Behind These Castle Walls
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: T/PG-13
Word count: just over 4k
Category: Slash, Pairing: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon
Characters: Arthur Pendragon, Merlin, Morgana, Gaius, Uther Pendragon
Genre: AU - Future, Future!Fic, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Pre-slash
Warnings: Minor character death (Uther Pendragon)
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't make money from this, you know the drill.
Summary: "The bark is cold and damp under his fingers and in a rare moment of eloquence, Arthur thinks that it feels like the skin of dead man. He knows because when his father died, he held his hand for hours before letting anyone pry him away. Before letting Merlin pry him away, with a warm hand on his shoulder and soothing words he doesn't even remember anymore, but knows helped him then.
Part 2 of A Heart That Hurts is a Heart That Works series.
Also on AO3.
A/N: Rated T for mature themes, depictions of illness (non-graphic) and depictions of death (graphic, Uther Pendragon).
So, this is the second part of the series A Heart That Hurts is a Heart That Works, but it can be read as a separate story, or it can be skipped entirely in the series because it doesn't affect the plot. It's just an elaboration of a mentioned event from the first part (hence the summary). And yeah, Idk where this came from. I don't know. I don't know why I'm sitting at my laptop at 5am (Jesus fuck, where did the time go) on New Year day writing a story about Uther's death when everyone's writing holiday fluff. I don't know, okay, I have no idea what's wrong with me xD
Also worth noting - title from the song Castle Walls (T.I. feat Xtina), especially Xtina's part.
Feedback is always appreciated ^^ And happy New Year everyone :D
Behind These Castle Walls
Arthur could feel Gaius' eyes burning a hole in the back of his head, but found that he was completely indifferent to it, when it would normally make him squirm in anticipation of some reprimand or bad news. As it were, he already knew what Gaius wanted to say, he'd sort of known all along. Maybe not from the very moment Uther excused himself from a feast, and maybe not later that evening when Merlin told him Uther had sent for Gaius; but the next morning, Merlin woke him by tapping his shoulder lightly, almost gently, and Arthur immediately knew something was wrong. However, he understood what was holding Gaius back, especially after Morgana fired a maid she'd overheard calling Arthur king, even though he practically was now. The entire royal family had a reputation for having quite a temper, and Arthur knew there was a good reason for that; with everyone being especially prone to snapping due to stressing over Uther's illness, servants took to being especially careful with what they said.
In the end, it wasn't Gaius who spoke, it was Merlin. “Arthur... There's nothing we can do,” he whispered, his voice barely carrying over the length of the king's chambers, but to Arthur the words sounded unnaturally loud, like Merlin had shouted them at the top of his lungs for all the world to hear. His reality narrowed down to that one sentence, nothing we can do. He opened his mouth to protest, there had to be something, but the breath he took to speak tasted like defeat and disease and death and he realized that no, there really was nothing else to do. Gaius had already gone over every medical book in Camelot, Arthur knew because he hadn't seen the old man sleep in almost a week now, replacing rest with some of his own pick-me-up potions. Merlin had already tried magic, Arthur knew because he'd given Merlin more than enough time alone with his father to experiment, while still allowing Arthur to pretend he was unaware of sharing his castle with a warlock. His father was dying, Arthur knew because the hand he was holding was cold and unmoving no matter how hard he squeezed it.
He bowed his head and leaned it against his father's chest as he tried to think through the haze that had become a constant companion of his consciousness over the last few days. He wasn't sure if what was affecting his wit was just exhaustion that had long been catching up with him, or all the feelings he wished he didn't easily recognize - the pain of loss, the resentment at whatever destiny required this, the fear of what was yet to come. Realizing belatedly that he couldn't feel his father's heart beating, he looked up at Merlin and Gaius still standing by the window on the opposite side of the room, and stammered, “I can't feel his- Does that- Is he-“ His voice was audibly higher than usual, and he clutched at his father's hand with slightly sweaty fingers, panic, denial and refusal coursing through his veins. Gaius was giving him a look that bordered on pitying, although Arthur knew very well that Gaius just genuinely cared about him, and probably wished he could help somehow.
Merlin, ever the clumsy idiot that he was, tripped over his own feet as he rushed to Arthur's side, murmuring, “No, no, his heart is just too weak, you can't feel it like that,” words falling from his mouth quickly and in one short breath. “You need to...” he started, but the sentence just turned into an exasperated sigh, and Arthur was just about to ask him how he could have the gall to be annoyed with him at a time like this, when Merlin reached out and wrapped his long fingers around Arthur's wrist. “Here, let me show you,” he said softly, removing Arthur's hand from where it was wrapped around Uther's. His skin was warm and felt young and fresh where it was touching Arthur's, his blood thrumming just under the thin pale layer of protection and it felt like the quintessence of life itself; Arthur just wanted to take Merlin's hand and never let it go. He watched as Merlin pressed two fingers of his free hand to Uther's wrist hard, letting go quickly the first two times and then letting his fingers linger on the third touch. “Here,” he announced, replacing his fingers with Arthur's. Arthur could just about make out the unnaturally slow rhythm of weak pulsations under his fingers. It didn't make him feel any better, any more secure.
“It's so weak,” he breathed, not sure if even Merlin would hear him.
