason he’s here: “I want to tell my father you’ve enchanted Merlin.”
A soft scuff on the floor signals movement; Arthur doesn’t bother to really look until Balinor is already only a few feet away from the door. He says nothing, but he holds Arthur’s eyes, hardly blinking.
“You’re already condemned. My father will kill you, magic or not. And… an explanation like that would excuse Merlin’s behavior.” At Balinor’s nod of acknowledgement, he presses on, one hand reaching forward to close fingers loosely around a bar. He can feel the grime of metal under his fingertips. It’s not pleasant. “It would also give me an excuse to bring him here. I could tell my father you’d promised to lift the spell. Merln’s behavior won’t change, of course, but my father would certainly believe you went back on your word at the last moment.”
Balinor’s lips part, and Arthur expects immediate words. Unsurprisingly, Balinor denies his expectations, choosing instead to exhale so softly that Arthur nearly misses it. Only then does he look away, lips smoothing back together in a hard line before they open again for a simple, firm, “Do it.”
Just like that. Like it’s that easy. And it shouldn’t be. Should it?
“It’ll mean I have to support your execution. I’ll have to stand there watching you burn and pretend that I believe you deserve it.”
Balinor just smiles… and there’s that pity again. “And which of us will that bother more?”
“I don’t follow your meaning.” Liar, his conscience chides, in total agreement with the sudden twisting of his stomach. Of course he understands. He just doesn’t want to.
A dip of Balinor’s shoulder, and he half turns away. “You think too much of yourself. I’ve lived years with no man’s approval. I hardly crave yours now.” He sounds almost amused, or he would if he didn’t sound equally as bitter.
“Fair enough.” It’s not, obviously. Nothing about this is fair. Even the silence that settles between them now doesn’t seem just-not when there’s infinitely more that needs to be said… and that will probably never even be fully thought.
Balinor is the one to break the silence. Just four soft words, slipping out between the bars of the cell, but they hit Arthur as hard as most any blow he’s ever physically received. “You have a conscience.”
“You thought otherwise?”
“I had no reason to consider you beyond your blood.”
“And you do now?”
“We both know I do,” he admits, turning back to face Arthur with a solemn expression that pulls as the lids of his eyes, stranding them only half-open.
Arthur doesn’t doubt what he’s referring to, just as he doesn’t doubt that Balinor is asking for Arthur to acknowledge that conscience may indeed be leading him in a different direction from his father: perhaps it will just be easiest to acknowledge the reference and give an answer in the same breath. “Would your son follow someone who did not?”
“You know him better than I,” Balinor responds quietly. Still, Arthur does have to admire the way he won’t drop his gaze. There’s pain there-a knowledge of a life lost-but he won’t refuse to face Arthur with it. He won’t run from the things that threaten-torment-him.
It seems he’s passed something on to his son after all.
Pity he hadn’t also given Merlin the good sense to know the difference between bravery and a truly abysmal sense of self-preservation.
“I’m sorry for that.”
No sorrier than Balinor, though, he can see. A life lost, a family unknown, and when found, snatched away again before he had time to truly find it. It’s a more than adequate explanation for the emptiness of his gaze as he stares through the bars at Arthur.
It does not account for the sudden, brief flair of life Arthur sees there.
“Tell me something about my son,” Balinor suddenly says, voice rough: he raises his hands, resting them on the metal between himself and Arthur. Arthur’s own hand, which had remained curled around the bars, drops.
“What do you want to know?”
“There’s little I don’t want to know.”
Fair enough. Easiest just to say whatever jumps into his head, then: “Merlin is good with animals. I’m rather inclined to believe that my own horse prefers him to me.”
That spark jumps again in Balinor’s gaze; he clenches his fingers on the bar a little harder. “Something else.”
“He steals food from me sometimes.”
A nod.
“I suspect it’s seldom for him. Merlin has a tendency to want to fix all the wrongs in the world, even with something as small as giving parts of my dinner to those he feels need it.”
Balinor’s mouth thins, almost as if he’s hiding a small smile. “You don’t stop him?”
“He’s not stealing for personal gain. And I always have enough food.”
They’re… talking about food. About how Merlin steals his food. He, the crown prince is standing here in the dungeon, talking to a dragon lord about Merlin, and about how Merlin nicks his food. It’s unbelievable. Laughable, even, and, yet, Arthur can’t help but feel that this is owed to Balinor. If Arthur’s mother were alive, if she were suddenly found, someone should do this for her if she asked. If she wanted to know about him…
He would want her to know these things. Shouldn’t Merlin’s father get that chance?
“Your son is a good man.” Because that is what Arthur would want her to hear. Because he imagines it’s the best of what a parent wants to hear. And because it’s true.
One look at the way Balinor’s fingers slip off the bars, suddenly relaxed, just like his face, is enough to confirm he’s made the right choice. All he gets in return is a short, soft, “I know,” but it sounds like a prayer of thanks, and God help them all, this is a terrible, terrible situation, but looking at Balinor right now-hearing him say those two words-is enough to make Arthur think that maybe Balinor won’t die quite as haunted by over two decades of demons as it had seemed, just a few moments ago, that he would.
Both he and Balinor exhale at the same time. “It’s hard to miss,” Arthur says quietly, giving him a small nod.
He gets one in return. An agreement met, then.
And then he turns away from the cell. He walks away. Out of the dungeons. Up the stairs. Toward where he knows his father will be.
He walks into a lie, and maybe he’s damned for thinking so, but he can’t help but believe that this lie-this false accusation-will be the kindest thing anyone has done for Balinor since he left Ealdor.
Arthur can’t give him his freedom. He can’t even give him his support. But he can give him a lie that will get him his son.
It’s the best he can do. And, as he nods shortly to the guards before he pushes the doors to his father’s chambers open, he finds that he’d like to think it’s at least something.
Something that will matter.
--------------------
Merlin can feel the block on his magic. It’s not what he thought it would be: not hard, like a wall, and certainly not inflexible. Instead, when he pokes at it, it moves with him, kind of like when he used to get tangled inside his blankets. He’d always frantically pressed his hands to the cloth, trying to work his way out, but the blanket had always molded to his touch, shifting with him, but still containing him as easily as something solidly fixed.
