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It’s dark—the kind of inky blackness that bleeds into stone and penetrates flesh until it can be felt through to the bone. This, at least, Merlin knows. He also knows that it’s cold. Cold enough for icy fingers to trail over skin, poke at limbs, seep into fingers and toes until the chill spreads, painful, into an icy white that numbs. It settles over him like a cloak of woven frost, and Merlin’s only thought is that, It isn’t even winter. Not yet.
He’s on his knees. He knows because they ache with the pressure he has settled upon them. He doesn’t know how long he’s been that way, though. Something rings in his ears—a steady drip drip drip that could drive a man mad. There’s a crack in the ceiling, he thinks. He doesn’t know how he knows that, either… he just knows that he does.
A band of silver balances on his fingertips. It’s heavy—so very heavy for something that weighs so little—and Merlin stares at the reflection it so kindly provides. He can see only parts of his face with the band as narrow as it is, but he’s glad. He doesn’t want to see himself all at once. This way he’s forced to consider the details, and he does so while he twists the silver around his fingers. Maybe once he would’ve hated what he saw. But right now, at this precise moment of dark and cold and silence echoing around him—broken only by the incessant drip drip dripping—Merlin doesn’t care.
He thinks, It isn’t even winter, but the thought is fleeting. So then his musings roll back around to, He’ll come. And then, because it will never (can never) stop there, That’s what I thought last time, too.
So certain.
Merlin’s head is bowed. There’s a crick in his neck and his wrist throbs with a deep ache that is nothing like the snapping of bone or the slicing of skin. It’s worse. So much worse.
He can’t remember how he got the band off. His perception is still muddled because even with the bracelet gone, his thoughts are tied up in knots. They have only been paused in their tangling, and Merlin suspects they will stay that way with the jinxed object that instigated this whole mess still so near. He can’t bring himself to fling it away.
He’ll come.
Lancelot had come as a shock to them all.
At first, Merlin hadn’t let himself be sceptical of his impractical return, too delighted to have his friend back. But then… then Lancelot had seemed to forget about his magic. And, of course, the Lancelot he knew would never do that.
So why had Merlin let Lancelot give him the bracelet? Why had he let him put it on? Lancelot had claimed it was a ‘wedding gift,’ and yet—Merlin had known. Something wasn’t right.
His belly twists at the remembered sensations. He remembers feeling something entering his mind without his consent, repellant. Remembers how it pushed him aside, just like that—so easy. Everything that was Merlin, every little thing that was personal and intimate to him, everything that made him him—and suddenly it wasn’t his any longer.
Merlin’s throat burns, his eyes burn, and He’ll come, he’ll come, he’ll come reverberates in his mind, the only coherent thought in all the jumble.
(He doesn’t.)
Merlin remembers feeling mentally torn in two during the tournament when Arthur and Lancelot had opposed each other. He can’t recall if it was to do with hoping Arthur would win (Merlin) or cheering for Lancelot (the enchantment), or if he’d simply been fighting the intangible thing in his head, trying to protect Arthur while simultaneously disregarding the fact he had magic at all. Perhaps both (neither?). He remembers the pulsating headache when the joust was over, Arthur injured but alive and speaking of honour where Merlin knew there was none.
Merlin had grinned, and thinking about it now makes his cheeks hurt with a phantom ache. He swallows, steadies his breathing so he doesn’t hyperventilate and repeats the mantra. He’ll come. He’ll come. He’ll come.
So certain.
He’d found himself in Lancelot’s tent after the tournament when he should have been in Arthur’s. Why? Why was he there?
This, Merlin can’t remember, and the realisation eats away at him. Because whatever happened in that tent, well, it had led to what was to come… to Merlin on aching knees, mentally battered, cold, and miserable.
He’ll come.
(He won’t.)
It had been a trap. Lancelot was not Lancelot—not when he’d pulled Merlin into his arms and certainly not when he’d put his mouth on Merlin’s.
