Fic (Merlin): Not Set In Stone
Fandom: Merlin
Title: Not Set In Stone
Author: kianspo
Beta: secret_chord25 (who graciously read this for me even though it's not her fandom *clings*)
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin (main), also Arthur/Gwen, Merlin/Gwaine, Gwaine/Elena
Genre: future!fic, angst
Rating: R
Word count: ~3200
Warnings: infidelity, minor character death, open end
Spoilers: everything up to the end of S3, though they are pretty mild
Summary: Merlin has a tower to himself and no one to talk to. But he still tries to sway the future.
A/N: Baby's first (finished) Merlin fic. Don't hurt me, yes?
The waters of the lake of Avalon are teal on this cloudy day, misty with a thin veil of melancholy. Merlin smiles at it grimly as he settles with his back leaning against an old oak log lying forlornly across the shore. It’s not yet noon, and it’s chilly, but Merlin feels perpetually cold these days, so he doesn’t mind much.
“Hello, Freya,” he says softly, staring at the ever disquieted waters.
Merlin doesn’t know if she can hear him. If he’s honest with himself, he isn’t certain that he wants her to.
“The wedding was beautiful,” he tells the lake. “I know it was last summer, and I should have told you earlier, but... you know how these things go.”
A flow of wind comes from the lake, gusting over Merlin’s face, playing with his hair. He wears it longer now, curling around his ears, teasing the nape of his neck. Merlin sighs, pulling his cloak tighter around himself.
“It was in the great hall. Gwen looked beautiful, I’ll have you know. A queen indeed. And Arthur - Arthur seemed so young. I don’t know how, just... I guess it’s because he was happy.” Merlin smiles, only faltering a little. “And I was there.”
He was. He stood next to Gaius in the crowd, behind the knights and the nobles, among free men, which he technically wasn’t. His clothes were clean and proper, his least-worn shirt on, and he even tried to comb his hair.
He watched Lancelot as he stood with Arthur. He watched Elyan as he stood with Gwen. He kept waiting for Arthur to look at him, to direct his gaze toward the sea of faces and find Merlin in the crowd and just look at him, if only for a moment.
Arthur never turned from Gwen’s gaze.
Merlin stood there and smiled. He smiled so hard that his face was aching for days afterwards at the memory.
He would have snuck out of the reception, his presence so drastically not required, but Gwaine caught him, looked at him with his eyes a little too knowing, a little too wild, and Merlin stayed. Gwaine plied him with ale and mead till Merlin couldn’t remember his own name, and there were no embarrassing stories of any kind to be told the next morning.
“I admire Lancelot,” Merlin says, his lips quirking in a wry shadow of a smirk. “I could never be like him. I don’t know - I don’t know how he does it. Maybe because Arthur needs him still.”
It was over a year ago, but Merlin remembers it like it only was yesterday, when Arthur called him to his chambers (soon to be vacated) and told him he would no longer require a manservant.
‘You realise, don’t you, that it would be... awkward,’ Arthur said. ‘What if my wife is still there, and - you understand.’
‘What about your armour?’ Merlin asked stubbornly. ‘Won’t you need help with that?’
Arthur’s face softened. ‘Merlin, as king, I’ll be surrounded by squires.’
‘Oh,’ Merlin said. ‘Fine then. I’ll just - I’ll go now. Sire.’
‘Merlin.’ Arthur’s voice stopped him at the door.
Nothing followed, and Merlin turned around, puzzled, to find Arthur frowning and biting his lips.
‘Arthur?’
‘Don’t - don’t leave Camelot.’ Arthur looked at him uncertainly. ‘I’ll see that you keep your wages, and Gaius could use your help. I’ll - I’ll find something for you when we’re settled. I promise, Merlin.’
He looked hesitant and nervous, and Merlin’s heart broke a little at the sight. He smiled and sauntered back to Arthur, who never stopped watching him.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Merlin told him quietly. ‘I told you once, I’ll be happy to serve you till the day I die.’
And then, because he couldn’t help it, because he knew it would be the only time, Merlin took Arthur’s hand in both his own, clasped it tightly, and lifted it to his face. Arthur gasped softly, having guessed Merlin’s intention, and froze, staring at Merlin wide-eyed and startled and paralyzed.
Merlin changed his mind then, turning Arthur’s hand in his grasp and kissing not his knuckles, as a subject would do showing respect to his sovereign, but the inside of Arthur’s wrist, dry lips pressing briefly against the frantic flutter of pulse under the fragile shield of the soft, lightly tanned skin.
