Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was a sorcerer in the forest.

It was a crisp autumn morning when Merlin left his small, wooden hut. It had rained the night previous, so the air was bitingly cold, nipping at the bulbous nose he had given himself almost a century ago.

He had left the warmth of his abode to fill a bucket with water, but he only got as far as the doorway before he sensed magic so powerful that he could almost taste it. It made him stumble, his old joints creaking as he nearly faceplanted onto the forest floor, the soil soft and slippery from a deluge of rain the night before.

He stood there, his bare feet sinking into the muddy ground, his lips parted in shock and his eyes wide as he gazed through the trees in front of him.

His senses never betrayed him, but still Merlin hardly dared to believe it.

A sorcerer.

It had been… centuries. A millennium, even, since he had felt any sort of magic. It had died out with the last of the druids, and that had only been a century after Arthur had…

Magic was no more than a story told to children, these days. Whispers in front of campfires, tales told jovially in taverns. The most he had heard about magic in a millennium had been a century ago, when he was told by a shopkeeper that they were burning witches in one of the colonies in the New World.

He took the next available ship to British America. It was the farthest he had ever been from the Lake of Avalon, but if there was any chance that magic still existed, that people were still practicing it… he just couldn’t ignore it.

It had been a long, painstaking journey. He felt almost ill, being away from Albion (it was England now, had been for centuries, but it would always be Albion to Merlin) and when he got to Massachusetts, all he found were a bunch of lunatics, raving about a magic that was only of their imaginations.

After the disappointing (crushing) voyage to the colonies, Merlin isolated himself. He lived in his wooden hut, on the shores of the lake, and waited.

Waited for Arthur.

The magic was fading now, Merlin realized as he snapped himself from his thoughts. It wasn’t as tangible as it had been mere minutes ago, and the crushing feeling of loneliness, of sheer isolation, gripped Merlin’s heart and squeezed.

It was that that made him take off, running as fast as his bad knees could handle. Trees whizzed past and the nippy air stung his flushed cheeks, but the feeling of magic was coming back, and he pushed his body even further, desperately chasing a sensation that he didn’t think he’d ever feel again.

He didn’t dare call it hope.

He burst into a clearing and the feeling of magic was so overwhelming that his heart nearly burst. It was back, and if magic was back then Arthur was coming back—

Zing.

Merlin’s eyes glowed, magic surging through his veins as a knife stopped just inches from his face, the tip nearly pressed against the wrinkled skin between his eyes.

The throwing knife thumped to the grassy floor of the clearing, just as a cloaked figure stepped out from behind a tall oak tree. The hooded figure was tall and lean, and the trees cast shadows over his face, concealing his features. Merlin could see an arsenal of knives clipped to his belt.

“You’re a sorcerer,” the figure said, his voice a deep growl.

“So are you,” Merlin said, his voice hoarse and rough from disuse. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken to anyone. Maybe it was on the ship back from Massachusetts, or at the docks of London.

The figure withdrew another knife from his belt, and Merlin shifted his weight, his magic already thrumming under his skin, yearning to break free.

“How did you survive?” Merlin asked, and they began to circle each other, an unconscious, deadly dance. “There hasn’t been magic in a millennium.”

“There have always been ones that practice sorcery,” the figure growled. “You clearly haven’t looked hard enough.”

Merlin gritted his teeth. “You’re lying. I’ve scoured the globe, no one even believes in sorcery anymore,” his eyes glowed gold, and his palms sparked. “I won’t ask again; how did you survive?”

“I should be asking you that question,” the figure shot out, and then another knife flew through the air, before clattering down onto the ground once more.

“We don’t have to fight,” Merlin offered, but he hoped the figure would keep throwing knives. Adrenaline was pulsing through his veins, making him feel heady and alive. He wanted to fight.

It had been a damn long time since he felt anything. He wasn’t about to stop now.

“I can be the only sorcerer left,” the figure growled, before hissing an incantation and letting a fireball fly.

Merlin dispersed it with a wave of his hand, feeling almost giddy. It had been so long since he’d used magic like this. “You won’t win against me, my friend. I have a millennium of experience. You can’t kill me with measly magic tricks,” Merlin narrowed his eyes, his tone cold and biting. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

The sorcerer growled, before pulling a larger dagger from his belt. “I’m aware of your power,” the sorcerer said. “But even you won’t survive this, my friend.”

The dagger hurled through the air as Merlin hissed an incantation, and just like that, the world stilled.

Everything was suspended in time. The trees no longer swayed with the breeze, the ocean waves stopped just before breaking and scattering the shoreline. The birds stopped their song as the rotation of the planet screeched to a halt.

The knife was frozen in midair, and Merlin sighed, about to pick it up and chuck it with all of the other knives. But as he reached out to take the smooth, mahogany handle, something within him made him stop.

There was something about the blade that made his skin crawl, his stomach churn. It felt… dangerous.

Ignoring the voice in his head screaming at him not to pick it up, (it was hard, since the voice sounded like Arthur. It always sounded like Arthur) he plucked it from the air and examined it.

He nearly dropped it when he realized what it was.

It was no ordinary dagger. It was a magical blade, forged in the breath of a dragon and capable of killing even the most powerful sorcerers on the planet.

It was the only thing that could kill Merlin.

The sensation of raw power crawled up his skin and made him want to drop the dagger. He hated how powerful it made him feel; he was holding the epitome of life and death in his hands, and he despised it, had always despised it. He never asked for the power he beholds, never wanted to be the one to choose who lived and who died.

He just wanted to be Merlin again. Not the last magic-user on the planet, not Emrys, not the greatest sorcerer to have ever lived. He just wanted to be Merlin, manservant to King Arthur Pendragon.

Arthur.

Gods. Merlin thought about Arthur every hour of every day, but his memories of him had grown unfocused with age. There was just so much to remember, having been alive for as long as he had.

He would never admit it outright, since even just entertaining the thought made him want to crawl into the lake and drown, but he was starting to forget the details of Arthur’s face. He was forgetting how his eyes shone in the light of fire, how his jaw clenched in the heat of battle. He was forgetting the tone of voice he used when he ordered Merlin around, forgetting how the corner of his mouth kicked up whenever Merlin did something ridiculous or stupid.

It was unbearable.

Merlin could take a lot of things. He’d been drowned, poisoned, possessed, stabbed, stung—and that wasn’t counting the things that he did to himself, back in the thirteenth century—but forgetting Arthur, his whole reason for existing, was the worst pain he had ever felt.

He couldn’t even look back into the past using magic to just look at him again. All of the scrying crystals were destroyed in a war long ago, and no magic that he knew would let him witness the past. He tried to summon an apparition of Arthur, like Morgause had with Ygraine, but it kept failing. It was almost like something was blocking him from seeing Arthur again.

Snapping back to the present, he turned the dagger over in his palm, surprised at how light it was. There was an engraving on one side of blade, written in Brittonic, a language he hadn’t read in centuries.

Bring me down, the ancient inscription read. Merlin flipped the dagger over.

Take me back.

He furrowed his bushy, white eyebrows. At least the engraving on Arthur’s sword—which the historians had named Excalibur, despite his best efforts to deter them—made sense.

Take me up; Cast me away.

Merlin shut his eyes against a wave of pain. He had an image of Arthur wielding the sword in his mind, but it was blurred, and he couldn’t make out the details of his face. All he could see was chainmail and armor, along with a cape of Pendragon red, the exact shade of which Merlin had been unable to find, ever since Camelot burned.

A low, desperate sound escaped him then as he thought of the past, when Camelot fell. It happened about fifteen years after Arthur died, a little less than ten after Gaius. He remembered the plumes of smoke that consumed the citadel, the pools of blood that stained the cobblestone roads.

He remembered the throne, broken to pieces. He could feel Guinevere dying in his arms still, just like Arthur.

No one had survived. Except Merlin.

He didn’t realize he had pointed the knife towards himself until it was practically poking him in the sternum, his hands shaking with the grief that old memories brought.

He could end it all now.

But I have to wait for Arthur, Merlin immediately lowered the knife as the thought crossed his mind, berating himself for his stupidity. He couldn’t let Arthur come back to a world he doesn’t know alone.

I’m not coming back, Merlin, Arthur’s voice whispered in his head, and Merlin shut his eyes against it, a whimper tearing itself from his throat. Surely, I’d have come back by now.

“You don’t know that,” Merlin whispered aloud to the still, unmoving world, thankful no one was able to hear the ravings of a mad man. “I have to wait for you, Arthur.”

You need to rest, old friend, Arthur’s voice softened, and Merlin was reminded of cold nights by the campfire, a gentle hand on his shoulder. You’ve waited long enough. Come join me, in Avalon.

Merlin moaned aloud, his entire form trembling with the onslaught of emotions raging inside of him.

He raised the dagger again, the tip of it digging into the thin material of his tunic.

Avalon, with Arthur.

With a cry, Merlin pushed the dagger into his chest, cutting though sinew and muscle and agonizing pain until it pierced his heart.

The effect was instantaneous. Merlin’s legs gave out, and he fell to the rough forest floor. The magic he had been using to halt time wore off, and he grunted, falling onto his side. His breaths were rough and wet, his mouth starting to fill with copper-tasting blood.

His eyes flicked tiredly down to his chest, where blood gushed from the wound, only stifled slightly by the blade. It trickled down onto the forest floor, bright crimson in the morning light.

The perfect shade of Pendragon red.

Merlin felt his life starting to leave him. His eyelids grew heavy, his head filled with fog.

Arthur, Merlin desperately called out, suddenly fearful. Arthur.

Shh, Arthur was there, then, his presence golden and warm. I’m here Merlin. Right here.

Please, Merlin begged, though he wasn’t sure what for.

Sleep, Arthur whispered, and Merlin could almost feel a sword-calloused hand in his hair. Sleep now, Merlin. It’s alright.

Merlin’s eyes slid shut, and he was floating, drifting out into the lake of Avalon, right to his king.

Chapter Text

The first thing Merlin noticed about Avalon was that it wasn’t very comfortable.

His neck was sore and his back ached, the feeling akin to the sensation of waking up after sleeping in an uncomfortable position for a long time. He rolled over, trying to situate himself so that he was comfortable, but only succeeding in dumping himself onto a hard—and apparently wooden—floor.

His eyes snapped open. He stared down at the floorboards beneath his pale, suddenly wrinkle-less hand. Incredibly confused and disoriented, he blinked several times before slowly sitting up, his back protesting the movement.

The room was bathed in pale moonlight, which cast shadows on the few scattered furniture items. There were shelves lining the stone walls, all filled with what appeared to be books. Merlin squinted his eyes through the half-darkness, puzzled, because it looked like—

He gasped.

His room, back in Gaius’ chambers.

Scrambling to his feet, Merlin quickly looked around before rubbing his eyes furiously, sure that he was hallucinating or dreaming. It wasn’t the first time he had thought he was back in Camelot.

To his surprise, the room stayed the same.

Heart beating wildly, Merlin took a hesitant step, half expecting the illusion to fade. When it didn’t, he clutched at his chest as tears filled his eyes, his knees wobbling.

This couldn’t be real.

He was dead. He was dead, and this was the paradise that the gods of the Old Religion had given him. Camelot, just as it had been when Arthur was alive.

Arthur.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Merlin was moving. He tore open the door of his room and sprinted down the stairs into the larger part of Gaius’ chambers, not even stopping to look around before running into the castle. His breath came in large pants as he rushed up several sets of stairs.

It took him a second to remember where Arthur’s chambers were, but once he got his bearings it was almost muscle memory. He let his feet carry him, his heart pumping furiously.

He slipped on cobblestone and busted his elbow as he rounded a corner in a sprint, but he couldn’t feel the pain. The only thing he felt was desperation, running through his veins and keeping his heart racing.

The door was in sight, and there was a faint glow beneath it. He hadn’t checked the time, but it must not have been late enough for Arthur to be in bed, and the thought of facing him made his stomach flip violently.

Merlin slowed as he approached, his heart pounding as blood rushed in his ears. His breath escaped him in heavy pants, half from exertion and half from frantic hope, hope that he never usually let himself have.

Merlin stopped in front of the door leading into Arthur’s chambers. His hands shook as he placed one of them on the wooden slats, shutting his eyes and preparing for the inevitable letdown.

There was always a letdown. When William the Conqueror took over Albion, when half of Europe died from the plague, when Britain waged war… there was always the high, when he thought Arthur was coming back, and then there was the letdown, when he realized that he had to wait some more.

He pulled on the heavy, brass door handle and slowly opened the door, his heart in his throat, waiting for the crushing disappointment that he didn’t think he would be able to recover fr—

Oh.

Merlin nearly collapsed to the floor.

He was there.

Oh gods.

Standing at his desk, staring down at the parchment strewn all across the surface.

Please.

His face was shadowed by the light emitting from the fire, but there was no mistaking the golden hair and wide shoulders, the Pendragon red tunic, the finger that tapped his bicep as he thought.