“He is,” Merlin replied quietly, both of his hands on Arthur's forearm now, warmth from them seeping through Arthur's sleeve and giving him something to connect him to the real world, something to help him see through the fog in his own mind.
Finally, the protocol he had been force-fed from birth took over and he found himself automatically saying, “You need to notify Morgana and my father's knights. Have Geoffrey write the official notifications to the other kingdoms.”
Gaius hummed quietly, already retreating, but Merlin stayed for a few more minutes, absently stroking Arthur's arm with his thumbs. Arthur leaned into the touch, letting his fingers slide from his father's wrist as he decided he didn't really need to know the exact moment his father would leave him, and once again taking his hand. He felt the strands of Merlin's hair tickling his face as a warm forehead pressed to his temple and Merlin breathed out a long and sweet breath over Arthur's cheek. Arthur felt the unspoken I'm sorry, but was grateful for not having to hear the words.
“I will go inform Morgana,” Merlin told him, giving his arm one last reassuring squeeze before letting go. Arthur kept up the pretense of strength until he heard the door close behind Merlin. Then he raised his father's hand to his face and kissed it, closing his eyes.
*
Merlin's knee was uncomfortably bony against Arthur's thigh, but moving away wasn't an option. Arthur had a very strong feeling that the two points of contact between himself and Merlin - the knee jammed into his leg and the forehead resting on his shoulder - were the only things keeping him from falling apart. It had been hours since he'd sent Gaius and Merlin away with their tasks of spreading the news of the king's imminent death, the sky outside had become much darker, now a dusting of twinkling stars on an inky blue canvas. The air in the room was chilly, but not necessarily uncomfortably so; Arthur found that breathing deeply made cold spread through his body, pinching a little at his insides and thus keeping him awake and alert. He wasn't really sure why he wanted to stay awake when nothing would change even if he fell asleep. He doubted anything would change even if he fell asleep and never woke up. As if on cue, beside him Merlin squirmed into a more comfortable position, lifting his head and pressing their sides together, resting his hand gently on Arthur's knee, reminding him that he still had things in this world to live for.
“Arthur...” he whispered softly, voice barely audible and rough from disuse. Arthur shook his head before lowering it to rest on the back of his father's hand again. “Not yet then,” Merlin complied reluctantly as he moved his hand from Arthur's knee to lay it between his shoulder blades, fingers flexing over his spine. “Okay.”
Not long after Merlin had left him, Morgana had walked into the room, her eyes shiny and wet, but her makeup flawless and her posture proud. She'd said Merlin told me you sent for me and Arthur had only nodded unable to form a worded reply. She'd nodded back and sat next to him for a few minutes, stroking over Uther's chest and face, her expression fond and sad. She'd pressed a kiss to Uther's temple and then left with a quiet If you'll excuse me. She hadn't come back since and Arthur could just imagine her sitting in her room now, staring out the window, looking as perfect as ever, even with tears probably silently gliding down her cheeks. He guessed Guinevere was with her because he hadn't seen her all day.
His father's knights had come soon after Morgana had left. They'd all worn almost identical solemn expressions, dressed in their best clothes and with their ceremonial swords at their waists. They'd stood behind Arthur for long minutes before he'd dismissed them all from service honorably and they'd left giving him the regards they would to a king. At that, Arthur had felt an iron fist clench around his chest, all but cutting off his oxygen supply, making him choke on his own spit with every breath he'd taken since then.
For hours it had been just an endless parade of people who wanted to say goodbye walking in and out of the room, all saying the same things, expressing their grief, extending their sympathies to Arthur. Arthur had grown sick of them after the sixth maid who'd cried into her skirt, but it hadn't been until one of the stable boys had walked in, some hours later, that he'd finally lost it, yelling his lungs out at everyone in the room and the hallway, sending them off and forbidding them to come back until further notice. Everyone had shied away from his anger, and Arthur had briefly wondered if steam was coming out of his ears. He had been so outraged at this blatant disrespect of his privacy, so utterly infuriated with everyone stealing away his precious time with his father that he'd thought he could easily kill them all with his bare hands if they dared disobey.
When he'd gone back to his father's chambers, he'd found Merlin still there. Somehow, Arthur hadn't found it in him to kick him out as well. Merlin had stayed, first awkwardly standing at the window, as if expecting Arthur to yell at him or possibly strangle him, but when Arthur had just resumed his position at his father's side, Merlin had relaxed, eventually coming to sit next to him when the sun had gone down. A brief and gentle touch of the very tips of Merlin's fingers to the back of his neck when Merlin had put a cape over his shoulders to keep him warm, had released Arthur from the vicious grip pain had had on him from the moment Uther's knights had bid him goodbye. Since then, Merlin's presence had been nothing but support, gentle touches and constant warmth at his side, helping him keep his breathing even, helping him remember that he would eventually have to go back to the world outside of his father's chambers.
His father's hand was limp in his fingers, unnaturally cool, veins prominent and blue. It felt much like the skin of frogs he'd loved to catch as a child. It was a disgusting and disturbing thought, and Arthur somehow couldn't help a nervous chuckle that escaped him; it was quickly lost in the folds of the sheets around his father's body, the smell of something stale and rotten Arthur was only half-sure he was imagining, the whistling of the wind through the window. Merlin's hand slowly slid down his back and then back up.
