World Shaking Down (Part 8/?)
Title: World Shaking Down (Part 8/?)
Author: talesofyesac
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Merlin, Arthur (gen)
Word Count: 3,009
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
They haven’t spoken for hours. Just he and Arthur, sitting at the table across from each other as the room slowly darkens. They should light the candles… but they don’t. Merlin can’t be sure if Arthur refrains from asking for the same reasons Merlin hasn’t done it yet: the sounds of wood and work outside the window in the courtyard are stopping him from having any desire to see a flame, and it’s not so unbelievable that Arthur feels the same. Either way, the candles remain unlit.
It’s only when the sounds from the courtyard stop that either of them really seems to register that they’re sitting in near-darkness.
Near darkness, that is. The courtyard is well lit.
Nothing like an execution to bring people out, Merlin finds himself thinking bitterly as he slowly scrapes the edge of his nail across the tabletop, feeling the bits of dirt that have settled there-the table hasn’t been cleaned since they left to find Balinor-lodge up against his skin. He can hear their voices. No doubt, if he goes to look, they’ll have gathered around the pyre.
Not that Arthur will let him look, though he hasn’t said that outright. He wouldn’t, not if he doesn’t need to.
Doesn’t make it any less obvious.
“Don’t you have to go?” Merlin finds himself saying, and then jumping back, surprised. Startled by his own voice: Arthur would laugh at him and the way he jerks when the words tumble out of his mouth, were the situation not what it is. He can’t help it, though-they seem far to loud in the silence of the room.
Arthur doesn’t look up. “No.”
Merlin can only imagine how he managed that. “Don’t trust me?”
“Believe it or not, Merlin,” he answers, half sighing as he rests his elbow on the table, using the leverage to prop his forehead in his palm, “I trust you with my life. But, no, not with this. I wouldn’t even trust myself with this.”
Logical enough. Stupid enough, too. Merlin clenches his fingers a little harder into the wood, feeling a splinter break off and shove up under the nail. There might even be blood, though that’s really the least of his concerns, given that it feels like that particular substance has turned to ice anyway.
“You’re letting an innocent man die, Arthur.” If he can just goad Arthur into doing something…
Arthur fingers clench, just once, twined in the strands of his bangs, before he releases the hold and lets them rest against the mussed hair. “Do you really want to blame me for this?”
“Y-“ Mouth open, words halfway out, and he can’t even find comfort in this. Cruelty won’t help him here-hurting Arthur will do nothing except exactly that: hurt Arthur. He’s furious and desperate-both of those partly at Arthur-but Arthur is not to blame. Merlin can’t lay this at his feet. Not when misplaced blame and grief are what created this-the hatred of magic that drove this situation-to begin with.
“No.” He says it firmly. Like a decision.
Arthur just nods.
“Let me save him.”
He’s only met with silence. Arthur’s face doesn’t shift, and when nearly a minute later he finally pushes himself back from the table, mindless of the scrape the chair makes on the floor, he still doesn’t look at Merlin.
It’s when he slips over to the window, bracing his palms on either side of the casement, that Merlin sees the change that was probably there all along. Anyway, words lie, and seeing Arthur hang his head between his arms, staring down at the courtyard is a like promise in his body-something he can’t deny. Words will lie, but the whole of Arthur himself will not.
I’m sorry, Arthur says, but doesn’t say. And I won’t change my mind.
The finality is stifling. Breathe. Merlin breathes.
Or he thinks he does.
Somewhere outside the window, there’s a murmur in the crowd. Merlin knows it-has heard it before. They’re probably bringing his father out. Arthur doesn’t tell him, though, but just keeps staring out the glass, face pressing closer to the pane with every small breath until his nose nearly touches it, and his arms are no longer outstretched, but rather bent at the elbow, hands still flat on the wall.
Merlin sits back in his chair and swallows. The noise in the courtyard grows. Arthur doesn’t falter.
Last chance.
Please.
But there is nothing.
That ends it, then. There’s no more time to wait, and no more hope that Merlin can place in Arthur to save this situation. It’s not a betrayal by Arthur, not in the sense it should be-it’s only Merlin’s admittance from himself about Arthur: Arthur, while admirable, will fail him like everyone else. He is Merlin’s prince and future king, but he is a man, and even amidst the great things he has done and will do, there will always inevitably come a time when it won’t be enough.