It’s impossible to tell if Arthur can feel him prodding at the block. If he does, it hasn’t made him come running back to check: either he’s confident it will hold, or he’s not aware that Merlin’s trying to find a way around it.
Knowing Arthur, Merlin would bet it’s the former. He’s all self-assurance and sometimes arrogance mixed in, but for all the times that’s gotten Arthur into trouble, Merlin can’t help but admit that today will not be one of those times.
He can’t break out of the dampening on his magic-not while Arthur is consciously holding it away from him.
It’s a bit like the cloth still holding him to the chair, he thinks bitterly, tugging again at it and getting nothing but more soreness from where he’s already rubbed the skin red: it’s not coming off until Arthur makes a conscious decision to remove it. Though, unlike the bindings, with the magic all it would take would be one thought.
The thing is, he’s pretty sure Arthur can’t completely block him. It seems that way, anyway, what with how he can still move small objects around the room, so long as he in no way tries to free himself. No, it’s got to be a specific command. Don’t use your magic to escape from this. Don’t use it to free your father. Those are specific. Don’t use your magic at all for anything would probably be harder for Arthur to maintain, because that’s just the way of magic: there’s always a balance. In order to have this kind of power, Arthur must be expending something. When the commands are tailored to certain situations, it might not even be anything that makes any difference, but a wide, sweeping statement-something that yanked Merlin’s magic entirely out of the world-would undoubtedly cost him something. Effort, probably-the kind he might not be able to sustain.
In all honesty, Merlin can’t help but hope Arthur gives it a try. The harder he has to work to suppress Merlin’s magic, the better chance Merlin will have at finding a way around this.
Though, when the door abruptly slams open and Arthur comes barreling through it, that doesn’t seem to be quite what Arthur has in mind. It’s difficult to tell what he actually is thinking, however, largely because Merlin doesn’t even get a good look at his face: Arthur is already behind him, fingers working at the knots tying Merlin to the chair.
“Not that I don’t appreciate your willingness to finally untie me,” he drawls, “but is there any particular reason why-?“
“Hold still,” Arthur reprimands sharply, still loosening the knots. “My father believes you’ve been enchanted to help Balinor. I’ve convinced him that I’ve managed to persuade Balinor to lift that enchantment, and so he’s agreed to let me take you down to the dungeons to see him.”
It’d be so easy to hear nothing beyond the fact that he’ll get to speak more with his father: his wrists are released, a little rubbing at the irritated skin will put everything good as new, he’s allowed to see Balinor, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to find a way to get his father out… But, no, that’s not really the way it is at all.
Arthur knows it too: if he didn’t, he wouldn’t accept Merlin’s glare as he stands up and rises off the chair, moving to meet Arthur on even eye level. “Let me help him.”
“You can help him by talking to him.”
No. Arthur’s got to see- “Arthur-“
Arthur’s hand lands on his shoulder, half a command and half comfort-or as close to comfort as Arthur knows how to get. “No. It’ll be your head on the block.”
“And I’m willing to pay that price!” he volleys back, shrugging Arthur’s hand off. “I am!”
But Arthur just looks at him, too forced to be natural, and too determined for Merlin to question the resolve behind it. “I’m not,” he says, like it’s that simple.
“It’s not your price to pay-“
“Stop it.” Sharp, hard. “I won’t listen to this now. I’ve made my decision. Hate me for it if you have to, but also keep in mind that it’s a decision Balinor agrees with.” Moving forward, he reaches out again, clasping Merlin’s shoulder harder this time, firmly enough that Merlin’s shirt bunches up in his fist. “And, Merlin,” he murmurs, leaning in until Merlin can’t look anywhere else but at him, “what makes you think you have any right to force him to let your life be traded for his? Do you think he wants that?” A sharp jerk, and when he doesn’t get an answer, he just jostles a little harder until Merlin finally gives him a reluctant shake of his head. “No? You’re right about that, at least. First thing in ages, it seems, but still…”
Harsh words, and the furthest thing from understanding, but even with his insides all but crawling out of him in rage, Merlin knows Arthur doesn’t mean it cruelly. It’s all they got right now-this shred of normalcy. Insult, insult, insult. It’s what they always do, and Merlin leans into the words like a touch, clinging to them, directing his anger at them.
Arthur can’t have missed his reaction entirely, but he only exhales heavily; when he begins again, his tone has dropped to something just the barest bit gentler, maybe just because he can, or maybe in recognition of the fact that his insults had the desired effect of easing Merlin down off the highpoint of pure anger he’d been up on. It’s hard to tell with Arthur.
“Look,” Arthur says, “God knows you seldom respect my wishes, but in this, Merlin, you’re going to. And Balinor won’t thank you for doing otherwise. Am I clear?”
Clear? Oh, yes. But… “I can’t let him die.” That came out far more strained than he’d wanted it to. It probably doesn’t matter all that much, though: Arthur already knows how cutting what he’s asking is.
The hand on his shoulder loosens, pats once, then twice, just to smooth out the wrinkles left in Merlin’s shirt, before it drops to Merlin’s elbow, as much a command as anything verbal would be. “I’m going to take you to Balinor now,” he says, voice eerily calm. His eyes aren’t, though-they’ve gone darker than normal, and so what if his jaw is set, hardening his face for what he knows is necessary? His eyes show his uncertainty. “Do not use your magic to try to free him.”
Trying to jerk free only ends in a tighter grip on his elbow-one that will probably leave a bruise. “Arthur-“
“Stop it.”
“You can’t-“
“I’m the prince and your lord, Merlin. I can.”
It’s for your own good--it’s what Arthur’s thinking, and Merlin feels his stomach flip with renewed anger at that non-spoken reality. It’s every bit as infuriating as Arthur’s continued hold on his elbow, which is more of a way to yank Merlin out the door now, apparently.
“I’m going to find a way-“
All right, so he probably shouldn’t be talking to the crown prince that way when another servant is walking by on the other side of the hall-said servant gives him wide eyes and scandalized posture, apparently appalled at his insolence-but at this point, Arthur can whip him if he wants. It can’t be worse than what he’s letting happen now.
“You are going to be mucking out the stables for weeks on end once this is over,” Arthur snarls, shooting a look at the servant’s retreating back. He’d have reason to be embarrassed by Merlin’s behavior, but if he is, he doesn’t show it. “I might even make you sleep there.”