Arthur.

He didn’t look up when Merlin entered, and he didn’t look up when Merlin’s breath left him in a whoosh, his lungs trying and failing to draw air.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Merlin? Knock before entering my chambers,” Arthur spoke, his voice annoyed and beautiful and royal, his vowels curved in lovely Brittonic. It made Merlin let out a dry sob, still unable to draw breath into his starving lungs.

Arthur’s head snapped up at the sound, and Merlin was a goner.

Sapphire eyes that sparked with anger, that glowed with laughter, that shone with approval. Soft, pouty lips that were bitten red during council discussions, or curled up in a smile during hunting trips.

He was ethereally beautiful. He was Apollo, all power and golden elegance, and Merlin stood completely at his mercy, helpless against his grace.

Merlin drank in his looks, committing them to memory lest he forget them ever again. He wanted to run to Arthur, to climb into his body and never leave, but he was frozen against the wall, his entire body shaking. His legs threatened to give out as his lungs still refused to fill with air.

Several emotions flashed across Arthur’s face, and Merlin could name all of them. It had been twelve hundred years, but now that he was facing him, he realized he still knew all of Arthur’s tells.

Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed, and there was a flare of something that looked almost like concern in his blue eyes, before his expression smoothed over. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded, cerulean eyes flicking over Merlin's face.

Arthur’s face blurred as Merlin’s eyes filled with tears, and he furiously blinked, desperately needing to see Arthur’s face, lest he have to wait twelve hundred years to see it again. The tears refused to be blinked away, and they spilled down his colorless cheeks, hot and unbidden.

Something, whether it be the tears on his cheeks or the pathetic whimpers that were dribbling out from between Merlin’s lips, made Arthur stop trying to hide his concern behind a mask of annoyance. His blue eyes widened and his lips parted as he took a hesitant step towards where Merlin stood, pressed up against the wooden door.

“Merlin?” Arthur said, his voice low, almost like he was speaking to a scared animal. “What’s going on? Is it your mother? Is she alright?”

Merlin shook his head, still unable to draw breath. Spots were starting to dance across his vision from the lack of oxygen traveling to his brain, and he started to sag against the wall.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Arthur said, his tone taking on a more demanding quality, as it always did when he was unsure and worried. Merlin rapidly tried to gain control of himself, since he knew he was worrying Arthur, but he couldn’t breathe…

Strong hands clenched around his forearms, holding him upright when he legs gave out entirely, and vibrant blue eyes traced his face, worry and alarm bleeding from them.

“Merlin, breathe!” Arthur ordered, and Merlin drew a gasping breath, coughing as his chest burned. Arthur gripped his arms tighter, not enough to hurt but enough to ground the warlock in reality, or whatever this was.

He knew Arthur was expecting an answer, but Merlin didn’t know how to even begin to explain what was going on, so he just stood there, drinking in Arthur’s features—the bump in his nose, the strong jaw, the slightly messy blonde hair, the soft lips.

Arthur’s brow furrowed as his grip loosened, and Merlin realized that he was still crying, hot tears running down his pale face, his lips trembling.

“I…” Merlin began, his eyes darting across Arthur’s face, and the realization that Arthur was here, alive and whole and breathing, hit him fully and he collapsed forward, burying his face in Arthur’s chest and letting out a sob.

Arthur immediately stiffened, undoubtedly unsure of what to do in the face of such obvious affection, but after Merlin let out another pitiful sob, his arms gently came up to loosely hold Merlin’s shaking figure, and it only made him cry harder.

He had dreamed about this. When Albion and half of Europe was dying of plague, when Camelot burned, when war waged, he dreamed of being in the position he was in, just then. In Arthur’s arms, encased by his body, a calloused hand drifting down his back. A feeble attempt at comfort, from a man who had scarcely known it.

Merlin gripped the red tunic, shuddering as twelve hundred years of stifled pain fell over him like a cresting wave, breaking and scattering him like a seashore.

He vaguely heard Arthur speaking to someone, but all Merlin did was try and get closer to Arthur, trying to burrow into his tunic, and Arthur’s arms tightened around him, almost like he finally understood what Merlin wanted.

It could have been seconds or days before Merlin distantly heard a knock on Arthur’s door, and felt Arthur say “Enter,” the word making Arthur’s chest vibrate against Merlin’s face.

Merlin’s sobs had diminished to small hiccups, but he was still shaking. He couldn’t seem to stop it.

“You called for me, Sire?” a familiar voice said, and Merlin’s heart broke all over again.

Gaius.

How could he have forgotten about his mentor, the only father figure he had ever truly known? He had been too distracted by thoughts of Arthur, but now that the physician was in the room, Merlin’s sore eyes filled with tears once again.

Arthur’s arms tightened around him again, just as Gaius said, “Merlin?” in a befuddled voice.

“I take it you know nothing more than me, then?” Arthur asked, sounding annoyed. “Merlin, I would like answers some time tonight, if you don’t mind.”

Merlin stiffened as he was spoken to, and he shook his head against Arthur’s damp tunic, shuddering again.

Arthur sighed, the sound filled with exhaustion and exasperation. “He’s been like this for fifteen minutes, Gaius.”

“Merlin, what on earth is the matter?” Gaius asked, alarmed.

Merlin swallowed hard, feeling sick from all the crying, and he removed his face from Arthur’s tunic, his face stiff and swollen from the salty tears.

He didn’t think he had ever seen Arthur look so concerned. His blue eyes, illuminated by the warm glow of the fire, were soft and confused as they roamed his face. It was an expression Merlin had hardly seen, since the expressions that Arthur usually directed at him were exasperatedly amused, or playfully frustrated.

The wait was over, he realized then. The wait—the horrible, horrible wait—was over now, and Arthur was standing in front of him. He swayed, and Arthur immediately grabbed his arm, keeping him steady.

The feeling of Arthur’s hand on his arm grounded him, somewhat, and he took a breath, trying to calm down enough to speak.

“I—” he started, and then trailed off, not knowing where to begin, or even to begin at all.

His story was a long and turbulent one, filled with hurt and anger and pain and death. He couldn’t tell Arthur and Gaius that he had been alive for twelve hundred years. Not without Gaius pestering him for details, and Arthur calling him a madman while threatening to throw him in the stocks for lying.

No, he had to lie.

The thought of lying to Arthur again, after years of longing for him and mourning what could have been if he had been honest with the man from the start, nearly made him start crying again. He shuddered, his stomach clenching, and Arthur’s grip on his arm tightened.

“I had a bad dream,” Merlin lied softly, hating himself viciously. “A really, really bad dream.”

There was a beat of silence, the room filled with the sounds of breathing and the crackling of the fire, before Arthur let go of his arm, rolling his eyes. “You freaked out because of a dream?”

No, Merlin thought, as Arthur’s lip curled in annoyance. No, I spent twelve hundred years without you. I forgot your face and your voice and your smile and your body and now that I’m here, I never want to leave your side again. I want to climb inside of you and never leave, I want to stand vigil by your bed to make sure nothing ever does you harm, I want… I want…

“It was a bad dream,” Merlin defended weakly, knowing that the lie was terrible even to his own ears. No one had a meltdown of that caliber because of a dream, no matter how severe.

“You must excuse my apprentice, sire,” Gaius said, bowing slightly. “He has not been sleeping well as of late. I have been keeping him up late into the night with chores.”

Merlin knew it was a lie, and his eyes startled to prickle again. Gaius had always been his mentor first, the king’s physician second.

He swallowed hard as tears filled his eyes, and at his morose expression, Arthur’s annoyance only seemed to grow. “For the love of god, Merlin, pull yourself together. It’s a dream, you great girl.”

Merlin forced himself to stop crying. “Right. I’m going… I’m going to go back to bed now, sire. Do you… require anything?”

“I require not to be disturbed in the middle of the night by the hysteria of my manservant,” Arthur sniped, and Merlin blinked back tears again. God, he missed this. “I do not wish to be disturbed until morning.”

He turned and paced away, back to his desk, and Merlin took a step towards him, like an asteroid caught in his gravity field.

Gaius grabbed his shoulder, however, and led him from the room. Merlin let himself be handled, despite desperately wanting to be back in the room with Arthur.

“What happened?” Gaius asked him in a quiet voice, once he had shut the door to Arthur’s chambers and made their way down the corridor.

Merlin didn’t meet his eyes. “Nothing. Like I said… bad dream.” His stomach twisted as soon as the words left his mouth. Lying to Arthur was bad enough, but to Gaius? That had to be a new low, even for him.

“Merlin,” Gaius said in warning, as they walked up the steps to the physician’s chambers. “Don’t think you can lie to me. You have never experienced nightmares such as this before.”

“Yeah, well,” Merlin said, a slight note of bitterness to his tone. “Things change.”

Gaius shut the heavy wooden door, before giving him a stern look. “Merlin.”

Merlin swallowed hard, the part of him that would always be Gaius’ apprentice quailed at the look.

Tell him, something inside Merlin urged. It’s Gaius.

Merlin looked away, shuffling anxiously. “I can’t… I can’t tell you,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. I just… I just can’t.”

He couldn’t bear to see the look of disappointment on Gaius’ face, so he turned and walked into his room, shutting the door on Gaius and the rest of the world.

Chapter Text

He didn’t try and sleep that night, instead sitting on the small desk in his room, writing on a spare piece of parchment by candlelight.

He paced his room anxiously for a good half an hour, trying to force himself not to run back to Arthur’s chambers and make sure that he was actually, physically there. It wouldn’t be the first time his mind played tricks on him, making himself believe that Arthur was there when he really wasn’t.

He still wasn’t completely that what he was experiencing wasn’t a dream, or rather a desperate fantasy that his delirious, dying mind created. And the thought of waking up, or snapping out of the fantasy, was enough to make Merlin start hyperventilating, his hands desperately grabbing at his skin and his throat as his breaths came out in heavy, gasping pants.

Eventually, he managed to calm himself enough to think rationally, and forced himself into his desk chair, pulling out a sheet of parchment and dipping a quill in ink. If he was going to be awake, he might as well be productive.

He wrote down everything that happened, from the moment he got to Camelot to Arthur’s death. His memories were hazy, so he left large blanks on the parchment for him to fill in at a later date, when he was able to recall what happened. There was a blank in between Arthur getting injured by the Questing Beast and him learning of his birth, a blank in between that and when Morgana disappeared, a blank in between that and when she reappeared.

He remembered most of the important things, however—he remembered Morgause’s arrival in Camelot, under the guise of a knight. He remembered poisoning Morgana.

He remembered freeing the Dragon, he remembered Uther’s death, he remembered Agravaine, he remembered Mordred.

It took him hours, and he rose as the moon rose and fell, before the first rays of sunrise caressed the horizon line.

His hand shook as he wrote Arthur’s death at the end, biting on his lip hard to keep the tears from falling. He stopped there, not wanting to think about the few semi-peaceful years that followed the death of Camelot’s king, not wanting to think of the centuries after the peaceful years were over.

Gaius knocked on his door around seven, which meant it was time to go wake Arthur up. He rubbed his tired, swollen eyes and stood, gathering his parchment and tucking it in one of his drawers, murmuring a spell to make it invisible to everyone but himself.

He swiftly changed his clothes, putting on his blue tunic, brown coat and pants, before tying a red handkerchief around his neck. It felt odd to be back in his servant clothes again, but incredibly good. This was the Merlin Arthur knew—the bumbling, smiling, smart ass servant that was too loyal for his own good.

This version of himself was the only one Merlin ever wanted to be. Not an old hermit, not a powerful god, not even Emrys… Just Merlin.

He left the physician’s chambers swiftly, not giving Gaius any time to question him. He walked briskly to the kitchens, getting lost at first before righting himself.

He grabbed Arthur’s breakfast and made his way up to his chambers, his stomach fluttering as he thought of seeing Arthur again. The few hours they spent apart was too long in Merlin’s opinion.

He opened the door with one hand, being careful to not drop the breakfast platter in his other hand, and shut it with his heel.

The sound of the door closing seemed to wake Arthur, as he shifted in his bed, his eyes opening. Merlin’s heart kicked into a sprint, fondness and love fighting for control.

“Good morning, sire,” Merlin said then, his voice hoarse but cheery. “The kitchen gave you extra sausage this—”

“You look terrible,” Arthur remarked, his face half in his pillow. “Did you even sleep?”

“’Course I slept,” Merlin said, but the lie fell flat. Arthur groaned slightly as he pulled himself out of his bed and to his desk, stumbling slightly as he came fully awake. His hair was disheveled, and the top half of his tunic was untied, revealing part of his toned, muscled chest.

Merlin realized he was staring at the small slip of skin for too long to be appropriate, so he forced his eyes away, focusing his attention on the mortar walls as his cheeks burned.