There will come a time when what both of them do together won’t even be enough.
I’m happy to be your servant until the day I die.
Silently-more so than Arthur-Merlin rises from his chair. He’s careful not to make it catch on the floor, and instead shimmies between the edge of the chair arm and the table until he’s free. If Arthur hears him, he doesn’t acknowledge it, and Merlin’s left standing, staring at his back, trying to understand how his loyalty to Arthur can possibly be truer now than it was ten minutes ago.
Until the day I die. Until we both fail. Until this world shakes all the way down.
Serving a perfect king would mean nothing. Perfect means no chance of failure. Give him the good man-one who fights his failures. If Arthur were perfect, he wouldn’t be real, and there is nothing admirable in that. Nothing that draws loyalty.
Goodness, though, Arthur’s flawed. He’s failed. He’s failing now. And, yet, even failing, he draws Merlin’s loyalty, because the failure eats at Arthur as much as anyone else.
One step forward. Then another. Arthur doesn’t hear, or doesn’t turn if he does.
He has justice where Uther doesn’t. Perspective. His flaws make him question-to try to be better. People will follow a fallible man who stands for something good…
And who always wants to stand for something better, even if things are crumbling around him.
“You know I have to try, don’t you?” Merlin says quietly to Arthur’s back. He thinks he sees the muscles twitch slightly, but he can’t be sure-it could just as easily be a trick of the torchlight in the courtyard.
Against the stone, Arthur’s fingers clench. “Yes.”
“I know I can’t win.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Arthur says slowly, drawing the words out. “It’s cruel to expect you to sit calmly while your father is executed.”
“Is that permission?”
“You don’t want my permission.”
True enough. Permission would cheapen this. With permission, it wouldn’t be a fight-just Arthur indulging him, and Arthur has never done that before. Merlin doesn’t need that kind of insult… and Arthur isn’t giving it, because understanding is not permission, nor is it preference. Arthur would, undoubtedly, still prefer he doesn’t do this, even if he understands.
“I’m going to stop you, you know,” Arthur adds tonelessly.
“Probably.”
“And if I were you, I’d still fight me anyway.”
Not permission-just understanding. That’s at least something Merlin can appreciate. Appreciation won’t solve this, though, and he means what he told Arthur: he’ll fight this. He’ll fight to get to his father, even if it means his life, his banishment, his complete and utter ruin, because this is his father, someone he cares for, and he’d do the same for Arthur if the situation called for it, and there’s no way Arthur doesn’t know that. He’d claw his way through Hell for Arthur, and it’s not exactly a secret, though he hasn’t screamed it with words the same way he’s done for his father. Doesn’t make it any less true, though. And that? It’s what makes this a fight. The tension in Arthur’s body screams that he hasn’t missed that-that he knows. Merlin will go through him right now, if he has to, if he can, and even if the outcome is practically foregone-he can’t take Arthur in a fight without his magic-he isn’t doing this just because not trying would be cowardly.
He means this. He’s fighting to win, even if he already knows he’ll lose.
Arthur shifts his weight to his right foot. He’s waiting. Ready.
“Sorry,” Merlin whispers.
Then he’s moving.
The chair goes flying, caught by his haphazard turn, and it’s really not a coincidence that it falls in Arthur’s path as he jerks away from the window at the first sign of Merlin’s movement. Though, if armed soldiers can’t stop Arthur, a chair doesn’t have much of a chance: Merlin’s hardly surprised when Arthur’s past the chair and grabbing at him, hands ripping at his clothes while Merlin’s fingers close around the handle to the door.
Rough hands. Hard, not caring if they bruise. Just trying to pull him back… He’s losing already. Damn it, though, this one he can’t lose, and there’s something to be said for that: even when Arthur grabs his wrist, trying to twist Merlin’s arm back, looking to force him away, peal him from the door, Merlin doesn’t go with him. He pushes into it. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, but he can’t lose-
-------------------
--can’t lose this fight, because Arthur is well aware that if he does, everything will go straight to hell. More than it already has. He’s just snapped something in Merlin’s arm, so, really, how much further south can this go? Oh, yes, it could end up with Merlin burning next to his father. That’s right. Silly of him to forget, and, damn Merlin, if he would just stop-
The cry Merlin makes when his bone snaps rakes over Arthur’s eardrums, but somehow, he’s more annoyed with the fact that he’s lost his hold on Merlin. Not literally: he’s still got a grip on his arm, but the arm is already broken-he won’t get anywhere if he just keeps twisting it.
