World Shaking Down (Part 7/?)
Title: World Shaking Down (Part 7/?)
Author: talesofyesac
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Merlin, Arthur (gen)
Word Count: 2,466
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.
“You were willing to risk death to just learn about your mother. Why won’t you let me do the same to save my father?”
The pressure in Arthur’s head tips over into a steady staccato pounding. Throb, throb, throb, and no amount of rubbing his hand against his eyes alleviates the ache. Any second now, his skull will probably split open, and God help him, that might actually be a relief.
Merlin hasn’t looked at him since they’ve gotten back to Arthur’s chambers. He’d stopped yelling about halfway up the stairs, but he hadn’t relaxed, and though Arthur had hoped he might once they were in private, he’s found that he was sorely wrong. If anything, Merlin’s tensed more, shoulders hunched in on themselves as he haunts Arthur’s usual place at the window.
It’s not like Merlin to stare off at nothing-he and Arthur are different that way-but that’s what he has to be doing, because there’s nothing there for him to stare at. Arthur would know. He’s looked over every stone, every wall, every person walking by, just about anytime something weighs heavily on his mind. It’s his vantage point for thought, and while he’s more than willing to let Merlin borrow it given the circumstances, he can’t imagine that Merlin will find it helpful.
“It’ll hurt, won’t it?” Merlin says quietly, not turning around.
Pausing from where he’d been picking at the food on his plate-some servant had brought it while he was in the dungeons with Merlin, apparently-Arthur places his hand down flat on the table and focuses his entire attention on his servant. “What?”
“The burning.”
Bloody hell. That is what Merlin is looking at.
Just like that, he can’t get out of his seat fast enough. Still, Merlin seems almost startled when Arthur yanks him back away from the window, and, yes, just like he’d thought, there it is, the beginnings of construction right in the center of the square.
A pyre.
For a moment, they just stare at each other. Dark smudges stand under Merlin’s eyes, darkening the color of his irises to a clouded, dull blue, but his gaze is steady, and, if anything, he’s studying Arthur as much as Arthur is studying him.
“Sit down. Eat something,” Arthur says finally, pulling Merlin toward the table. His hands are steady… in the same forced way they are after a fight that’s just a little too personal.
Merlin sits, but he looks at the food with an arched eyebrow and disbelief. “That’s your food.”
“Considering the circumstances, I don’t mind. It’s not like you ever worried about taking my food before.”
True enough, and that at least earns him a smile, but it’s a hollow victory: the expression is lifeless and thin, entirely too forced on Merlin’s lips. “You didn’t answer my question.”
No, no he didn’t, and he doesn’t want to, because what exactly is he supposed to do? Lie to Merlin? Merlin already knows the answer anyway. Any sane man would.
“Merlin-“ He stops, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Honestly, Merlin, just… don’t ask that.”
Why? Because you don’t want to answer?
Arthur could really do without the self-doubt at the moment. He’s faced difficult situations before. He’ll have to do it again. This-he’s just going to have to face this too, and he’s not doing anyone any good by letting weakness show.
If Merlin understands, that could explain why he looks away, letting the question go. There’s always another possible reason, though. Always more possibilities, and Arthur is, for the moment, tired of trying to trace them out.
Rest is a luxury it doesn’t seem he’ll get, however: if the situation couldn’t get worse, it still would, somehow-and it does. That comes in the swinging of hinges and displaced air moved by a door opening, and when Arthur turns, he already knows what he’ll find, but, just this once, couldn’t fate misplace it?
No. Uther stands in the doorway, cloak fluttering at his back with his sudden cessation of motion: his eyes are already fixed on Merlin, assessing. They don’t even narrow: he just stares, calm and open, like Merlin isn’t worth the extra movement.
And Merlin stares back.
Immediately, Arthur takes the only option he can see: he moves to meet his father, giving Merlin a quick, pointed look-don’t even consider moving, and if Merlin disregards that look, Arthur won’t be responsible for his actions-before nodding to the door. Uther gives him a raised eyebrow, but, thankfully, he moves with Arthur.