Time had only increased his infatuation for Arthur, he realized as the man sipped from his goblet. The first time around, his love for Arthur was a constant, steady force deep inside of him, only surfacing to the top when Arthur did something especially noble, or brave. It was ever present, but he had accepted that it would never come to fruition, especially after Arthur and Gwen’s marriage.

Now, it seemed that the twelve hundred years he spent without him had broken down all of the defenses he had built against the man. Twelve hundred years ago, Arthur’s bare chest would have done nothing to him, but now he felt like he couldn’t draw enough oxygen into his lungs, his face so hot it was painful.

He swallowed, his eyes briefly darting back to Arthur and then away again, his heart racing. Twelve hundred years ago, if Arthur told him to jump, he would have told him to piss off. Now, he knew, if Arthur told him to jump, he’d simply ask, “how high?”

Merlin puttered around the room as Arthur ate, restless, before coming to a stop by the window, staring out it at his beloved city, the one that had been lost a millennium ago to him.

“So, what was the dream about?” Arthur asked, and Merlin jolted.

“What?” he asked dumbly, turning to look at Arthur, who was leaning back on his chair.

“Your dream,” Arthur said, raising an eyebrow at him. “You know, the one you felt the need to bother me with last night.”

It was clear that Arthur wanted to sound irritated about being disturbed in the middle of the night, but he missed the mark. “Oh,” Merlin said, and wracked his brains to come up with something. “Oh, uh—”

He cut off as he saw a man walking from the castle, dressed in a completely black outfit, complete with a black hat. Alarms rang in his head, but he couldn’t place the man. “Who’s that?” Merlin asked, his eyebrows furrowing.

Arthur sighed, but got up from his chair nonetheless. He stood behind Merlin and peered over his shoulder. “The Witchfinder, Aredian. He arrived last night.”

Merlin jolted again, memories flooding back to him. “Oh,” he said lamely, his eyes glued to the figure making his way through the citadel, stopping people as he went.

He remembered now. The Witchfinder—the evil man that had planted evidence in the physician’s chambers, trying to convict Gaius of sorcery. Anger filled him, and he resisted the urge to set the hated man on fire, right then and there. Show him what actual sorcery looks like.

With a sinking feeling, he realized that he was further back in the timeline than he had hoped. Arthur wasn’t king yet, Kilgharrah was still chained below the castle, and Morgana… Morgana was still innocent. She had no blood on her hands yet.

Could she be saved? Merlin didn’t know. He would like to believe that the woman wasn’t corrupt at heart, but after all he’s seen her do, it was hard to believe that she could be anything but evil.

Aithusa was still in an egg, buried deep in the Tomb of Ashkanar. Hell, his father was still alive.

His mind was buzzing furiously, and he was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t hear Arthur calling his name until a punch landed on his arm.

“Ow!” Merlin exclaimed, clutching his throbbing appendage. “The hell was that for?”

“I called your name three times, you idiot,” Arthur said, scowling at him. “Where is your brain today?”

“At least I have one,” Merlin muttered, earning himself a cuff on the back of the head. Arthur moved from behind him, back to his place at the table, and Merlin watched as Aredian walked into an apothecary, his cloak flowing in the wind behind him.

“Don’t you have chores to be doing?” Arthur asked crankily, and Merlin’s stomach lurched guiltily, knowing that Arthur’s crabbiness was due to his own odd behavior.

It must be strange for Arthur—thinking you know someone one day, then waking up and it being someone completely new, just with the same face. Merlin certainly didn’t feel like he used to, a millennium ago. Back then, he was reckless and naiive, frivolously throwing around his magic without a thought for the future, without a thought for the consequences. Not only that, but he was far too trusting, far too willing to see good in the people that would inevitably let him down.

Trust in people, and humanity in general, was something that he lost over the long years, and even longer decades. Humanity let him down, time and time again. Slavery, witch burnings, wars… it was the same thing, over and over. He would build up hope after seeing one noble thing, before being let down by the atrocities that always followed.

“No, sire,” Merlin said, hovering by the table. He picked at a divot in the wood, his mind thrumming with ideas, with the sheer possibility the universe granted him with by returning him to Camelot.

He could save Arthur. He could save his father, Lancelot, Gwaine… not to mention all the civilians killed by the dragon and Morgause’s undead army.

“Go muck out the stables,” Arthur ordered crankily, his blue eyes narrowed. Merlin startled slightly, snapping out of his daydream. “That’ll give you something to do.”

Merlin groaned theatrically, but headed to the door anyway. He paused on his way out, once again hesitant to let Arthur out of his sight, wishing that there was some remote way of keeping him safe.

He briefly considered casting an invulnerability spell, but Arthur would probably realize something was off during sword practice with the knights that day, when someone would attempt to strike him and instead hit themselves. He thought of maybe gifting him with an amulet, before deciding that Arthur would never let him live a gift of jewelry down, if he even decided to accept the amulet in the first place.

No, he had to just accept that he couldn’t be around Arthur every second of the day, and to trust the knights and the guards to keep him safe within the walls of the kingdom.

“Merlin,” Arthur said suddenly, and Merlin turned, hoping that Arthur would ask him to stay, ask him to accompany him to the training fields. Arthur’s expression was no longer annoyed, and instead was looking at him intensely. “Whatever your dream was, it wasn’t real. So when you come back, I expect your head to be on straight.”

His stomach clenched as he looked at Arthur, at the man he waited twelve hundred years for. The man who haunted his dreams and his waking life, the man who he would give his life for, every time.

He knew this was Arthur’s way of consoling him, of trying to bring him back to reality. This was him saying that he wanted Merlin to be back to how he usually was, smiling and happy and joking around with him, keeping up with the verbal sparring that made their relationship so solid.

This was Arthur’s way of saying, I miss you, come back.

He swallowed and nodded, making eye contact with his prince, before heading out the door, unable to feel like he was leaving a part of himself behind, within Arthur.

Chapter Text

Merlin spent the rest of the morning mindlessly roaming the castle, reacquainting himself with his old life and all the things that he had missed. He was unbearably happy to be back, but as he walked through the citadel and into the lower town, he was terrified that something was going to give, and he would awake back in his cabin in the woods, in the future.

He would wake alone, without Camelot, without Arthur. He didn’t think he could survive it this time, especially now that he’s seen a side of Arthur that he seldom had before.

He spent a half an hour in the man’s arms the night before. His ear had been pressed against his chest, listening to his strong heartbeat, feeling his diaphragm move as he breathed.

He almost wished it hadn’t happened. He knew, if he did wake up back in the future, he wouldn’t be able to recover from the devastation of having Arthur with him again, only for him to slip away.

Panic began to brew in the back of his mind, but he pushed it away. He was here, at least for right now, so he might as well make the most of things.

He found Gaius hobbling around in the lower town, making house calls and giving medicine to those who needed it. Merlin, feeling guilty about how he treated his father figure the night before, made his way over to the older man, intent of apologizing and aiding him with the rest of his errands.

He was a few feet away when Aredian rounded the corner, spotted Gaius and immediately apprehended him, forcing him to stop by blocking his path.

Uh oh. Merlin jogged up to Gaius’ side as strange sense of déjà vu washed over him.

Aredian’s sharp gaze flicked to him as he came to a stop next to Gaius, and Merlin felt his magic stir within him, longing to strike the witchfinder down.

“Gaius?” Merlin questioned, feigning curiosity. “Who’s this?”

“This is Aredian,” Gaius said, his tone clipped. “Aredian, this is my assistant, Merlin.”

Aredian was staring at him, and Merlin stared right back, clamping down on his magic hard to keep gold from bleeding into his eyes. “Pleasure,” Merlin said, giving him a curt nod.

“Indeed,” Aredian said, laced with displeasure. “Prince Arthur’s manservant, correct?”

Hearing him say Arthur’s name made him irrevocably angry, but he swallowed down the spell that he longed to throw at the man. “Yes,” he said through his teeth.

Aredian hummed and opened his mouth to ask another question, but Gaius cut him off. “May your investigation prove fruitful, Aredian. If you’ll excuse us, we have work to do.” He grabbed Merlin by the sleeve and tugged the younger man away.

“I have a few questions for you, Merlin,” Aredian called after him, and Merlin’s jaw clenched. “Be at my chambers in an hour.”

Merlin turned to respond rudely, but Gaius tugged on his sleeve harshly, throwing Merlin slightly off balance and successfully silencing him.

“What are you doing?” Gaius asked him in a hushed voice. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? I know you can be foolish, Merlin, but I didn’t take you to be suicidal!”

“He has no business being here,” Merlin said, seething. “Threatening you, finding magic where it’s not. He’s no better than a criminal.”

“Even so,” Gaius said under his breath. “You are now his number one suspect, Merlin. I doubt he’ll hesitate to throw you in the dungeons.”

“He doesn’t have any proof,” Merlin said angrily.

“Aredian doesn’t need proof,” Gaius responded heavily. “He’s a man who wants nothing but gold and glory and will stop at nothing to get it. Even if it means watching an innocent man burn.”

Merlin’s vision blurred as a memory overtook him, and he saw Gaius up on the pyre, his eyes shut in defeat.

He remembered how Gaius was weak days after the incident, having been held captive without food and water for a day.

In that moment, he vowed to never let Gaius go through that again. He would let himself be put upon a pyre and burn before he let the physician lay down his life for him.

He could survive a burning. Gaius couldn’t.

Merlin helped Gaius finish his rounds before he trudged up the castle steps to Aredian’s chambers, purposefully being slow. He was dreading the conversation that he and Aredian would have, knowing that it would be fraught with accusations and lies.

“Merlin,” Arthur called from behind, and Merlin stopped, his black mood vanishing and his stomach fluttering.

He turned and saw Arthur coming towards him, dressed in his training clothes. His hair was damp with sweat and he was grinning, his smile so wide that Merlin could see his uneven teeth.

Merlin’s heart melted just a little bit, and he couldn’t help but smile back.

“Good practice?” Merlin asked as Arthur approached. “You seem less cranky.”

“Who says I was cranky to begin with?”

“Oh, I don’t know, ‘Go muck out my stables, Merlin. That’ll give you something to do.’  You know, there are people whose job it is to clean the stables. You don’t have to make me do it.”

“So? I am your prince, and you must do what I command,” Arthur said pompously. “You don’t smell as bad as you usually do, so maybe you actually mucked the stables instead of rolling around in the mess.”

“I’m certainly not the one who smells here,” Merlin said, pulling a face.

Arthur scowled, but his lips twitched, giving away his humor. “You seem less miserable than earlier.”

Arthur sounded incredibly happy about that fact, and Merlin gave him a small smile, despite feeling sick at having to lie. “Well, nothing makes me happier than having the privilege of mucking out your stables, sire.”

Arthur gave him a genuine, true smile, and knocked his shoulder against his, and Merlin’s stomach lept at the movement, relishing in Arthur and his closeness.

“Ah, Merlin, there you are,” a snide voice said from behind, and Arthur jumped, turning and grabbing for a sword that wasn’t there at his hip.

Aredian stood in the middle of the corridor, his face pulled into a sneer and his posture forcibly relaxed. Merlin immediately tensed, hating the man and all he was, and he unconsciously sidestepped so that he was slightly in front of Arthur.

“I was on my way to your chambers,” Merlin said, trying to keep the hostility out of his voice. “You said an hour.”

Aredian watched him for a second, his eyes flicking to Arthur before returning to Merlin, and his mouth curled into a smirk. “There is no need for that now. I have all that I require.”

Chapter Text

An hour later, Aredian called for an audience with the king, which meant that he, Gaius, and the entire court had to attend.

Merlin knew that Aredian was going to accuse him like he did last time, but he was prepared. He had already searched his and Gaius’s chambers for anything magical and found nothing of the sort. He cast invisibility enchantments on his spell book and a couple of other magical trinkets that he owned, before making his way to the throne room, confident that Aredian’s accusations would be meaningless.

The court came together with murmured confusion, Aredian standing in the middle of the throne room like it was his kingdom, and the court and the prince were his guests.

Merlin was concentrating on a mix of vicious threats and deadly spells that he could cast on Aredian when Uther Pendragon strode into the throne room, which consequently wiped all other thoughts from his mind.

Uther Pendragon was a man Merlin had truly never liked. He tried to save his life on several occasions but had secretly hoped that each of them would fail, and he wouldn’t be able to do anything but watch the man die. He wasn’t a cruel king, except to those with magic, but he was proud and although he wasn’t a tyrant, he could be merciless.

The fact that Uther was part of Arthur, half of who he is, was beyond Merlin. Where Uther was cold and unforgiving, Arthur was warm and thoughtful, hesitant when necessary. Arthur had heart—god, he had so much heart—whereas Uther had cold logic, hard fact.

One thing Merlin would never forget, no matter how old he got, was an autumn day in Camelot, a millennium ago. Uther burned a five-year-old child at the stake for magic he did not commit, his voice loud and regal as he presided over the quiet, still crowd, announcing the crimes that the young boy was found guilty of. The sun bounced off Uther’s crown as the pyre was lit and the flames engulfed the child, who screamed and begged and cried for his mother, for his father, for mercy.