That’s probably what Merlin was going for.
Pity that it’s not a complete failure: Arthur hardly gets a good look at the injury, because Merlin swings hard into him, twisting, and for just a moment, he gets a glimpse of Merlin’s face, spoiled-milk white-because breaking bones will do that-as light from outside slashes against it, slicing over his forehead and jumping off onto the wall when Merlin pushes forward.
Arthur takes the shove and stumbles backward, because he hadn’t expected it, and more so because he doesn’t want to hurt Merlin. How laughable. His servant’s arm is already hanging uselessly at his side, and how is Merlin not screaming in pain?
I didn’t mean it, Merlin. I didn’t.
He does, though. Not the pain, but he does mean to stop him: his fingers are already reaching again, like they’re attached to a pair of hands he’s never seen before, grabbing Merlin’s jacket and pushing hard.
The crack of wood on flesh-the door, then-but Merlin, already gasping for breath and positively ghostly-looking now-brings a knee up, not quite managing to catch Arthur with it, but by sheer dumb luck accomplishing something anyway when that puts him off balance: he tips sideways, yanking himself out of Arthur’s hold as he smashes to the ground.
He’s not even down before Arthur’s lunging after him. Pin him down and stop this mess, because that arm needs attention, Merlin needs attention, and maybe he’ll just pass out from the pain. Miss the whole execution.
No, though. Flailing limbs and the thunk of wood when Merlin kicks the door as he rolls-someone yelps, and it’s not him, so it must be Merlin-looking like he’s grinding his body right over his shoulder as he turns over.
And then a fist to Arthur’s face.
Damn it, he really should have seen that one coming.
He would have if this weren’t personal (small comfort, really). Hit him back. It’s what’s best for him. Drive a fist into his face, and God willing, knock him out for this-
-------------------
--because there’s no doubt in Merlin’s mind that Arthur wants him unconscious, doesn’t want him to see this. They agree on one thing, then: Merlin doesn’t want to see it either. He wants to stop it.
It’s agony, though-his arm. What did Arthur do to it? And why is he still moving, dragging himself up off the floor while he screams against the pain, biting his tongue until he tastes blood? Run, run, run-the window, get to the window-
He does. And he doesn’t know what to do once he gets there. Grab at the glass with the hand on his good arm, spit out some blood, but what had he meant to do once he got to the window? He hadn’t thought-hadn’t had a plan. He can’t even see past the pain of jostled, broken bones. He’s going to vomit. Any minute.
Out the window, though-his father. If he could just get out the window. Was that what he wanted to do? Hard to tell. Even harder when Arthur’s got an arm around his chest, shouting noise in his ear as Merlin shoves and shoves and shoves against the block in his mind, screaming in frustration-and probably pain-when it just won’t give.
Please. Please.
“LetmegoLetmegoLetmego-“
“Merlin, let go, you’re hurting-Merlin!”
His father is tied to the pyre. Black hair, unkempt, broad shoulders that even now won’t slouch in defeat. Balinor. His father. On the pyre. And damn them all to hell, it’s lit. Someone lit it, just a moment ago. He’s crying, he thinks, screaming for something-heads are turning towards Arthur’s window, and just as his fingertips slip off the sill, he sees his father’s head turn to him, looking-
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“NO!” Merlin screams as Arthur finally-finally-drags him off the window. Not even that’s a full success, though, because Merlin kicks out when Arthur gets an arm around his waist, lifting him, and his foot catches the window, shattering the glass.
There are screams in the courtyard, cries of rage and pure grief from Merlin, and Arthur can’t do anything. He tried. He did. God help him, he did. But there’s nothing more he can do beyond sinking to the floor with Merlin, clutching him. Merlin’s still twisting of course, and with Arthur’s arms around him, he can feel the broken bones in Merlin’s arm grinding against his own bones-sets his teeth on edge, really, because no matter how many wounds he’s seen, it’s still never natural.
“Breathe, Merlin, c’mon, breathe-“
Is he? Past the cries and the harsh pants? Is he taking any air in?
Is either of them?
