Fic: Fool on the Hill - Part 6/6
Title: Fool on the Hill
Author: dyspraxicsheep
Rating: R
Word count: 33, 363 words
Characters/Pairings: Merlin, Arthur, Guinevere, Gwaine, Leon, Elyan, Percival, Lancelot, OCs, Morgana (mentioned), Uther (mentioned), Gaius (mentioned), Merlin/Arthur, Guinevere/Lancelot
Warnings: The canon of this story goes up to the end of series two and then branches off into an AU from that point. The warnings are character hurt, sex, blood, death, and imprisonment. Also very slightly implied non-consent, but you have to look hard to find it. If anyone finds a warning that I missed, please let me know!
Disclaimer:Merlin belongs to the BBC. I make absolutely no money from this, it's just something that I've written for fun.
Summary: It has been seven years since Arthur became the King of Camelot, and just as long since Merlin fled the kingdom. Arthur is finally taking steps to legalise the use of magic within his kingdom once and for all. Needing to secure an alliance with Rhewogydd, one of the most prosperous kingdoms to promote magic, where even the heir to the throne is a sorcerer, Arthur travels with Guinevere and his knights to the kingdom of ice.
Part Five
Hours passed and Guinevere was ready. She had packed away all the things that they had brought with them and sat now upon the trunk, beside the oaken box that held their crowns. She was nervous.
Arthur knew this because he was nervous himself, and his own pacing must have made an impact upon her. Her nails touched upon her lower lip, her knuckles resting just below her nose, and he could see the anxiety in the way she sat, in her very posture. He simply could not take this a moment longer. He strode to the door with heavy steps, startling his wife out of her silent contemplation of the situation.
"Where are you going?" she questioned, though he doubted that she really needed to. It was a way of breaking the silence, though she may still have felt that he may not return; as though knowing his location would help this.
"To find Merlin," he said tersely in response as he walked out of their chambers, shutting the door behind him. Lancelot, who had stood outside the rooms while they packed away their things, with no request from either monarch, exchanged a brief nod with the King, and then Arthur was off, down the stone corridors, his footsteps echoing as he searched. The place felt cold, was the first thing he noticed. The fire had been burning away in the room, and he had not felt the chill in the air, but he certainly felt it now. The green flame that had filled the torches lining the walkways was gone now, replaced by the more typical orange, the centre a burning shade of blue where it was fuelled.
Arthur followed the path that he had memorised to Merlin's tower and was walking along the passage toward it when he almost ran straight into Taran.
"King Arthur, I was just on my way to your chambers," the man said with a smile as he held his hands before him, palms facing Arthur in a way that seemed to convey surrender.
The two Kings stood in the icy passageway, looking at one another for long moments.
“Yes?” he finally questioned, waiting for the man to finally get to the point so that he might leave and locate his friend.
“I have spoken with Merlin,” the older of the two men said, offering Camelot’s King a friendly smile that the blonde did not return, “And he informed me that he thought it time to leave my Kingdom. He told me that he would renounce his right to the throne and his position as court sorcerer, but thankfully, after some discussion, I changed his mind. To remain here will, of course, be best for Rhewogydd, and he understands that. We spoke extensively and he agrees now; he will stay here. He has asked me to deliver the news to you personally, and requested that you leave come morning,” the man said, still with the same kindly smile as though the news were not a blow to Arthur’s heart.
“Thank you,” the blonde man said, and that was all he could say as his throat threatened to close up. He turned on his heels and walked back the way he had come. Of course Merlin would stay. His sense of duty and obligation would see to that; Arthur had been foolish to think himself more important than an entire kingdom.
It was slowly that he returned to his chambers where Guinevere awaited him, and he knew that she expected the sorcerer to be with him, that it was time to leave, and so when he arrived alone to see her on her feet, apparently ready to be gone from the kingdom of ice, he felt his heart fall, heavier than before.
"Merlin has decided to stay here," he said, and it was a miracle when his voice stayed level, did not break in the way that he was certain it would. "He spoke with Taran and was convinced to stay," he said, sitting heavily on the bed, defeat in the slump of his shoulders, the hang of his head as it rested in his hands.
He felt more than saw Guinevere crossing over to him and placing a hand between his shoulder blades, as she attempted to support him. He did not cry. He refused to. This was Merlin's choice and he would respect it, but there was a hollow ache in his chest and his eyes stung and his wife’s sympathy simply could not help him. He stood at the same time as Gwaine entered their chambers unannounced, Elyan directly behind him.
“We have arranged passage," the knight said, a smile on his face, confident that their King would be pleased at the news, but a look at Arthur's expression soon subdued him.
"We leave at first light without Merlin," Guinevere supplied when Arthur's voice failed him, and Gwaine, puzzled, watched the King and Queen of Camelot in silence for a moment. "Elyan," she continued, turning to her brother, "Relieve Lancelot and fetch Percival to be on guard for tonight."
"I'll stand watch too," Gwaine volunteered, and this had her smiling, though it was a weary smile and one that confused him.
"Thank you, Gwaine," she said as Arthur went to stand by the window and look out at the swirling flakes beyond the thick glass.
With an incline of his head to them both, the Knight went to take up his post on the left side of the door, to watch for any threats against Camelot's monarchy. Lancelot had already been relieved of his duty, and Elyan had gone to rest, leaving Gwaine alone, hand resting upon the hilt of his sword. Long minutes passed before he was finally joined by Percival, and they stood together in a silent vigil.
But he found it difficult to understand. He had seen them both on their return, had seen the happiness they had shared as they ran toward the palace, and the almost difficulty with which they had forced themselves into sobriety, and he could not understand why Merlin would want to stay. It did not add up.
"You can handle things here yourself, can't you?" Gwaine asked Percival who slowly gave a nod and offered up a grin of assurance. Of course he could. There was no reason to doubt that.
So, the Knight slipped away and down the corridors, the decision to investigate a priority within his own mind. He had passed by Merlin’s tower once or twice and had attempted to visit it once only to find the sorcerer absent, though he understood now where he had been. He made his way there now with the intent of speaking to him, of figuring out just why it was that he had decided to stay here when all had been arranged for him to leave, when they had all been expecting him to go. As he came to a stop outside the door to his friend’s tower, he saw that it was unlocked and, out of curiosity, he made his way up the stairs, through the darkness and into what turned out to be a room with no one in it. There were plenty of books, yes, and all the other things that gave the place away as the warlock’s room, but there was no Merlin. Confused and beginning to frown, Sir Gwaine made his way back down the stairs and started an aimless walk down the corridor. He did not know where he was going, but when he came upon two servants ahead, he paused and took a few steps back until he could stand just behind a suit of armour. He listened in silence to their talk.