“Because killing-“
Apparently that’s as far as he gets to push: Arthur’s fingers flex, and Merlin’s hardly quick enough to get a grip on Arthur’s arm before he’s being spun around into the wall. Good thing he succeeded, though, as he pitches dangerously, off balance, and almost welcomes it when the wall is pressed up against his back. It at least steadies him, and it didn’t even hurt that much. Arthur hadn’t pushed him hard enough for that.
That lack of violence doesn’t extend to Arthur’s tone. “Enough, Merlin! One more word, and I’ll give up on taking you to the dungeons altogether.”
Nice threat. At some other time, Merlin might have laughed. I won’t throw you in the dungeons? Really? That’s a threat? At the moment it is, though, and so Merlin just bites down on his tongue and scrunches up his brow, throwing Arthur the dirtiest look he can manage.
Arthur doesn’t seem too affected. “Better,” he says instead and then starts walking again, pulling Merlin along with him.
They receive no comments from the knights when they enter the dungeons. Certainly there are enough curious stares-not obvious, of course, because the knights are better trained than that-to fill the space, but Uther really must have given Arthur permission to be here-and, more surprisingly, to have Merlin here-because no one tries to stop them.
Frankly, though, when Arthur’s got that look on his face-the one that promises Very Bad Things-they would, in Merlin’s opinion, be asking for pain if they tried to stop him. Most of the time, that look is even a cue for Merlin to stop pushing. It might have been now, if his father weren’t sentenced to death, and if Arthur weren’t letting it happen, and if there was anything Arthur could do to him that feels worse than this.
There’s not.
There just isn’t.
“Remember what I said about trying to break out,” Arthur tells him gruffly as they stop in front of Balinor’s cell… and if he says anything else after that, Merlin doesn’t hear it.
His father. Balinor. He looks… tired. Still so unmoved, though, like nothing can really touch him further than it already has. When you’ve hit the worst, what’s left? After what he’s been through, a cell is not going to make him looked cowed. It’s not going to change how he looks at all.
And Merlin hates that most of all.
One push to his shoulder-not altogether lacking in gentleness-and he finds himself in the cell with Balinor, staring in a way that would probably shame his mother. Though, at this point, his mother might be staring too. And that’s funny, right? Yes? Maybe… maybe he’s a slight amount worked up by this point. Anyway, he seems hypersensitive to everything, like his nerves are on overdrive, and he just can’t stop looking at his father-
Behind him there’s the sound of a cell shutting and locking, but as relevant as that would be normally-right now, it’s just not. Balinor doesn’t seem to think so, either, because he’s just slowly getting to his feet, hand clambering against the wall for balance, eyes fixed on Merlin.
“You should have left,” someone says.
Oh. Him. Merlin. He was the one who said that. Funny, he hadn’t felt his mouth move.
“And let Camelot fall?” Balinor asks as he gains his feet. His arms remain lankly at his sides, but the way he watches Merlin is intense to the point where Merlin feels his chest seize up with it. This isn’t like a chat around a campfire. That had been hard enough, but then at least he’d thought he’d have some time. They didn’t have to say everything perfectly right then. Now, though, there’s a time limit. If they don’t get this right, they’ll never have another chance.
“You were willing to let that happen originally.”
“It means something to you,” Balinor says, as though that’s an answer.
Maybe it is.
“And Gaius?” he asks around the dryness in his throat. “The other good people here?”
“I came for them; I stayed for you.”
“Then I wish you hadn’t.”
Somehow, his feet are carrying him forward, not close enough to touch Balinor, exactly, but not so far off, either. Close enough to see the rise and fall of his chest-not for much longer, no, no, no don’t think that-and the sheen in his eyes, all a reflection from the dim dungeon light.
“You would have followed if I left,” Balinor states. Not a question.
Merlin nods. “Yes.”
“Then I’m glad I stayed.”
That doesn’t add up. There’s no help to be had in toeing the ground with his boot, but he can’t figure what Balinor’s saying, and it’s easier to look at the stone of the floor. “I don’t understand.”
“I don’t need you to.”
“But I want-“
“If you followed him, Merlin, you would have been just as much a fugitive. Hunted. And Balinor knows very well what that life is like. He knows it’s no life at all.”
He’d forgotten Arthur is here. Actually, on some level, he might have even thought he’d left. He’s not entirely sure. Hearing his voice, though-he doesn’t need to turn around to know he’s still there, standing at the door that he last pushed Merlin through.
The thing is, though, Arthur’s right. That’s obvious in Balinor’s gaze, in the way his eyes sweep down and he looks away, his breath leaking out of his lungs slowly enough that it sounds like a whisper in the grass to Merlin’s ears.
“So you were going to die-“ his voice catches over the word, and he scrubs a hand over his chin and mouth, “just so I could keep the life I’ve got?”
“I am.”
“You can’t.”
But the reality remains, Balinor very much can. Arthur’s going to let it happen, Merlin can’t stop it with his magic, and what other recourse does he have beyond those two things? Still, he shoves a foot forward, dipping his shoulder down, trying to catch his father’s eye as Balinor turns away, moving back to look at the furthest wall of the dungeon, seemingly unmoved by the fact that his son follows after him.
“You have a good life here. I meant it when I said I that I’ve seen enough of you to know you’ll do great things-“
Right. Of course. Because that’s what he’s meant to do, even if it tears him apart and destroys his own life in the process. He can’t have a father. Not like any normal child, and why, why, why can’t he have that? Why is “great things” always the justification, as though that alone can make everything right? It makes Merlin want to yell and maybe cry, but the most he can do is furiously force his way into his father’s line of sight, trying the whole time not to think about how Arthur is watching this, probably picking out how tense he’s gone-how tight his fists have clenched, just like his jaw, because he’s trying very, very hard not to let the stinging in his eyes slip out into actual tears.
“I don’t care!” he hisses. “Has anyone ever thought that maybe I don’t want to do great things? Would normal, just for once, be too much to ask?”
Balinor doesn’t look away, though in some ways it might be kinder if he did: Merlin can hardly stand the way his gaze seems to crack apart, fractured by clear pain. “We don’t get to choose our destiny.”