“Come on, Arthur,” Merlin said, “you have to let him go.” Arthur lifted his head to look at Merlin, but the edges of his face were blurred and he seemed to be swaying slightly from side to side. Arthur closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it, but it didn't do much. “Hey, hey, look at me. Focus,” Merlin advised, his hand still on Arthur's upper back, the other one inching closer to where Arthur had been holding on to his father for the last few days.
“Don't,” Arthur warned, voice dangerously low, squeezing his father's hand even tighter, wondering if the quiet crunching had been his father's knuckles breaking or his sleep-deprived mind exorcising its wicked sense of humor. Everyone else would have gotten the message and backed off; not Merlin.
“Arthur, he's gone,” Merlin said calmly, sliding his finger's between Arthur's and Uther's and pushing Arthur's hand away gently. “No amount of time you spend here will bring him back.”
“Are you sure that...” Arthur ventured, knowing it was in vain even before he saw Merlin bite his lip nervously and shake his head. No one had checked for Uther's heart beat since Arthur had traded his wrist for his fingers that morning, and while Arthur knew that didn't mean his father would live, he'd somehow foolishly hoped that maybe they'd miss Uther getting better, and not Uther dying.
“Morgana checked when she was here. He was already gone by then,” Merlin whispered, and pushed at Arthur's palm more insistently. Arthur held on for a few more seconds, before letting Merlin pry him away. As his father's hand fell to the white sheets of the bed, Arthur felt completely disconnected from everyone and everything in the world, like all the ties he'd had up to that moment had been severed by just this one act, the act of letting go. But then Merlin's hand slid into his, thin fingers slotting between his own, and Arthur squeezed as hard as he could, just to make sure that he was still alive, Merlin was still with him, the world was still out there, life was still ahead of him, and this was just one blow, one loss. Merlin squeezed back, as if telling him yes, yes to all of that, yes you will survive, even though Arthur knew his grip was so tight it hurt.
Merlin's other hand slid from Arthur's back to his shoulder, helping him up. “Can you... Can you check? Please? I know it's stupid, but-“ Arthur babbled, not looking at Merlin for fear of being laughed at. He knew, he knew his father was dead, but. He just wanted to be sure, and he didn't trust anyone more than he trusted Merlin.
Merlin didn't laugh, didn't make fun of him, didn't even say anything, just reached out for Uther's hand, deft fingers probing his wrist a few times, before he shook his head at Arthur. Arthur closed his eyes, nodding and turning towards the door, ready to leave. Merlin pulled him back.
“I'll arrange everything for the pyre for tomorrow morning,” he said quietly. “You may want to say goodbye.” Arthur stared at his father's unmoving form on the bed, his face calm, the permanent frown now erased from his face. He bent over and pressed his lips to his father's forehead gently; the skin under them felt cold and waxy. Dead, his brain helpfully supplied. It was a strange sensation, touching death and life at the same time, torn between his father and his friend even now when one was no longer breathing. Ironic, symbolic, befitting, he realized. And then, with a wave of guilt rolling behind it, another thought formed in his head - if it had to be one of them, better his father than Merlin. Merlin's warmth, his strong and steady hand in Arthur's, his persistent care and help eventually won out and Arthur stood straight, whispering father against Uther's skin before moving away one last time, still clinging to Merlin for support.
He fell asleep listening as Merlin whispered quiet words of encouragement and consolation, and when they'd run out of those, Merlin told stories he'd heard about Uther before he came to Camelot and things he'd learned about him since then. Arthur was sure Merlin hated Uther, but Merlin showed not a single sign of it, joking and praising Arthur's father as if it had been his own. Arthur doubted he would have fallen asleep that night without Merlin's voice to lull him into a dreamless slumber.
*
Arthur felt the familiar tickle of Merlin's finger brushing his skin as Merlin unlaced his tunic and took it off, placing it on top of the large pile of regal red clothes he'd worn for the coronation. It had been a day to remember, with the reception hall absolutely packed with all the royals from other kingdoms and all of Camelot's nobles, all wearing their best clothing, serious expressions on their faces interspersed with downplayed smiles. Arthur found it somewhat disturbing that people extended their sympathies and congratulated him in one and the same sentence, but he'd gotten used to it over the few days between his father's death and his coronation. The whole castle had become quite a grotesque, people crying over Uther's death only to smile at Arthur through their tears.
Arthur supposed it was a good sign that so many people mourned his father, he supposed it meant they'd cared for him. He'd always known his father wasn't very popular with most of Camelot's commoners, what with his strict laws and unyielding policies, he'd always known his father was too strict of a king, too exclusive in his opinions; he was much the same as a father, so Arthur understood the indignation many felt towards him. But distant and cold as he had been, he'd still been Arthur's father, and Arthur knew now that, in his own way, Uther had loved him and had been proud, even if he didn't really know how to show it. And for all his faults, Arthur had loved him back, and he missed him now, even though he wasn't sure he knew how to show it either.
He'd heard people commenting and gossiping, even in the hallways of the castle, about how he hadn't cried at all, what that could mean, even speculating that he had been somehow involved in his father's death. Betrayal like that, from people who lived that close to him, made his spine tingle with anger and his fists clench. So what if he hadn't cried? So what if he was as emotionally stunted as his father had been? Maybe it was an inherited trait.