“You won’t be needing to go and see to Lord Merlin’s rooms today,” one of the women was saying, and there was a clatter as something heavy and wooden was placed on the floor.
“No, I heard!” the other said, and there was a sense of shock in her voice, mixed with a sense of awe, “I’d never have thought it would happen, would you?”
“Merlin in the dungeons? No, I always thought he was happy enough here, but that can’t be true if he’s been locked away,” the first servant gossiped as though a great injustice were not happening, “I took him down bread earlier, on King Taran’s orders, but he told me to take it away again, my Lord Merlin, that is.”
They had not seen him. This was good; he doubted that he would have heard a thing had he been in full view. He had heard all he needed to know, however, and he doubled back on himself to the closest spiral staircase which he took downwards, into the depths of the palace. He did not know his way around so well, had only thought to go where he had been needed, but now his friend needed his help. He found the dungeon by following the temperature, strangely enough. Somehow, the latest chill of the castle became even colder the deeper he walked, and the darkness increased, but he refused to pick up a torch, anything that might give him away. He could see his own breath forming in clouds before him by the time he reached what he suspected must be the dungeons, but he kept his breathing to an absolute minimum. There was a guard, a single guard, more fool them, and it was a swift blow to the back of the neck that brought the man down before Gwaine was unhooking the keys from his belt and stepping over his body. He hurried on into the long passageway beyond, and upon each side of the walkway were cells, small ones to start with, and getting gradually larger as he walked on, casting a look from left to right as he went, searching for Merlin.
He did not hear sobbing, as he had expected. Instead, he found Merlin in the very last cell, on its own, facing a blank wall opposite, and he fit the key to the lock and twisted it, listening to the clicks as the thing opened and the bars that made up the door swung inwards. He stepped into the enclosure in which the warlock was captive and immediately knelt before his friend who was staring before him blankly, dejectedly. He looked dreadful, Gwaine realised as he placed a hand on Merlin’s shoulder and shook him slightly, rousing the sorcerer enough that he raised his eyes to look at the knight. There was a collar at his neck, something that Gwaine had not seen before, made of a thick, black metal with a deeply purple stone set into it, and the stone seemed to pulse slightly, with its own life. Behind Merlin were his hands, bound at the wrists with a pair of shackles that he immediately moved to unlock. But the key would not work. None of the keys on the entire ring worked.
Almost shouting his frustration, he calmed himself and put his hands on Merlin’s shoulders once more and he tried his best to just communicate with him. “Merlin, what happened?” he implored of his friend.
“Taran drugged me,” came the warlock’s reply, his too easy reply, almost as though it were usual practice around here, though he wouldn’t believe that. He couldn’t believe that, or he would go and tell Arthur and then people would probably die. “We went to his chambers and he poured the wine while I told him that it was time for me to leave, and he seemed to agree. He was very kind about it as he handed over the wine and said that he would see to it that my things were packed, and I- stupidly, I drank.” His shoulders slumped all the more, if that were possible, and Arthur would have to be told about this, that much was obvious.
“Merlin, why don’t you just-“ and he could see that there was something obvious that he was missing here, some vital bit of information that he’d failed to gather, but it begged asking, “-use your magic? It’s not as though no one can know, it’s not as though it’s against any of the laws here,” he said, his brow furrowed.
The sorcerer’s bitter laugh was colder than even the air which they both shared, Gwaine on his knees, and Merlin seated upon the floor.
“I can’t,” he said.
“Can’t?” the knight questioned, not understanding.
“I woke up here, with all this on,” he said, with a shake of his shoulders that had the manacles behind him rattling against the circular peg in the wall, and Gwaine noticed for the first time that they were the same black of the collar, “And Taran was here, kindly enough,” and the resentful notes in his voice had the Knight wincing. He could remember a time when his friend had been trusting. No longer, though. “He told me that this was for my own good, that once enough time had passed, and I had calmed my foolish notions of leaving the kingdom, he would release me back into service, but until then, he would ensure that my powers were bound.”
There was something in his voice, something that was not hatred, but that was instead, a certain weakness, a weariness that he had never heard before. The sound of defeat.
“He told me that he had imbued the metal of my cuffs with the same properties as came from the very stone at my neck, the solution of which he used on the lock, key and door of the tower. It eats, Gwaine. It devours, and gives nothing back. It feels- empty, a void, and I-“ there were tears then, sobs that the man tried to hold back but which were too strong to prevent, and had the knight’s insides twisting in pain for his friend’s anguish, “I feel empty.”
The stone at his neck, the evil, pulsating thing set into the collar did not beat with a life of its own, no, but that instead moved with Merlin’s life, Gwaine realised then with a feeling of dawning horror. This was the weakness in his voice, the defeat in his posture, the acceptance and the reason why he had not escaped. He couldn’t, not anymore.
“I will be back,” the knight promised, though he knew that nothing he could say would ever help, that he wouldn’t be able to recover this piece of Merlin that had been stolen away, but he could save him, could find Arthur and bring him back among the people that loved him. “Does Taran have the key? The keys? To all of this?” he asked, and gestured at the horrible things that bound the sorcerer.
Merlin gave a nod, a tired nod that spoke the words that he could not muster, and Gwaine stood, though not before he had hugged his friend. It was not returned, but with his hands locked behind his back, he could not exactly blame him for this. Making sure that he had the keys safely stowed in his own belt loop, he gave one last look at the sorcerer before shutting the cell door and leaving the dungeons.
#
There was no knock at the door to stir Arthur and Guinevere from their shallow sleep; instead, there was simply Gwaine bursting into their room, calling Arthur’s name.
The King sat up groggily and wiped at his face as he turned a look on the man who had woken him, and though he ought to be annoyed at being awoken, his dreams had offered nothing but darkness and a dank void that would be his life without Merlin, who had chosen to remain behind, he recalled with great clarity, feeling sick to his stomach.
“What is it?” he asked, weary.