Something just snaps at that, and he throws his hand out to the side, fast, like it means something even if it does nothing. “That’s cruel. To not have a choice.”
“Then it’s cruel,” Balinor states tonelessly. Then, louder, possibly even heated and bitter for the first time since Merlin’s been brought down here, he adds, “You think I haven’t thought the same?”
There’s nothing he can say to that.
Finally, however, Balinor reaches out. His hand jerks at first, hovering over Merlin’s shoulder, not quite sure, but Merlin swallows and somehow that becomes reassurance, because the hand settles a moment later. “The gift of a dragon lord,” he says, his voice dropping to no more than a whisper, “is passed from father to son upon the father’s death.”
No. No more gifts. No more magic. No more responsibility. Why not just a life like any boy would have wanted? A father. No great destiny.
He chokes on a sob. He’s not crying. He’s not. But that’s because he’s choking instead. “I don’t know how-“
“You have to reach for the language the two of you share. It’s not something that can be taught. It’s only something that is. You’ll know it. You’ll make me proud.”
And then he’s stepping back around Merlin, walking with remarkably even steps, ignoring how his son spins after him-he’s slated for execution, and how can he be this calm?-to the door where Arthur is still standing.
Both of Arthur’s hands are up, resting on the door about mid-chest level. Although, resting might not be the correct word. That implies a lack of tension, and even through Merlin can’t stop his breath from jerking and his mind from spinning, he can see just how tense Arthur is. There’s nothing relaxed about him, not from the line of his jaw to the way he stands at attention, letting the door take none of his weight.
“You should take him away from here,” Balinor says simply, giving Arthur a small nod. “I can give him nothing else.”
That sends Merlin scrambling for the door: he throws himself between Arthur and his father, back to Arthur and the door. “I’m not leaving!” He hasn’t had enough time. He never will, but if his father does die in the impending future, why can’t he have this time, at least?
The sound of the door is Arthur’s answer, and Merlin whips around, trying to duck away from Arthur, but he’s caught by firm hands on his shoulders. It’s not that Arthur is purposely not letting him turn-or at least he doesn’t think that’s the purpose-but the side effect is that he’s kept facing his father.
And that’s all he needs to take a good look and see that Balinor doesn’t want him to leave either-not really.
“Arthur, no, you can’t-I’m staying-you’ve got to understand-“ Broken words, but he doesn’t look away from Balinor. Arthur’s hands are rough.
“I do,” is all Arthur says, but there’s an arm around Merlin’s chest now, dragging him back while his father just stands there and watches, eyes closing slowly. He doesn’t want to watch. He doesn’t want Merlin to leave, but he’s letting him, and Merlin doesn’t understand it, not at
Author: talesofyesac
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Merlin, Arthur (gen)
Word Count: 6,060
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 used magic.
Disclaimer: Nope, don't own any of it. Just playing around.
Arthur has spent time in the dungeons before. Yes, it smells, the straw is uncomfortable, and the darkness strains a person’s eyes until a headache almost inevitably digs in behind the eye sockets, but it’s not intolerable. Or, more specifically, it’s never been intolerable for him, not when he’s never had to accept this place as the last thing he’ll ever see beyond the headman’s axe or a funeral pyre. To spend his last days here-he can’t imagine… not that he’s ever really tried. He hasn’t had much reason to until now.
Now, though-now that he’s standing just beyond the iron bars, staring unashamedly at the man within the cell, he can’t quite settle his uneasiness. Those few times he’s displeased his father enough to warrant a stay in the dungeons, he’s always had the assurance of an eventual return to warm room and a comfortable bed. Balinor-he doesn’t have that. He really doesn’t have anything anymore, despite being no guiltier of a crime than Arthur is.
The air suddenly feels a little more chilled.
Catching his thumb on the inside of his shirt cuff-half for warmth, half just for the sake of making some movement to take his mind off the itch that feels suspiciously like guilt-he notes that Balinor hasn’t yet acknowledged his presence. Whether that’s because he’s ignoring Arthur or he hasn’t registered his approach, it’s uncertain, but either way, Arthur is at least willing to give him ground on this. This is something he can understand: no one wants to see an enemy when the hours of your life are slipping away.
The dragon lord is curled in the back of the cell, one knee up, his arm perched haphazardly on it. The other leg juts straight in front of him, and he leans back against the wall, head resting on the cold stone. How he’s tipped his chin back pulls the black mess of hair-clearly it’s been a good long while since he’s combed it-away from his face, leaving Arthur with a clear view of that blank expression and those closed eyes.
“I do know you’re there, boy.”
The gruff tone is a bit startling-not that Arthur would ever admit it. It doesn’t seem like he needs to, though: watching Balinor’s lips curl, not cruelly, but with near bitter amusement, he’s fairly certain Balinor knows anyway. And why not? He wouldn’t have hidden so successfully for this long if he hadn’t known whether people meant him harm or… not kindness, probably, but mere indifference, sometimes probably pity. By this point Arthur would be willing to bet that he’s an expert at reading people’s intentions, feeling their presence.
“Where are the guards?” Balinor asks after a moment, opening his eyes and tipping his face back forward.
“At the entrance to the cells. We’ve a bit of privacy for the moment.”
“Oh?” One eyebrow arches. “I’d have thought your father wouldn’t allow it.”
Under normal circumstances? He wouldn’t have… and there’s really no reason to hide what changed the situation. It is, after all, what he’s here to discuss.
“If you disappear, my father has promised to execute Merlin in your place. Apparently, he believes that even if I think this is unjust, I value my manservant’s life more than yours. Guards or not, he doesn’t think I’ll try to get you out.”
Now, finally, Balinor leans his whole body forward away from the wall, a bit of real, genuine interest showing for the first time since Arthur arrived. Merlin. Apparently, all it took was mentioning Merlin. “And do you value his life more?”
“Yes.”
“You answer quickly.”
“Merlin has never been anything but loyal to me. I’m not in the habit of repaying loyalty with betrayal.”
“Not so like your father, then.”
The slow, ironic drag of the words shouldn’t make that a compliment, but Balinor’s gaze is not unkind, nor is it particularly accusatory. Bitter, yes, but the sharpness of the word “father” gives away exactly whom that bitterness is meant for.