Merlin knows that hadn’t been a kiss. But right now, it is hard to remember what kisses are—a sweet nip? a peck to the corner of his mouth? a bruising touch and then a gentle, soothing lave? Right now, there is only the recollection of death dancing with his tongue, the stench of rot filling his nostrils, the ice cold lips of a man he had loved as a brother abusing him.
Merlin shivers uncontrollably. Tears wet his cheeks—nothing he does will stop them—and freeze on his face like small streams iced over. He chokes.
Arthur’s terrific roar of fury (so brilliant in how it concealed his anguish) rings in his mind like a battle cry, a call to arms. He remembers his own intense relief, remembers thinking, Finally, and, Arthur’s come for me, and even—at some point, yes—He’ll protect me.
He remembers that he was wrong.
(Is. Is wrong.)
Arthur had drawn his sword on Lancelot, had charged at him like an angry boar whose territory—whose very property—had been infringed upon. Merlin remembers the righteous hollering and the metallic clanging, the shoving and the punching and—himself. Remembers placing himself in front of Lancelot when Arthur would have struck him down.
In his mind’s eye Arthur looks at him with such wretched devastation, such betrayal.
How could you? he asks, but doesn’t say.
And Merlin… Merlin wants to scream at him. Help me! he pleads (but doesn’t say). Why can’t you see?
He doesn’t remember what he really said. Some nonsense Merlin would never say, probably, about how he didn’t want them to fight and Please, Arthur, don’t hurt him. Tripe like, It’s always been him, Arthur. Not you. Never you. I’m sorry.
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know.
But what he does know is that Arthur had not done what Merlin couldn’t, had not removed the odious silver band, had not taken Merlin into his arms, had not promised everything would be all right.
Had instead thrown Merlin into the dungeons.
Merlin doesn’t remember how he got the bracelet off, but he wonders if he should have bothered. For all his efforts these thoughts still plague him. Arthur’s closed-off expression, his lips a tight line, his eyes shining with hurt—it’s a new kind of torture, and Merlin wants to be put out of his misery.
He’ll come.
(No. No.)
It’s as the first rays of sunlight filter into his cell through the tiny window that he hears footsteps. They come to a stop behind him.
It is neither who he expects nor who he wants it to be.
Gaius asks if he’s all right, and Merlin says nothing. Gaius explains why he came down here. He speaks of his research and necromancy and shades—but Merlin already knows. His experience is first-hand, and that’s more than he has ever needed or wanted. He shudders and asks Gaius to stop. Don’t tell Arthur. I’ll handle it.
Gaius, Merlin thinks, just looks at him sadly. He doesn’t know for certain because he isn’t looking. He doesn’t feel he needs to.
Gaius leaves the way he came.
Merlin doesn’t move until the guards come for him.
When the massive doors to the Great Hall are pushed open, Merlin is forced to his knees once more, and he almost scoffs. Don’t they know how willing Merlin is to bow before his king? Don’t they know how honoured he is to serve him?
Merlin doesn’t get a chance to wonder what their audience thinks of the Court Sorcerer on his knees, because Arthur commands in a low tone for all of them to clear out. Merlin can barely hear him over the pervasive silence ringing in his ears. He doesn’t cower when Arthur turns his piercing gaze on him; he doesn’t start to beg when Arthur circles him, self-righteous and proud as only Arthur can be.
Merlin sees straight through the facade.
“What are you still doing on your knees—am I just your king? Get up, for goodness’ sake.”
Merlin obeys—he sees no reason not to.
He’s here.
Arthur stares at him, wounded.
Can’t he see?
Merlin almost wants to laugh, because Arthur really, honestly can’t. Or maybe he doesn’t want to. Merlin doesn't laugh, though, because what he really wants is to weep. And these hysterical emotions, they seem to balance him (absurdly). He keeps his face blank and his thoughts hidden—Please Arthur. See me. I’m right here.
He won’t beg.
“What happened, Merlin?” Merlin blinks. “We were happy. I know we were happy.”