“It’s Merlin,” the knight said, and something about the urgency in Gwaine’s voice had the King blinking away all vestiges of sleep and concentrating entirely on the man who had burst into his chambers.
“What is it?” he asked yet again, quick as he climbed up and pulled on his tunic from where he had slung it atop the trunk his wife had packed. Guinevere was sitting up in bed now and watching the scene with worry in her eyes.
“He didn’t decide to stay at all. Taran’s locked him in the dungeons,” Gwaine burst out with, all in a rush, “He’s done something to him, bound him with something that’s stopping his magic, I don’t really understand, but he said that Taran has the keys to everything.”
Arthur did not wait to hear any more. His vision was tinted red as he buckled on his sword belt and left the guest chambers without so much as a glance back at his wife. Their knights would protect her. He had to protect Merlin.
Of course he wouldn’t have chosen to stay here. Of course not. Arthur could have hit himself for believing the lie that Taran had delivered him, for believing that after everything, after all that they had been through, the warlock would choose to stay here. It was stupid to think of even now, and besides which, even if he had chosen to stay, he would have come to deliver the news himself. He could hear a growl and it was only a concerned glance from the knight at his side that made him realise that it had come from his own throat. He was angry, and deservedly so.
He wanted to go down to the dungeons, to see Merlin, to tell him that he would fix everything, but that would only have the man down there longer, would only give Taran the chance to amass the guards and make it even more difficult to get to him. No. He would go directly to the source of this particular rot, he decided as he took a left at the end of the corridor and made his way toward the King’s chambers. He paused as he stood outside the door, and listened. There was silence. The King was not here.
“With me,” he muttered to Gwaine and turned on his heels to the only other place in the palace that he could think of.
It took some time, too much time in Arthur’s opinion, before he found the door under which no light shone, but when he did, not a moment was wasted before he had drawn his sword, turned the handle and stepped into the room, the knight directly behind him.
Taran looked up from where he had been knelt over the frozen pool, took in the two angry-looking men stood in the doorway and smiled.
The blonde’s stomach churned in disgust and his hand clenched about the hilt of his sword.
“And how may I be of assistance?” the King asked as he straightened up from the icy lake in the centre of the room and turned to face them both.
"The key to Merlin's restraints," Arthur said, jaw clenching over the fact that the man didn't even seem to know that he had done wrong.
“You’re killing him!” Gwaine barked from his side, unable to control his emotions as well as Arthur, though those words had Camelot’s King swallowing down on his rage. He hadn’t known that. But of course, it served to reason. Take the magic from the warlock, and he would be weakened. Perhaps even to death, but he couldn’t think about that right now. He had to take the key and save him.
“Of course I’m not,” Taran said breezily as he brushed imaginary dust from his belt where the black key dangled, “I am simply keeping him under control, for the time being. He will forget this folly of leaving, and eventually will stay under his own will. It is what is best for him, and for my kingdom.”
“Yes, and if you know what’s best for you, you’ll hand over the key right now,” Gwaine spat, the anger apparent in his expression.
Arthur kept his own level as the other King laughed, as though this were all a great game, and perhaps it was to him.
“You fail to understand me,” the man opposite them said as his arms folded, cupping his elbows in his hands, that ridiculous, smug expression on his face that had both Arthur and Gwaine wanting to wipe it straight off and preferably onto the floor, “Magic is valuable, and its users are worth twice as much. I was lucky not to have paid for this one,” he added, and gave a shrug. “You can see, Arthur, that I cannot allow one of my most prized possessions to go away from here, off to another kingdom?”
“If sorcerers are something to be bought and sold and used, then why would you make him your heir?” Arthur asked in spite of the revulsion he felt, simply being in the same room as this man, though his own father had not been so different to this.
“I grew fond of him,” Taran said, tilting his head to one side as he spoke, “But now I see him for the creature that he is. They all are. A valuable creature and one that has greatly assisted my kingdom, but not one that I wish to have in power, not anymore, though he shall still be of a help to me, now that I have him under control.”
“You give me the key, or you give up your life,” the King of Camelot finally said, testing the familiar weight of his sword in his hand, the beauty in its balance. Excalibur was a work of art, in its own way.
“I will not let you take away the most valuable thing in my possession,” Taran said in response, stooping to gather his own sword from the side of the pool. He pulled it from its scabbard and flung the sheath away, and that action alone was something of a mistake, but Arthur was used to fighting, used to battle and the control it required. Even after so many years, he had no doubts that he was the best, and that he could win here.
The key, or your life. He had offered him a choice, he told himself as he stepped up and made the first swing, met at the last moment with a glancing blow from Taran’s own blade, clumsily wielded with two hands.
The fight did not last long. There had never been any real contest, he thought as he pulled his sword from the King’s chest and snatched the key from his belt.
Blood pooled on the floor and dripped down onto the ice, but Arthur did not wait a moment longer. Blade still dripping, he swept through the door, and Gwaine took the lead then, down toward the dungeons where Merlin awaited them.
Arthur began to run. There was no shame in this admission, he knew, and when he reached the cell of the man he loved, saw him curled up on the floor in a ball, paler than he’d ever seen him, he shoved at the door which creaked loudly open and rushed into the chamber. He knelt upon the straw and fit the key into the locks of the manacles that sprang open, finally freeing the warlock’s wrists, but Merlin did not move. He was breathing, at the very least, but he stared straight into space, only blinking on occasion.
“Is he alright?” Gwaine asked from the cell door that he held open lest it lock on them.
“I don’t know,” Arthur said, unsurprised by the anger in his voice, unsurprised at the fact that he was taking this anger out on his friend.
He ran his fingers about the collar at Merlin’s throat, searching for the keyhole, and finally, he found it, right at the back, covered by the warlock’s hair. He was gentle as he swept the dark strands out of the way, and a few moments later, the collar opened and fell into the King’s hands. He tried to ignore the redness at Merlin’s neck, at his wrists.
And still, the sorcerer would not move.
“Merlin,” Arthur pleaded, throwing the collar down and crawling around to his lover’s front, to face him, to meet his eyes, desperate for any sort of indication that he would be alright. But there was nothing. He just lay there, staring into space.
The King was crying. His shoulders were shaking as he stood, head bowed. He was overwhelmed with rage, more than he had ever felt in his life. It was killing him. Gwaine had been right. In a fit of sudden anger, the need to lash out and destroy everything that had ever hurt the man he loved, Arthur drew his sword and brought it crashing down on the collar, on the evil, pulsing stone, on the thing that had helped do this to Merlin.