It lasted a moment, and then Merlin let go gently and stepped back, walking all the way to the door, before yielding to the temptation and glancing back.
Arthur was still standing motionless, with his eyes closed, lips glowing red and parted, cheeks feverish, and his hand still hovering in midair where Merlin left it.
Merlin swallowed, chest aching with the lack of air, ducked his head and slipped out of the room for the last time.
“I couldn’t leave, you understand,” Merlin tells the lake quietly, listening to the dark waters whispering back at him. “Just because Arthur is King now, doesn’t mean my destiny is fulfilled. And then my magic was revealed, and, well, I live in a tower now.” Merlin laughs bitterly. “All by myself.”
There is, naturally, no response, apart from the trees murmuring something to the wind.
‘How could you have lied to us?’ Gwen asked, angry tears filling up her beautiful brown eyes. ‘We were your friends, Merlin. How could you have kept this from us?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Merlin was looking at Arthur and only at Arthur. And he wasn’t going to apologize again.
‘I don’t understand how you could have been so selfish.’ Gwen shook her head miserably. ‘You could have trusted us-’
‘It’s fine, Guinevere,’ Arthur said gravely, speaking for the first time since the showdown in the great hall. ‘Merlin saved our lives. It’s enough for me.’
Merlin couldn’t, at that single moment, couldn’t withstand the pressure, the sheer weight of Arthur’s - of the King’s - gaze. He sunk to one knee for the first time in front of Arthur, bowing his head.
‘All that I am is yours,’ he said, voice miraculously steady. ‘It always has been.’
The weight of Arthur’s hand on his shoulder, brief, wary, but not wary of his magic.
‘I know, Merlin.’ The touch was gone, fleeting, almost imagined. ‘Do get up. You look ridiculous.’
“So I couldn’t leave,” Merlin mutters. “But Gwaine could.”
Merlin will always think of Gwaine fondly. He did when Gwaine was Strength to Merlin’s Magic and Arthur’s Courage. He did when Gwaine was drunk off his arse in every tavern in Camelot, singing hymns to the gods of beauty and love. He did when Gwaine found him lying under a pile of bodies on the battlefield, unconscious and counted for dead.
But the fondest memories, Merlin thinks, will be those of a warm body pressed against his in the cold, silent room at the top of the tower. The room that no one else ever visited, except for Arthur, who never came alone - always with Lancelot or Leon, always at a time of great need, and never for longer than a few minutes.
Gwaine would brave the endless steps, would fall into the cold chamber, grumbling and panting, would smile at Merlin underneath it all, and pull him close, and kiss him without asking, batting away Merlin’s token objections like tiresome but harmless insects. He would let Merlin cling to him afterwards, and hold him close, and if Merlin’s cheek was wet where it lay cradled against Gwaine’s arm, Gwaine would never, ever say a word.
Maybe it was indulgence and maybe it was wrong. But Merlin was only human - okay, he was mostly human. He was tired, he was alone, and Gwaine - Gwaine was there.
Merlin would walk sometimes, out of habit, along the training field. Arthur’s squire would dart away, scared, at the sight of him, and Merlin would pick up the skin of water the boy would drop and smile and give it to Arthur, as if nothing had changed and time was standing still in Camelot. Their fingers wouldn’t brush like before, but Arthur would drink and nod his thanks and then he’d squint at Merlin for a moment before calling Gwaine up front and forget that this was training, not actual battle and Gwaine was his knight, not the enemy.
Merlin would watch the frenzied fight, trying to pretend he doesn’t see the anger flashing in Arthur’s eyes. He would be ready to interfere with a spell or a dozen, but he would never have to, because, after a few minutes, Arthur would simply stop, as if having suddenly remembered. He’d clap Gwaine on the back, without meeting his eyes, and stomp away, sword slung heavily over his shoulder, glinting angrily at the stolen victory in the afternoon sun.
Eventually, Merlin would swing by the training field no longer.
At Midwinter, Gwaine would leave. Princess Elena had returned to Camelot two months prior, much less clumsy now that she was Sidhe-free, and still charmingly unorthodox for a proper princess. Gwaine would sing to her at feasts, and drown her chambers in roses, and when she’d laugh at him, he’d ride with her and fight with her. She’d beat him at both, much to the amusement of the entire court, Merlin included.
When Elena’s stay is over, Gwaine would smile at Merlin and kiss him for the first time in two months, and for the last time ever. Merlin would smile back.
