Fanfic: Merlin | Ave atque vale
Title: Ave atque vale
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: ~1200
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: major character death
Summary: Dawn comes, and the world is changed. The past is now forgotten, the future something new and unseen. A name, always meant to be whispered and revered, is erased from the one he was meant to stand by.
Ave atque vale
hail and farewell
It will happen when Merlin is finally finished with his last rounds for Arthur, long after the prince and most other inhabitants of the castle have given into sleep.
It happened because Merlin was careless and Uther’s knowledge was vast and underestimated and misconceived.
It happens a bit like this, in the most tragic way:
Uther’s words are frank, devoid of malice or pity or even glee. He says the words strictly, knowing that they will not be ignored. “You will be executed when morning comes - at dawn.” Merlin does not ask why; the king has seen him often enough using his magic to protect Arthur. He nods without protest, eyes cast downwards in a mockery of respect, and walks away. If the king knows where Merlin is headed, he does not say.
The castle does not close in on him, but rather it seems to spread apart, making way for him so that he will not touch it. It is a familiar route, and Merlin can point out the cracks and chips in the stone and say, There, that line was my fault, when I fought that amateur sorcerer after Arthur’s life, even in the darkness.
His fingers tremble when he unlocks Arthur’s door; the key is like fire when he drops in on the table.
Arthur is sleeping, and in his sleep he shows the worries that plague him in his waking hours. Merlin kneels and stares at him; Arthur does not wake, and it is no longer a surprise, the way that he does not stir with Merlin’s presence looming so near whilst his guard is down.
The room smothers him, the cold of the stone bleeding into his skin. He kneels there for the longest moment, breathing in the memories that are Arthur and Camelot. But he becomes bold and crawls into the bed, warm with his only king’s life, and curls up beside him. And Arthur does not stir until Merlin kisses him, gently and kindly as if a servant to a sovereign.
Arthur wakens with a laugh and a longing sigh. “Molesting the crown prince in his sleep, Merlin?” he questions, rolling on his side to smother Merlin with his warmth. His voice drops to a teasing whisper, “I could have your head for that.”
He laughs hysterically, clutching onto his prince (his king). And suddenly Arthur is kissing him again, insistent and cautious and filled with a certain kind of yearning. “If I had known,” he gasps in between each draw of breath, “If I had known sooner that you - that you wanted this as much as I -”
And Merlin silences him, shushes him in a way he had no right to, and begs him to sleep. “I will be here in the morning,” he promises, “so sleep now.” His heart breaks, loud enough to tear the earth asunder. Forgive me, he thinks, forgive me when morning comes.
They lay like that, Arthur whispering words of devotion into Merlin’s very soul, telling him of their future together and every little thing he has always admired. Merlin listens and listens, and feels as if he is being buried alive. He realizes, somewhere in the back of his mind where his magic dreams of being free, he will die in the morning, and there will be no other chance to find comfort in Arthur’s arms, no chance of trading souls. And even if it is wrong, and even though he knows it is wrong, he exhales and crawls on top of Arthur, head hanging low so that his prince will not see the fear and the pain and the guilt in his eyes.
But he cannot bring himself to make the morning worse for Arthur, so he presses open-mouthed kisses against Arthur’s skin, presses them close to his heart. And though he does not dare to speak aloud - not under these circumstances - his lips hover over the beating thing that kept his always-king alive and whispers, “I love you,” as if speaking to everything that made Arthur Arthur.
His prince realizes, however vaguely, that something is wrong, and holds him awkwardly in his arms, but holds him all the same. He presses callused hands under the ragged hem of Merlin’s shirt, feels the expanse of skin burned under the sun many times.
It is then that he cries. He cries and curls into Arthur, wondering how, even for a moment, he could have been so selfish. He made a mistake, coming to Arthur’s room. He wanted a final night, a goodbye neither of them would regret. This is not what he came for.
He did not come for final comforts, final lonely touches filled with deception. He came for Arthur, to say farewell and nothing more.
But now, he will spend the night. And he will sleep. And he will dream, as Arthur will dream, of a future that might have been and could have been if Merlin’s heart had been just the slightest bit colder, enough to listen to the dragon’s warnings and orders. But he is not - was not - and so the future is something terrible, something unseen … as it should always have been and should always be. He is changing the future with his death, with his willing death.
The fall to sleep, tucked into each other’s skin.
Arthur dreams of Merlin and darkness and something that was unmistakably love - for it was painful and sharp in his heart.
Merlin dreams of nothing but mist and fog and Arthur’s warmth.
He is awake before morning arrives. He bows once to his sleeping king and is gone, out the door with a spell freshly fallen from his lips.
The whole of Camelot watches his execution - from the children that always had a supply of vegetables, the man who Merlin caught using magic, the woman he helped walk after she wounded her leg, to Gauis. He smiles at Gauis to tell him that everything is alright, that he wants this.
Gauis does not smile back.
Uther stands and gives his speech about magic and crimes.
He does not mention the word treason.
Afterwards (many, many years later when all those witness to the event have fallen to their graves) people will swear that Merlin was given a knight’s burial. Strange how none recounts what happens to the prince when he wakes from his weary slumber.
Arthur will wake in the morning, well past dawn, and Morgana will be standing at the foot of his bed, eyes disappointed. (And he will recall it as only a dream.)
Arthur woke in the morning recalling dark hair and a crinkly smile so foreign and familiar.
Arthur wakes, wondering why the bed is not as warm as it was the night before, when solace was curled into his arms and he was sure that moment would last forever.