“Fath-“
But Arthur claps a hand over his mouth before Merlin gets the word out. Merlin bites him, of course, and that-it’s enough. This isn’t getting either of them anywhere, and teeth grinding down into the flesh of his palm hurt. Worth it, though, because if that word had gotten out for the courtyard to hear…
Father…
Flames are crackling down below, growing as they catch more wood, gobbling up the kindling until they get to the bigger meal, licking at it before catching on and engulfing it. The patterns of the fire-tongues dance on the walls, over him and Merlin, bathing them in shifting, orange-tinged light. Too much. Arthur’s had enough, let Merlin see too much. It would have been kinder to knock him out in the beginning-
Better correct that now.
He doesn’t need to. Merlin slumps, going boneless-so ironic, given the state of his arm-against Arthur’s chest just as Arthur shifts his hand off Merlin’s mouth to his neck instead, cutting off air.
Seldom has he been so relieved.
The print is still there, though. Red blood on Merlin’s neck where Arthur’s palm-bitten open by Merlin-touched, and Arthur just breathes, looking down at his servant, at the way shadows and flames whip across his face, trying not to see the crimson.
One second. Two. Three. His chest rises and falls slowly, Merlin moving with it. He could let go now, but the idea of making a movement doesn’t seem possible. Merlin’s screams are still echoing in his ears, and now a cry in the courtyard joins them. Balinor. Burning.
I’m so sorry, Merlin.
He won’t look away, though he can’t even see the pyre to begin with. There’s just that window, empty of glass now, and the patterns of fire all over him and his room. He won’t look away from that, though-it’s cowardly. Merlin will never be able to look away from this: his mind will undoubtedly rake this over his nerves on a daily basis.
Arthur watches the flames leap.
He can’t do anything about any of this, but when he’s king, this won’t happen. There will be justice. As best as he can make it, things will be fair. Men like Balinor won’t burn, and men like Merlin won’t have to sit back and watch.
He’s not king now, though. Uther is. And he can’t begin to comprehend how Uther can justify this. This can’t have been what Arthur’s mother wanted-he won’t believe that of his mother. She is-was-good and perfect, still pristine where his father isn’t. Idealistic and naïve or not, he has to believe it. Otherwise, what chance does he have? He has to be like his mother. Good and kind like his mother, who wouldn’t have wanted Uther to ruin lives like this out of sheer grief.
“I’ll be different,” he whispers, voice surprisingly steady. “More like her.”
Author: talesofyesac
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Merlin, Arthur (gen)
Word Count: 3,009
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
They haven’t spoken for hours. Just he and Arthur, sitting at the table across from each other as the room slowly darkens. They should light the candles… but they don’t. Merlin can’t be sure if Arthur refrains from asking for the same reasons Merlin hasn’t done it yet: the sounds of wood and work outside the window in the courtyard are stopping him from having any desire to see a flame, and it’s not so unbelievable that Arthur feels the same. Either way, the candles remain unlit.
It’s only when the sounds from the courtyard stop that either of them really seems to register that they’re sitting in near-darkness.
Near darkness, that is. The courtyard is well lit.
Nothing like an execution to bring people out, Merlin finds himself thinking bitterly as he slowly scrapes the edge of his nail across the tabletop, feeling the bits of dirt that have settled there-the table hasn’t been cleaned since they left to find Balinor-lodge up against his skin. He can hear their voices. No doubt, if he goes to look, they’ll have gathered around the pyre.
Not that Arthur will let him look, though he hasn’t said that outright. He wouldn’t, not if he doesn’t need to.
Doesn’t make it any less obvious.
“Don’t you have to go?” Merlin finds himself saying, and then jumping back, surprised. Startled by his own voice: Arthur would laugh at him and the way he jerks when the words tumble out of his mouth, were the situation not what it is. He can’t help it, though-they seem far to loud in the silence of the room.
Arthur doesn’t look up. “No.”
Merlin can only imagine how he managed that. “Don’t trust me?”
“Believe it or not, Merlin,” he answers, half sighing as he rests his elbow on the table, using the leverage to prop his forehead in his palm, “I trust you with my life. But, no, not with this. I wouldn’t even trust myself with this.”
Logical enough. Stupid enough, too. Merlin clenches his fingers a little harder into the wood, feeling a splinter break off and shove up under the nail. There might even be blood, though that’s really the least of his concerns, given that it feels like that particular substance has turned to ice anyway.
“You’re letting an innocent man die, Arthur.” If he can just goad Arthur into doing something…
Arthur fingers clench, just once, twined in the strands of his bangs, before he releases the hold and lets them rest against the mussed hair. “Do you really want to blame me for this?”