Arthur’s a bit surprised to find he’s pleased it’s not him.
Of course, that doesn’t mean he’ll stand the insult to his father. “My father is a good man. A good king,” he snaps back. Because he is. It’s only in the area of magic that something in him seems to twist. That one twist, though-surely it can’t make him evil, can it? Flawed, yes, but that’s just like any man.
“A good man does not avoid what he knows to be right just because it becomes too personal.”
“You know nothing of what my father has faced!”
Balinor’s brow arches again, but while the gesture should be mocking, it’s only a shade of that. It’s hinted at, certainly, but Arthur is more struck by the pity… and damn it all, he hates pity.
“I was here in Camelot when you were born. When your mother died. I know very well what your father faced.”
No. He doesn’t. Just because he saw it doesn’t mean he knows. “He’s done what he’s thought was right.” Not with Arthur’s agreement, but, then, he’s well aware that Uther doesn’t need it.
“If you can’t even see the evil of what he’s done, you’ll never right his wrongs.”
He despises the condescension of that, and, temper rising, he jerks his leg, pushing the toe of his boot harder against the ground. His foot doesn’t move forward, but the resistance of stone against leather is at least a conduit for his tension. “I didn’t come down here for a lecture.”
Balinor just nods. “Then what did you come for?”
“Merlin wants to see you.”
If Arthur hadn’t witnessed the manner in which Balinor regarded his son, he wouldn’t think it was possible to genuinely interest the man in anything beyond his own self-interests. Too many years alone. Too many betrayals. This, though: the way he braces a hand on the straw-littered floor and pushes himself to his feet at the mention of Merlin is enough to tear down that assumption. Merlin interests him-not that anything about that ought to be surprising. Merlin should interest him. He’s Balinor’s son.
Reality be damned, though: Arthur still can’t quite get his mind around that.
“I can’t risk it,” Arthur continues, swallowing past the dryness in his throat. “After that scene he put on after the dragon-his relationship to you is already suspect. This would-” He breaks off, rubbing a hand at his forehead. “This would be seen as more evidence of his guilt. And I don’t want anyone looking for a connection. If he hadn’t been so foolish as to rush in without thinking…”
Again, Balinor nods, though it’s impossible to tell what he’s really thinking. Is he considering where Merlin might have gotten that trait? Because Hunith didn’t strike Arthur as particularly impulsive, and that’s got to come from somewhere. Is Balinor wishing Merlin had better sense?
Arthur can’t believe he’s the only one who’s thinking those things.
No, shake that thought off. Easier just to step closer to the door, to stare over at Balinor with as much authority as he reasonably feels is due to him. After a man holds your kingdom in his hands, it’s difficult to regard him as entirely controllable. Authority is something he’s owed, but what exactly is owing when you don’t have the means to make someone pay?
“And if I bring him down here, it’ll be much harder to have an excuse to knock him out-not when this place,” he says, gesturing to the walls around them, “is literally built to contain. It would seem logical to just throw him in a cell. Anything else would seem…” Suspicious. Foolish. Like he was trying to hide something. All entirely correct assumptions, unfortunately. “And, anyhow, I doubt knocking him out would do much good: you kept him out until we reached the castle, didn’t you?”
Balinor gives him no answer, but there is a slight tug at his cheeks, flickering down to the corners of his mouth. Even when he blinks and looks down, there’s nothing smacking of denial in his manner.
So, that’s a yes, then.
“I should thank you for that, I suppose. I haven’t found many efficient ways to keep Merlin silent.”
Ironic, since he’s can’t seem to find any ways to get Merlin’s father to talk. Perhaps it’s just best to lay out the actual reason he’s here: “I want to tell my father you’ve enchanted Merlin.”
A soft scuff on the floor signals movement; Arthur doesn’t bother to really look until Balinor is already only a few feet away from the door. He says nothing, but he holds Arthur’s eyes, hardly blinking.
“You’re already condemned. My father will kill you, magic or not. And… an explanation like that would excuse Merlin’s behavior.” At Balinor’s nod of acknowledgement, he presses on, one hand reaching forward to close fingers loosely around a bar. He can feel the grime of metal under his fingertips. It’s not pleasant. “It would also give me an excuse to bring him here. I could tell my father you’d promised to lift the spell. Merln’s behavior won’t change, of course, but my father would certainly believe you went back on your word at the last moment.”
Balinor’s lips part, and Arthur expects immediate words. Unsurprisingly, Balinor denies his expectations, choosing instead to exhale so softly that Arthur nearly misses it. Only then does he look away, lips smoothing back together in a hard line before they open again for a simple, firm, “Do it.”
Just like that. Like it’s that easy. And it shouldn’t be. Should it?
“It’ll mean I have to support your execution. I’ll have to stand there watching you burn and pretend that I believe you deserve it.”
Balinor just smiles… and there’s that pity again. “And which of us will that bother more?”
“I don’t follow your meaning.” Liar, his conscience chides, in total agreement with the sudden twisting of his stomach. Of course he understands. He just doesn’t want to.
A dip of Balinor’s shoulder, and he half turns away. “You think too much of yourself. I’ve lived years with no man’s approval. I hardly crave yours now.” He sounds almost amused, or he would if he didn’t sound equally as bitter.
“Fair enough.” It’s not, obviously. Nothing about this is fair. Even the silence that settles between them now doesn’t seem just-not when there’s infinitely more that needs to be said… and that will probably never even be fully thought.
Balinor is the one to break the silence. Just four soft words, slipping out between the bars of the cell, but they hit Arthur as hard as most any blow he’s ever physically received. “You have a conscience.”
“You thought otherwise?”
“I had no reason to consider you beyond your blood.”
“And you do now?”
“We both know I do,” he admits, turning back to face Arthur with a solemn expression that pulls as the lids of his eyes, stranding them only half-open.
Arthur doesn’t doubt what he’s referring to, just as he doesn’t doubt that Balinor is asking for Arthur to acknowledge that conscience may indeed be leading him in a different direction from his father: perhaps it will just be easiest to acknowledge the reference and give an answer in the same breath. “Would your son follow someone who did not?”
“You know him better than I,” Balinor responds quietly. Still, Arthur does have to admire the way he won’t drop his gaze. There’s pain there-a knowledge of a life lost-but he won’t refuse to face Arthur with it. He won’t run from the things that threaten-torment-him.