Were you? Merlin wants to ask. Then why are you doing this? Why won’t you see? He doesn’t say a word, because his silence makes Arthur’s nostrils flare, his jaw clench, and his lips purse into a white line—just as Merlin knew they would.
He shouldn’t antagonise Arthur, but he can’t stop himself.
“You felt it, too?” Arthur presses, and Merlin indulges him for just a moment because this he cannot deny, not even with silence. But his nod only riles Arthur. “You love him? You’ve always loved him? He understands you, accepts you? Accepts your magic?”
Merlin sucks in a sharp breath. This is something he must’ve said last night, defending Lancelot. Something that has stuck with Arthur. And despite himself, for a moment, Merlin hurts for him, because Arthur should never be unsure, not about this. Not about Merlin’s love for him.
But then he starts to wonder…
He wonders why Lancelot (the real Lancelot, the Lancelot who had died honourably in place of his sovereign) accepting his magic bothers Arthur so much, wonders about Arthur being so prepared to kill Lancelot, how he could so readily believe the words that weren’t really Merlin’s, how he could so easily hurt Merlin. Throw him in the dungeons, leave him there, not once questioning either of their behaviour.
Is it the magic? Is it the guilty thoughts Arthur pushed to the back of his mind coming to light now, vindicated, because he was right?
Merlin feels physically ill.
“We were to be married tomorrow,” Arthur says, as if it’s news to Merlin. “You were to be my consort, Merlin, don’t you get it?”
Why is he so ready to accept Merlin’s infidelity?
Merlin thinks he does get it. Thinks, No, magic isn’t the problem. I am.
His arm shakes as he lifts it—shakes with the weight of what’s been said and done and with what will happen now. He reveals the silver band, as if by magic, and Arthur stares with his mouth slightly open and confusion writ all over his face. Merlin wants Arthur to take it, wants him to take the weight, but when does Arthur ever do what Merlin wants?
He knows he’s being unfair, wonders if it’s the enchantment still knotting his mind or just himself, tired and aching and not caring any longer.
When he speaks, his throat feels parched—probably sounds it, too—and it hurts, but he pushes through. “Lancelot gave me this.”
And Arthur does take it now. Merlin could almost cry with relief if he weren’t saving his tears.
Arthur isn’t stupid, that much Merlin will give him. He knows that something has changed, something in Merlin’s bearing, in the way Merlin looks at him, perhaps, but he’s not entirely sure what. His eyes ask, What is it? and, more importantly, Why are you telling me this?
“It’s enchanted,” Merlin says.
That’s all it takes. Now Arthur looks upset for altogether different reasons than he had before. He glares at the bracelet in disgust—Merlin thinks there may even be a hint of fear—and looks like he wants to crush it in his fist, turn it to dust. Merlin wouldn’t stop him.
Arthur is too far away, so Merlin takes a step forward—just one—and doesn’t think of how his words will hurt. Doesn’t think about how he chooses them precisely with the intent to strike where he knows there are chinks in Arthur’s armour. And this can’t all be Merlin, because Merlin never wants to hurt Arthur, but he can’t seem to stop himself because he’s been hurt, too.
“I couldn’t get it off,” he says, desperate, and he’s trying to get Arthur to understand… understand what it was like, to not be in control. “I— Arthur, I couldn’t get it off.”
He’s closer now, staring at the bracelet still in Arthur’s grip, and he shakes his head as if to rid himself of the tangle in his mind. “He told me it was a gift, Arthur, how was I to know?” But he did know. He did. “I couldn’t stop myself… I went to his tent.” He looks up, meets Arthur’s eye. “After the tournament, I went to his tent.” His tone is accusing as he asks—no, demands— “Why didn’t you look for me?”
Arthur’s eyes widen, and the change is so slight Merlin only notices because of how close he’s become. Their chests are nearly brushing.