“Y-“ Mouth open, words halfway out, and he can’t even find comfort in this. Cruelty won’t help him here-hurting Arthur will do nothing except exactly that: hurt Arthur. He’s furious and desperate-both of those partly at Arthur-but Arthur is not to blame. Merlin can’t lay this at his feet. Not when misplaced blame and grief are what created this-the hatred of magic that drove this situation-to begin with.
“No.” He says it firmly. Like a decision.
Arthur just nods.
“Let me save him.”
He’s only met with silence. Arthur’s face doesn’t shift, and when nearly a minute later he finally pushes himself back from the table, mindless of the scrape the chair makes on the floor, he still doesn’t look at Merlin.
It’s when he slips over to the window, bracing his palms on either side of the casement, that Merlin sees the change that was probably there all along. Anyway, words lie, and seeing Arthur hang his head between his arms, staring down at the courtyard is a like promise in his body-something he can’t deny. Words will lie, but the whole of Arthur himself will not.
I’m sorry, Arthur says, but doesn’t say. And I won’t change my mind.
The finality is stifling. Breathe. Merlin breathes.
Or he thinks he does.
Somewhere outside the window, there’s a murmur in the crowd. Merlin knows it-has heard it before. They’re probably bringing his father out. Arthur doesn’t tell him, though, but just keeps staring out the glass, face pressing closer to the pane with every small breath until his nose nearly touches it, and his arms are no longer outstretched, but rather bent at the elbow, hands still flat on the wall.
Merlin sits back in his chair and swallows. The noise in the courtyard grows. Arthur doesn’t falter.
Last chance.
Please.
But there is nothing.
That ends it, then. There’s no more time to wait, and no more hope that Merlin can place in Arthur to save this situation. It’s not a betrayal by Arthur, not in the sense it should be-it’s only Merlin’s admittance from himself about Arthur: Arthur, while admirable, will fail him like everyone else. He is Merlin’s prince and future king, but he is a man, and even amidst the great things he has done and will do, there will always inevitably come a time when it won’t be enough.
There will come a time when what both of them do together won’t even be enough.
I’m happy to be your servant until the day I die.
Silently-more so than Arthur-Merlin rises from his chair. He’s careful not to make it catch on the floor, and instead shimmies between the edge of the chair arm and the table until he’s free. If Arthur hears him, he doesn’t acknowledge it, and Merlin’s left standing, staring at his back, trying to understand how his loyalty to Arthur can possibly be truer now than it was ten minutes ago.
Until the day I die. Until we both fail. Until this world shakes all the way down.
Serving a perfect king would mean nothing. Perfect means no chance of failure. Give him the good man-one who fights his failures. If Arthur were perfect, he wouldn’t be real, and there is nothing admirable in that. Nothing that draws loyalty.
Goodness, though, Arthur’s flawed. He’s failed. He’s failing now. And, yet, even failing, he draws Merlin’s loyalty, because the failure eats at Arthur as much as anyone else.
One step forward. Then another. Arthur doesn’t hear, or doesn’t turn if he does.
He has justice where Uther doesn’t. Perspective. His flaws make him question-to try to be better. People will follow a fallible man who stands for something good…
And who always wants to stand for something better, even if things are crumbling around him.
“You know I have to try, don’t you?” Merlin says quietly to Arthur’s back. He thinks he sees the muscles twitch slightly, but he can’t be sure-it could just as easily be a trick of the torchlight in the courtyard.
Against the stone, Arthur’s fingers clench. “Yes.”
“I know I can’t win.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Arthur says slowly, drawing the words out. “It’s cruel to expect you to sit calmly while your father is executed.”
“Is that permission?”
“You don’t want my permission.”
True enough. Permission would cheapen this. With permission, it wouldn’t be a fight-just Arthur indulging him, and Arthur has never done that before. Merlin doesn’t need that kind of insult… and Arthur isn’t giving it, because understanding is not permission, nor is it preference. Arthur would, undoubtedly, still prefer he doesn’t do this, even if he understands.
“I’m going to stop you, you know,” Arthur adds tonelessly.
“Probably.”
“And if I were you, I’d still fight me anyway.”