It seems he’s passed something on to his son after all.
Pity he hadn’t also given Merlin the good sense to know the difference between bravery and a truly abysmal sense of self-preservation.
“I’m sorry for that.”
No sorrier than Balinor, though, he can see. A life lost, a family unknown, and when found, snatched away again before he had time to truly find it. It’s a more than adequate explanation for the emptiness of his gaze as he stares through the bars at Arthur.
It does not account for the sudden, brief flair of life Arthur sees there.
“Tell me something about my son,” Balinor suddenly says, voice rough: he raises his hands, resting them on the metal between himself and Arthur. Arthur’s own hand, which had remained curled around the bars, drops.
“What do you want to know?”
“There’s little I don’t want to know.”
Fair enough. Easiest just to say whatever jumps into his head, then: “Merlin is good with animals. I’m rather inclined to believe that my own horse prefers him to me.”
That spark jumps again in Balinor’s gaze; he clenches his fingers on the bar a little harder. “Something else.”
“He steals food from me sometimes.”
A nod.
“I suspect it’s seldom for him. Merlin has a tendency to want to fix all the wrongs in the world, even with something as small as giving parts of my dinner to those he feels need it.”
Balinor’s mouth thins, almost as if he’s hiding a small smile. “You don’t stop him?”
“He’s not stealing for personal gain. And I always have enough food.”
They’re… talking about food. About how Merlin steals his food. He, the crown prince is standing here in the dungeon, talking to a dragon lord about Merlin, and about how Merlin nicks his food. It’s unbelievable. Laughable, even, and, yet, Arthur can’t help but feel that this is owed to Balinor. If Arthur’s mother were alive, if she were suddenly found, someone should do this for her if she asked. If she wanted to know about him…
He would want her to know these things. Shouldn’t Merlin’s father get that chance?
“Your son is a good man.” Because that is what Arthur would want her to hear. Because he imagines it’s the best of what a parent wants to hear. And because it’s true.
One look at the way Balinor’s fingers slip off the bars, suddenly relaxed, just like his face, is enough to confirm he’s made the right choice. All he gets in return is a short, soft, “I know,” but it sounds like a prayer of thanks, and God help them all, this is a terrible, terrible situation, but looking at Balinor right now-hearing him say those two words-is enough to make Arthur think that maybe Balinor won’t die quite as haunted by over two decades of demons as it had seemed, just a few moments ago, that he would.
Both he and Balinor exhale at the same time. “It’s hard to miss,” Arthur says quietly, giving him a small nod.
He gets one in return. An agreement met, then.
And then he turns away from the cell. He walks away. Out of the dungeons. Up the stairs. Toward where he knows his father will be.
He walks into a lie, and maybe he’s damned for thinking so, but he can’t help but believe that this lie-this false accusation-will be the kindest thing anyone has done for Balinor since he left Ealdor.
Arthur can’t give him his freedom. He can’t even give him his support. But he can give him a lie that will get him his son.
It’s the best he can do. And, as he nods shortly to the guards before he pushes the doors to his father’s chambers open, he finds that he’d like to think it’s at least something.
Something that will matter.
--------------------
Merlin can feel the block on his magic. It’s not what he thought it would be: not hard, like a wall, and certainly not inflexible. Instead, when he pokes at it, it moves with him, kind of like when he used to get tangled inside his blankets. He’d always frantically pressed his hands to the cloth, trying to work his way out, but the blanket had always molded to his touch, shifting with him, but still containing him as easily as something solidly fixed.
It’s impossible to tell if Arthur can feel him prodding at the block. If he does, it hasn’t made him come running back to check: either he’s confident it will hold, or he’s not aware that Merlin’s trying to find a way around it.
Knowing Arthur, Merlin would bet it’s the former. He’s all self-assurance and sometimes arrogance mixed in, but for all the times that’s gotten Arthur into trouble, Merlin can’t help but admit that today will not be one of those times.
He can’t break out of the dampening on his magic-not while Arthur is consciously holding it away from him.
It’s a bit like the cloth still holding him to the chair, he thinks bitterly, tugging again at it and getting nothing but more soreness from where he’s already rubbed the skin red: it’s not coming off until Arthur makes a conscious decision to remove it. Though, unlike the bindings, with the magic all it would take would be one thought.
The thing is, he’s pretty sure Arthur can’t completely block him. It seems that way, anyway, what with how he can still move small objects around the room, so long as he in no way tries to free himself. No, it’s got to be a specific command. Don’t use your magic to escape from this. Don’t use it to free your father. Those are specific. Don’t use your magic at all for anything would probably be harder for Arthur to maintain, because that’s just the way of magic: there’s always a balance. In order to have this kind of power, Arthur must be expending something. When the commands are tailored to certain situations, it might not even be anything that makes any difference, but a wide, sweeping statement-something that yanked Merlin’s magic entirely out of the world-would undoubtedly cost him something. Effort, probably-the kind he might not be able to sustain.
In all honesty, Merlin can’t help but hope Arthur gives it a try. The harder he has to work to suppress Merlin’s magic, the better chance Merlin will have at finding a way around this.
Though, when the door abruptly slams open and Arthur comes barreling through it, that doesn’t seem to be quite what Arthur has in mind. It’s difficult to tell what he actually is thinking, however, largely because Merlin doesn’t even get a good look at his face: Arthur is already behind him, fingers working at the knots tying Merlin to the chair.
“Not that I don’t appreciate your willingness to finally untie me,” he drawls, “but is there any particular reason why-?“
“Hold still,” Arthur reprimands sharply, still loosening the knots. “My father believes you’ve been enchanted to help Balinor. I’ve convinced him that I’ve managed to persuade Balinor to lift that enchantment, and so he’s agreed to let me take you down to the dungeons to see him.”
It’d be so easy to hear nothing beyond the fact that he’ll get to speak more with his father: his wrists are released, a little rubbing at the irritated skin will put everything good as new, he’s allowed to see Balinor, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to find a way to get his father out… But, no, that’s not really the way it is at all.
Arthur knows it too: if he didn’t, he wouldn’t accept Merlin’s glare as he stands up and rises off the chair, moving to meet Arthur on even eye level. “Let me help him.”