Uther made Arthur stand next to him and watch, and Merlin saw how tense he was, how still and motionless. He didn’t flinch as the child’s screams abruptly turned to choked coughs, before cutting off altogether.

Uther praised his son afterwards, clapping him on the shoulder and telling him how proud he was, how great of a king Arthur would make.

Arthur smiled and thanked his father, before beelining for his chambers, ordering Merlin out in a voice so filled with rage that he didn’t even question it, just marched right out.

He went back in later that night, after Arthur was asleep. His chambers were a mess, everything upended and scattered, undoubtedly in a fit of rage. Arthur’s face was damp, half pressed into a pillow, and his eyes were puffy and swollen.

That was the night Merlin had realized that Arthur was just as trapped as they all were. He was a pawn in Uther’s chess game, loyalty and duty so ingrained in him that he had no choice but to be the perfect prince, the perfect son.

He forgave Arthur for own persecution of magic when he died in his arms all those centuries ago, when his blue eyes managed to focus on his for one last second, before he slipped away. He forgave Arthur for being raised by a man blind with hatred and grief, forgave him for following his father blindly.

Uther, however… Uther he would never forgive.

The man himself marched into the room, which fell silent at his entrance. The half circle that the court had loosely formed around the throne opened to allow Uther access, and the king sat down on his golden throne, the very picture of authority and regality.

Arthur was sat next to him, and Morgana on his other side. Merlin didn’t feel as much venom towards her as he thought he would, just a vague sense of distrust. He gently reached out with his magic and felt hers briefly, noting how small and unutilized it was, but the great potential.

She wasn’t a risk yet, and Merlin knew he had to think of a way to make her not a risk in the future. He filed the thoughts away, however, as Aredian stepped forward and bowed to Uther.

“My lord. I hope it will please you to find that I have located the sorcerer within Camelot,” Aredian said, his tone one of forced deference.

“Have you?” Uther said, slightly in disbelief. “It has been less than a day.”

“I work incredibly fast, my lord, and I assure you that I have found the sorcerer,” Aredian smirked, splitting his face into a smug look. “Indeed, I’m afraid to say that he stands in this very room.”

Uther and Arthur stiffened as the entire court broke out into mutters, and Aredian stalked around the circle, his boots clicking on the marble. “My methods are infallible, my findings incontestable! The facts point to one person and one person alone,” he stopped and pointed, directly at Merlin. “The serving boy, Merlin!”

There was a beat of silence, before Arthur spoke out, in disbelief, “Merlin? You can’t be serious.”

 “I have seen it with my own eyes,” Areidan said viciously, turning to Uther. “That serving boy has ensorcelled your son, Uther Pendragon!”

The bottom of Merlin’s stomach dropped out and a cold sensation ran down his back as Arthur looked at him, blue eyes wide. He shook his head at Arthur, real fear taking over him as he thought of Arthur actually believing the man, actually thinking that Merlin had made it so that his thoughts and actions weren’t his own.

“This is outrageous!” Gaius said from next to him as Merlin stared at Arthur, his breaths rushing in and out of his lungs. He shook his head again, swallowing, begging Arthur silently to believe him. “You have no evidence!”

“I’m sure a thorough search of Prince Arthur’s chambers will deliver us all the proof that we need,” Aredian said, and Merlin wanted to sink to the floor, because why the hell didn’t he search Arthur’s chambers as well…

“Very well,” Uther said, giving Merlin a cold look. “Guards, restrain the boy. Let the search begin.”

He strode off the throne, stopping in his exit out of the throne room right in front of Merlin. His hazel eyes were stormy and serious, his expression one of distrust and disgust. “If I find that you have ensorcelled my son, I will kill you myself.”

Merlin met his stare head on, knowing better than to respond, but not deferring to the king either. Arthur was the only one he obeyed, who he would pledge his allegiance to.

Uther strode out of the throne room, Arthur following behind him. His eyes met Merlin’s briefly, confusion in their blue depths, before he left as well, leaving Merlin and Gaius to trail after the pair.

--

The guards ripped Arthur’s chambers apart.

They threw off his bedding, upturned his mattress, rifled through his drawers and tipped over the entire armoire. Uther barked orders when the guards were stood in one place for too long, and Arthur was irritated at his side, practically vibrating with anger.

Merlin knew that Arthur liked privacy, and right now, this was completely stripping him of it. Anything that he wished to hide, anything that he didn’t want his father and Aredian to know of was out in the open, “There’s nothing here, Aredian!” Arthur said angrily, as the guards ripped open his pillows and rifled through his books. “It’s my chambers. Surely I would know if there was any magical device.”

“Some instruments of sorcery make themselves invisible to those under their spell,” Aredian said, and Merlin knew it was a bold-faced lie. Nothing of the sort existed. “Not to worry, my lord. We’ll find the magic and dispose of it.”

Merlin desperately hoped that they wouldn’t find anything, but he knew Aredian’s tricks. He knew the man would have planted something, probably while Arthur was on the training grounds that morning.

“Sire, I found something,” one of the guards called out, and Merlin stiffened as the man held up an ornate bracelet, with a shining red gem in the middle. It glowed unnaturally, and Merlin’s heart sank as the guard strode forward and handed it to Uther.

Arthur looked from the bracelet to Merlin, shock and hurt in his eyes before clouding over in anger, and Merlin’s stomach twisted.

“That is not mine,” Merlin pleaded, his eyes only for Arthur, who was scowling at him. “I swear to you, right now, that is not mine. I swear on my mother’s life.”

Arthur blinked in shock, and Merlin knew that Arthur wouldn’t take him swearing on his mother’s life lightly. His mother was the most important thing to him, other than Arthur, and he wouldn’t swear her life away on a lie.

Uther withdrew the sword at his hip, tossed the bracelet on the ground, and cut it clean in half. Merlin flinched backwards instinctively, knowing that he was most likely going to be next. It was a servant’s word against a man respected by the king. He stood no chance.

“There’s your evidence, Gaius,” Aredian said to the physician at Merlin’s side, who was silent. “A magical instrument, in the Prince’s chambers.”

“It’s not mine,” Merlin repeated to Arthur, wanting to fall to his knees and beg for Arthur to believe him. “I swear, Arthur. I would never do that to you.”

Arthur was looking less angry and more confused, looking down at the broken bracelet and then back to Merlin, whose vision blurred with tears.

“Take the boy down to the dungeons,” Uther barked, giving Merlin a venomous look. “Aredian, get a confession out of him. After that, he will burn.”

“Arthur,” Merlin said desperately as the guards grabbed him by the arms, hauling him forwards. “Arthur, your mind and your body are your own. You are not under any spell. Aredian is trying to—” one of the guards put a hand over his mouth, successfully silencing him. Arthur stared at him as he was taken away, his blue eyes burning, his pink mouth set in a line.

--

The dungeons were cold and dark, and Merlin spent the first few hours completely alone with only his thoughts to keep him company.

Exhaustion weighed at him, but he forced himself to stay awake. He paced his cell, wracking his brains for a solution. The shackles on his wrists were not cold iron, so he could still do magic, but doing any magic was just as good as actually confessing. He itched to be with Arthur, but at the same time didn’t want to see the betrayal in his eyes.

The first time this happened, Gwen and I proved Aredian to be a fraud, Merlin thought, turning and pacing back the way he came, before repeating the action. But that was Gaius, and his crime was lesser. Being accused of ensorcelling the prince is so much worse.

As if he’d ever lay a finger on Arthur. As if he would cast magic on him without his permission. He had only done it once, in the ten years he had spent in Camelot a lifetime ago, and that was to save his life. He vowed to never do it again.

After an hour of pacing, he sank down onto the hard floor. He laid his head against the wall as his body trembled, the exhaustion and anxiety that he was experiencing overtaking him.

This happened to him on occasion, when things got especially bleak and everything started to spiral out of his control. He would have episodes of panic, during which he would just shut down and shake, his heart beating too hard and his breaths coming too fast.

They happened more than he would like to admit, these attacks. They were never a surprise, really—the worst one had happened during the Bubonic Plague, when everyone he cared about was dying and he was powerless to do anything. He had holed himself up in his house in the city, locked himself in his bedroom, and shook and cried until he exhausted himself, wishing desperately for Arthur, for anyone.

The episode he was experiencing wasn’t nearly as bad as it was then, but it still left him paralyzed against the wall. He had just gotten Arthur back, dammit. Now he was going to lose him again.

A dead Arthur is worse than an alive Arthur that hates you, he reminded himself, one of his hands clenched on his tunic. He’s alive. He’s vital and strong and he was teasing you this morning and held you in his arms last night—

He took a gasping breath in, his chest hurting. He didn’t think he could survive Arthur hating him. Arthur was his everything; he was the air he breathed, the sun that shone in his eyes, the stars that glittered at night. If Arthur hated him, then there was no reason to be living.

He buried his face in his hands as sorrow overtook him but froze when he heard the distant sound of footsteps. He gathered himself and stood, his legs a little wobbly. He would be standing tall when Aredian came down to question him, would not cower in the face of torture and death. He was not the serving boy he was before—he was the most powerful sorcerer in the world and would face Aredian with dignity and strength.

The clicking of expensive shoes greeted his ears first, before Aredian came fully into view, dressed in all black, a smug half-grin on his face.

Merlin glared at him, nostrils flared. “If you think you’re going to get a confession out of me, you are sorely mistaken.”

Aredian regarded him, the half-grin still in place. “I have my methods. You will confess to your crimes by the end of the day, and I will get my money,” he chuckled to himself, “King Uther is not pleased about the magic that you cast on his son.”

“I don’t have magic,” Merlin lied, before following it up with, “I would never hurt Arthur. I would climb up on the pyre and light it myself before I would lay a finger on him.”

Aredian made a humming noise. “Your devotion to him is astounding. Perhaps a love spell, then? Arthur all to yourself?”

Merlin’s stomach clenched as bile burned at the back of his throat, and he clamped down on his magic hard. He would not reveal himself to Aredian. “You’re a sick bastard,” Merlin said through his teeth, pulse racing. “Arthur is my prince, nothing more. How dare you suggest that. How dare you say his name—”

“Why was the bracelet in his room?” Aredian asked, leering at him through the bars. “Where did you learn magic?”

“You put the bracelet there,” Merlin growled. “I don’t have magic. Are we done?”

“I’m afraid not, sorcerer,” Aredian said, smirking. “I have only just begun.”

Chapter Text

Merlin’s sass had gotten him far in life. It got him to be Arthur’s friend, instead of just a manservant, and it got people to trust him extremely quickly. It got people to smile and roll their eyes at him, got them to like him.

Now, however… it wasn’t doing him any favors.

Aredian had gotten irritated with him after a half an hour of him snarking back at everything the man said, and it took an hour before Aredian started laying into him with blows as well as continuing to question him.

The man was relentless for two hours, following every smartass answer with a fist. It was tame, as far as torture went, but one of Merlin’s eyes was starting to swell after Aredian struck him there and he was tired and on edge. Eventually, one of the guards interrupted, telling Aredian that he was to dine with the king tonight.

It left Merlin alone in his cold cell, aching all over and only being able to see out of one eye. He longed to be back in his bedroom in Gaius’s chambers, or even on the forest floor near a fire.

He sat in silence for what felt like hours before he heard soft footsteps, and Merlin thunked his head against the wall, dreading Aredian’s return. He was sure one of his ribs was bruised, if not cracked, and he knew that if Aredian landed another kick to his sternum that he would have to heal himself with magic, which always left him with a horrible headache.

The footsteps were different this time, but Merlin couldn’t imagine who would visit him besides Aredian at this hour. Gwen had to tend to Morgana, Morgana wouldn’t trouble herself, and Arthur… Arthur probably hated him.

His stomach twisted at the thought, nausea from the pain and grief overtaking him briefly. He breathed through it, shutting his eyes.

The footsteps grew closer, and Merlin cracked his good eye open, watching the space outside his cell warily.

The first thing he saw was a brown boot, followed by brown pants and a red tunic, and his heart skipped a beat before kicking into a sprint as he took in the blue eyes and blonde hair, because oh god, it’s Arthur.

His prince was staring down at him, his expression hidden by the shadow casted by the moon. Merlin’s heart flew to his throat as he took in the sword that was attached at Arthur’s hip, before his eyes flew to Arthur’s face, wide.

Arthur moved into the light, and the knot in Merlin’s chest loosened when he saw that Arthur was looking down at him with a troubled expression, his eyes skirting all over his manservant’s face.

“Good lord, Merlin,” he said, crouching so that he could see Merlin better. “What happened to your face?!”

Merlin briefly touched his swollen eye, before letting his hand fall lazily to his lap. “Aredian.”

Arthur’s expression darkened briefly, and Merlin swallowed, his throat clicking. “Arthur,” he said, exhaustion in every syllable. “I didn’t put that bracelet there. It’s not mine.”