The stone smashed with a shatter that echoed around the chamber, and it dissolved with a sickening bubble into the blood that still dripped from Excalibur. From the darkly glittering remains, there rose a cloud of gold that circled about Arthur and filled the chamber with its shining light. Almost as though it were inquisitive, alive in its own right, it played through his blonde hair, so similar in colour to itself, but it soon left the King alone. It skimmed away from him and brushed comfortingly over the sorcerer who, still lying on his side, followed its passage with his eyes. It turned its attention to Gwaine next, who stood uneasily, though he followed his King's example, staying absolutely still as it looped once, twice about his neck, and then drifted away, back toward Merlin.
The first movement that he had made since their arrival, the sorcerer held out a hand, outstretched it to meet the cloud of pure magic that floated slowly down to him. It curled around his fingers and, in a movement so quick that Arthur might have missed it had he blinked, it flowed through Merlin’s hand and into his body, every inch of him glowing the same, bright gold as what could only be his magic fused itself with the core of his very being.
The room became dark in that moment, and the King could see only vague outlines after the brilliance and light of the sorcerer’s magic, but he watched intently as Merlin slowly pushed himself up to sit. The warlock cupped his hands, and in the pitch of the cell, Arthur gazed, transfixed, as a pair of eyes flashed golden and a small globe of light appeared, floating from Merlin’s hands and up toward the ceiling.
Arthur dropped to his knees before him, letting the sword fall with a clang against the stone flags as he pulled the man he loved into his arms and hugged him tightly. Merlin was crying and laughing all at once, and Arthur understood. He understood the way he felt, because he felt exactly the same, the overwhelming sense of relief and happiness. Merlin always had been better at expressing himself.
It was some time before he could stand, stowing his sword in its scabbard at his belt before he was kneeling once more to help the sorcerer to his unsteady feet.
“The King is dead,” Arthur told him in that moment, receiving nothing more than a tense nod.
“There are things to arrange,” Merlin murmured, holding onto his lover’s arms for a moment before he was supporting himself and walking out from the cell he had been trapped in, eager to leave it. He offered Gwaine a grateful nod as he passed him by, and made his way out from the dungeons, the Knight and the King following along behind him.
His walk picked up strength as he went, his boots thudding dully against the stone as he took the first spiral staircase up from the belly of the palace. As he passed by the orange-flamed torches, he snapped his hand out, eyes flashing as they began to burn a steady green, giving off the same heat as they’d had before Merlin had been subdued.
He was checking that his magic still worked, Arthur realised as he strode behind him, never once looking away from the man ahead.
Merlin turned into the Taran’s abandoned chambers and approached his desk, rifling through the parchments there until he found a clean one. He dipped a quill in ink and, in a move that Arthur personally thought was showing off, though he was overjoyed to see it, he waved a hand and set the feathered pen to writing his bidding. He sorted through yet more scrolls until he found the one that he was looking for, the one that declared Merlin heir. On the clean parchment appeared writing, and Arthur leant over to read it.
Merlin was renouncing his claim to Rhewogydd’s throne, and passing on the duties and title of King to Taran’s brother, Yestin.
“He’s a good man. I care about the people here, and he is the best person for them,” the sorcerer said, rolling up the scroll and sealing it with wax, pressing his own thumb into the cooling pool rather than any ring of state. That would still be with Taran. With the two scrolls in his hands, Merlin left the dead King’s chambers and made his way to the end of the palace’s west wing. Here were Yestin’s family’s rooms, and the temporary monarch knocked upon the door.
The King’s brother answered a few moments later, slightly confused to see Merlin, though he offered a smile and welcomed him inside, gesturing that Camelot’s King and the knight ought to enter as well.
“The King is dead,” Merlin repeated Arthur’s words from earlier, handing the scrolls over to Yestin. Over at a modestly-laid table in the corner, there sat the man’s wife and two daughters, interrupted from their evening meal. "Taran didn't have the time to revoke my status before his death, but I have done so for him," he added, as though he were giving up nothing at all.
But, Arthur thought, as he watched the scene unfold from where he stood with Gwaine by the doorway, Merlin probably didn't think he was giving up anything. Nothing worth having. He had never wanted a crown or power; not the power of mortals, in any case.
“I have passed the rule of these lands onto you, Yestin,” the sorcerer went on, a steely look in his eye, his hands clasped before him as the new King of Rhewogydd unrolled the most recently-sealed scroll and read through it, “But I offer you a warning. You will treat magic with the respect that it deserves. I know that you disliked your brother’s treatment of those with the power to manipulate it, the way that Taran would treat its practicers as people with no true value, as though they lacked humanity, if only because your daughter possesses the gift. You will respect it, and you will respect her and every other sorcerer in Rhewogydd, or you will find that you meet the same end as your brother.”
The threat chilled Arthur, at whom it had not been directed, but it was apparently needless, as the new King simply smiled and took Merlin’s hands in thanks.
“I will. I have always kept her talents as hidden as I could, though I think Taran began to suspect toward the end. Now she can do as she pleases. Thank you, Merlin,” he said, shaking his hands and inclining his head to him.
“Thank you,” the sorcerer said in turn, smiling warmly for the first time that night as he pulled back and left the room.
#
Packing Merlin's things took some time, but once they had it all in trunks, created with the sorcerer's magic, it was easy to transport them from the tower and to the courtyard. They were pushed from the tower window. But, rather than to fall and crash on the ground below, they instead levitated gently down and settled on the stone paving.
King Arthur, Queen Guinevere, the Knights and Merlin reached the docks as morning broke and boarded the ship that Gwaine and Elyan had seen readied for them.
The journey was long, and took well over a month to achieve before they finally arrived upon Albion’s shores once more.
They docked and purchased horses, processing steadily along the road to Camelot. The warmth in the air was welcome, and yet, as soon as the castle was in their sights, the clouds opened and rain began to fall.
It was not the picturesque homecoming that Arthur had always imagined, and yet, Merlin smiled and laughed, looking up into the sky as the droplets fell.
“I have missed this,” he said, drawing his horse up at Arthur’s side and turning his smile upon him, “I got so sick of the snow.”
Arthur understood. If he had his own way, Merlin would never be stuck in a land filled with ice again.