“You can help him by talking to him.”
No. Arthur’s got to see- “Arthur-“
Arthur’s hand lands on his shoulder, half a command and half comfort-or as close to comfort as Arthur knows how to get. “No. It’ll be your head on the block.”
“And I’m willing to pay that price!” he volleys back, shrugging Arthur’s hand off. “I am!”
But Arthur just looks at him, too forced to be natural, and too determined for Merlin to question the resolve behind it. “I’m not,” he says, like it’s that simple.
“It’s not your price to pay-“
“Stop it.” Sharp, hard. “I won’t listen to this now. I’ve made my decision. Hate me for it if you have to, but also keep in mind that it’s a decision Balinor agrees with.” Moving forward, he reaches out again, clasping Merlin’s shoulder harder this time, firmly enough that Merlin’s shirt bunches up in his fist. “And, Merlin,” he murmurs, leaning in until Merlin can’t look anywhere else but at him, “what makes you think you have any right to force him to let your life be traded for his? Do you think he wants that?” A sharp jerk, and when he doesn’t get an answer, he just jostles a little harder until Merlin finally gives him a reluctant shake of his head. “No? You’re right about that, at least. First thing in ages, it seems, but still…”
Harsh words, and the furthest thing from understanding, but even with his insides all but crawling out of him in rage, Merlin knows Arthur doesn’t mean it cruelly. It’s all they got right now-this shred of normalcy. Insult, insult, insult. It’s what they always do, and Merlin leans into the words like a touch, clinging to them, directing his anger at them.
Arthur can’t have missed his reaction entirely, but he only exhales heavily; when he begins again, his tone has dropped to something just the barest bit gentler, maybe just because he can, or maybe in recognition of the fact that his insults had the desired effect of easing Merlin down off the highpoint of pure anger he’d been up on. It’s hard to tell with Arthur.
“Look,” Arthur says, “God knows you seldom respect my wishes, but in this, Merlin, you’re going to. And Balinor won’t thank you for doing otherwise. Am I clear?”
Clear? Oh, yes. But… “I can’t let him die.” That came out far more strained than he’d wanted it to. It probably doesn’t matter all that much, though: Arthur already knows how cutting what he’s asking is.
The hand on his shoulder loosens, pats once, then twice, just to smooth out the wrinkles left in Merlin’s shirt, before it drops to Merlin’s elbow, as much a command as anything verbal would be. “I’m going to take you to Balinor now,” he says, voice eerily calm. His eyes aren’t, though-they’ve gone darker than normal, and so what if his jaw is set, hardening his face for what he knows is necessary? His eyes show his uncertainty. “Do not use your magic to try to free him.”
Trying to jerk free only ends in a tighter grip on his elbow-one that will probably leave a bruise. “Arthur-“
“Stop it.”
“You can’t-“
“I’m the prince and your lord, Merlin. I can.”
It’s for your own good--it’s what Arthur’s thinking, and Merlin feels his stomach flip with renewed anger at that non-spoken reality. It’s every bit as infuriating as Arthur’s continued hold on his elbow, which is more of a way to yank Merlin out the door now, apparently.
“I’m going to find a way-“
All right, so he probably shouldn’t be talking to the crown prince that way when another servant is walking by on the other side of the hall-said servant gives him wide eyes and scandalized posture, apparently appalled at his insolence-but at this point, Arthur can whip him if he wants. It can’t be worse than what he’s letting happen now.
“You are going to be mucking out the stables for weeks on end once this is over,” Arthur snarls, shooting a look at the servant’s retreating back. He’d have reason to be embarrassed by Merlin’s behavior, but if he is, he doesn’t show it. “I might even make you sleep there.”
“Because killing-“
Apparently that’s as far as he gets to push: Arthur’s fingers flex, and Merlin’s hardly quick enough to get a grip on Arthur’s arm before he’s being spun around into the wall. Good thing he succeeded, though, as he pitches dangerously, off balance, and almost welcomes it when the wall is pressed up against his back. It at least steadies him, and it didn’t even hurt that much. Arthur hadn’t pushed him hard enough for that.
That lack of violence doesn’t extend to Arthur’s tone. “Enough, Merlin! One more word, and I’ll give up on taking you to the dungeons altogether.”
Nice threat. At some other time, Merlin might have laughed. I won’t throw you in the dungeons? Really? That’s a threat? At the moment it is, though, and so Merlin just bites down on his tongue and scrunches up his brow, throwing Arthur the dirtiest look he can manage.
Arthur doesn’t seem too affected. “Better,” he says instead and then starts walking again, pulling Merlin along with him.
They receive no comments from the knights when they enter the dungeons. Certainly there are enough curious stares-not obvious, of course, because the knights are better trained than that-to fill the space, but Uther really must have given Arthur permission to be here-and, more surprisingly, to have Merlin here-because no one tries to stop them.
Frankly, though, when Arthur’s got that look on his face-the one that promises Very Bad Things-they would, in Merlin’s opinion, be asking for pain if they tried to stop him. Most of the time, that look is even a cue for Merlin to stop pushing. It might have been now, if his father weren’t sentenced to death, and if Arthur weren’t letting it happen, and if there was anything Arthur could do to him that feels worse than this.
There’s not.
There just isn’t.
“Remember what I said about trying to break out,” Arthur tells him gruffly as they stop in front of Balinor’s cell… and if he says anything else after that, Merlin doesn’t hear it.
His father. Balinor. He looks… tired. Still so unmoved, though, like nothing can really touch him further than it already has. When you’ve hit the worst, what’s left? After what he’s been through, a cell is not going to make him looked cowed. It’s not going to change how he looks at all.
And Merlin hates that most of all.
One push to his shoulder-not altogether lacking in gentleness-and he finds himself in the cell with Balinor, staring in a way that would probably shame his mother. Though, at this point, his mother might be staring too. And that’s funny, right? Yes? Maybe… maybe he’s a slight amount worked up by this point. Anyway, he seems hypersensitive to everything, like his nerves are on overdrive, and he just can’t stop looking at his father-
Behind him there’s the sound of a cell shutting and locking, but as relevant as that would be normally-right now, it’s just not. Balinor doesn’t seem to think so, either, because he’s just slowly getting to his feet, hand clambering against the wall for balance, eyes fixed on Merlin.