Arthur would turn up at Merlin’s tower alone that night and stare at the wall and ask if Merlin had any objections to Gwaine being stationed at Elena’s kingdom as Camelot’s representative to their allies. He would not look at Merlin, not once, but he’s pale, and his lips are pressed together, a tight, unforgiving line, and Merlin would almost have to put a binding spell on himself to stay still. He has no objections, he’d tell Arthur. Arthur’s shoulders would slump in defeat, and he would leave Merlin’s room without a word.
Merlin smiled through Arthur’s wedding, but he couldn’t bring himself to see Elena’s party off in the courtyard. He watched from his tower; he saw the exact moment when Gwaine turned to shoot a look at his window, stood up in the stirrups, and gave an insolent salute. Merlin grinned, despite himself, and returned the gesture, even knowing Gwaine wouldn’t be able to see it.
“And then Gaius died,” Merlin says, his voice hoarse from too much talking, unused to it these days. The first stars are slowly lighting up on the milky pink horizon. “Gwen cried. Arthur made a lovely tribute. And I - I couldn’t say a word, Freya. I just couldn’t.”
He shivers in the wind, but it’s habit, not a reaction to the cold he can barely feel anymore.
“I’m numb, Freya. There was a time when I felt so much, I thought I’d burst - but now? I don’t feel anything.” Merlin shakes his head. “I don’t even have anyone to talk to anymore, not about this - just talk. Like ‘good morning’ and ‘how’s the weather’ and... It’s pathetic, I know. You’re not there anymore, are you? I’m talking to a bloody lake!”
He laughs, a croaking, painful wheeze. In a sudden upsurge of energy, Merlin picks up a pebble and throws it into the impassive water, grinning evilly at the splash.
There’s no response.
Merlin’s smirk fades slowly. He stares into the darkening skies, and squeezes his eyes shut.
“I leave all the time and go wandering, and no one ever asks me about it. Sometimes it’s days, weeks. There are other sorcerers in town now; I’m not missed. And sometimes,” he whispers to the cutting wind, thinking the words for the first time, “sometimes I think that if I never go back, no one will notice.”
He falls asleep where he sits, out in the freezing wind, next to the cold, indifferent water.
When Merlin opens his eyes, there’s light dancing at the tree branches. It’s still night, though, and he sits up abruptly, whirling around. His breath catches.
There’s a small campfire not two feet away from him, and Arthur is sitting by it, poking it with a stick. He’s wearing his old hunting clothes, back from the days when he was a prince, and there’s no crown on his head. Merlin looks around, squinting at the dark trees, but no, there are no knights. Arthur is here alone. Which is just...
“Merlin, stop panicking,” Arthur says, without looking at him. “There’s no danger.”
“Says you,” Merlin grumbles, but he subsides at Arthur’s curt glance, and climbs over the tree log stiffly to slump next to the fire. “What are you doing here?”
Arthur doesn’t respond at once.
“Your tower,” Arthur speaks at last, “annoys me.”
Merlin blinks. “Does it now?”
“It does. There’s a set of chambers next to mine. I think it’ll suit your bizarre purposes perfectly, not that I’d want to hear about them.”
Merlin swallows, staring at him. Arthur is looking at the fire stubbornly, his face flushed from the heat. He must have been sitting there a long time.
“Arthur,” Merlin says slowly. “I can’t.”
Arthur peers at him over the fire, rolls his eyes, and sighs. “You’re still such a bloody girl, Merlin.”
“You’re married.” It comes out with more bitterness than intended. “Gwen is-”
“My queen,” Arthur interrupts him softly. “She can’t give me an heir. One damp prison cell too many, it would seem. We stopped trying. I’m not my father, I won’t - risk her. Or anyone.” He pokes at the fire unnecessarily, bites his lip. After a beat, “She has a champion. I cannot - will not - begrudge her that.”
Merlin is silent for a while. When he lifts his eyes finally, he finds Arthur looking straight at him.
“I still can’t, Arthur.”
“Why not?”
“You are - you could not live a lie. I know you.” Merlin rubs at his eyes in frustration. “I’m happy for Gwen, I really am. It’s very noble of you, but... this is not for you. You are too honest. Too honourable.”
Arthur looks like he wants to snap, or to strike Merlin, but he stays silent.
“You know I’m right,” Merlin whispers. “You’d hate yourself.”