What he wouldn’t give to see a hint of compassion in his father for any part of this. Oh, no, though, it’s clear: none exists. Uther’s back remains straight as they leave the room, and there’s no backward glance at Merlin. Nothing at all but dignified movements and an icy strong exterior that, as a child, Arthur hadn’t understood. He’d wanted his father, not a king, almost as much as he wants leniency now. Justice. Why can the years of his father’s twisted grief just peel away?
Uther turns on his heel to face Arthur once they door is closed. Arms crossing, he regards his son with a tight-lipped expectancy. He doesn’t look so very old like that, Arthur finds himself thinking, even if his father’s hair is graying and his face is lining with age. But old-that would seem less than what Uther is, less than the hard gaze and the seeming command of any situation he walks into. Aging, perhaps, but not old.
“Honestly, Arthur, you feel the need to leave your own room on account of your servant?” he asks with a hint of distaste.
He feels his own jaw clench. “When I’m discussing the impending execution of the person who’s ensorcelled him? Yes, I do. I’d rather he not do anything rash. At this point, he still blames you, and he probably will until the sorcerer dies and the enchantment is lifted.” The words taste sour in his mouth… but so much depends on this lie. Merlin’s life depends on it.
Relief trickles through him when Uther gives him a curt nod. “I suppose your concern is not misplaced. It would be unfortunate to have to harm the boy for an assault precipitated entirely by forces beyond his control.”
Not so beyond Merlin’s control as Uther might like to think, Arthur thinks wearily. From what he’s seen, Merlin has a fairly competent grasp on his magic.
Better not to dwell on a subject that treacherous, though-easier to nod, as though he agrees, and rest his hands lightly at his belt as he makes to press the conversation into something else: “I do assume you wanted to discuss the execution?”
Uther nods in return. “Yes. I intend to have it done tonight.”
“Tonight?”
Another nod. “Best to remove him before sympathy can arise in the people. They don’t understand the threat of magic,” he states firmly. “All they see is a man who drove off a dragon. They don’t comprehend that he could kill them just as easily as the creature he banished.”
Maybe that’s true… but the fact remains, Balinor didn’t harm them. He chose to save them.
Not that Arthur can say as much. Instead, he just tucks his hands behind his back, fingers wrapping around opposite wrists as he stands stiffly, trying for all the world to look as though he agrees with that decision.
“I see your point,” he says evenly (thank God it came out evenly). “Will the pyre be ready?”
“Yes.“
It will, Arthur is sure, because if it isn’t, Uther will find a way to make certain it is. It’s rather like how he finds a way to believe the worst of every bit of magic he encounters. Any other circumstances, and he’d question-want to know why Merlin is the only one enchanted, why Balinor came back at all.
Not this, though. With this, he just sees magic, and there’s only one reaction in him for that.
His stomach has been rolling for some time now, but the thought of that-reality aside, he could swear that thought has frozen whatever’s in there, weighing it heavier to twice as much until he might as well have eaten stones. His father. Blind. Unjust. It doesn’t-it was never the man he saw. Not his father. Perhaps, if he didn’t know the reason for that, he could even hate his father. That reason, though-it’s not something either of them can escape. Arthur can see it even now in the way the color of his father’s eyes has dulled, and more so in the hard, etched lines of his face. Arthur’s mother is in every wrinkle, every bit of age. Her death was enough to warp him-to twist a good man-because he has to still be a good man on most levels, despite everything-blind. Arthur knows he is a good man. In this, though-in the thing that killed his wife-he is not himself.
And there’s always the possibility that the poison of bitterness toward that area of the world has leaked over into other parts of him as well.
It’s not something Arthur would like to consider-not when he’s fairly certain there’s no cure.
“I understand,” he says finally, inclining his head respectfully. “Though, I don’t plan on attending myself.”
Uther straightens up, looking at his son with a frown. “What?”
“I simply worry for what will happen in regards to Merlin. Who knows what this spell could cause him to do. Considering that he’s Balinor’s last hold of power, I find it entirely possible that he could attempt to cause damage with Merlin.”