Not permission-just understanding. That’s at least something Merlin can appreciate. Appreciation won’t solve this, though, and he means what he told Arthur: he’ll fight this. He’ll fight to get to his father, even if it means his life, his banishment, his complete and utter ruin, because this is his father, someone he cares for, and he’d do the same for Arthur if the situation called for it, and there’s no way Arthur doesn’t know that. He’d claw his way through Hell for Arthur, and it’s not exactly a secret, though he hasn’t screamed it with words the same way he’s done for his father. Doesn’t make it any less true, though. And that? It’s what makes this a fight. The tension in Arthur’s body screams that he hasn’t missed that-that he knows. Merlin will go through him right now, if he has to, if he can, and even if the outcome is practically foregone-he can’t take Arthur in a fight without his magic-he isn’t doing this just because not trying would be cowardly.
He means this. He’s fighting to win, even if he already knows he’ll lose.
Arthur shifts his weight to his right foot. He’s waiting. Ready.
“Sorry,” Merlin whispers.
Then he’s moving.
The chair goes flying, caught by his haphazard turn, and it’s really not a coincidence that it falls in Arthur’s path as he jerks away from the window at the first sign of Merlin’s movement. Though, if armed soldiers can’t stop Arthur, a chair doesn’t have much of a chance: Merlin’s hardly surprised when Arthur’s past the chair and grabbing at him, hands ripping at his clothes while Merlin’s fingers close around the handle to the door.
Rough hands. Hard, not caring if they bruise. Just trying to pull him back… He’s losing already. Damn it, though, this one he can’t lose, and there’s something to be said for that: even when Arthur grabs his wrist, trying to twist Merlin’s arm back, looking to force him away, peal him from the door, Merlin doesn’t go with him. He pushes into it. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, but he can’t lose-
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--can’t lose this fight, because Arthur is well aware that if he does, everything will go straight to hell. More than it already has. He’s just snapped something in Merlin’s arm, so, really, how much further south can this go? Oh, yes, it could end up with Merlin burning next to his father. That’s right. Silly of him to forget, and, damn Merlin, if he would just stop-
The cry Merlin makes when his bone snaps rakes over Arthur’s eardrums, but somehow, he’s more annoyed with the fact that he’s lost his hold on Merlin. Not literally: he’s still got a grip on his arm, but the arm is already broken-he won’t get anywhere if he just keeps twisting it.
That’s probably what Merlin was going for.
Pity that it’s not a complete failure: Arthur hardly gets a good look at the injury, because Merlin swings hard into him, twisting, and for just a moment, he gets a glimpse of Merlin’s face, spoiled-milk white-because breaking bones will do that-as light from outside slashes against it, slicing over his forehead and jumping off onto the wall when Merlin pushes forward.
Arthur takes the shove and stumbles backward, because he hadn’t expected it, and more so because he doesn’t want to hurt Merlin. How laughable. His servant’s arm is already hanging uselessly at his side, and how is Merlin not screaming in pain?
I didn’t mean it, Merlin. I didn’t.
He does, though. Not the pain, but he does mean to stop him: his fingers are already reaching again, like they’re attached to a pair of hands he’s never seen before, grabbing Merlin’s jacket and pushing hard.
The crack of wood on flesh-the door, then-but Merlin, already gasping for breath and positively ghostly-looking now-brings a knee up, not quite managing to catch Arthur with it, but by sheer dumb luck accomplishing something anyway when that puts him off balance: he tips sideways, yanking himself out of Arthur’s hold as he smashes to the ground.
He’s not even down before Arthur’s lunging after him. Pin him down and stop this mess, because that arm needs attention, Merlin needs attention, and maybe he’ll just pass out from the pain. Miss the whole execution.
No, though. Flailing limbs and the thunk of wood when Merlin kicks the door as he rolls-someone yelps, and it’s not him, so it must be Merlin-looking like he’s grinding his body right over his shoulder as he turns over.
And then a fist to Arthur’s face.
Damn it, he really should have seen that one coming.
He would have if this weren’t personal (small comfort, really). Hit him back. It’s what’s best for him. Drive a fist into his face, and God willing, knock him out for this-
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--because there’s no doubt in Merlin’s mind that Arthur wants him unconscious, doesn’t want him to see this. They agree on one thing, then: Merlin doesn’t want to see it either. He wants to stop it.