They were home.
End.
Author: dyspraxicsheep
Rating: R
Word count: 33, 363 words
Characters/Pairings: Merlin, Arthur, Guinevere, Gwaine, Leon, Elyan, Percival, Lancelot, OCs, Morgana (mentioned), Uther (mentioned), Gaius (mentioned), Merlin/Arthur, Guinevere/Lancelot
Warnings: The canon of this story goes up to the end of series two and then branches off into an AU from that point. The warnings are character hurt, sex, blood, death, and imprisonment. Also very slightly implied non-consent, but you have to look hard to find it. If anyone finds a warning that I missed, please let me know!
Disclaimer:Merlin belongs to the BBC. I make absolutely no money from this, it's just something that I've written for fun.
Summary: It has been seven years since Arthur became the King of Camelot, and just as long since Merlin fled the kingdom. Arthur is finally taking steps to legalise the use of magic within his kingdom once and for all. Needing to secure an alliance with Rhewogydd, one of the most prosperous kingdoms to promote magic, where even the heir to the throne is a sorcerer, Arthur travels with Guinevere and his knights to the kingdom of ice.
Part Five
Hours passed and Guinevere was ready. She had packed away all the things that they had brought with them and sat now upon the trunk, beside the oaken box that held their crowns. She was nervous.
Arthur knew this because he was nervous himself, and his own pacing must have made an impact upon her. Her nails touched upon her lower lip, her knuckles resting just below her nose, and he could see the anxiety in the way she sat, in her very posture. He simply could not take this a moment longer. He strode to the door with heavy steps, startling his wife out of her silent contemplation of the situation.
"Where are you going?" she questioned, though he doubted that she really needed to. It was a way of breaking the silence, though she may still have felt that he may not return; as though knowing his location would help this.
"To find Merlin," he said tersely in response as he walked out of their chambers, shutting the door behind him. Lancelot, who had stood outside the rooms while they packed away their things, with no request from either monarch, exchanged a brief nod with the King, and then Arthur was off, down the stone corridors, his footsteps echoing as he searched. The place felt cold, was the first thing he noticed. The fire had been burning away in the room, and he had not felt the chill in the air, but he certainly felt it now. The green flame that had filled the torches lining the walkways was gone now, replaced by the more typical orange, the centre a burning shade of blue where it was fuelled.
Arthur followed the path that he had memorised to Merlin's tower and was walking along the passage toward it when he almost ran straight into Taran.
"King Arthur, I was just on my way to your chambers," the man said with a smile as he held his hands before him, palms facing Arthur in a way that seemed to convey surrender.
The two Kings stood in the icy passageway, looking at one another for long moments.
“Yes?” he finally questioned, waiting for the man to finally get to the point so that he might leave and locate his friend.
“I have spoken with Merlin,” the older of the two men said, offering Camelot’s King a friendly smile that the blonde did not return, “And he informed me that he thought it time to leave my Kingdom. He told me that he would renounce his right to the throne and his position as court sorcerer, but thankfully, after some discussion, I changed his mind. To remain here will, of course, be best for Rhewogydd, and he understands that. We spoke extensively and he agrees now; he will stay here. He has asked me to deliver the news to you personally, and requested that you leave come morning,” the man said, still with the same kindly smile as though the news were not a blow to Arthur’s heart.
“Thank you,” the blonde man said, and that was all he could say as his throat threatened to close up. He turned on his heels and walked back the way he had come. Of course Merlin would stay. His sense of duty and obligation would see to that; Arthur had been foolish to think himself more important than an entire kingdom.
It was slowly that he returned to his chambers where Guinevere awaited him, and he knew that she expected the sorcerer to be with him, that it was time to leave, and so when he arrived alone to see her on her feet, apparently ready to be gone from the kingdom of ice, he felt his heart fall, heavier than before.
"Merlin has decided to stay here," he said, and it was a miracle when his voice stayed level, did not break in the way that he was certain it would. "He spoke with Taran and was convinced to stay," he said, sitting heavily on the bed, defeat in the slump of his shoulders, the hang of his head as it rested in his hands.
He felt more than saw Guinevere crossing over to him and placing a hand between his shoulder blades, as she attempted to support him. He did not cry. He refused to. This was Merlin's choice and he would respect it, but there was a hollow ache in his chest and his eyes stung and his wife’s sympathy simply could not help him. He stood at the same time as Gwaine entered their chambers unannounced, Elyan directly behind him.
“We have arranged passage," the knight said, a smile on his face, confident that their King would be pleased at the news, but a look at Arthur's expression soon subdued him.
"We leave at first light without Merlin," Guinevere supplied when Arthur's voice failed him, and Gwaine, puzzled, watched the King and Queen of Camelot in silence for a moment. "Elyan," she continued, turning to her brother, "Relieve Lancelot and fetch Percival to be on guard for tonight."
"I'll stand watch too," Gwaine volunteered, and this had her smiling, though it was a weary smile and one that confused him.
"Thank you, Gwaine," she said as Arthur went to stand by the window and look out at the swirling flakes beyond the thick glass.
With an incline of his head to them both, the Knight went to take up his post on the left side of the door, to watch for any threats against Camelot's monarchy. Lancelot had already been relieved of his duty, and Elyan had gone to rest, leaving Gwaine alone, hand resting upon the hilt of his sword. Long minutes passed before he was finally joined by Percival, and they stood together in a silent vigil.
But he found it difficult to understand. He had seen them both on their return, had seen the happiness they had shared as they ran toward the palace, and the almost difficulty with which they had forced themselves into sobriety, and he could not understand why Merlin would want to stay. It did not add up.
"You can handle things here yourself, can't you?" Gwaine asked Percival who slowly gave a nod and offered up a grin of assurance. Of course he could. There was no reason to doubt that.
So, the Knight slipped away and down the corridors, the decision to investigate a priority within his own mind. He had passed by Merlin’s tower once or twice and had attempted to visit it once only to find the sorcerer absent, though he understood now where he had been. He made his way there now with the intent of speaking to him, of figuring out just why it was that he had decided to stay here when all had been arranged for him to leave, when they had all been expecting him to go. As he came to a stop outside the door to his friend’s tower, he saw that it was unlocked and, out of curiosity, he made his way up the stairs, through the darkness and into what turned out to be a room with no one in it. There were plenty of books, yes, and all the other things that gave the place away as the warlock’s room, but there was no Merlin. Confused and beginning to frown, Sir Gwaine made his way back down the stairs and started an aimless walk down the corridor. He did not know where he was going, but when he came upon two servants ahead, he paused and took a few steps back until he could stand just behind a suit of armour. He listened in silence to their talk.