“You believe he has transferred powers temporarily to your manservant?”
Backtrack-and quickly, or it will be Merlin burning right alongside his father. “No. I’ve seen no evidence of that. However, I see no reason not to be wary. Balinor has proven himself to be powerful.”
“You could assign a guard to watch your servant.”
“He’s my responsibility. I’d prefer to do it myself.” That might be pushing a bit hard-Uther’s lips tense, and he leans his head back to look down his nose at Arthur. “Of course, if you need me at the execution, I will certainly attend, but it would be my preference to monitor him myself.”
He’s not surprised when his seeming willingness to do his father’s bidding is what earns him permission. Even so, he can’t deny the way his muscles seem to melt in relief at those words. Leaving Merlin alone for this, locked in Arthur’s chambers-it would be cruel… because there’s no doubt that Merlin would watch. And leaving him with another knight? Even if that would ensure Merlin wouldn’t be able to watch, how would Arthur explain away the grief after it was over? The spell should break when Balinor dies-or so Uther believes, because anything else would have gotten Merlin killed-and a Merlin who doesn’t immediately revert to normal-and Arthur can’t imagine or expect that he will-would be cause for question.
No. It has to be him. Anything else will get Merlin killed.
“Thank you,” he says when his father finally nods.
For what. What is he thanking him for? For executing an innocent man? Uther brought all of this about, and Arthur doesn’t want to see the blood on his father’s hands, but-
No. It is not his place. His father is king. Enough. Just… enough. He can’t change this. Shouldn’t even think about it. This is his father.
“You’re welcome, Arthur. With any luck, we’ll have this all cleared up soon.”
From the back, Arthur could swear his father could be one of the knights. Young, still well-built, his steps even and eating up the ground while Arthur stands where Uther has left him, watching as his father strides off down the corridor, cloak trailing behind him, the bright Pendragon red striking out the dullness of the walls and floors. He used to always do that for Arthur: strike out the dullness.
What. Happened. What happened?
Slowly, Arthur leans into the wall, trying not to think, and failing, so utterly failing. A memory is a thought, right? It’s an imprint in him, and it should be an answer, but he can’t seem to find what he’s looking for. He’d been a little boy once, hadn’t he? Wanting his father’s attention-his approval. Certainly Uther had never been one to coddle, and he’d never had much time for idle play with his son, but Arthur can remember moments: times when his father personally instructed him with weaponry, times when he’d sat with Arthur at the table, talking him through some duty to the kingdom-he even recalls riding with his father, seated in front of him in the saddle. He’d always felt so tiny when they’d ridden together. Uther had been larger than any danger. He had, Arthur thinks, gritting his teeth and digging his nails against stone, been a little boy’s ideal of what a man-and king-should be.
When had that stopped? When had Uther become fallible?
The chill of the wall seeps into his shoulder, but Arthur only leans into it harder, now staring blankly at the empty corridor: his father has left the corridor, and even the sound of his footfalls are dying away now. Arthur could yell-call him back, but for what purpose? He loves his father-always will-but a pyre and a judgment, an innocent man condemned-he can’t find the words in a mouth that’s suddenly gone very dry. His father is fallible, and maybe that was obvious in a thousand situations before now-Arthur has certainly disobeyed him before-but he’d always believed in him. Now-what if he doesn’t now? What does that even mean?
Nothing. For now it will mean nothing, he thinks, pushing himself up from the wall and back towards his room. He is not the first son to realize that his father is not the man he’d always imagined him to be, and why should that eat at him more than it does most young men? It’s true that most sons don’t find that knowledge in the walls of a royal court… but, then, he supposes that’s better than those who find their answers in the pit of a cave and impending death. Merlin’s ideal of his father has been shattered as clearly as Arthur’s. Not in the same way and maybe not with the same consequences, but, still…
Turning away from the wall, Arthur bites his lip and turns to go back to his room.