“What makes you think I don’t hate myself already?” Arthur explodes, his eyes blazing. “Watching you slip away from me, further and further by the day, missing your idiotic smile, and your damn ears, and your smell on my clothes, Merlin, and your touch - every bloody day!”
Merlin closes his eyes in defeat and says nothing.
“All my life,” Arthur rages, “I knew nothing but obligations. I could have anything I wanted - except something I really wanted, because I always wanted the wrong thing! Am I not allowed anything for myself? Must I know nothing but duty?”
“Arthur-”
“I want you,” Arthur snaps stubbornly. “I want you next to me every minute of every day, Merlin. Not as my sorcerer, just as yourself, as the bloody idiot that you really are. I want to feel your hands on my skin, I want to throw water over you, and eat rat stew with you, I want you to undress me and stay the fucking night, and I want you to be there in the morning!”
“We can’t have that, Arthur!” Merlin shouts over him, springing upright, shaking. “Not in this life, we can’t!”
But Arthur is still the same spoiled, arrogant prat underneath all his newfound dignity and wisdom, and he doesn’t know how to take no for an answer; he never did. He jumps to his feet and pounces on Merlin, tackling him to the ground roughly, pinning him down with his weight, hands capturing Merlin’s wrists in the blink of an eye.
“Stop me with your magic, Merlin,” Arthur hisses, glaring down at him. “Stop me if you don’t want this as much as I do - in this fucking life, you hear me? Stop me or we’re doing it now!”
Seconds fly by, but, although Merlin is glowering up at Arthur, still struggling underneath him, his magic remains dormant, and Arthur reads it for the surrender it really is. He sneers triumphantly and crushes Merlin’s lips with his own.
Merlin moans, arching up, because something so wrong should never feel so incredibly right, but it does - oh gods, it does. Arthur’s kiss is hot and dirty and perfect, and Merlin can’t fight off the both of them or something that they both want so much. He frees his hands and grabs at Arthur, overwhelmed by the suffocating need to touch, and Arthur lets him, murmuring encouragements, shrugging off his clothes and divesting Merlin of his own, barely breaking the intoxicating kiss for a gulp of air.
The clearing is filled with their moans and grunts, and the light of the fire that rises higher and higher every time Merlin cries out, every time Arthur drives back into him, teeth breaking the tender skin on Merlin’s shoulder, hands brutally hard on Merlin’s hips. They’re rocking together five feet above the ground, because Merlin can’t control it, apparently, and Arthur laughs somewhere in the middle of it - a familiar, carefree laughter Merlin hasn’t heard in ages - and tells him, “Don’t drop us, you idiot.”
Merlin grins, rolls his hips wickedly, and doesn’t drop them indeed, not even when his head falls back, mouth torn in a silent cry, and the flames shoot upward into the black skies before descending in a graceful arc into the lake, dancing on the surface of the water, teasing it before slowly fading out.
They lie in silence, panting and glowing, back on solid ground. Arthur stirs heavily, nuzzling at Merlin’s neck and planting a sloppy, gentle kiss beneath his ear.
“I’m not hating myself,” he whispers, and Merlin smiles, tugging him closer.
“Sleep, Arthur,” he murmurs, fingers sifting reverently through Arthur’s hair. “Sleep.”
Arthur does. Merlin lifts them again, consciously this time, and deposits them on Arthur’s bedroll, summoning a blanket and whispering a quick warming spell. Arthur sleeps peacefully, head tucked under Merlin’s chin, arm slung over Merlin’s waist, their legs tangled.
Merlin doesn’t sleep. He lies there quietly, his body buzzing with contentment and happiness, feeling warm and alive for the first time in over a year. But he knows what he must do come morning, even as his fingers skim restlessly over Arthur’s skin.
Not in this life, he thinks sadly, brokenly, and hears Arthur’s vehement objections, loud and clear. How selfish Merlin was allowing this to happen. How low he will feel after making them both pay the price for it.
Offering his life for Arthur’s, releasing the Great Dragon, poisoning Morgana - those decisions seem almost easy in retrospect, compared to the choice he must make now. Will Arthur ever forgive him for making it? Will he forgive himself if he doesn’t?
What on Earth must he do?
The future isn’t set in stone, Gaius used to say.
Merlin lies, trembling in the cocoon of warmth, secure in the safety of Arthur’s arms, and watches as the first rays of sun crawl slowly, cheerfully, onto the frowning sky. He cranes his neck and plants a soft kiss on the top of Arthur’s head.