Merlin's finger's ghosted over his bare arm. “Don't think,” he murmured, standing in front of Arthur, unnecessarily close (not that Arthur would mention that). “It doesn't matter what they say.” Arthur tried to smile, but the muscles of his face felt as hard as stone, and he found it difficult to wipe the seriousness from his features. He grimaced and just bowed his head, hoping Merlin would understand that he appreciated the valiant effort to make him feel better, even if it hadn't quite worked.
Merlin hadn't left his side for one second since he'd taken Arthur from Uther's chambers. As far as Arthur knew, he hadn't even slept. Every time Arthur had woken up, Merlin had been there, sitting on his bed, or on the floor next to it, watching him, his expression blank but his eyes worried. Every time Arthur had felt like he just needed to get out, get away, make everyone around him disappear, Merlin's hand had found its way to Arthur's elbow, and Arthur had focused on it, feeling as if the whole world was just that one simple touch. Every time Arthur had felt alone, weak and dizzy, Merlin had been right behind him, a solid wall of warmth he could lean on. Merlin was still the only person who hadn't told him I'm sorry, the words that Arthur felt he'd heard enough times to last him his whole life, stale and trite and dishonest and overused, and they didn't really go well with Merlin anyway. Arthur hadn't said thank you a single time, not for the silence, not for the support, not for the help; but the words were there, in the air between them, in the weak smiles Merlin offered him sometimes, in Arthur's pathetic attempts to return them, in Merlin's lingering touches, in Arthur's silent acceptance, and Arthur knew Merlin could feel them as well.
“Don't listen to them, they don't know you like I do,” Merlin whispered, placing his slightly shaking hand on Arthur's cheek. Arthur felt the warmth spread through his entire body and suddenly felt like he was submerged in the warmest of baths, and not standing half-naked in the middle of a cold stone room, too large for what he was used to, the fire still too light and new to heat it up. Merlin's fingers were twitching, his hand was barely touching Arthur's skin and Arthur knew Merlin was still waiting to be pushed away for claiming freedom that wasn't his, but Arthur just leaned into the touch and exhaled slowly, feeling every ache in his body leave with the puff of air. “I know you're suffering. I know you miss him. I know how hard this is for you,” Merlin said quietly, his thumb running over the side of Arthur's nose and Arthur found himself memorizing the touch as well as basking in its comfort. He lifted his head and looked into Merlin's eyes.
“My father is dead,” he stated dumbly, as if it had only just happened, as if he hadn't been the one to light the funeral pyre, as if he hadn't already been acting as king for days. Somehow none of that had really sunk in though, not until just now, when it was all over already. The last few days had been but a blur of thoughts along the lines of this needs to be done and this should be done, duties that couldn't wait taking control over Arthur's actions and feelings, guiding him through his days and keeping him occupied. But now, alone with Merlin, in his new room, large and still full of traces of his father, everything finally caught up with him, and he realized what he'd lost. It felt like all the feelings he'd been too busy to acknowledge, all the thoughts he'd pushed away, all the pain and anger just wrapped themselves into a giant fist and hit him in the gut, hard.
His breath hitched and his vision blurred and he shivered, and he would've broken down, if it hadn't been for Merlin's other hand landing gently on his bare chest, over his heart, and a placating breath of “I know,” that Merlin breathed into his face.
“I didn't get to say goodbye,” Arthur said and mentally slapped himself again for being stupid and saying things everyone already knew.
“I know,” Merlin replied, stroking Arthur's cheek and stepping closer. “I know.”
“I loved him,” Arthur declared somewhat defensively, his voice getting progressively louder with each syllable. He wasn't sure why he needed to make that clear, as if Merlin had doubted it, but he felt like he had to tell someone.
“I know,” Merlin soothed quietly.
“I know you hated him, I know a lot of people hated him, and I know they had good reasons, and I know he was unjust and cruel and I know-“
“I know you do, Arthur,” Merlin cut him off, his voice, contrary to Arthur's, getting quieter with every word.
“But he was my father,” Arthur finished, pacified by Merlin's steady but hushed presence. “And I loved him,” he adds, tone matching Merlin's, words barely more than a whisper.
“I know,” Merlin mouthed silently.
“And now he's dead,” Arthur finished weakly, his head falling to rest on Merlin's shoulder. Merlin didn't even flinch as Arthur's face came to rest in the crook of his neck, just rubbing small soothing circles over Arthur's chest and moving his other hand to the back of Arthur's neck. He buried his nose in Arthur's hair and kissed the top of his head and Arthur felt his self-control slipping, felt that now would be the moment he'd cry and yell and scream and do all the things everyone expected of him in the last few days, and somehow he didn't mind Merlin seeing it, somehow he knew Merlin would stay with him through it all, wouldn't tell anyone and wouldn't run away. And that was just fine with Arthur.
*
Hours later, Merlin would guide Arthur to bed, make him lie down, draw the blanket over him and sit at his side. Arthur would stare at the canopy over his bed, feeling exhausted and drained, fear and anger and pain all having tumbled out of him in a flood of tears and words and shouts that Merlin held him through, and he'd wonder what would come next. Merlin would slide a hand under the covers and squeeze his fingers and tell him, “You'll be fine Arthur. I know you will.” And somehow, Arthur would believe him.