He’ll try to fix what he can see: it’s easier than easing the ache in his chest.
Author: talesofyesac
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Merlin, Arthur (gen)
Word Count: 2,466
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.
“You were willing to risk death to just learn about your mother. Why won’t you let me do the same to save my father?”
The pressure in Arthur’s head tips over into a steady staccato pounding. Throb, throb, throb, and no amount of rubbing his hand against his eyes alleviates the ache. Any second now, his skull will probably split open, and God help him, that might actually be a relief.
Merlin hasn’t looked at him since they’ve gotten back to Arthur’s chambers. He’d stopped yelling about halfway up the stairs, but he hadn’t relaxed, and though Arthur had hoped he might once they were in private, he’s found that he was sorely wrong. If anything, Merlin’s tensed more, shoulders hunched in on themselves as he haunts Arthur’s usual place at the window.
It’s not like Merlin to stare off at nothing-he and Arthur are different that way-but that’s what he has to be doing, because there’s nothing there for him to stare at. Arthur would know. He’s looked over every stone, every wall, every person walking by, just about anytime something weighs heavily on his mind. It’s his vantage point for thought, and while he’s more than willing to let Merlin borrow it given the circumstances, he can’t imagine that Merlin will find it helpful.
“It’ll hurt, won’t it?” Merlin says quietly, not turning around.
Pausing from where he’d been picking at the food on his plate-some servant had brought it while he was in the dungeons with Merlin, apparently-Arthur places his hand down flat on the table and focuses his entire attention on his servant. “What?”
“The burning.”
Bloody hell. That is what Merlin is looking at.
Just like that, he can’t get out of his seat fast enough. Still, Merlin seems almost startled when Arthur yanks him back away from the window, and, yes, just like he’d thought, there it is, the beginnings of construction right in the center of the square.
A pyre.
For a moment, they just stare at each other. Dark smudges stand under Merlin’s eyes, darkening the color of his irises to a clouded, dull blue, but his gaze is steady, and, if anything, he’s studying Arthur as much as Arthur is studying him.
“Sit down. Eat something,” Arthur says finally, pulling Merlin toward the table. His hands are steady… in the same forced way they are after a fight that’s just a little too personal.
Merlin sits, but he looks at the food with an arched eyebrow and disbelief. “That’s your food.”
“Considering the circumstances, I don’t mind. It’s not like you ever worried about taking my food before.”
True enough, and that at least earns him a smile, but it’s a hollow victory: the expression is lifeless and thin, entirely too forced on Merlin’s lips. “You didn’t answer my question.”
No, no he didn’t, and he doesn’t want to, because what exactly is he supposed to do? Lie to Merlin? Merlin already knows the answer anyway. Any sane man would.
“Merlin-“ He stops, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Honestly, Merlin, just… don’t ask that.”
Why? Because you don’t want to answer?
Arthur could really do without the self-doubt at the moment. He’s faced difficult situations before. He’ll have to do it again. This-he’s just going to have to face this too, and he’s not doing anyone any good by letting weakness show.
If Merlin understands, that could explain why he looks away, letting the question go. There’s always another possible reason, though. Always more possibilities, and Arthur is, for the moment, tired of trying to trace them out.
Rest is a luxury it doesn’t seem he’ll get, however: if the situation couldn’t get worse, it still would, somehow-and it does. That comes in the swinging of hinges and displaced air moved by a door opening, and when Arthur turns, he already knows what he’ll find, but, just this once, couldn’t fate misplace it?
No. Uther stands in the doorway, cloak fluttering at his back with his sudden cessation of motion: his eyes are already fixed on Merlin, assessing. They don’t even narrow: he just stares, calm and open, like Merlin isn’t worth the extra movement.
And Merlin stares back.
Immediately, Arthur takes the only option he can see: he moves to meet his father, giving Merlin a quick, pointed look-don’t even consider moving, and if Merlin disregards that look, Arthur won’t be responsible for his actions-before nodding to the door. Uther gives him a raised eyebrow, but, thankfully, he moves with Arthur.