By the time the sun is up in the sky, Merlin has made his decision.
Title: Not Set In Stone
Author: kianspo
Beta: secret_chord25 (who graciously read this for me even though it's not her fandom *clings*)
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin (main), also Arthur/Gwen, Merlin/Gwaine, Gwaine/Elena
Genre: future!fic, angst
Rating: R
Word count: ~3200
Warnings: infidelity, minor character death, open end
Spoilers: everything up to the end of S3, though they are pretty mild
Summary: Merlin has a tower to himself and no one to talk to. But he still tries to sway the future.
A/N: Baby's first (finished) Merlin fic. Don't hurt me, yes?
The waters of the lake of Avalon are teal on this cloudy day, misty with a thin veil of melancholy. Merlin smiles at it grimly as he settles with his back leaning against an old oak log lying forlornly across the shore. It’s not yet noon, and it’s chilly, but Merlin feels perpetually cold these days, so he doesn’t mind much.
“Hello, Freya,” he says softly, staring at the ever disquieted waters.
Merlin doesn’t know if she can hear him. If he’s honest with himself, he isn’t certain that he wants her to.
“The wedding was beautiful,” he tells the lake. “I know it was last summer, and I should have told you earlier, but... you know how these things go.”
A flow of wind comes from the lake, gusting over Merlin’s face, playing with his hair. He wears it longer now, curling around his ears, teasing the nape of his neck. Merlin sighs, pulling his cloak tighter around himself.
“It was in the great hall. Gwen looked beautiful, I’ll have you know. A queen indeed. And Arthur - Arthur seemed so young. I don’t know how, just... I guess it’s because he was happy.” Merlin smiles, only faltering a little. “And I was there.”
He was. He stood next to Gaius in the crowd, behind the knights and the nobles, among free men, which he technically wasn’t. His clothes were clean and proper, his least-worn shirt on, and he even tried to comb his hair.
He watched Lancelot as he stood with Arthur. He watched Elyan as he stood with Gwen. He kept waiting for Arthur to look at him, to direct his gaze toward the sea of faces and find Merlin in the crowd and just look at him, if only for a moment.
Arthur never turned from Gwen’s gaze.
Merlin stood there and smiled. He smiled so hard that his face was aching for days afterwards at the memory.
He would have snuck out of the reception, his presence so drastically not required, but Gwaine caught him, looked at him with his eyes a little too knowing, a little too wild, and Merlin stayed. Gwaine plied him with ale and mead till Merlin couldn’t remember his own name, and there were no embarrassing stories of any kind to be told the next morning.
“I admire Lancelot,” Merlin says, his lips quirking in a wry shadow of a smirk. “I could never be like him. I don’t know - I don’t know how he does it. Maybe because Arthur needs him still.”
It was over a year ago, but Merlin remembers it like it only was yesterday, when Arthur called him to his chambers (soon to be vacated) and told him he would no longer require a manservant.
‘You realise, don’t you, that it would be... awkward,’ Arthur said. ‘What if my wife is still there, and - you understand.’
‘What about your armour?’ Merlin asked stubbornly. ‘Won’t you need help with that?’
Arthur’s face softened. ‘Merlin, as king, I’ll be surrounded by squires.’
‘Oh,’ Merlin said. ‘Fine then. I’ll just - I’ll go now. Sire.’
‘Merlin.’ Arthur’s voice stopped him at the door.
Nothing followed, and Merlin turned around, puzzled, to find Arthur frowning and biting his lips.
‘Arthur?’
‘Don’t - don’t leave Camelot.’ Arthur looked at him uncertainly. ‘I’ll see that you keep your wages, and Gaius could use your help. I’ll - I’ll find something for you when we’re settled. I promise, Merlin.’
He looked hesitant and nervous, and Merlin’s heart broke a little at the sight. He smiled and sauntered back to Arthur, who never stopped watching him.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Merlin told him quietly. ‘I told you once, I’ll be happy to serve you till the day I die.’
And then, because he couldn’t help it, because he knew it would be the only time, Merlin took Arthur’s hand in both his own, clasped it tightly, and lifted it to his face. Arthur gasped softly, having guessed Merlin’s intention, and froze, staring at Merlin wide-eyed and startled and paralyzed.
Merlin changed his mind then, turning Arthur’s hand in his grasp and kissing not his knuckles, as a subject would do showing respect to his sovereign, but the inside of Arthur’s wrist, dry lips pressing briefly against the frantic flutter of pulse under the fragile shield of the soft, lightly tanned skin.