Arthur’s blue eyes met his, before dropping to the floor, his body shifting. “Then who did?” he asked uncertainly, and Merlin longed to touch him, longed to be in Arthur’s arms like he had been the night before.

“Aredian,” Merlin said, and Arthur’s eyes flicked to him again. “He has it out for me, Arthur.”

“But why you?” Arthur asked, bewildered. “I mean, you are the least threatening person I’ve ever met—”

“Thanks,” Merlin deadpanned.

“—why would he accuse you of ensorcelling me?”

“Because I’m with you the most. Because I was rude to him in the market today,” Merlin remarked, and Arthur’s brow furrowed.

“Why were you rude to him in the market?” Arthur asked, and his tone turned briefly accusatory, almost chastising him.

“He was threatening Gaius,” Merlin said evenly. “I wasn’t going to let him get away with it.”

“You should have!” Arthur exclaimed, some of his usual prattiness leaking into his tone. “Now you’re stuck down here, and I’m the one who has to get you out!”

Merlin’s mouth slowly furled into a smile. “Why, Arthur, I didn’t know you cared,” he said teasingly.

“I don’t,” Arthur said dismissively. “It’s a headache to find a new manservant, so I’d rather save myself the trouble.”

Merlin snorted softly; his heart full of fondness for the man in front of him. The man willing to disobey his father to save his manservant. “Right,” Merlin said. “How are you going to get me out, then? Do you have a plan?”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably. “Er… not yet. But I will. My idea is to catch him in a lie.”

Merlin chewed on his lip. “I don’t think we have enough time for that.”

“As long as you don’t confess, we should be fine.”

“The thing is… I doubt Aredian will wait for a confession, and I don’t think the king will need one.”

Arthur blinked. “What do you mean? We’re not going to execute an innocent man without proof.”

Merlin was silent for a beat, thinking of how to phrase his next sentence without making Arthur angry. “Your father is… blind, when it come to you. When something endangers you, or—or if there’s magic involved with you somehow, he stops thinking clearly.”

Arthur’s expression hardened. “What are you saying?”

“Arthur, Aredian has accused me of ensorcelling you,” Merlin said, sitting more upright, scooting closer to the bars of his cell. “Your father thinks that I have you under my spell, that I’m controlling you. And he’s under the impression that the only way to rid you of the ‘spell’ that I cast is to… to burn me.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched, and he leaned forward so that his forehead was nearly touching the bars. “That is not happening,” he said vehemently. “You will not burn, Merlin.”

Merlin’s eyes burned, and he was once again hit with a wave of reality, of the fact that Arthur was alive, and he was back in Camelot. He would rather burn at the pyre than return back to his time, alone and in a future when Arthur Pendragon was no more than a legend. “Thank you,” Merlin whispered thickly, before clearing his throat. “We need to find a way to prove that it was Aredian who put that bracelet in your chambers, not me.”

“And how do we do that? You’re not going anywhere, obviously, so that just leaves me. What am I supposed to do, accuse him of fraud over dinner?”

“No, you can’t do that. Your father would just write it off as you being under my spell,” Merlin said, waving a hand and wincing as it hurt. “No, you need evidence. Check Aredian’s chambers, see if you can find anything.”

“I won’t be able to get in without people knowing. I’m the crown prince, someone always knows where I am.”

“Get someone else to help. Ask Gwen, she’d love to spend time with you.”

The phrase was supposed to come out sly, like he was trying to coax Arthur into courting her, but the sentence was spoken bitterly, and it made Arthur look at him funny.

“Most likely not,” Arthur said, watching Merlin. “I told her after the match that we couldn’t be together. My father wouldn’t let me marry a servant,” he shifted, his eyes not meeting Merlin’s. “So, if you want to court her, that’s fine. I won’t have any qualms against it.”

Merlin stared at him, wondering how Arthur could be so possibly wrong.

It wasn’t Gwen who he fantasized about for a millennium, when the nights were cold and the loneliness threatened to swallow him whole. Her name wasn’t the one he cried out in the middle of the night, in the throes of a nightmare.

Gwen was his friend, sure… but Arthur was everything.

“Might not even get around to that if I don’t get out of here,” Merlin remarked, wanting to change the subject before he got upset. “Go talk to Gwen. See if she can help.”

Arthur nodded and stood. “Alright. I’ll see what I can do,” he turned to leave, but paused, looking back down at Merlin. “Will you be okay?”

A warmth unfurled in Merlin’s stomach, and he gave Arthur a small smile. “Contrary to popular belief, I am stronger than I look. I’ll be fine.”

Arthur looked at him a second longer, before nodding and making his way out of the dungeons.

Merlin, still smiling to himself, shut his eyes, and let sleep take him over.

Chapter Text

He slept surprisingly well, considering that his bed was a pile of straw, but was woken up at dawn by his face being shoved into a bucket of water.

He had to force his magic from reacting to the startling sensation of icy liquid flooding the sinuses, and he coughed and sputtered, his nose burning. When he blinked the water out of his eyes, he saw Aredian standing over him, a sneer pulling his lips back. He looked menacing and slightly inhuman, but Merlin stared directly back at him, refusing to fold under his stare.

“Ready to confess?” Aredian asked, and Merlin’s mouth pulled into a smirk.

“Only if you go first,” he said, and was slapped across the face for his snark, cheek stinging.

Aredian crouched down, his dark eyes meeting Merlin’s light ones. He grabbed Merlin by the hair, yanking his head back. Merlin peered up at him through his one good eye. “Once I’m through with you, you’ll be begging to confess your crimes.”

“I don’t think I will. Oh, and I don’t beg,” Merlin said, before smirking, “or rather, not to someone like you. Buy me a drink, and then we can see where it goes.”

Okay, that was probably well deserved, Merlin thought as he collapsed on his side, pain radiating through his face and tongue, as he had bitten in when Aredian’s fist made impact with his jaw. I probably shouldn’t have said that.

“Confess,” Aredian seethed.

“No,” Merlin said with difficulty, his mouth filled with blood.

Aredian kicked him in the sternum, and Merlin’s vision whited out for a moment, before returning when he heard a voice curtly say, “Aredian.”

He knew immediately that it was Arthur, and Merlin tried to pull himself up onto his elbow to see what was going on.

“My lord,” Aredian said, withdrawing immediately from his attacks. Merlin saw him bow through bleary eyes, and he resisted the urge to scoff. There was no deference in his movements, just shallow respect for Arthur's crown prince of Camelot. It irritated him more than he cared to admit.

“My father requests your presence,” Arthur said coldly, his stance openly hostile.

“Yes, sire. Tell his majesty that I will be with him as soon as I—”

“Right now, Aredian,” Arthur interrupted, and the corner of Merlin’s mouth kicked up. “You better not keep the king waiting.”

Aredian wavered for a second, before bowing once more. “Yes, alright. Does he wish to discuss the prisoner?”

“You’re keeping him waiting,” Arthur said, ignoring what Aredian asked. “My father is not a patient man. You’d best hurry.”

Aredian exited the cell swiftly, his boots thudding on the stone as he left for the throne room.

It was only when the dungeons fell silent that Arthur relaxed, turning to Merlin, who spat out a mouthful of blood onto the wet stone.

“Gods, Merlin,” Arthur said, alarmed. He knelt next to the bars of the cell. “What did he do?”

“I bit my tongue,” Merlin exclaimed thickly, his mouth already filling with the coppery substance again. “He hit me in the face.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched, his blue eyes flashing angrily, and Merlin tried to soothe him by giving him a cheeky smile to show that he hadn’t lost his spirit.

It didn’t seem to work, as Arthur’s frown deepened, and Merlin realized a second too late that he probably had blood coating his teeth.

“Gwen should be searching his chambers right now,” Arthur said quietly, and Merlin nodded, crawling as best he could toward the bars, to where Arthur was. “My father wanted to know if Aredian had gotten a confession.” Worry flashed in Arthur’s eyes, before he looked down at Merlin, his lips pressed into a line. “He hasn’t gotten a confession, right?”

“No, and he won't get one,” Merlin said, trying to sit upright, but struggling when he couldn’t get his arms to hold him. He gasped in pain as he fell to the ground, his ribs aching.

“Merlin…” Arthur said quietly, concern coating every syllable. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“M’fine,” Merlin said, gathering his strength and attempted to push himself up, his arms shaking violently with the effort. “Just a little roughed up. You’ve done worse to me in training.”

He fell back down, groaning as his ribs took the brunt of the fall. He saw Arthur move towards him instinctively, before sitting back on his heels, like he had been before. Merlin rolled so that he was on his back, his arm wrapping around his middle protectively.

It was silent for a second, and Merlin could hear his wheezing, short breaths. Shit, I think he broke a rib.

He coughed weakly and let out a quickly stifled cry of agony as pain radiated through his chest, down his sternum and into his back.

“Do you need Gaius?” Arthur asked, tightly controlled panic in his voice. “You’re holding your stomach. Did he break a rib?”

“I’m fine,” Merlin gasped again, knowing it to be true. He had suffered from far worse over the years, after all. Broken ribs were nothing new, and if he should start coughing up blood, he could utter simple spell and his ribs would fix themselves, good as new.

It would give him a hell of a headache, but he preferred that to the sensation of dying and then coming back to life. Resurrection was… unpleasant, to say the least. It had only happened a few times over the centuries that he had been alive, but they hadn’t been fun.

Once again, Merlin tried to sit up, only for his ribs to protest. He tried using his legs, but his boots slipped on stone floor, which was still wet from when Aredian dunked his head into a bucket of water.

There was a click, the sound of boots, and suddenly warm hands were on him, blue eyes peering down at him.

Arthur put one of his hands behind Merlin’s knees and the other on the small of his back before gently lifting him into a sitting position against the wall, being careful not to make contact with his chest. Merlin winced a little bit from the movement, but being in a sitting position helped the pain considerably.

Arthur was silent as he looked down at Merlin’s face, which was undoubtedly covered in bruises. Merlin peered up at him through his lashes, still only being able to see with one eye.

“Good lord, Merlin,” Arthur murmured, gently taking his manservant’s chin in hand and tilting it to the side to examine his eye. “He used your face as a training dummy.”

Merlin didn’t trust his voice, so he said nothing, keeping his eyes on Arthur’s face. They were so close; Merlin could count his eyelashes, could see the stubble on his jaw. He couldn’t keep his eyes from fluttering closed, couldn’t suppress the soft sigh. Arthur withdrew his hand a second later. Merlin squinted at him, watching as several emotions flitted across his face before settling on anger.

“This is cruel and unjust,” Arthur said, his jaw clenched. “To torture an innocent man…” Arthur shook his head, disgusted.

“He doesn’t think I’m innocent, even though I am,” Merlin said, swallowing with difficulty, his mouth and throat dry. Aredian hadn’t given him any water. “He thinks he can beat a confession out of me, but he won't. I didn’t do anything.”

“Hopefully Guinevere will find something in his chambers,” Arthur said, his eyes still on Merlin, who gave him a small smile.

“She will,” Merlin said, trying to soothe Arthur’s worries, touched that they were for him. “He planted the bracelet there. He probably has spares.”

There was a beat of silence, in which Arthur settled down on the stone floor, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, his eyes searching the area outside the cell. He bit his pouty lower lip in concentration and Merlin watched him, unable to look away.

“I knew it wasn’t you, you know,” Arthur said suddenly, and Merlin blinked, only catching the tail end of what he was saying. His brain was foggy with pain and watching Arthur chew his lip was incredibly distracting.

“Wha?” Merlin asked, his eyes flicking away from Arthur’s lips.

“I knew you didn’t put that bracelet there,” Arthur said, not meeting Merlin’s gaze. “I knew you wouldn’t do that.”

A warmth unfurled in Merlin’s aching belly, and his eyes burned for a second. “I was so worried,” he admitted. “Accusing me of magic is bad enough, but ensorcelling you…”

“It’s going to be hard to convince my father,” Arthur said with a sigh. “Our proof is going to have to be incontrovertible.”

Merlin cracked a smile. “That’s a big word, sire. Have you been reading a dictionary in your spare time?”

Arthur’s mouth twitched, and he raised a hand to hit Merlin on the arm, before lowering it slowly when he realized that it would probably do more harm than good, his jaw clenching.

Suddenly, there was the clunking of boots on stone as someone descended the stairs into the dungeons, and both Merlin and Arthur stiffened, the latter jumping up after a second and exiting the cell, shutting the door with a click.

Aredian strode in, gait casual and face pulled into a smirk. Arthur stood in front of the cell, his arms crossed.

“The king would like to see the prisoner,” Aredian said, and Merlin resisted the urge to sigh. That can’t be good.

“The prisoner is in no shape to be moved,” Arthur said, and Merlin wanted to tell him to stop, even as his heart warmed. Arthur was only making it seem like he was under a spell more by protecting him, but Merlin couldn’t think of a way to stop him without making it even worse.