What he wouldn’t give to see a hint of compassion in his father for any part of this. Oh, no, though, it’s clear: none exists. Uther’s back remains straight as they leave the room, and there’s no backward glance at Merlin. Nothing at all but dignified movements and an icy strong exterior that, as a child, Arthur hadn’t understood. He’d wanted his father, not a king, almost as much as he wants leniency now. Justice. Why can the years of his father’s twisted grief just peel away?
Uther turns on his heel to face Arthur once they door is closed. Arms crossing, he regards his son with a tight-lipped expectancy. He doesn’t look so very old like that, Arthur finds himself thinking, even if his father’s hair is graying and his face is lining with age. But old-that would seem less than what Uther is, less than the hard gaze and the seeming command of any situation he walks into. Aging, perhaps, but not old.
“Honestly, Arthur, you feel the need to leave your own room on account of your servant?” he asks with a hint of distaste.
He feels his own jaw clench. “When I’m discussing the impending execution of the person who’s ensorcelled him? Yes, I do. I’d rather he not do anything rash. At this point, he still blames you, and he probably will until the sorcerer dies and the enchantment is lifted.” The words taste sour in his mouth… but so much depends on this lie. Merlin’s life depends on it.
Relief trickles through him when Uther gives him a curt nod. “I suppose your concern is not misplaced. It would be unfortunate to have to harm the boy for an assault precipitated entirely by forces beyond his control.”
Not so beyond Merlin’s control as Uther might like to think, Arthur thinks wearily. From what he’s seen, Merlin has a fairly competent grasp on his magic.
Better not to dwell on a subject that treacherous, though-easier to nod, as though he agrees, and rest his hands lightly at his belt as he makes to press the conversation into something else: “I do assume you wanted to discuss the execution?”
Uther nods in return. “Yes. I intend to have it done tonight.”
“Tonight?”
Another nod. “Best to remove him before sympathy can arise in the people. They don’t understand the threat of magic,” he states firmly. “All they see is a man who drove off a dragon. They don’t comprehend that he could kill them just as easily as the creature he banished.”
Maybe that’s true… but the fact remains, Balinor didn’t harm them. He chose to save them.
Not that Arthur can say as much. Instead, he just tucks his hands behind his back, fingers wrapping around opposite wrists as he stands stiffly, trying for all the world to look as though he agrees with that decision.
“I see your point,” he says evenly (thank God it came out evenly). “Will the pyre be ready?”
“Yes.“
It will, Arthur is sure, because if it isn’t, Uther will find a way to make certain it is. It’s rather like how he finds a way to believe the worst of every bit of magic he encounters. Any other circumstances, and he’d question-want to know why Merlin is the only one enchanted, why Balinor came back at all.
Not this, though. With this, he just sees magic, and there’s only one reaction in him for that.
His stomach has been rolling for some time now, but the thought of that-reality aside, he could swear that thought has frozen whatever’s in there, weighing it heavier to twice as much until he might as well have eaten stones. His father. Blind. Unjust. It doesn’t-it was never the man he saw. Not his father. Perhaps, if he didn’t know the reason for that, he could even hate his father. That reason, though-it’s not something either of them can escape. Arthur can see it even now in the way the color of his father’s eyes has dulled, and more so in the hard, etched lines of his face. Arthur’s mother is in every wrinkle, every bit of age. Her death was enough to warp him-to twist a good man-because he has to still be a good man on most levels, despite everything-blind. Arthur knows he is a good man. In this, though-in the thing that killed his wife-he is not himself.
And there’s always the possibility that the poison of bitterness toward that area of the world has leaked over into other parts of him as well.
It’s not something Arthur would like to consider-not when he’s fairly certain there’s no cure.
“I understand,” he says finally, inclining his head respectfully. “Though, I don’t plan on attending myself.”
Uther straightens up, looking at his son with a frown. “What?”
“I simply worry for what will happen in regards to Merlin. Who knows what this spell could cause him to do. Considering that he’s Balinor’s last hold of power, I find it entirely possible that he could attempt to cause damage with Merlin.”