It lasted a moment, and then Merlin let go gently and stepped back, walking all the way to the door, before yielding to the temptation and glancing back.
Arthur was still standing motionless, with his eyes closed, lips glowing red and parted, cheeks feverish, and his hand still hovering in midair where Merlin left it.
Merlin swallowed, chest aching with the lack of air, ducked his head and slipped out of the room for the last time.
“I couldn’t leave, you understand,” Merlin tells the lake quietly, listening to the dark waters whispering back at him. “Just because Arthur is King now, doesn’t mean my destiny is fulfilled. And then my magic was revealed, and, well, I live in a tower now.” Merlin laughs bitterly. “All by myself.”
There is, naturally, no response, apart from the trees murmuring something to the wind.
‘How could you have lied to us?’ Gwen asked, angry tears filling up her beautiful brown eyes. ‘We were your friends, Merlin. How could you have kept this from us?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Merlin was looking at Arthur and only at Arthur. And he wasn’t going to apologize again.
‘I don’t understand how you could have been so selfish.’ Gwen shook her head miserably. ‘You could have trusted us-’
‘It’s fine, Guinevere,’ Arthur said gravely, speaking for the first time since the showdown in the great hall. ‘Merlin saved our lives. It’s enough for me.’
Merlin couldn’t, at that single moment, couldn’t withstand the pressure, the sheer weight of Arthur’s - of the King’s - gaze. He sunk to one knee for the first time in front of Arthur, bowing his head.
‘All that I am is yours,’ he said, voice miraculously steady. ‘It always has been.’
The weight of Arthur’s hand on his shoulder, brief, wary, but not wary of his magic.
‘I know, Merlin.’ The touch was gone, fleeting, almost imagined. ‘Do get up. You look ridiculous.’
“So I couldn’t leave,” Merlin mutters. “But Gwaine could.”
Merlin will always think of Gwaine fondly. He did when Gwaine was Strength to Merlin’s Magic and Arthur’s Courage. He did when Gwaine was drunk off his arse in every tavern in Camelot, singing hymns to the gods of beauty and love. He did when Gwaine found him lying under a pile of bodies on the battlefield, unconscious and counted for dead.
But the fondest memories, Merlin thinks, will be those of a warm body pressed against his in the cold, silent room at the top of the tower. The room that no one else ever visited, except for Arthur, who never came alone - always with Lancelot or Leon, always at a time of great need, and never for longer than a few minutes.
Gwaine would brave the endless steps, would fall into the cold chamber, grumbling and panting, would smile at Merlin underneath it all, and pull him close, and kiss him without asking, batting away Merlin’s token objections like tiresome but harmless insects. He would let Merlin cling to him afterwards, and hold him close, and if Merlin’s cheek was wet where it lay cradled against Gwaine’s arm, Gwaine would never, ever say a word.
Maybe it was indulgence and maybe it was wrong. But Merlin was only human - okay, he was mostly human. He was tired, he was alone, and Gwaine - Gwaine was there.
Merlin would walk sometimes, out of habit, along the training field. Arthur’s squire would dart away, scared, at the sight of him, and Merlin would pick up the skin of water the boy would drop and smile and give it to Arthur, as if nothing had changed and time was standing still in Camelot. Their fingers wouldn’t brush like before, but Arthur would drink and nod his thanks and then he’d squint at Merlin for a moment before calling Gwaine up front and forget that this was training, not actual battle and Gwaine was his knight, not the enemy.
Merlin would watch the frenzied fight, trying to pretend he doesn’t see the anger flashing in Arthur’s eyes. He would be ready to interfere with a spell or a dozen, but he would never have to, because, after a few minutes, Arthur would simply stop, as if having suddenly remembered. He’d clap Gwaine on the back, without meeting his eyes, and stomp away, sword slung heavily over his shoulder, glinting angrily at the stolen victory in the afternoon sun.
Eventually, Merlin would swing by the training field no longer.
At Midwinter, Gwaine would leave. Princess Elena had returned to Camelot two months prior, much less clumsy now that she was Sidhe-free, and still charmingly unorthodox for a proper princess. Gwaine would sing to her at feasts, and drown her chambers in roses, and when she’d laugh at him, he’d ride with her and fight with her. She’d beat him at both, much to the amusement of the entire court, Merlin included.
When Elena’s stay is over, Gwaine would smile at Merlin and kiss him for the first time in two months, and for the last time ever. Merlin would smile back.