“You won’t be needing to go and see to Lord Merlin’s rooms today,” one of the women was saying, and there was a clatter as something heavy and wooden was placed on the floor.
“No, I heard!” the other said, and there was a sense of shock in her voice, mixed with a sense of awe, “I’d never have thought it would happen, would you?”
“Merlin in the dungeons? No, I always thought he was happy enough here, but that can’t be true if he’s been locked away,” the first servant gossiped as though a great injustice were not happening, “I took him down bread earlier, on King Taran’s orders, but he told me to take it away again, my Lord Merlin, that is.”
They had not seen him. This was good; he doubted that he would have heard a thing had he been in full view. He had heard all he needed to know, however, and he doubled back on himself to the closest spiral staircase which he took downwards, into the depths of the palace. He did not know his way around so well, had only thought to go where he had been needed, but now his friend needed his help. He found the dungeon by following the temperature, strangely enough. Somehow, the latest chill of the castle became even colder the deeper he walked, and the darkness increased, but he refused to pick up a torch, anything that might give him away. He could see his own breath forming in clouds before him by the time he reached what he suspected must be the dungeons, but he kept his breathing to an absolute minimum. There was a guard, a single guard, more fool them, and it was a swift blow to the back of the neck that brought the man down before Gwaine was unhooking the keys from his belt and stepping over his body. He hurried on into the long passageway beyond, and upon each side of the walkway were cells, small ones to start with, and getting gradually larger as he walked on, casting a look from left to right as he went, searching for Merlin.
He did not hear sobbing, as he had expected. Instead, he found Merlin in the very last cell, on its own, facing a blank wall opposite, and he fit the key to the lock and twisted it, listening to the clicks as the thing opened and the bars that made up the door swung inwards. He stepped into the enclosure in which the warlock was captive and immediately knelt before his friend who was staring before him blankly, dejectedly. He looked dreadful, Gwaine realised as he placed a hand on Merlin’s shoulder and shook him slightly, rousing the sorcerer enough that he raised his eyes to look at the knight. There was a collar at his neck, something that Gwaine had not seen before, made of a thick, black metal with a deeply purple stone set into it, and the stone seemed to pulse slightly, with its own life. Behind Merlin were his hands, bound at the wrists with a pair of shackles that he immediately moved to unlock. But the key would not work. None of the keys on the entire ring worked.
Almost shouting his frustration, he calmed himself and put his hands on Merlin’s shoulders once more and he tried his best to just communicate with him. “Merlin, what happened?” he implored of his friend.
“Taran drugged me,” came the warlock’s reply, his too easy reply, almost as though it were usual practice around here, though he wouldn’t believe that. He couldn’t believe that, or he would go and tell Arthur and then people would probably die. “We went to his chambers and he poured the wine while I told him that it was time for me to leave, and he seemed to agree. He was very kind about it as he handed over the wine and said that he would see to it that my things were packed, and I- stupidly, I drank.” His shoulders slumped all the more, if that were possible, and Arthur would have to be told about this, that much was obvious.
“Merlin, why don’t you just-“ and he could see that there was something obvious that he was missing here, some vital bit of information that he’d failed to gather, but it begged asking, “-use your magic? It’s not as though no one can know, it’s not as though it’s against any of the laws here,” he said, his brow furrowed.
The sorcerer’s bitter laugh was colder than even the air which they both shared, Gwaine on his knees, and Merlin seated upon the floor.
“I can’t,” he said.
“Can’t?” the knight questioned, not understanding.
“I woke up here, with all this on,” he said, with a shake of his shoulders that had the manacles behind him rattling against the circular peg in the wall, and Gwaine noticed for the first time that they were the same black of the collar, “And Taran was here, kindly enough,” and the resentful notes in his voice had the Knight wincing. He could remember a time when his friend had been trusting. No longer, though. “He told me that this was for my own good, that once enough time had passed, and I had calmed my foolish notions of leaving the kingdom, he would release me back into service, but until then, he would ensure that my powers were bound.”
There was something in his voice, something that was not hatred, but that was instead, a certain weakness, a weariness that he had never heard before. The sound of defeat.
“He told me that he had imbued the metal of my cuffs with the same properties as came from the very stone at my neck, the solution of which he used on the lock, key and door of the tower. It eats, Gwaine. It devours, and gives nothing back. It feels- empty, a void, and I-“ there were tears then, sobs that the man tried to hold back but which were too strong to prevent, and had the knight’s insides twisting in pain for his friend’s anguish, “I feel empty.”
The stone at his neck, the evil, pulsating thing set into the collar did not beat with a life of its own, no, but that instead moved with Merlin’s life, Gwaine realised then with a feeling of dawning horror. This was the weakness in his voice, the defeat in his posture, the acceptance and the reason why he had not escaped. He couldn’t, not anymore.
“I will be back,” the knight promised, though he knew that nothing he could say would ever help, that he wouldn’t be able to recover this piece of Merlin that had been stolen away, but he could save him, could find Arthur and bring him back among the people that loved him. “Does Taran have the key? The keys? To all of this?” he asked, and gestured at the horrible things that bound the sorcerer.
Merlin gave a nod, a tired nod that spoke the words that he could not muster, and Gwaine stood, though not before he had hugged his friend. It was not returned, but with his hands locked behind his back, he could not exactly blame him for this. Making sure that he had the keys safely stowed in his own belt loop, he gave one last look at the sorcerer before shutting the cell door and leaving the dungeons.
#
There was no knock at the door to stir Arthur and Guinevere from their shallow sleep; instead, there was simply Gwaine bursting into their room, calling Arthur’s name.
The King sat up groggily and wiped at his face as he turned a look on the man who had woken him, and though he ought to be annoyed at being awoken, his dreams had offered nothing but darkness and a dank void that would be his life without Merlin, who had chosen to remain behind, he recalled with great clarity, feeling sick to his stomach.
“What is it?” he asked, weary.
“It’s Merlin,” the knight said, and something about the urgency in Gwaine’s voice had the King blinking away all vestiges of sleep and concentrating entirely on the man who had burst into his chambers.