Rating: T/PG-13
Word count: just over 4k
Category: Slash, Pairing: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon
Characters: Arthur Pendragon, Merlin, Morgana, Gaius, Uther Pendragon
Genre: AU - Future, Future!Fic, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Pre-slash
Warnings: Minor character death (Uther Pendragon)
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't make money from this, you know the drill.
Summary: "The bark is cold and damp under his fingers and in a rare moment of eloquence, Arthur thinks that it feels like the skin of dead man. He knows because when his father died, he held his hand for hours before letting anyone pry him away. Before letting Merlin pry him away, with a warm hand on his shoulder and soothing words he doesn't even remember anymore, but knows helped him then.
Part 2 of A Heart That Hurts is a Heart That Works series.
Also on AO3.
A/N: Rated T for mature themes, depictions of illness (non-graphic) and depictions of death (graphic, Uther Pendragon).
So, this is the second part of the series A Heart That Hurts is a Heart That Works, but it can be read as a separate story, or it can be skipped entirely in the series because it doesn't affect the plot. It's just an elaboration of a mentioned event from the first part (hence the summary). And yeah, Idk where this came from. I don't know. I don't know why I'm sitting at my laptop at 5am (Jesus fuck, where did the time go) on New Year day writing a story about Uther's death when everyone's writing holiday fluff. I don't know, okay, I have no idea what's wrong with me xD
Also worth noting - title from the song Castle Walls (T.I. feat Xtina), especially Xtina's part.
Feedback is always appreciated ^^ And happy New Year everyone :D
Behind These Castle Walls
Arthur could feel Gaius' eyes burning a hole in the back of his head, but found that he was completely indifferent to it, when it would normally make him squirm in anticipation of some reprimand or bad news. As it were, he already knew what Gaius wanted to say, he'd sort of known all along. Maybe not from the very moment Uther excused himself from a feast, and maybe not later that evening when Merlin told him Uther had sent for Gaius; but the next morning, Merlin woke him by tapping his shoulder lightly, almost gently, and Arthur immediately knew something was wrong. However, he understood what was holding Gaius back, especially after Morgana fired a maid she'd overheard calling Arthur king, even though he practically was now. The entire royal family had a reputation for having quite a temper, and Arthur knew there was a good reason for that; with everyone being especially prone to snapping due to stressing over Uther's illness, servants took to being especially careful with what they said.
In the end, it wasn't Gaius who spoke, it was Merlin. “Arthur... There's nothing we can do,” he whispered, his voice barely carrying over the length of the king's chambers, but to Arthur the words sounded unnaturally loud, like Merlin had shouted them at the top of his lungs for all the world to hear. His reality narrowed down to that one sentence, nothing we can do. He opened his mouth to protest, there had to be something, but the breath he took to speak tasted like defeat and disease and death and he realized that no, there really was nothing else to do. Gaius had already gone over every medical book in Camelot, Arthur knew because he hadn't seen the old man sleep in almost a week now, replacing rest with some of his own pick-me-up potions. Merlin had already tried magic, Arthur knew because he'd given Merlin more than enough time alone with his father to experiment, while still allowing Arthur to pretend he was unaware of sharing his castle with a warlock. His father was dying, Arthur knew because the hand he was holding was cold and unmoving no matter how hard he squeezed it.
He bowed his head and leaned it against his father's chest as he tried to think through the haze that had become a constant companion of his consciousness over the last few days. He wasn't sure if what was affecting his wit was just exhaustion that had long been catching up with him, or all the feelings he wished he didn't easily recognize - the pain of loss, the resentment at whatever destiny required this, the fear of what was yet to come. Realizing belatedly that he couldn't feel his father's heart beating, he looked up at Merlin and Gaius still standing by the window on the opposite side of the room, and stammered, “I can't feel his- Does that- Is he-“ His voice was audibly higher than usual, and he clutched at his father's hand with slightly sweaty fingers, panic, denial and refusal coursing through his veins. Gaius was giving him a look that bordered on pitying, although Arthur knew very well that Gaius just genuinely cared about him, and probably wished he could help somehow.
Merlin, ever the clumsy idiot that he was, tripped over his own feet as he rushed to Arthur's side, murmuring, “No, no, his heart is just too weak, you can't feel it like that,” words falling from his mouth quickly and in one short breath. “You need to...” he started, but the sentence just turned into an exasperated sigh, and Arthur was just about to ask him how he could have the gall to be annoyed with him at a time like this, when Merlin reached out and wrapped his long fingers around Arthur's wrist. “Here, let me show you,” he said softly, removing Arthur's hand from where it was wrapped around Uther's. His skin was warm and felt young and fresh where it was touching Arthur's, his blood thrumming just under the thin pale layer of protection and it felt like the quintessence of life itself; Arthur just wanted to take Merlin's hand and never let it go. He watched as Merlin pressed two fingers of his free hand to Uther's wrist hard, letting go quickly the first two times and then letting his fingers linger on the third touch. “Here,” he announced, replacing his fingers with Arthur's. Arthur could just about make out the unnaturally slow rhythm of weak pulsations under his fingers. It didn't make him feel any better, any more secure.
“It's so weak,” he breathed, not sure if even Merlin would hear him.