Arthur would turn up at Merlin’s tower alone that night and stare at the wall and ask if Merlin had any objections to Gwaine being stationed at Elena’s kingdom as Camelot’s representative to their allies. He would not look at Merlin, not once, but he’s pale, and his lips are pressed together, a tight, unforgiving line, and Merlin would almost have to put a binding spell on himself to stay still. He has no objections, he’d tell Arthur. Arthur’s shoulders would slump in defeat, and he would leave Merlin’s room without a word.
Merlin smiled through Arthur’s wedding, but he couldn’t bring himself to see Elena’s party off in the courtyard. He watched from his tower; he saw the exact moment when Gwaine turned to shoot a look at his window, stood up in the stirrups, and gave an insolent salute. Merlin grinned, despite himself, and returned the gesture, even knowing Gwaine wouldn’t be able to see it.
“And then Gaius died,” Merlin says, his voice hoarse from too much talking, unused to it these days. The first stars are slowly lighting up on the milky pink horizon. “Gwen cried. Arthur made a lovely tribute. And I - I couldn’t say a word, Freya. I just couldn’t.”
He shivers in the wind, but it’s habit, not a reaction to the cold he can barely feel anymore.
“I’m numb, Freya. There was a time when I felt so much, I thought I’d burst - but now? I don’t feel anything.” Merlin shakes his head. “I don’t even have anyone to talk to anymore, not about this - just talk. Like ‘good morning’ and ‘how’s the weather’ and... It’s pathetic, I know. You’re not there anymore, are you? I’m talking to a bloody lake!”
He laughs, a croaking, painful wheeze. In a sudden upsurge of energy, Merlin picks up a pebble and throws it into the impassive water, grinning evilly at the splash.
There’s no response.
Merlin’s smirk fades slowly. He stares into the darkening skies, and squeezes his eyes shut.
“I leave all the time and go wandering, and no one ever asks me about it. Sometimes it’s days, weeks. There are other sorcerers in town now; I’m not missed. And sometimes,” he whispers to the cutting wind, thinking the words for the first time, “sometimes I think that if I never go back, no one will notice.”
He falls asleep where he sits, out in the freezing wind, next to the cold, indifferent water.
When Merlin opens his eyes, there’s light dancing at the tree branches. It’s still night, though, and he sits up abruptly, whirling around. His breath catches.
There’s a small campfire not two feet away from him, and Arthur is sitting by it, poking it with a stick. He’s wearing his old hunting clothes, back from the days when he was a prince, and there’s no crown on his head. Merlin looks around, squinting at the dark trees, but no, there are no knights. Arthur is here alone. Which is just...
“Merlin, stop panicking,” Arthur says, without looking at him. “There’s no danger.”
“Says you,” Merlin grumbles, but he subsides at Arthur’s curt glance, and climbs over the tree log stiffly to slump next to the fire. “What are you doing here?”
Arthur doesn’t respond at once.
“Your tower,” Arthur speaks at last, “annoys me.”
Merlin blinks. “Does it now?”
“It does. There’s a set of chambers next to mine. I think it’ll suit your bizarre purposes perfectly, not that I’d want to hear about them.”
Merlin swallows, staring at him. Arthur is looking at the fire stubbornly, his face flushed from the heat. He must have been sitting there a long time.
“Arthur,” Merlin says slowly. “I can’t.”
Arthur peers at him over the fire, rolls his eyes, and sighs. “You’re still such a bloody girl, Merlin.”
“You’re married.” It comes out with more bitterness than intended. “Gwen is-”
“My queen,” Arthur interrupts him softly. “She can’t give me an heir. One damp prison cell too many, it would seem. We stopped trying. I’m not my father, I won’t - risk her. Or anyone.” He pokes at the fire unnecessarily, bites his lip. After a beat, “She has a champion. I cannot - will not - begrudge her that.”
Merlin is silent for a while. When he lifts his eyes finally, he finds Arthur looking straight at him.
“I still can’t, Arthur.”
“Why not?”
“You are - you could not live a lie. I know you.” Merlin rubs at his eyes in frustration. “I’m happy for Gwen, I really am. It’s very noble of you, but... this is not for you. You are too honest. Too honourable.”
Arthur looks like he wants to snap, or to strike Merlin, but he stays silent.
“You know I’m right,” Merlin whispers. “You’d hate yourself.”