“His majesty insisted,” Aredian said mulishly. “Now, if you don’t mind, my lord, I need to access the cell.”

Arthur looked like he was chewing something unpleasant, but moved, his entire body tense. Aredian opened the cell door and walked over to Merlin, who couldn’t stop himself from instinctively moving back, trying to get out of Aredian’s reach.

The man grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and yanked him forward, and Merlin cried out weakly as the dull pain in his chest turned sharp and stabbing, and he saw Arthur move towards Aredian out of the corner of his eye, his hand going towards his sword.

He shook his head minutely, and Arthur stopped abruptly.

His jaw was clenched, his fiery blue eyes blazing. He was furious, and Merlin knew it wasn’t just because Aredian abusing his own servant right in front of his eyes, but it was because of the sheer injustice of it all. And Merlin knew, after spending the best ten years of his life with the man, Arthur hated injustice. He hated when things weren’t fair, weren’t morally right, and—

There was a heavy clunking noise, and then a sharp clang and Merlin gasped, his attention snapping away from Arthur and to the cold-iron restraints that Aredian had just fastened to his wrists.

His magic, his sole and constant companion for all the centuries that he spent alone, was blocked, stopped by the iron shackled to his wrists.

A powerful, deadly rage filled him, and if his magic wasn’t suppressed, he knew that he would have killed Aredian in that moment, consequences be damned.

Aredian regarded him coolly. “Not a fan of cold iron, are you?”

Merlin bit back all of the nasty things he wanted to say. “Not a fan of being shackled,” he said, pulling at the chain.

“Well, we wouldn’t want you casting anymore spells, would we?” Aredian said, pulling Merlin to his feet by yanking at the chain, and Merlin let out a strangled gasp, his ribs protesting. Shit. I can’t access my magic. Please don’t let my lung be punctured. I won’t be able to explain dying and coming back to life.

“Let’s go, sorcerer,” Areidan said, pulling Merlin out of the dungeons. “We don’t want to keep the king waiting.”

Chapter Text

The walk to the throne room was agonizing.

There was no doubt about it; he had definitely broken a rib. Every breath was agony, and he hadn’t realized that he was unconsciously muting the pain with his magic until he had been forced to stop due to the cold iron shackled to his wrists.

Arthur led, as was customary for a prince, but he kept looking over his shoulder at Merlin, who didn’t even have the strength within him to smile. His face ached from the repeated blows and his one eye was still swollen shut, his eyelashes crusted together.

The corridors leading to the throne room were empty, save for a few guards that were littered about. They all bowed their head as Arthur passed but avoided Merlin’s gaze, and the warlock was unsure if it was from fear of sorcery or just plain disgust.

As they approached the throne room, the number of guards rose, as did the tension in Arthur’s shoulders and the pain in Merlin’s chest. He longed to lose consciousness, to give into the pain radiating throughout his body, but he knew he had to stay alert. Uther had said that if Merlin were to be found guilty of ensorcelling Arthur, he would die by the king’s own sword, rather than up on the pyre, like the rest of the sorcerers. Merlin wasn’t sure if Uther was going to wait for a confession or not, so he knew that he could very well die within the next few hours.

The thought of it sent a tremor through Merlin. If he died, then he would have to wait until the cold iron was removed from his person to be resurrected, and if Uther decided that the cuffs should stay on even in death, it could be years, even centuries, until the iron shackles had rusted completely off his wrists.

Arthur could be long dead by the time he lived again, should Uther decide to kill him without proper evidence. The thought alone nearly sent him into a panic, his lungs constricting in terror.

“Arthur,” Merlin said without thinking, and Arthur turned, stopping a few meters before the doors to the throne room. His face was set in a stubborn mask, his azure eyes fiery. He was ready for a battle, though Merlin couldn’t understand why. What was he going to do, physically fight his father over the fate of his, quite frankly, terrible manservant? “Arthur, if this doesn’t end well—”

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur snapped, his jaw clenching.

“Listen to me,” Merlin said, refusing to stop speaking until he’s said his piece. “If this doesn’t end well for me, I just want to let you know—”

“Can’t you just listen to me, for once?” Arthur interrupted, but there wasn’t any anger in his voice, just thinly veiled desperation.

“No,” Merlin said lightly, giving Arthur a soft smile, before it faded into something solemn and serious. “If this is it for me, I just want to let you know that it has been a privilege—an honor—to serve you,” Merlin looked down, hating that Aredian was watching this, watching him lay himself bare to Arthur. “This has been the best year of my life.”

“Merlin,” Arthur said desperately, pain crossing his handsome features, but before he could say anything more, a guard stepped forward and spoke.

“Sire, the king is waiting,” he said, and Merlin wanted to throw the guard a dirty look as Arthur blinked, his face folding into a mask of determination as he pressed onward, the guards opening the throne room doors.

When Merlin was dragged inside, the first thing he noticed was the sheer number of people in the room. The entire council, most of the servants, and even some of what looked like stable hands, based on their clothing.

The second thing he noticed was that Morgana was absent, and that fact alarmed him more than he cared to admit. He knew she hadn’t done anything to hurt Arthur or Camelot yet, but her capacity for evil was something that worried him.

If I get out of this, Merlin thought to himself as he was led further into the room. I’m going to try and help Morgana. Try and keep her from becoming so full of hate.

I don’t want to have to kill her a second time.

Before he had time to dwell on his morose thoughts of Morgana, Aredian shoved him forward, and he let out a soft cry of pain as he fell to his knees on the hard floor, right in front of the king.

When he looked up, he was met with the cold, furious stare of Uther Pendragon.

His face was an authoritative mask, but his hazel eyes, so unlike Arthur’s, bled quiet rage. His mouth was in a thin line, his hands clenched on the arms of his throne.

If Merlin wasn’t nearly thirteen hundred years old, the stare that Uther leveled at him would have terrified him, but Merlin had faced worse tyrants in his long life.

In fact, he had stared down William the Conqueror in the middle of battle, before he launched an absurdly powerful blast of magic at him. It made the invader’s horse rear up so violently that he crashed against its saddle at alarming speeds, his body crumpling. Later, Merlin learned that the blast had caused his intestines to rupture, and that he had died mere days later.

The anger that he felt now towards Uther was nothing like he had felt towards William. Uther was at least related to Arthur, while William was an outsider, a man set on trying to take Albion from Merlin. The man had succeeded, in some ways. William may have died by Merlin’s hand, but the invaders never stopped after that. Albion was conquered several more times, and Merlin was powerless to stop it.

He forced himself to stay in the present, knowing that he had to be on his guard. He wasn’t sure what Uther was going to do, but he knew it wasn’t going to be good.

The king stared at him in silence for a few seconds, before asking Aredian, “Has he given a confession yet?”

“I’m afraid not, Your Highness,” Aredian said, looking down at Merlin like he was something unpleasant that got stuck on his boot. “I was unable to get it out of him. Nonetheless, I am positive that he is guilty, and that he has ensorcelled your son.”

There was a ripple in the crowd as many broke off into shocked whispers, and Merlin clenched his jaw. Aredian was lying through his teeth, and it took a lot of willpower for Merlin not to open his mouth and call him on it.

If Aredian was actually knowledgeable about magic, he would realize that there was no actual way to prove if someone was ensorcelled, but it was pretty obvious if someone was. When Arthur was ensorcelled by the Lady Vivian, he was acting so out of character that it was clear that someone had placed a spell on him. Right now, however, Arthur was acting completely normal, his stern, royal mask firmly in place, his pouty lips set in a line.

“And you are sure of this?” Uther asked Aredian, not taking his eyes off of Merlin, who met his gaze equally. He was not cowed by Aredian, and he would not be cowed by Uther.

“Quite certain, sire,” Aredian said breezily. “The bracelet found in the prince’s chambers is a magical instrument that contains quite a strong enchantment. In order for it to be broken, the caster of the enchantment must die.”

Merlin briefly shut his eyes as another ripple of whispers traveled through the crowd, this time louder and more intense. The whispers abruptly stopped when Uther slowly stood, and Merlin’s heart sunk horribly. This was it, then. Uther was going to drive his sword through his heart, and he was going to die a horrible death in front of the court, in front of Arthur.

Merlin gritted his teeth and pulled on his iron restraints, mentally seething at them. If he wasn’t in these damn cuffs, he could do some quick magic and get out of there, but he was completely trapped. His breaths became labored in panic, putting more strain on his already broken ribs.

“Hand me my sword,” Uther said, his face contorted in anger.

“Father, this is ridiculous,” Arthur said, striding towards the king. His voice was sharp, his blue eyes ablaze. He walked in front of one of the large, stained glass windows to face his father, causing a bright sunbeam hit his head, giving him a regal crown of golden hair. Merlin couldn’t stop his stomach from fluttering, his heart from racing. “There is no proof that my manservant is guilty.”

Uther’s eyes softened when he looked at his son. “Don’t worry, Arthur, you will be free from his enchantment soon,” he turned to a guard and barked, “My sword!”

The voices of the crowd had risen in volume until they were no longer whispers, just frantic words passed around. Merlin swallowed with difficulty, his mouth and throat dry.

“My mind is my own!” Arthur cried out, frantically trying to stop the king. “There hasn’t been a confession! This is unacceptable!”

“Silence!” Uther barked at his son, silencing the room and the prince, who clamped his jaw shut, looking like it pained him to do so. “You are not yourself, so I will let this go. Guards, my sword.”

The guard handed Uther a sword, and Arthur looked to Merlin frantically, his face a mix of panic and desperation.

Merlin shook his head, trying to give Arthur some reassurance. “It’s okay,” he whispered, smiling despite the stinging in his eyes.

“It is not okay!” Arthur said angrily. “Father!”

“Hold your tongue!” Uther yelled at Arthur, who looked like he had no intention of following that order. Uther raised his sword, and Merlin flinched backwards instinctively, the pain in his chest flaring once again at the small movement.

Uther tore his gaze away from Arthur and looked down at Merlin, disgust crossing his face. Merlin saw Arthur’s hand drift to the sword at his hip out of the corner of his eye, and if he wasn’t in so much pain, he would have startled in alarm.

There was no need for Arthur to draw his sword, however, for barely  second later, the doors to the throne room were thrown open.

Everyone in the room turned their heads towards the sound, even Merlin, who stifled a cry as he twisted his upper body to see what was going on behind him.

Morgana stood in front of the open throne room doors, looking regal in her lavender dress, her curled hair elegantly falling onto her shoulders. Her face was stony, but her eyes were intense, and Merlin was half expecting to see the same madness that had taken residence in her blue irises a millennium ago, only to see that it didn’t have a hold of her yet.

Standing respectively behind and slightly off to the side was Gwen, and Merlin’s throat tightened painfully as memories overtook him.

The last time he had seen Gwen, she had been dying of a gut wound in his arms. The Saxons had attacked Camelot again,  He remembered clutching at her stomach, trying to stop the torrent of blood flowing from the wound while babbling nonsense, trying to reassure her that he could heal her, that she would be okay.

She had smiled at him—the soft, genuine smile that had never changed from the moment Merlin had met her—and told him that it was okay, because she was going to see Arthur again.

Merlin had used all of the magic he possessed to keep her alive, but to no avail. The wound was too deep, and he wasn’t as experienced in healing arts, so he gave up on healing her and just settled on holding her, pressing his tear streaked face into her hair.

She died minutes later, her last words a whisper of gratitude.

Now, however, she was alive, and she met his eyes from across the throne room. The smile that she gave him was small and relieved, and that was when Merlin realized that she was clutching the bottom of her apron in her hands, and that in the middle of the garmet was something bulky and strangely shaped.

“My lord,” Morgana said to Uther, her chin held high. Merlin’s eyes snapped to her, and he felt the old feelings of distrust towards her rising within him. Her eyes flicked to Arthur and his heart clenched painfully, before loosening when her gaze flicked back to Uther.

“What is the meaning of this?” Uther asked angrily, looking between her and Gwen, who cowered slightly under the king’s gaze.

“You have arrested the wrong man,” Morgana announced, her words precise and authoritative. She turned her blazing blue eyes to Aredian. “The Witchfinder is a fraud.”

A gasp rolled through the room as Uther started, staring at his ward. Aredian’s face twitched in displeasure before he strode forward, grasping Merlin’s hair with his gloved hand.

Merlin gasped in pain as he was forcibly moved to face Uther. His one good eye briefly turned towards Arthur, who was staring at Gwen with a barely concealed smile. Despite the situation, Merlin couldn’t help the sinking sensation of disappointment he felt at the look. “She is wrong, sire. I have captured the sorcerer, he has placed a spell on your son—”

“Merlin has done no such thing!” Morgana said fiercely. “You planted that bracelet in Arthur’s chambers! Gwen, show them!”

Gwen nodded, looking decidedly nervous, and released the bottom of her apron.