“He is,” Merlin replied quietly, both of his hands on Arthur's forearm now, warmth from them seeping through Arthur's sleeve and giving him something to connect him to the real world, something to help him see through the fog in his own mind.
Finally, the protocol he had been force-fed from birth took over and he found himself automatically saying, “You need to notify Morgana and my father's knights. Have Geoffrey write the official notifications to the other kingdoms.”
Gaius hummed quietly, already retreating, but Merlin stayed for a few more minutes, absently stroking Arthur's arm with his thumbs. Arthur leaned into the touch, letting his fingers slide from his father's wrist as he decided he didn't really need to know the exact moment his father would leave him, and once again taking his hand. He felt the strands of Merlin's hair tickling his face as a warm forehead pressed to his temple and Merlin breathed out a long and sweet breath over Arthur's cheek. Arthur felt the unspoken I'm sorry, but was grateful for not having to hear the words.
“I will go inform Morgana,” Merlin told him, giving his arm one last reassuring squeeze before letting go. Arthur kept up the pretense of strength until he heard the door close behind Merlin. Then he raised his father's hand to his face and kissed it, closing his eyes.
*
Merlin's knee was uncomfortably bony against Arthur's thigh, but moving away wasn't an option. Arthur had a very strong feeling that the two points of contact between himself and Merlin - the knee jammed into his leg and the forehead resting on his shoulder - were the only things keeping him from falling apart. It had been hours since he'd sent Gaius and Merlin away with their tasks of spreading the news of the king's imminent death, the sky outside had become much darker, now a dusting of twinkling stars on an inky blue canvas. The air in the room was chilly, but not necessarily uncomfortably so; Arthur found that breathing deeply made cold spread through his body, pinching a little at his insides and thus keeping him awake and alert. He wasn't really sure why he wanted to stay awake when nothing would change even if he fell asleep. He doubted anything would change even if he fell asleep and never woke up. As if on cue, beside him Merlin squirmed into a more comfortable position, lifting his head and pressing their sides together, resting his hand gently on Arthur's knee, reminding him that he still had things in this world to live for.
“Arthur...” he whispered softly, voice barely audible and rough from disuse. Arthur shook his head before lowering it to rest on the back of his father's hand again. “Not yet then,” Merlin complied reluctantly as he moved his hand from Arthur's knee to lay it between his shoulder blades, fingers flexing over his spine. “Okay.”
Not long after Merlin had left him, Morgana had walked into the room, her eyes shiny and wet, but her makeup flawless and her posture proud. She'd said Merlin told me you sent for me and Arthur had only nodded unable to form a worded reply. She'd nodded back and sat next to him for a few minutes, stroking over Uther's chest and face, her expression fond and sad. She'd pressed a kiss to Uther's temple and then left with a quiet If you'll excuse me. She hadn't come back since and Arthur could just imagine her sitting in her room now, staring out the window, looking as perfect as ever, even with tears probably silently gliding down her cheeks. He guessed Guinevere was with her because he hadn't seen her all day.
His father's knights had come soon after Morgana had left. They'd all worn almost identical solemn expressions, dressed in their best clothes and with their ceremonial swords at their waists. They'd stood behind Arthur for long minutes before he'd dismissed them all from service honorably and they'd left giving him the regards they would to a king. At that, Arthur had felt an iron fist clench around his chest, all but cutting off his oxygen supply, making him choke on his own spit with every breath he'd taken since then.
For hours it had been just an endless parade of people who wanted to say goodbye walking in and out of the room, all saying the same things, expressing their grief, extending their sympathies to Arthur. Arthur had grown sick of them after the sixth maid who'd cried into her skirt, but it hadn't been until one of the stable boys had walked in, some hours later, that he'd finally lost it, yelling his lungs out at everyone in the room and the hallway, sending them off and forbidding them to come back until further notice. Everyone had shied away from his anger, and Arthur had briefly wondered if steam was coming out of his ears. He had been so outraged at this blatant disrespect of his privacy, so utterly infuriated with everyone stealing away his precious time with his father that he'd thought he could easily kill them all with his bare hands if they dared disobey.
When he'd gone back to his father's chambers, he'd found Merlin still there. Somehow, Arthur hadn't found it in him to kick him out as well. Merlin had stayed, first awkwardly standing at the window, as if expecting Arthur to yell at him or possibly strangle him, but when Arthur had just resumed his position at his father's side, Merlin had relaxed, eventually coming to sit next to him when the sun had gone down. A brief and gentle touch of the very tips of Merlin's fingers to the back of his neck when Merlin had put a cape over his shoulders to keep him warm, had released Arthur from the vicious grip pain had had on him from the moment Uther's knights had bid him goodbye. Since then, Merlin's presence had been nothing but support, gentle touches and constant warmth at his side, helping him keep his breathing even, helping him remember that he would eventually have to go back to the world outside of his father's chambers.
His father's hand was limp in his fingers, unnaturally cool, veins prominent and blue. It felt much like the skin of frogs he'd loved to catch as a child. It was a disgusting and disturbing thought, and Arthur somehow couldn't help a nervous chuckle that escaped him; it was quickly lost in the folds of the sheets around his father's body, the smell of something stale and rotten Arthur was only half-sure he was imagining, the whistling of the wind through the window. Merlin's hand slowly slid down his back and then back up.