There are tears gathering in the corners of Merlin’s eyes that he’s declined to acknowledge, but they’re pooling now, perilously close to spilling over. “I kept hoping you would come.” His voice is so thick with emotion he barely gets the words out. “In the council chambers, I hoped you would come. I hoped you would get it off me.” He gestures to the band and hiccoughs violently, rubbing angrily at his wet eyes. “I wanted you to help me.”
Desolation is not a handsome look on Arthur, but Merlin hadn’t expected it to be. “Merlin…”
“No! Shut up!” Merlin needs to look away from Arthur, from how he resembles someone who’s just been slapped, but something stops him. “In the dungeons,” he sobs, “I needed you, Arthur. I was so certain you would come. I was so certain you would help me.” He sucks in a searing breath, his heart leaden in his chest. “But you didn’t.”
Merlin sways, lurches forward into Arthur’s chest. Arthur’s arms are quick to wrap around him, haul him close and grasp him tight. Delirious, Merlin mumbles into the fabric of Arthur’s collar, “Why didn’t you protect me?”
“Guards!” Arthur bellows, right in Merlin’s ear. Merlin hardly hears him. “Someone, help. Get Gaius!”
Merlin’s on his knees again, clutched to Arthur’s chest. Arthur’s hand gently holds his forearm, right below his wrist, which—oh. The skin there is a nauseating colour, mottled green and black, and emanates a fierce throbbing that palpitates in his wrist like a second heartbeat. He marvels that he didn’t notice it before.
“Merlin.” Merlin’s world blurs as he’s shaken. “Merlin, stay with me. I’m sorry, all right? I’m sorry. Just. Please…”
Merlin presses his forehead to Arthur’s shoulder, gulps for breath to speak, because he needs Arthur to understand. He needs Arthur to get it. His voice is feeble and scarcely audible when he says, “I never cared about being your consort, Arthur.”
He fades, can’t fight it even with his name being shouted right into his ear, and slumps into Arthur’s warm and sturdy grasp. His last thought, absent and foolishly sentimental, is simply,
I just wanted to be yours.
Merlin awakens to blinding light streaming in through expansive windows and has a moment to curse the idiot who forgot to shut the drapes. Then it dawns on him that he is probably that idiot. He startles at a shift on the mattress and turns his head to the side, finding himself face-to-face with Arthur. The sight wouldn’t be so unusual if it weren’t for the fact that, instead of lying next to Merlin, Arthur sits on a chair at his bedside, head pillowed on his folded arms. Merlin’s heart clenches at the dark circles outlining his troubled eyes before he notes the bandage swathing his wrist.
Arthur’s gaze follows his, a grimace dolefully setting his features. With slow movements, Arthur stretches out his hand and lets his fingertips graze the skin below the bandage. “How are you feeling?”
Merlin keeps silent until Arthur meets his eye, the seconds ticking past with agonising slowness. When he finally does, his expression is shuttered. Merlin thinks, not unkindly, that he looks terrible.
“Better.”
Arthur nods, his cheek brushing against his sleeve. His eyes lose their focus, stare off at something behind Merlin’s head. “Lancelot…” he begins, before trailing off. Merlin discerns his dogged demeanour before he can say any more and shakes his head, hoping to convey his comprehension. Arthur need not say it.
And Arthur, bless him, understands instantly. He bows his head and says only, “We gave him a proper burial this morning.”
Merlin inclines his head, tries to thank him, but he isn’t certain Arthur hears.
“I’m sorry.”
Arthur’s voice is so soft and unexpected, Merlin assumes he’s imagined it at first. But he notices the crack in Arthur’s front, sees the remorse seeping through, and he has to comfort him. “Arthur, this isn’t your fault.”
But Arthur’s already shaking his head before Merlin can get all the words out. “No,” he says. “I’m sorry I didn’t protect you.” Arthur doesn’t look at him, but his thumb kneads soothing circles into his arm, right below the cloth.
The words cause Merlin’s heart to shatter inside his ribs. “Arthur, no. What I said… It’s not your— ”
“It is, though. I shouldn’t have— I should have known.” Arthur’s eyes are distraught, and his fingers start to dig painfully into Merlin’s skin. He releases Merlin immediately upon seeing him wince, appearing all the more guilty.