“You believe he has transferred powers temporarily to your manservant?”
Backtrack-and quickly, or it will be Merlin burning right alongside his father. “No. I’ve seen no evidence of that. However, I see no reason not to be wary. Balinor has proven himself to be powerful.”
“You could assign a guard to watch your servant.”
“He’s my responsibility. I’d prefer to do it myself.” That might be pushing a bit hard-Uther’s lips tense, and he leans his head back to look down his nose at Arthur. “Of course, if you need me at the execution, I will certainly attend, but it would be my preference to monitor him myself.”
He’s not surprised when his seeming willingness to do his father’s bidding is what earns him permission. Even so, he can’t deny the way his muscles seem to melt in relief at those words. Leaving Merlin alone for this, locked in Arthur’s chambers-it would be cruel… because there’s no doubt that Merlin would watch. And leaving him with another knight? Even if that would ensure Merlin wouldn’t be able to watch, how would Arthur explain away the grief after it was over? The spell should break when Balinor dies-or so Uther believes, because anything else would have gotten Merlin killed-and a Merlin who doesn’t immediately revert to normal-and Arthur can’t imagine or expect that he will-would be cause for question.
No. It has to be him. Anything else will get Merlin killed.
“Thank you,” he says when his father finally nods.
For what. What is he thanking him for? For executing an innocent man? Uther brought all of this about, and Arthur doesn’t want to see the blood on his father’s hands, but-
No. It is not his place. His father is king. Enough. Just… enough. He can’t change this. Shouldn’t even think about it. This is his father.
“You’re welcome, Arthur. With any luck, we’ll have this all cleared up soon.”
From the back, Arthur could swear his father could be one of the knights. Young, still well-built, his steps even and eating up the ground while Arthur stands where Uther has left him, watching as his father strides off down the corridor, cloak trailing behind him, the bright Pendragon red striking out the dullness of the walls and floors. He used to always do that for Arthur: strike out the dullness.
What. Happened. What happened?
Slowly, Arthur leans into the wall, trying not to think, and failing, so utterly failing. A memory is a thought, right? It’s an imprint in him, and it should be an answer, but he can’t seem to find what he’s looking for. He’d been a little boy once, hadn’t he? Wanting his father’s attention-his approval. Certainly Uther had never been one to coddle, and he’d never had much time for idle play with his son, but Arthur can remember moments: times when his father personally instructed him with weaponry, times when he’d sat with Arthur at the table, talking him through some duty to the kingdom-he even recalls riding with his father, seated in front of him in the saddle. He’d always felt so tiny when they’d ridden together. Uther had been larger than any danger. He had, Arthur thinks, gritting his teeth and digging his nails against stone, been a little boy’s ideal of what a man-and king-should be.
When had that stopped? When had Uther become fallible?
The chill of the wall seeps into his shoulder, but Arthur only leans into it harder, now staring blankly at the empty corridor: his father has left the corridor, and even the sound of his footfalls are dying away now. Arthur could yell-call him back, but for what purpose? He loves his father-always will-but a pyre and a judgment, an innocent man condemned-he can’t find the words in a mouth that’s suddenly gone very dry. His father is fallible, and maybe that was obvious in a thousand situations before now-Arthur has certainly disobeyed him before-but he’d always believed in him. Now-what if he doesn’t now? What does that even mean?
Nothing. For now it will mean nothing, he thinks, pushing himself up from the wall and back towards his room. He is not the first son to realize that his father is not the man he’d always imagined him to be, and why should that eat at him more than it does most young men? It’s true that most sons don’t find that knowledge in the walls of a royal court… but, then, he supposes that’s better than those who find their answers in the pit of a cave and impending death. Merlin’s ideal of his father has been shattered as clearly as Arthur’s. Not in the same way and maybe not with the same consequences, but, still…
Turning away from the wall, Arthur bites his lip and turns to go back to his room.
He’ll try to fix what he can see: it’s easier than easing the ache in his chest.