“Come on, Arthur,” Merlin said, “you have to let him go.” Arthur lifted his head to look at Merlin, but the edges of his face were blurred and he seemed to be swaying slightly from side to side. Arthur closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it, but it didn't do much. “Hey, hey, look at me. Focus,” Merlin advised, his hand still on Arthur's upper back, the other one inching closer to where Arthur had been holding on to his father for the last few days.
“Don't,” Arthur warned, voice dangerously low, squeezing his father's hand even tighter, wondering if the quiet crunching had been his father's knuckles breaking or his sleep-deprived mind exorcising its wicked sense of humor. Everyone else would have gotten the message and backed off; not Merlin.
“Arthur, he's gone,” Merlin said calmly, sliding his finger's between Arthur's and Uther's and pushing Arthur's hand away gently. “No amount of time you spend here will bring him back.”
“Are you sure that...” Arthur ventured, knowing it was in vain even before he saw Merlin bite his lip nervously and shake his head. No one had checked for Uther's heart beat since Arthur had traded his wrist for his fingers that morning, and while Arthur knew that didn't mean his father would live, he'd somehow foolishly hoped that maybe they'd miss Uther getting better, and not Uther dying.
“Morgana checked when she was here. He was already gone by then,” Merlin whispered, and pushed at Arthur's palm more insistently. Arthur held on for a few more seconds, before letting Merlin pry him away. As his father's hand fell to the white sheets of the bed, Arthur felt completely disconnected from everyone and everything in the world, like all the ties he'd had up to that moment had been severed by just this one act, the act of letting go. But then Merlin's hand slid into his, thin fingers slotting between his own, and Arthur squeezed as hard as he could, just to make sure that he was still alive, Merlin was still with him, the world was still out there, life was still ahead of him, and this was just one blow, one loss. Merlin squeezed back, as if telling him yes, yes to all of that, yes you will survive, even though Arthur knew his grip was so tight it hurt.
Merlin's other hand slid from Arthur's back to his shoulder, helping him up. “Can you... Can you check? Please? I know it's stupid, but-“ Arthur babbled, not looking at Merlin for fear of being laughed at. He knew, he knew his father was dead, but. He just wanted to be sure, and he didn't trust anyone more than he trusted Merlin.
Merlin didn't laugh, didn't make fun of him, didn't even say anything, just reached out for Uther's hand, deft fingers probing his wrist a few times, before he shook his head at Arthur. Arthur closed his eyes, nodding and turning towards the door, ready to leave. Merlin pulled him back.
“I'll arrange everything for the pyre for tomorrow morning,” he said quietly. “You may want to say goodbye.” Arthur stared at his father's unmoving form on the bed, his face calm, the permanent frown now erased from his face. He bent over and pressed his lips to his father's forehead gently; the skin under them felt cold and waxy. Dead, his brain helpfully supplied. It was a strange sensation, touching death and life at the same time, torn between his father and his friend even now when one was no longer breathing. Ironic, symbolic, befitting, he realized. And then, with a wave of guilt rolling behind it, another thought formed in his head - if it had to be one of them, better his father than Merlin. Merlin's warmth, his strong and steady hand in Arthur's, his persistent care and help eventually won out and Arthur stood straight, whispering father against Uther's skin before moving away one last time, still clinging to Merlin for support.
He fell asleep listening as Merlin whispered quiet words of encouragement and consolation, and when they'd run out of those, Merlin told stories he'd heard about Uther before he came to Camelot and things he'd learned about him since then. Arthur was sure Merlin hated Uther, but Merlin showed not a single sign of it, joking and praising Arthur's father as if it had been his own. Arthur doubted he would have fallen asleep that night without Merlin's voice to lull him into a dreamless slumber.
*
Arthur felt the familiar tickle of Merlin's finger brushing his skin as Merlin unlaced his tunic and took it off, placing it on top of the large pile of regal red clothes he'd worn for the coronation. It had been a day to remember, with the reception hall absolutely packed with all the royals from other kingdoms and all of Camelot's nobles, all wearing their best clothing, serious expressions on their faces interspersed with downplayed smiles. Arthur found it somewhat disturbing that people extended their sympathies and congratulated him in one and the same sentence, but he'd gotten used to it over the few days between his father's death and his coronation. The whole castle had become quite a grotesque, people crying over Uther's death only to smile at Arthur through their tears.
Arthur supposed it was a good sign that so many people mourned his father, he supposed it meant they'd cared for him. He'd always known his father wasn't very popular with most of Camelot's commoners, what with his strict laws and unyielding policies, he'd always known his father was too strict of a king, too exclusive in his opinions; he was much the same as a father, so Arthur understood the indignation many felt towards him. But distant and cold as he had been, he'd still been Arthur's father, and Arthur knew now that, in his own way, Uther had loved him and had been proud, even if he didn't really know how to show it. And for all his faults, Arthur had loved him back, and he missed him now, even though he wasn't sure he knew how to show it either.
He'd heard people commenting and gossiping, even in the hallways of the castle, about how he hadn't cried at all, what that could mean, even speculating that he had been somehow involved in his father's death. Betrayal like that, from people who lived that close to him, made his spine tingle with anger and his fists clench. So what if he hadn't cried? So what if he was as emotionally stunted as his father had been? Maybe it was an inherited trait.