“No, Arthur.” Merlin protests, frantic to assuage him. “You… you couldn’t have known. I didn’t mean— ”
“But you were right, Merlin… At least about some of it.”
“Arthur…”
“I want to marry you, Merlin,” Arthur says earnestly. “All of you—not just the unmagical bits.”
Merlin chuckles breathlessly. “I want to marry you, too,” he says, and he’s glad that the words seem to appease Arthur a bit.
“I can’t promise I’ll be easy,” Arthur says, and Merlin scoffs. Arthur continues on like he doesn’t hear him. “But I can promise I’ll try.”
Merlin reaches over with his good arm to cup Arthur’s cheek in his palm. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted of you, Arthur.” When Arthur nuzzles his hand pointedly, Merlin laughingly adds, “Well, maybe not all.”
A knock sounds at the door of the outer chambers, interrupting their private moment, and Arthur reluctantly stands to open it. Merlin isn’t surprised when Gaius trudges inside, swiftly bowing his head to the king. He mutters something Merlin can’t hear, and Arthur responds by gesturing with an arm towards Merlin still lying on the bed.
Gaius’ impassive expression lightens upon seeing Merlin awake. “Merlin, my boy!” Merlin grins as he watches his old mentor shuffle to his bedside. “How do you feel?” Gaius asks, reaching out to pat Merlin’s shoulder kindly.
“I’m fine, Gaius, really.” His reassurances do nothing to thwart Gaius from his expected ministrations, however, and he’s momentarily distracted by Arthur still leaning against the doorframe, sticking his head out into the hall as if he’s speaking with someone.
Arthur comes back into the room and presses his hip to the mattress opposite where Gaius stands inspecting Merlin. His proximity comforts the fraying nerves Merlin hadn’t even noticed until Arthur had gone to the door. Arthur stares at Gaius expectantly. “Well?”
Gaius straightens from where he’s been hunched over Merlin and exchanges a look with Arthur that Merlin doesn’t entirely understand. Finally, he says, “I do believe Merlin is well enough to proceed, sire, if he so wishes.”
“Proceed with what?”
At that moment another knock resounds, and Arthur just grins cryptically as he goes to answer it. Merlin admits he is a bit shocked when in saunters Geoffrey of Monmouth, followed by a servant he doesn’t recognise. Arthur easily thanks the servant and dismisses him before shutting the door and leading Geoffrey over to the bed.
“Arthur, what’s going on?” Merlin asks, raising the covers up to his neck—even though he’s wearing a perfectly respectable night shift—and resolutely not looking at where Geoffrey is poised at the foot of the bed.
Arthur kneels next to Merlin, lifting Merlin’s hand to link with his own. “As you know, today was to be our wedding day.” He pauses long enough for Merlin to nod haltingly. “Well, I’d like it to still be our wedding day.”
“Erm, Arthur…” Merlin looks from Arthur to Gaius to Geoffrey and back again. “I’m not sure I can— ”
“It’ll be right here,” Arthur cuts in. “Just us. Well, and Geoffrey obviously. And I’ve asked that Gaius be present.” He glances to the two older men, who each nod in their stead. “Of course, we’ll eventually need to have a proper ceremony. But for right now, there’ll be no spectators. No fancy garb and no forgetting our vows. Just us,” he repeats.
Merlin blinks rapidly and turns his head so as to cover the tears gathering in his eyes.
“Merlin?”
With a brief squeeze to Arthur’s fingers, Merlin gives a sharp nod of assent. “All right.”
“All right?” Arthur reiterates with some amusement. Merlin turns back to face Arthur and draws him closer, leaning his temple against Arthur’s so they’re brow-to-brow. He kisses Arthur like that, uncaring of their audience.
“Yes,” he says firmly. “I’d like that.”
Merlin thinks, It’s not even winter yet, and, He’s here, and also, What a gorgeous day it is to be bound to a king.