“What is it?” he asked yet again, quick as he climbed up and pulled on his tunic from where he had slung it atop the trunk his wife had packed. Guinevere was sitting up in bed now and watching the scene with worry in her eyes.
“He didn’t decide to stay at all. Taran’s locked him in the dungeons,” Gwaine burst out with, all in a rush, “He’s done something to him, bound him with something that’s stopping his magic, I don’t really understand, but he said that Taran has the keys to everything.”
Arthur did not wait to hear any more. His vision was tinted red as he buckled on his sword belt and left the guest chambers without so much as a glance back at his wife. Their knights would protect her. He had to protect Merlin.
Of course he wouldn’t have chosen to stay here. Of course not. Arthur could have hit himself for believing the lie that Taran had delivered him, for believing that after everything, after all that they had been through, the warlock would choose to stay here. It was stupid to think of even now, and besides which, even if he had chosen to stay, he would have come to deliver the news himself. He could hear a growl and it was only a concerned glance from the knight at his side that made him realise that it had come from his own throat. He was angry, and deservedly so.
He wanted to go down to the dungeons, to see Merlin, to tell him that he would fix everything, but that would only have the man down there longer, would only give Taran the chance to amass the guards and make it even more difficult to get to him. No. He would go directly to the source of this particular rot, he decided as he took a left at the end of the corridor and made his way toward the King’s chambers. He paused as he stood outside the door, and listened. There was silence. The King was not here.
“With me,” he muttered to Gwaine and turned on his heels to the only other place in the palace that he could think of.
It took some time, too much time in Arthur’s opinion, before he found the door under which no light shone, but when he did, not a moment was wasted before he had drawn his sword, turned the handle and stepped into the room, the knight directly behind him.
Taran looked up from where he had been knelt over the frozen pool, took in the two angry-looking men stood in the doorway and smiled.
The blonde’s stomach churned in disgust and his hand clenched about the hilt of his sword.
“And how may I be of assistance?” the King asked as he straightened up from the icy lake in the centre of the room and turned to face them both.
"The key to Merlin's restraints," Arthur said, jaw clenching over the fact that the man didn't even seem to know that he had done wrong.
“You’re killing him!” Gwaine barked from his side, unable to control his emotions as well as Arthur, though those words had Camelot’s King swallowing down on his rage. He hadn’t known that. But of course, it served to reason. Take the magic from the warlock, and he would be weakened. Perhaps even to death, but he couldn’t think about that right now. He had to take the key and save him.
“Of course I’m not,” Taran said breezily as he brushed imaginary dust from his belt where the black key dangled, “I am simply keeping him under control, for the time being. He will forget this folly of leaving, and eventually will stay under his own will. It is what is best for him, and for my kingdom.”
“Yes, and if you know what’s best for you, you’ll hand over the key right now,” Gwaine spat, the anger apparent in his expression.
Arthur kept his own level as the other King laughed, as though this were all a great game, and perhaps it was to him.
“You fail to understand me,” the man opposite them said as his arms folded, cupping his elbows in his hands, that ridiculous, smug expression on his face that had both Arthur and Gwaine wanting to wipe it straight off and preferably onto the floor, “Magic is valuable, and its users are worth twice as much. I was lucky not to have paid for this one,” he added, and gave a shrug. “You can see, Arthur, that I cannot allow one of my most prized possessions to go away from here, off to another kingdom?”
“If sorcerers are something to be bought and sold and used, then why would you make him your heir?” Arthur asked in spite of the revulsion he felt, simply being in the same room as this man, though his own father had not been so different to this.
“I grew fond of him,” Taran said, tilting his head to one side as he spoke, “But now I see him for the creature that he is. They all are. A valuable creature and one that has greatly assisted my kingdom, but not one that I wish to have in power, not anymore, though he shall still be of a help to me, now that I have him under control.”
“You give me the key, or you give up your life,” the King of Camelot finally said, testing the familiar weight of his sword in his hand, the beauty in its balance. Excalibur was a work of art, in its own way.
“I will not let you take away the most valuable thing in my possession,” Taran said in response, stooping to gather his own sword from the side of the pool. He pulled it from its scabbard and flung the sheath away, and that action alone was something of a mistake, but Arthur was used to fighting, used to battle and the control it required. Even after so many years, he had no doubts that he was the best, and that he could win here.
The key, or your life. He had offered him a choice, he told himself as he stepped up and made the first swing, met at the last moment with a glancing blow from Taran’s own blade, clumsily wielded with two hands.
The fight did not last long. There had never been any real contest, he thought as he pulled his sword from the King’s chest and snatched the key from his belt.
Blood pooled on the floor and dripped down onto the ice, but Arthur did not wait a moment longer. Blade still dripping, he swept through the door, and Gwaine took the lead then, down toward the dungeons where Merlin awaited them.
Arthur began to run. There was no shame in this admission, he knew, and when he reached the cell of the man he loved, saw him curled up on the floor in a ball, paler than he’d ever seen him, he shoved at the door which creaked loudly open and rushed into the chamber. He knelt upon the straw and fit the key into the locks of the manacles that sprang open, finally freeing the warlock’s wrists, but Merlin did not move. He was breathing, at the very least, but he stared straight into space, only blinking on occasion.
“Is he alright?” Gwaine asked from the cell door that he held open lest it lock on them.
“I don’t know,” Arthur said, unsurprised by the anger in his voice, unsurprised at the fact that he was taking this anger out on his friend.
He ran his fingers about the collar at Merlin’s throat, searching for the keyhole, and finally, he found it, right at the back, covered by the warlock’s hair. He was gentle as he swept the dark strands out of the way, and a few moments later, the collar opened and fell into the King’s hands. He tried to ignore the redness at Merlin’s neck, at his wrists.
And still, the sorcerer would not move.
“Merlin,” Arthur pleaded, throwing the collar down and crawling around to his lover’s front, to face him, to meet his eyes, desperate for any sort of indication that he would be alright. But there was nothing. He just lay there, staring into space.
The King was crying. His shoulders were shaking as he stood, head bowed. He was overwhelmed with rage, more than he had ever felt in his life. It was killing him. Gwaine had been right. In a fit of sudden anger, the need to lash out and destroy everything that had ever hurt the man he loved, Arthur drew his sword and brought it crashing down on the collar, on the evil, pulsing stone, on the thing that had helped do this to Merlin.