It’s agony, though-his arm. What did Arthur do to it? And why is he still moving, dragging himself up off the floor while he screams against the pain, biting his tongue until he tastes blood? Run, run, run-the window, get to the window-
He does. And he doesn’t know what to do once he gets there. Grab at the glass with the hand on his good arm, spit out some blood, but what had he meant to do once he got to the window? He hadn’t thought-hadn’t had a plan. He can’t even see past the pain of jostled, broken bones. He’s going to vomit. Any minute.
Out the window, though-his father. If he could just get out the window. Was that what he wanted to do? Hard to tell. Even harder when Arthur’s got an arm around his chest, shouting noise in his ear as Merlin shoves and shoves and shoves against the block in his mind, screaming in frustration-and probably pain-when it just won’t give.
Please. Please.
“LetmegoLetmegoLetmego-“
“Merlin, let go, you’re hurting-Merlin!”
His father is tied to the pyre. Black hair, unkempt, broad shoulders that even now won’t slouch in defeat. Balinor. His father. On the pyre. And damn them all to hell, it’s lit. Someone lit it, just a moment ago. He’s crying, he thinks, screaming for something-heads are turning towards Arthur’s window, and just as his fingertips slip off the sill, he sees his father’s head turn to him, looking-
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“NO!” Merlin screams as Arthur finally-finally-drags him off the window. Not even that’s a full success, though, because Merlin kicks out when Arthur gets an arm around his waist, lifting him, and his foot catches the window, shattering the glass.
There are screams in the courtyard, cries of rage and pure grief from Merlin, and Arthur can’t do anything. He tried. He did. God help him, he did. But there’s nothing more he can do beyond sinking to the floor with Merlin, clutching him. Merlin’s still twisting of course, and with Arthur’s arms around him, he can feel the broken bones in Merlin’s arm grinding against his own bones-sets his teeth on edge, really, because no matter how many wounds he’s seen, it’s still never natural.
“Breathe, Merlin, c’mon, breathe-“
Is he? Past the cries and the harsh pants? Is he taking any air in?
Is either of them?
“Fath-“
But Arthur claps a hand over his mouth before Merlin gets the word out. Merlin bites him, of course, and that-it’s enough. This isn’t getting either of them anywhere, and teeth grinding down into the flesh of his palm hurt. Worth it, though, because if that word had gotten out for the courtyard to hear…
Father…
Flames are crackling down below, growing as they catch more wood, gobbling up the kindling until they get to the bigger meal, licking at it before catching on and engulfing it. The patterns of the fire-tongues dance on the walls, over him and Merlin, bathing them in shifting, orange-tinged light. Too much. Arthur’s had enough, let Merlin see too much. It would have been kinder to knock him out in the beginning-
Better correct that now.
He doesn’t need to. Merlin slumps, going boneless-so ironic, given the state of his arm-against Arthur’s chest just as Arthur shifts his hand off Merlin’s mouth to his neck instead, cutting off air.
Seldom has he been so relieved.
The print is still there, though. Red blood on Merlin’s neck where Arthur’s palm-bitten open by Merlin-touched, and Arthur just breathes, looking down at his servant, at the way shadows and flames whip across his face, trying not to see the crimson.
One second. Two. Three. His chest rises and falls slowly, Merlin moving with it. He could let go now, but the idea of making a movement doesn’t seem possible. Merlin’s screams are still echoing in his ears, and now a cry in the courtyard joins them. Balinor. Burning.
I’m so sorry, Merlin.
He won’t look away, though he can’t even see the pyre to begin with. There’s just that window, empty of glass now, and the patterns of fire all over him and his room. He won’t look away from that, though-it’s cowardly. Merlin will never be able to look away from this: his mind will undoubtedly rake this over his nerves on a daily basis.
Arthur watches the flames leap.
He can’t do anything about any of this, but when he’s king, this won’t happen. There will be justice. As best as he can make it, things will be fair. Men like Balinor won’t burn, and men like Merlin won’t have to sit back and watch.
He’s not king now, though. Uther is. And he can’t begin to comprehend how Uther can justify this. This can’t have been what Arthur’s mother wanted-he won’t believe that of his mother. She is-was-good and perfect, still pristine where his father isn’t. Idealistic and naïve or not, he has to believe it. Otherwise, what chance does he have? He has to be like his mother. Good and kind like his mother, who wouldn’t have wanted Uther to ruin lives like this out of sheer grief.
“I’ll be different,” he whispers, voice surprisingly steady. “More like her.”