“You should have left,” someone says.
Oh. Him. Merlin. He was the one who said that. Funny, he hadn’t felt his mouth move.
“And let Camelot fall?” Balinor asks as he gains his feet. His arms remain lankly at his sides, but the way he watches Merlin is intense to the point where Merlin feels his chest seize up with it. This isn’t like a chat around a campfire. That had been hard enough, but then at least he’d thought he’d have some time. They didn’t have to say everything perfectly right then. Now, though, there’s a time limit. If they don’t get this right, they’ll never have another chance.
“You were willing to let that happen originally.”
“It means something to you,” Balinor says, as though that’s an answer.
Maybe it is.
“And Gaius?” he asks around the dryness in his throat. “The other good people here?”
“I came for them; I stayed for you.”
“Then I wish you hadn’t.”
Somehow, his feet are carrying him forward, not close enough to touch Balinor, exactly, but not so far off, either. Close enough to see the rise and fall of his chest-not for much longer, no, no, no don’t think that-and the sheen in his eyes, all a reflection from the dim dungeon light.
“You would have followed if I left,” Balinor states. Not a question.
Merlin nods. “Yes.”
“Then I’m glad I stayed.”
That doesn’t add up. There’s no help to be had in toeing the ground with his boot, but he can’t figure what Balinor’s saying, and it’s easier to look at the stone of the floor. “I don’t understand.”
“I don’t need you to.”
“But I want-“
“If you followed him, Merlin, you would have been just as much a fugitive. Hunted. And Balinor knows very well what that life is like. He knows it’s no life at all.”
He’d forgotten Arthur is here. Actually, on some level, he might have even thought he’d left. He’s not entirely sure. Hearing his voice, though-he doesn’t need to turn around to know he’s still there, standing at the door that he last pushed Merlin through.
The thing is, though, Arthur’s right. That’s obvious in Balinor’s gaze, in the way his eyes sweep down and he looks away, his breath leaking out of his lungs slowly enough that it sounds like a whisper in the grass to Merlin’s ears.
“So you were going to die-“ his voice catches over the word, and he scrubs a hand over his chin and mouth, “just so I could keep the life I’ve got?”
“I am.”
“You can’t.”
But the reality remains, Balinor very much can. Arthur’s going to let it happen, Merlin can’t stop it with his magic, and what other recourse does he have beyond those two things? Still, he shoves a foot forward, dipping his shoulder down, trying to catch his father’s eye as Balinor turns away, moving back to look at the furthest wall of the dungeon, seemingly unmoved by the fact that his son follows after him.
“You have a good life here. I meant it when I said I that I’ve seen enough of you to know you’ll do great things-“
Right. Of course. Because that’s what he’s meant to do, even if it tears him apart and destroys his own life in the process. He can’t have a father. Not like any normal child, and why, why, why can’t he have that? Why is “great things” always the justification, as though that alone can make everything right? It makes Merlin want to yell and maybe cry, but the most he can do is furiously force his way into his father’s line of sight, trying the whole time not to think about how Arthur is watching this, probably picking out how tense he’s gone-how tight his fists have clenched, just like his jaw, because he’s trying very, very hard not to let the stinging in his eyes slip out into actual tears.
“I don’t care!” he hisses. “Has anyone ever thought that maybe I don’t want to do great things? Would normal, just for once, be too much to ask?”
Balinor doesn’t look away, though in some ways it might be kinder if he did: Merlin can hardly stand the way his gaze seems to crack apart, fractured by clear pain. “We don’t get to choose our destiny.”
Something just snaps at that, and he throws his hand out to the side, fast, like it means something even if it does nothing. “That’s cruel. To not have a choice.”
“Then it’s cruel,” Balinor states tonelessly. Then, louder, possibly even heated and bitter for the first time since Merlin’s been brought down here, he adds, “You think I haven’t thought the same?”
There’s nothing he can say to that.
Finally, however, Balinor reaches out. His hand jerks at first, hovering over Merlin’s shoulder, not quite sure, but Merlin swallows and somehow that becomes reassurance, because the hand settles a moment later. “The gift of a dragon lord,” he says, his voice dropping to no more than a whisper, “is passed from father to son upon the father’s death.”
No. No more gifts. No more magic. No more responsibility. Why not just a life like any boy would have wanted? A father. No great destiny.
He chokes on a sob. He’s not crying. He’s not. But that’s because he’s choking instead. “I don’t know how-“
“You have to reach for the language the two of you share. It’s not something that can be taught. It’s only something that is. You’ll know it. You’ll make me proud.”
And then he’s stepping back around Merlin, walking with remarkably even steps, ignoring how his son spins after him-he’s slated for execution, and how can he be this calm?-to the door where Arthur is still standing.
Both of Arthur’s hands are up, resting on the door about mid-chest level. Although, resting might not be the correct word. That implies a lack of tension, and even through Merlin can’t stop his breath from jerking and his mind from spinning, he can see just how tense Arthur is. There’s nothing relaxed about him, not from the line of his jaw to the way he stands at attention, letting the door take none of his weight.
“You should take him away from here,” Balinor says simply, giving Arthur a small nod. “I can give him nothing else.”
That sends Merlin scrambling for the door: he throws himself between Arthur and his father, back to Arthur and the door. “I’m not leaving!” He hasn’t had enough time. He never will, but if his father does die in the impending future, why can’t he have this time, at least?
The sound of the door is Arthur’s answer, and Merlin whips around, trying to duck away from Arthur, but he’s caught by firm hands on his shoulders. It’s not that Arthur is purposely not letting him turn-or at least he doesn’t think that’s the purpose-but the side effect is that he’s kept facing his father.
And that’s all he needs to take a good look and see that Balinor doesn’t want him to leave either-not really.
“Arthur, no, you can’t-I’m staying-you’ve got to understand-“ Broken words, but he doesn’t look away from Balinor. Arthur’s hands are rough.
“I do,” is all Arthur says, but there’s an arm around Merlin’s chest now, dragging him back while his father just stands there and watches, eyes closing slowly. He doesn’t want to watch. He doesn’t want Merlin to leave, but he’s letting him, and Merlin doesn’t understand it, not at