Merlin's finger's ghosted over his bare arm. “Don't think,” he murmured, standing in front of Arthur, unnecessarily close (not that Arthur would mention that). “It doesn't matter what they say.” Arthur tried to smile, but the muscles of his face felt as hard as stone, and he found it difficult to wipe the seriousness from his features. He grimaced and just bowed his head, hoping Merlin would understand that he appreciated the valiant effort to make him feel better, even if it hadn't quite worked.
Merlin hadn't left his side for one second since he'd taken Arthur from Uther's chambers. As far as Arthur knew, he hadn't even slept. Every time Arthur had woken up, Merlin had been there, sitting on his bed, or on the floor next to it, watching him, his expression blank but his eyes worried. Every time Arthur had felt like he just needed to get out, get away, make everyone around him disappear, Merlin's hand had found its way to Arthur's elbow, and Arthur had focused on it, feeling as if the whole world was just that one simple touch. Every time Arthur had felt alone, weak and dizzy, Merlin had been right behind him, a solid wall of warmth he could lean on. Merlin was still the only person who hadn't told him I'm sorry, the words that Arthur felt he'd heard enough times to last him his whole life, stale and trite and dishonest and overused, and they didn't really go well with Merlin anyway. Arthur hadn't said thank you a single time, not for the silence, not for the support, not for the help; but the words were there, in the air between them, in the weak smiles Merlin offered him sometimes, in Arthur's pathetic attempts to return them, in Merlin's lingering touches, in Arthur's silent acceptance, and Arthur knew Merlin could feel them as well.
“Don't listen to them, they don't know you like I do,” Merlin whispered, placing his slightly shaking hand on Arthur's cheek. Arthur felt the warmth spread through his entire body and suddenly felt like he was submerged in the warmest of baths, and not standing half-naked in the middle of a cold stone room, too large for what he was used to, the fire still too light and new to heat it up. Merlin's fingers were twitching, his hand was barely touching Arthur's skin and Arthur knew Merlin was still waiting to be pushed away for claiming freedom that wasn't his, but Arthur just leaned into the touch and exhaled slowly, feeling every ache in his body leave with the puff of air. “I know you're suffering. I know you miss him. I know how hard this is for you,” Merlin said quietly, his thumb running over the side of Arthur's nose and Arthur found himself memorizing the touch as well as basking in its comfort. He lifted his head and looked into Merlin's eyes.
“My father is dead,” he stated dumbly, as if it had only just happened, as if he hadn't been the one to light the funeral pyre, as if he hadn't already been acting as king for days. Somehow none of that had really sunk in though, not until just now, when it was all over already. The last few days had been but a blur of thoughts along the lines of this needs to be done and this should be done, duties that couldn't wait taking control over Arthur's actions and feelings, guiding him through his days and keeping him occupied. But now, alone with Merlin, in his new room, large and still full of traces of his father, everything finally caught up with him, and he realized what he'd lost. It felt like all the feelings he'd been too busy to acknowledge, all the thoughts he'd pushed away, all the pain and anger just wrapped themselves into a giant fist and hit him in the gut, hard.
His breath hitched and his vision blurred and he shivered, and he would've broken down, if it hadn't been for Merlin's other hand landing gently on his bare chest, over his heart, and a placating breath of “I know,” that Merlin breathed into his face.
“I didn't get to say goodbye,” Arthur said and mentally slapped himself again for being stupid and saying things everyone already knew.
“I know,” Merlin replied, stroking Arthur's cheek and stepping closer. “I know.”
“I loved him,” Arthur declared somewhat defensively, his voice getting progressively louder with each syllable. He wasn't sure why he needed to make that clear, as if Merlin had doubted it, but he felt like he had to tell someone.
“I know,” Merlin soothed quietly.
“I know you hated him, I know a lot of people hated him, and I know they had good reasons, and I know he was unjust and cruel and I know-“
“I know you do, Arthur,” Merlin cut him off, his voice, contrary to Arthur's, getting quieter with every word.
“But he was my father,” Arthur finished, pacified by Merlin's steady but hushed presence. “And I loved him,” he adds, tone matching Merlin's, words barely more than a whisper.
“I know,” Merlin mouthed silently.
“And now he's dead,” Arthur finished weakly, his head falling to rest on Merlin's shoulder. Merlin didn't even flinch as Arthur's face came to rest in the crook of his neck, just rubbing small soothing circles over Arthur's chest and moving his other hand to the back of Arthur's neck. He buried his nose in Arthur's hair and kissed the top of his head and Arthur felt his self-control slipping, felt that now would be the moment he'd cry and yell and scream and do all the things everyone expected of him in the last few days, and somehow he didn't mind Merlin seeing it, somehow he knew Merlin would stay with him through it all, wouldn't tell anyone and wouldn't run away. And that was just fine with Arthur.
*
Hours later, Merlin would guide Arthur to bed, make him lie down, draw the blanket over him and sit at his side. Arthur would stare at the canopy over his bed, feeling exhausted and drained, fear and anger and pain all having tumbled out of him in a flood of tears and words and shouts that Merlin held him through, and he'd wonder what would come next. Merlin would slide a hand under the covers and squeeze his fingers and tell him, “You'll be fine Arthur. I know you will.” And somehow, Arthur would believe him.