Several bracelets fell from the folds of her apron, each identical to the ones found in Arthur’s chambers. They clattered to the floor of the throne room audibly, each clang of metal on polished marble felt like a sentence being passed.

The silence that filled the room was complete, everyone staring at the magical artifacts that now occupied floor. Merlin, who was still being held by the hair by Aredian, let out a soft breath, hardly daring to hope that Uther would believe that it was Aredian who owned the bracelets.

“Where did you find those?” Uther asked Morgana, his voice loud in the silent room.

“The wardrobe of the Witchfinder’s chambers,” Morgana said, sending a positively venomous look Aredian’s way. “After I was rudely questioned by the man himself, I had some suspicions, so I enlisted my maidservant help me in investigating them. I know now that he is nothing but a fraud and a liar.”

“I discovered all of those bracelets in Prince Arthur’s chambers,” Aredian lied smoothly. “I went back after the sorcerer was apprehended and found several more. It’s clear that the sorcerer needed more than one artifact to help him control the prince.”

“That’s a lie,” Arthur said through his teeth. His hand was resting on the hilt of his sword, ready to unsheathe it at a moment’s notice. “I was in my chambers the rest of the day and I did not see you come in.”

“Those under enchantments are prone to memory loss, sire,” Aredian said, pity in his voice. “You will remember once the sorcerer is dead and the magic is broken.”

“I am not enchanted—” Arthur stared angrily before he was silenced by Uther, who held up a hand.

“Enough,” Uther said to his son, before turning to Aredian and Merlin. His gray eyes fell onto the warlock briefly, who was struggling to remain conscious. The pain in his chest was becoming excruciating and dark spots were starting to dance on the edges of his vision, threatening to overtake it completely. “If you found those bracelets in Arthur’s chambers, why keep them for yourself instead of showing me?”

Silence followed the question, and that was when Merlin knew that Aredian was completely out of lies. If he had found the bracelets in Arthur’s chambers, then he would have taken them to the king as proof. There was no justifiable reason for him to have kept them.

Merlin shut his eyes in relief, before opening them in alarm as Aredian threw him forward and made a mad dash for the doors. The warlock cried out in pain as he hit the floor, a sharp pain ripping through his chest. Chaos erupted in the throne room, and through a rushing in his ears he hear sharp sound of swords being drawn, of panicked shouts.

In his rapidly darkening vision, he saw a figure with blonde hair kneel down in front of him, and a hand was gently placed on his shoulder.

Merlin smiled. “Arthur,” he mumbled happily.

He let his eyes drift shut, and unconsciousness swiftly overtook him.

Chapter Text

When Merlin passed out cold on the floor of the throne room, the first thing Arthur did was call out for Gaius.

The room was in an uproar, with servants shrieking in fear and guards struggling to apprehend Aredian, who was putting up a decent fight, but the old physician wove his way through the chaotic crowd and knelt down next to Merlin, immediately taking his thin wrist and pressing two steady fingers to it with difficulty, due to the cuffs still fastened to the appendage. After a moment he nodded, looking to Arthur. “We need to take him back to my chambers. Based on his breathing, it appears that he has broken ribs. I will need to wrap them.”

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek nervously. “Is it okay to move him?”

Gaius pursed his lips. “It doesn’t look like we have much of a choice. Lift him gently—if his ribs are broken, then any jostling could could put him at risk for a punctured lung.”

Arthur nodded. “Right.” Being as careful as possible, he slid his hands underneath his manservant’s still body and gently lifted him into his arms, trying not to jostle him. Arthur was expecting Merlin to be heavier than he was, but the man was actually extremely light, and Arthur managed to get to his feet with Merlin in his arms with little effort.

As he started walking out of the chaos that was the throne room, Arthur came to the abrupt realization that this was the second time he had held Merlin in his arms in the past couple of days, and he wasn’t sure why the thought made his stomach flutter and chest constrict.

Aredian had been apprehended by the guards next to the large oak doors, and was in the process of being put in shackles when Arthur passed him, and the Witchfinder sent him a venomous look. Arthur returned it with one of cool authority, before pushing into the empty corridors.

Gaius was behind him, maintaining a respectful distance and silence, but Arthur paid him little attention. Instead, he focused on making sure Merlin was steady in his arms.

They were approaching the stairwell to the Physicians chambers when Merlin started to stir in his arms. He made a small, soft noise, his eyelids fluttering. He moved a little bit, almost like he was trying to find a more comfortable position, and Arthur tightened his hold.

“Hold still,” Arthur told him quietly. “You’re injured.”

Merlin’s blue eyes blinked open, and he gazed up at Arthur in confusion, the look making him look even younger than he already did. “Wha?” Merlin mumbled hoarsely, and Arthur’s heart melted just a little bit.

“You’re injured,” Arthur repeated. “I’m getting you to Gaius’ chambers.”

Merlin blinked up at him, looking far too much like a baby deer, before his eyes drifted shut again and he turned his neck, burying his face into Arthur’s stomach.

A flush crept up Arthur’s neck and into his face, his cheeks flaming hot. He cleared his throat, realizing that Gaius was right behind him and that he could probably see Merlin curling into him like a kitten and Arthur’s less than princely reaction to it.

It’s because of the closeness, Arthur told himself as he made his way up the stairs leading to the physician’s chambers. It’s not because it’s Merlin. It’s because I’m not used to being close with someone else. It’s not because of Merlin.

Arthur stopped at the door of Gaius’ chambers, knowing that it was locked. The elderly physician passed him, digging a ring of keys out of one of the pockets of his brown robes and unlocking the door, holding it open for Arthur to walk through.

He crossed the threshold, beelining for the cot in the middle of the cluttered room. Slowly, he lowered Merlin onto the thin mattress, the man letting out a small noise of pain as he was moved.

“Sorry,” Arthur muttered, noticing how Merlin’s eyes were open again, this time hazy with pain. It made something twist inside of Arthur, and he immediately turned to Gaius. “Can you heal him?”

“I don’t see why not,” Gaius responded, moving around the room, grabbing various items off counters and shelves. “Most of the wounds Aredian inflicted are abrasions, so infection is not as much of a worry. The thing I am most concerned about are his ribs, but with some medicine and rest, they should mend themselves.”

Arthur let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding, nodding. An exclamation of relief was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. His father’s voice rang in the back of his head, scolding him for showing so much concern over a servant. “Right,” he said instead, glancing at Merlin, who was peering at him through heavy lidded eyes, his breaths heavy and wet. The prince’s eyes fell onto the cuffs that were still clasped around his manservant’s wrists. “Aredian has the key for the cuffs.”

Gaius stopped what he was doing and looked at the iron cuffs attached to Merlin’s wrists, his mouth curling in distaste. “It would probably be for the best if you got that key, sire. It’s going to be more difficult for me to tend to him if his hands are bound.”

Arthur nodded, watching as Merlin shut his eyes in pain, sweat sliding down his milky white face. His bangs were plastered to his forehead, and Arthur started to raise his hand to smooth them back before he realized what he was doing, and abruptly stopped halfway, his arm dropping back down to his side. He clenched the betraying hand into a fist and set his face. “He’s probably on his way to the dungeons. I shouldn’t be long.”

Before Arthur could turn and leave, a weak hand closed on his tunic, stopping him from going anywhere. Arthur’s gaze jumped to meet Merlin’s, who was looking at him with wide eyes.

“Don’t,” Merlin whispered. “Aredian’s dangerous. Have someone else get it.”

Arthur stared at him a second longer, before gently removing Merlin’s hand from his shirt. He fumbled for words to say, and a quip was out of his mouth before he could stop it, “Don’t be an idiot, Merlin. Just because you couldn’t take Aredian doesn’t mean I can’t.”

Merlin rolled his eyes, his hands falling so they rested against the bed. “Gods, I forgot how much of prat you were,” he said with a groan, his eyelids fluttering again.

Arthur made a face at the strange wording, wondering if Merlin had also received head trauma, but he pushed it aside as he headed for the door. “I’ll be back.”

He opened the door and closed it behind him before pausing, letting himself breathe for a moment, his head leaning against the stone walls of the castle as his eyes fluttered closed.

His skin tingled from where Merlin had touched him, and Arthur was at a loss as to why.

He took a deep breath before pushing himself off the wall and heading down the stairs, making his way towards the dungeons hastily. His mind wandered as walked, and despite not wanting to entertain the subject, he found himself thinking about Merlin.

Things had been strange ever since his manservant had walked into his room the other night, an expression of grief twisting his delicate features and tears overflowing from his blue eyes. Ever since Merlin had put his head on Arthur’s chest and cried into his shirt, ever since Arthur had felt the tremors that shook Merlin’s thin body against his, his thoughts had been jumbled and confusing, his head not quite on straight.

Maybe Merlin did cast a spell on me, Arthur mused, before he dismissed the thought. Merlin couldn’t be a sorcerer, he was too… soft, too fragile. Sorcerers were harsh and powerful, created from a religion full of malice and hate, and Merlin had cried at the sight of a dead unicorn.

There was also plentiful, tangible evidence pointing towards Aredian being the sorcerer, from the pile of bracelets in his chambers to how fast he was to blame Merlin. It all just felt like a setup.

He jogged down the stairs leading to the dungeons, noticing that the number of guards increased the farther down he went.

He found Aredian deep in the dungeons, being led by a group of knights towards the cells that his father reserved for sorcerers. He noticed that Leon was among the group, and the knight looked up as the prince approach.

“Sire,” Leon said, bowing his head. Arthur came to a stop in front of Aredian, who looked up at him with malice, his face forming into a vicious scowl. There were shackles around his wrists now, and Arthur felt a grim sort of satisfaction at the sight.

“The key to the cuffs you put on Merlin,” Arthur said at Aredian pointedly, keeping his voice as even as he could. “I need it.”

Aredian's lip curled, but he bent down anyways, reaching into his boot and tossing a silver key onto the stone floor by his feet. Arthur’s nostrils flared, irritated at Aredian’s blatant disrespect, but he bent down to retrieve the key anyways.

As soon as his fingers closed on the small piece of metal, he saw Aredian dart forward and he instinctively shifted backwards, but he wasn’t fast enough and a sharp, lacerating pain raced up his bicep.

He yelped and jumped backwards, dropping the key as his hand came up to hold his upper left arm, where a long, thin cut was weeping blood. A dagger was being wrestled out of Aredian’s hands by another one of his knights, and Arthur let out a stream of swear words, cursing his stupidity. He should have expected Aredian to look for an opportunity to strike, and he should have known to wear his chainmail today, rather than just a tunic.

“Are you alright, sire?” Sir Gareth asked as Arthur bent down to pick up the key, gritting his teeth as the wound smarted as his skin moved.

“I’m fine,” Arthur said curtly, watching as Leon hit Aredian on the head with the hilt of his sword, the man crumpling to the ground. “Get him out of my sight.”

His knights immediately obliged, dragging the unconscious man towards the cells. Once they were out of view, Arthur peeled back the ripped fabric of his tunic, hissing as it stuck to the wound.

The cut wasn’t very deep, but it was still bleeding quite a bit, and he cursed his stupidity again while simultaneously thanking the Gods for his luck.

Aredian hadn’t been aiming for his arm—he’d been aiming for his throat, and if Arthur hadn’t moved backwards when he did, his throat would have been slit, and Camelot would be without a crown prince.

Another attempt on his life. Arthur didn’t know when they had become so common, but he was starting to forget a time where he felt safe within the castle, safe as himself.

Shaking himself, he gripped the key tight in his hand and turned on his heel, back towards Gaius’ chambers.

- - -

As soon as the door closed behind Arthur, Merlin let out a groan of pain, no longer bothering to pretend that he wasn’t in agony.

“Can you heal yourself at all?” Gaius asked, approaching him with arms full of various things.

“The cuffs,” Merlin managed to get out through heaving breaths. “They’re cold iron, possibly enchanted too. I can’t even feel my magic.”

“Alright. We’ll have to make due without, then,” Gaius said as he put down the items he was carrying. “I’m going to wrap your ribs for the time being, and then we’ll go from there. I’ll also get some ice for your eye.”

Merlin nodded, crying out as Gaius helped him into a sitting position. He hadn’t felt pain like this in a long time—usually, he had his magic to help alleviate some of the worst of it, but since he was completely cut off from it, he was feeling the full affects of several broken ribs and a possibly punctured lung.

Merlin let his eyes drift shut as Gaius used a pair of shears to cut his thin shirt off, but they shot open in alarm when he heard his mentor let out a gasp.

“What, what’s wrong?” Merlin asked urgently, resisting the urge to twist around and try and see his back, before realization hit him and his stomach dropped.

Right. His tattoo.

Somewhere around the eleventh century, a group of travelers from Japan found their way to the Lake of Avalon. Merlin had befriended them, hopelessly lonely and still aching with grief, and learned about their ways of permanently inking skin, or what they called Tebori. Before they had departed, Merlin had one of them do the technique on his back, right in between his shoulder blades with black ink, in the shape of the Pendragon crest.