The stone smashed with a shatter that echoed around the chamber, and it dissolved with a sickening bubble into the blood that still dripped from Excalibur. From the darkly glittering remains, there rose a cloud of gold that circled about Arthur and filled the chamber with its shining light. Almost as though it were inquisitive, alive in its own right, it played through his blonde hair, so similar in colour to itself, but it soon left the King alone. It skimmed away from him and brushed comfortingly over the sorcerer who, still lying on his side, followed its passage with his eyes. It turned its attention to Gwaine next, who stood uneasily, though he followed his King's example, staying absolutely still as it looped once, twice about his neck, and then drifted away, back toward Merlin.
The first movement that he had made since their arrival, the sorcerer held out a hand, outstretched it to meet the cloud of pure magic that floated slowly down to him. It curled around his fingers and, in a movement so quick that Arthur might have missed it had he blinked, it flowed through Merlin’s hand and into his body, every inch of him glowing the same, bright gold as what could only be his magic fused itself with the core of his very being.
The room became dark in that moment, and the King could see only vague outlines after the brilliance and light of the sorcerer’s magic, but he watched intently as Merlin slowly pushed himself up to sit. The warlock cupped his hands, and in the pitch of the cell, Arthur gazed, transfixed, as a pair of eyes flashed golden and a small globe of light appeared, floating from Merlin’s hands and up toward the ceiling.
Arthur dropped to his knees before him, letting the sword fall with a clang against the stone flags as he pulled the man he loved into his arms and hugged him tightly. Merlin was crying and laughing all at once, and Arthur understood. He understood the way he felt, because he felt exactly the same, the overwhelming sense of relief and happiness. Merlin always had been better at expressing himself.
It was some time before he could stand, stowing his sword in its scabbard at his belt before he was kneeling once more to help the sorcerer to his unsteady feet.
“The King is dead,” Arthur told him in that moment, receiving nothing more than a tense nod.
“There are things to arrange,” Merlin murmured, holding onto his lover’s arms for a moment before he was supporting himself and walking out from the cell he had been trapped in, eager to leave it. He offered Gwaine a grateful nod as he passed him by, and made his way out from the dungeons, the Knight and the King following along behind him.
His walk picked up strength as he went, his boots thudding dully against the stone as he took the first spiral staircase up from the belly of the palace. As he passed by the orange-flamed torches, he snapped his hand out, eyes flashing as they began to burn a steady green, giving off the same heat as they’d had before Merlin had been subdued.
He was checking that his magic still worked, Arthur realised as he strode behind him, never once looking away from the man ahead.
Merlin turned into the Taran’s abandoned chambers and approached his desk, rifling through the parchments there until he found a clean one. He dipped a quill in ink and, in a move that Arthur personally thought was showing off, though he was overjoyed to see it, he waved a hand and set the feathered pen to writing his bidding. He sorted through yet more scrolls until he found the one that he was looking for, the one that declared Merlin heir. On the clean parchment appeared writing, and Arthur leant over to read it.
Merlin was renouncing his claim to Rhewogydd’s throne, and passing on the duties and title of King to Taran’s brother, Yestin.
“He’s a good man. I care about the people here, and he is the best person for them,” the sorcerer said, rolling up the scroll and sealing it with wax, pressing his own thumb into the cooling pool rather than any ring of state. That would still be with Taran. With the two scrolls in his hands, Merlin left the dead King’s chambers and made his way to the end of the palace’s west wing. Here were Yestin’s family’s rooms, and the temporary monarch knocked upon the door.
The King’s brother answered a few moments later, slightly confused to see Merlin, though he offered a smile and welcomed him inside, gesturing that Camelot’s King and the knight ought to enter as well.
“The King is dead,” Merlin repeated Arthur’s words from earlier, handing the scrolls over to Yestin. Over at a modestly-laid table in the corner, there sat the man’s wife and two daughters, interrupted from their evening meal. "Taran didn't have the time to revoke my status before his death, but I have done so for him," he added, as though he were giving up nothing at all.
But, Arthur thought, as he watched the scene unfold from where he stood with Gwaine by the doorway, Merlin probably didn't think he was giving up anything. Nothing worth having. He had never wanted a crown or power; not the power of mortals, in any case.
“I have passed the rule of these lands onto you, Yestin,” the sorcerer went on, a steely look in his eye, his hands clasped before him as the new King of Rhewogydd unrolled the most recently-sealed scroll and read through it, “But I offer you a warning. You will treat magic with the respect that it deserves. I know that you disliked your brother’s treatment of those with the power to manipulate it, the way that Taran would treat its practicers as people with no true value, as though they lacked humanity, if only because your daughter possesses the gift. You will respect it, and you will respect her and every other sorcerer in Rhewogydd, or you will find that you meet the same end as your brother.”
The threat chilled Arthur, at whom it had not been directed, but it was apparently needless, as the new King simply smiled and took Merlin’s hands in thanks.
“I will. I have always kept her talents as hidden as I could, though I think Taran began to suspect toward the end. Now she can do as she pleases. Thank you, Merlin,” he said, shaking his hands and inclining his head to him.
“Thank you,” the sorcerer said in turn, smiling warmly for the first time that night as he pulled back and left the room.
#
Packing Merlin's things took some time, but once they had it all in trunks, created with the sorcerer's magic, it was easy to transport them from the tower and to the courtyard. They were pushed from the tower window. But, rather than to fall and crash on the ground below, they instead levitated gently down and settled on the stone paving.
King Arthur, Queen Guinevere, the Knights and Merlin reached the docks as morning broke and boarded the ship that Gwaine and Elyan had seen readied for them.
The journey was long, and took well over a month to achieve before they finally arrived upon Albion’s shores once more.
They docked and purchased horses, processing steadily along the road to Camelot. The warmth in the air was welcome, and yet, as soon as the castle was in their sights, the clouds opened and rain began to fall.
It was not the picturesque homecoming that Arthur had always imagined, and yet, Merlin smiled and laughed, looking up into the sky as the droplets fell.
“I have missed this,” he said, drawing his horse up at Arthur’s side and turning his smile upon him, “I got so sick of the snow.”
Arthur understood. If he had his own way, Merlin would never be stuck in a land filled with ice again.
They were home.
End.