“What makes you think I don’t hate myself already?” Arthur explodes, his eyes blazing. “Watching you slip away from me, further and further by the day, missing your idiotic smile, and your damn ears, and your smell on my clothes, Merlin, and your touch - every bloody day!”
Merlin closes his eyes in defeat and says nothing.
“All my life,” Arthur rages, “I knew nothing but obligations. I could have anything I wanted - except something I really wanted, because I always wanted the wrong thing! Am I not allowed anything for myself? Must I know nothing but duty?”
“Arthur-”
“I want you,” Arthur snaps stubbornly. “I want you next to me every minute of every day, Merlin. Not as my sorcerer, just as yourself, as the bloody idiot that you really are. I want to feel your hands on my skin, I want to throw water over you, and eat rat stew with you, I want you to undress me and stay the fucking night, and I want you to be there in the morning!”
“We can’t have that, Arthur!” Merlin shouts over him, springing upright, shaking. “Not in this life, we can’t!”
But Arthur is still the same spoiled, arrogant prat underneath all his newfound dignity and wisdom, and he doesn’t know how to take no for an answer; he never did. He jumps to his feet and pounces on Merlin, tackling him to the ground roughly, pinning him down with his weight, hands capturing Merlin’s wrists in the blink of an eye.
“Stop me with your magic, Merlin,” Arthur hisses, glaring down at him. “Stop me if you don’t want this as much as I do - in this fucking life, you hear me? Stop me or we’re doing it now!”
Seconds fly by, but, although Merlin is glowering up at Arthur, still struggling underneath him, his magic remains dormant, and Arthur reads it for the surrender it really is. He sneers triumphantly and crushes Merlin’s lips with his own.
Merlin moans, arching up, because something so wrong should never feel so incredibly right, but it does - oh gods, it does. Arthur’s kiss is hot and dirty and perfect, and Merlin can’t fight off the both of them or something that they both want so much. He frees his hands and grabs at Arthur, overwhelmed by the suffocating need to touch, and Arthur lets him, murmuring encouragements, shrugging off his clothes and divesting Merlin of his own, barely breaking the intoxicating kiss for a gulp of air.
The clearing is filled with their moans and grunts, and the light of the fire that rises higher and higher every time Merlin cries out, every time Arthur drives back into him, teeth breaking the tender skin on Merlin’s shoulder, hands brutally hard on Merlin’s hips. They’re rocking together five feet above the ground, because Merlin can’t control it, apparently, and Arthur laughs somewhere in the middle of it - a familiar, carefree laughter Merlin hasn’t heard in ages - and tells him, “Don’t drop us, you idiot.”
Merlin grins, rolls his hips wickedly, and doesn’t drop them indeed, not even when his head falls back, mouth torn in a silent cry, and the flames shoot upward into the black skies before descending in a graceful arc into the lake, dancing on the surface of the water, teasing it before slowly fading out.
They lie in silence, panting and glowing, back on solid ground. Arthur stirs heavily, nuzzling at Merlin’s neck and planting a sloppy, gentle kiss beneath his ear.
“I’m not hating myself,” he whispers, and Merlin smiles, tugging him closer.
“Sleep, Arthur,” he murmurs, fingers sifting reverently through Arthur’s hair. “Sleep.”
Arthur does. Merlin lifts them again, consciously this time, and deposits them on Arthur’s bedroll, summoning a blanket and whispering a quick warming spell. Arthur sleeps peacefully, head tucked under Merlin’s chin, arm slung over Merlin’s waist, their legs tangled.
Merlin doesn’t sleep. He lies there quietly, his body buzzing with contentment and happiness, feeling warm and alive for the first time in over a year. But he knows what he must do come morning, even as his fingers skim restlessly over Arthur’s skin.
Not in this life, he thinks sadly, brokenly, and hears Arthur’s vehement objections, loud and clear. How selfish Merlin was allowing this to happen. How low he will feel after making them both pay the price for it.
Offering his life for Arthur’s, releasing the Great Dragon, poisoning Morgana - those decisions seem almost easy in retrospect, compared to the choice he must make now. Will Arthur ever forgive him for making it? Will he forgive himself if he doesn’t?
What on Earth must he do?
The future isn’t set in stone, Gaius used to say.
Merlin lies, trembling in the cocoon of warmth, secure in the safety of Arthur’s arms, and watches as the first rays of sun crawl slowly, cheerfully, onto the frowning sky. He cranes his neck and plants a soft kiss on the top of Arthur’s head.
By the time the sun is up in the sky, Merlin has made his decision.