He had enchanted the ink with a binding spell, making it so that it wouldn’t fade over time, but the spell was stronger than he had intended and no matter how many times he changed his appearance, the tattoo stayed. It was something he genuinely loved—he had always imagined showing it to Arthur one day, a physical manifestation of his devotion and love for him. He'd dreamt about Arthur holding him close, his calloused hands running over the tattoo as he thanked Merlin softly for his loyalty and allegiance after all those long years without him, before gently pressing his lips to Merlin’s in a kiss that was passionate as well as sweet.

He had forgotten about its existence until just then, and he had no idea how to explain its existence to Gaius. A Druidic tattoo was one thing—they weren’t uncommon amongst sorcerers that grew up amongst the Druids, but one of the Pendragon crest was another.

“Merlin…” the elderly physician started, and Merlin made a noise to cut him off.

“It’s nothing,” Merlin said quickly, wanting desperately to hide it. “It’s…”

“How did you get this?” Gaius asked, shock coloring his tone, “and when?”

Merlin bit his lip anxiously, his mind frantically trying to come up with an excuse, but his mind couldn’t conjure up anything other than the truth, which was in part hard to believe and incredibly embarrassing.

Saying “I wanted to be marked as Arthur’s” to his father in everything but blood was mortifying and just… gross.

“Awhile ago,” Merlin mumbled, unsure of how to proceed, or if to even proceed at all.

“Merlin, this must be new,” Gaius said slowly, moving so that he was facing Merlin, and his stare was so intense it made Merlin swallow nervously. “I treated you just a few weeks ago, and this was not there.”

Merlin swallowed nervously, completely forgetting about the pain in his chest as anxiety took over. “I… I can’t tell you about it right now,” Merlin said slowly, forgetting how hard it was to lie to Gaius. “It’s… I have to ask someone about something first, and then I’ll tell you.”

“Merlin,” Gaius started impatiently, but Merlin interrupted.

“Please, just trust me on this,” he said imploringly, hoping that Gaius could see how serious he was. “Please.”

Gaius pursed his lips, eyes darting over Merlin’s pallid face, before nodding. “Alright. But I expect an answer soon, Merlin.”

“And you’ll get one,” he said, looking away. He picked at his trousers, feeling slightly miserable. He hated lying. “Can you… can you please wrap my ribs? Arthur’s going to be coming back soon and I don’t… I don’t want him seeing it.”

Gaius sighed, before nodding grimly. He grabbed the roll of cloth bandages and started to wrap them around Merlin’s middle, making sure they weren’t too tight. “Arthur doesn’t know, then?”

Merlin shook his head, still picking at his trousers. “Arthur would probably freak out if he saw it. That, or his head would grow three sizes bigger, and we don’t need that.”

Gaius huffed a laugh, and Merlin’s mouth quirked into a smile.

The physician was tightening the bandages when there was a bang on the door, a muffled curse, and then Arthur strode through, looking beyond pissed.

Merlin smiled at him, a quip on his tongue, but all humor died as soon as soon as he saw that Arthur was clutching at his left bicep, and that the sleeve of his red tunic was stained dark with blood.

Panic rose in Merlin so fast it left him lightheaded, and he made a strangled noise of alarm as he saw Arthur’s face contort in pain.

“What happened, sire?” Gaius asked, rushing over to the prince, who sat down on one of the wooden chairs.

“Aredian,” he ground out, removing his hand from the wound, and when Merlin saw that it was covered in blood, his lungs constricted as the air rushed out of them. “He had a dagger in his boot. I bent down to pick up the key and he got my arm.”

Gaius peeled back Arthur’s cut tunic and examined the wound, his lips pursing in thought. “It’s not very deep, but I need to wash it out to prevent infection. I’ll get you a bandage.”

“I got lucky,” Arthur said as Gaius wet a cloth with water. “I saw Aredian move, so I moved as well. If I hadn’t, he would have gotten my throat.”

Merlin choked back a whimper, panic rising until it choked him, leaving him unable to breathe. He felt lightheaded as he saw part of the white cloth turn red with Arthur’s blood, his mind spiraling as the thought of losing Arthur again, after just getting him back.

He couldn’t lose Arthur a second time. He just wouldn’t survive it.

“Merlin, have you never seen blood before? You look like you’re about to faint!” Arthur groused from across the room, and Merlin sucked in a breath, wincing when it hurt.

“Prat,” Merlin said breathlessly, trying to regain control of himself. “What was it that you said to me before you left? Oh right, ‘just because you couldn’t take Aredian doesn’t mean I can’t,’” Merlin mimicked, falling into the banter easily, despite his heart’s continued racing.

“It was a surprise attack!” Arthur shot back. “It was completely dishonorable! I could take Aredian in combat any day.”

“Whatever you say, sire,” Merlin placated as Gaius finished wrapping Arthur’s arm. The prince stood haughtily, his face pulled into a scowl but his blue eyes light and happy. He tossed Merlin something small and silver, and the sorcerer caught it smoothly. When he saw it was the key, he immediately unlocked the cuffs, letting them fall to the ground with a thud.

His magic rushed back to him, washing over him light a warm ocean wave. He resisted the urge to sigh in contentment—being cut off from his magic was extremely unpleasant.

“Heal fast, Merlin,” Arthur said, turning and heading for the door. “You’ve got an afternoon in the stocks waiting for you once you’ve recovered.”

Merlin made a noise of protest, but Arthur was already gone, closing the wooden door behind him.

Chapter Text

The moon was high in the sky when Merlin left his room that night.

The physician’s chambers were bathed in the same pale light that Merlin’s was, and he sneaked past a slumbering, snoring Gaius, careful not to wake the man.

Merlin shut the door to the physicians chambers, making sure that the door didn’t make any noise as it closed, and was immediately greeted with the biting cold of the castle.

He made his way down the stairs, pulling his cloak more over himself to keep warm. The garment was thin and frayed,  but Merlin had casted a heating spell on it before he left his room, ensuring his comfort. It was frivolous, reckless magic, and it could very well get him killed, but Merlin was an excellent liar. He could get his way out of pretty much anything—a warm cloak was easy enough to explain.

He winced as he turned his body the wrong way, one hand escaping his cloak to press against his bandaged chest. He was still short of breath and hurting from breaking three ribs, but his magic was helping siphon off some of the pain. Even though he was a master of most magics in the world, healing magic was something he still struggled with. Gaius had told him that the ability to heal with magic was something naturally given, and those who weren’t born to posses the skill would struggle with even the most minor healing spells.

Merlin, of course, was the exception, as he was the exception to most things magical, but most of his healing spells were mediocre and slow acting. He was better at healing abrasions and cuts rather than sicknesses, which he learned the hard way back in the fifteenth century, when Europe was decimated by plague.

The stairs down to the dungeon were dimly lit and unoccupied, and even though he had yet to see a guard, he knew there would be many when he got closer to his destination. Uther always had the magical prisoners more heavily guarded anyway, and due to Aredian’s demonstration in the throne room, he would undoubtedly be swarmed by knights.

Merlin encountered his first guard at the entrance to the dungeons, right at the bottom of the stairs. He looked up when Merlin entered, but before he could say a word or even reach for his sword, he was unconscious, falling gently to the floor. Merlin stepped over him, his eyes still glowing a pale gold.

He walked through a door, resisting the urge to blast it open, before walking down another spiral staircase down to where the first cells were. There was a group of guards drinking at a table, all clad in chain mail, swords attached to their hips. They all stood when Merlin reached the bottom of the stairs, their hands flying to the hilts of their swords.

They were unconscious in seconds, all falling to the floor, unharmed but fast asleep. Merlin turned down the corridor, going deeper into the dungeons.

Any guard he saw, he sent peacefully into unconsciousness with a simple look, letting his magic run through him freely for the first time since he’d been back in Camelot. It was a heady feeling, feeling his magic flow through him, and he never wanted it to stop.

The cell he was looking for came into view, and he pulled his hood so that his face wasn’t visible, keeping his head down as he approached.

The moon threw beams of light onto the hard stone floor of the dungeons, flooding the small cell and the space before it in silvery translucent light, contrasting against the darkness of the rest of the area. Merlin stepped into the shadows, making his steps purposefully loud.

Aredian had been sitting against the wall when Merlin approached, but when he heard the sound of footsteps, he jerked his head up, scanning the partial darkness until his eyes fell onto Merlin.

“Who’s there?” he asked sharply, his voice grating against Merlin’s ears, and the rage he had been suppressing ever since he saw the wound on Arthur’s arm overtook him, and he stepped into the light, his eyes flashing a brilliant gold.

Aredian got to his feet quickly, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there at his belt, and Merlin threw his hand out in one motion, magic flowing down his arm and out through his fingertips.

Aredian slammed into the stone wall of his cell with a thud, thrown back by a powerful wave of magic. Merlin drew his fingers back into a powerful fist, and Aredian yelped, falling onto the ground and convulsing in pain.

Merlin watched as Aredian writhed on the ground, feeling no remorse as the man pulled on his skin in agony. The spell he was using was a powerful, cruel one— it was meant to create the sensation of burning on ones skin without actually doing so, and was excruciatingly painful. While it did no physical damage, it was enough to leave you whimpering in phantom pain for hours after the spell had worn off. Merlin had it used on him a few times, each one more unpleasant than the last.

Merlin let the spell last a few seconds more, before he loosened his fist, letting his eyes turn back to their normal blue. Aredian stopped his convulsions, stilling on the floor, panting heavily.

Merlin raised two fingers and slashed them upwards, and Aredian raised from his heap on the stone, his motions fluid and unnatural, like a puppet. Merlin pulled his hand back in one quick motion, and Aredian flew towards the bars of the cage, slamming against them forcefully with a cry of pain.

The witchfinder fell to his knees, staring up at Merlin, his blonde hair a mess and his eyes full of primal fear, his pupils dilated. “I—”

“Do not speak,” Merlin growled dangerously, his eyes flaring gold. Aredian’s mouth clamped shut, his teeth clicking together audibly.

Merlin clenched and unclenched his jaw before speaking again in the same dangerous tone, “Let me tell you some things, Aredian,” he murmured, malice dripping from his words. “You better listen closely, better burn my words into your brain, better learn them so well that you’ll be able to recite them once I’m done, and maybe if you do, I’ll let you live.”

Aredian visibly swallowed, his eyes so wide they looked like they were about to pop out from their sockets. His mouth was still glued shut by Merlin’s spell, but he gave a shaky, terrified nod in response.

“You’ve made some big mistakes, Aredian, and the first of which was coming to Camelot. It is under my protection, it has always been under my protection, ever since I stepped foot in it, and it will be until I take my last breath.

“Your second mistake was thinking you could arrest me like some common criminal, when my magic is more powerful than you can imagine. Your third mistake was to beat me like an animal and lock me up in iron cuffs. But all of those could be forgiven—they are just blunders, missteps,” Merlin stepped closer to the cell, and Aredian tried to escape backwards, but he was still held in place by the enchantment. Merlin loomed over him, his face a cold mask. “But do you know what your fourth mistake was? The mistake that I should kill you for?”

Aredian visibly trembled, his eyes growing impossibly wider. His face was so white, he looked seconds away from passing out.

“You hurt Arthur,” Merlin said in a deadly whisper. “You made him bleed, nearly slit his throat. And one thing you should know about me, Aredian, is that Arthur’s life is the most important thing in the world to me, and you nearly ended it with a dagger. You’re lucky you weren’t successful—I would have taken you apart, atom by atom, and right before you died, I would rebuild you and do it over again.”

Aredian’s breaths wheezed in and out of his lungs, lips trembling, and Merlin took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

“This is what I’m going to do,” Merlin said slowly, quietly. “I’m not going to kill you. No, I’m going to let you live, for as long as Uther Pendragon lets you. That shouldn’t be long, however—he thinks you’re a sorcerer. Once they’re found out, they only live for another sunrise before they’re burnt on the pyre,” he took another breath, forcing down the anger. “However, if you so much as look at Arthur Pendragon again, it will be your permanent end.”

Aredian nodded frantically, before sagging to the ground when Merlin lifted the enchantment. The Witchfinder took great, gulping breaths, his whole body shaking.

The sorcerer turned his back, shaking his head in disgust. “Heed my words, Aredian. I better not see you ever again.”

Merlin walked away from the cell, ignoring how shaky his hands were, how it felt like his stomach had been hollowed out.

—

The caves beneath the castle were even colder than its corridors.

Merlin pulled his cloak tighter over his shoulders, resisting the urge to shiver. His legs were icy underneath his thin trousers, his feet frigid in his boots. His hands were warm, as was his torso, but the cold nipped at his face and his nose, making it run.

He was still shaky from his confrontation with Aredian, and guilt was starting to overtake the rage. He shouldn’t have used that spell. He shouldn’t have even gone to see the man in the first place.

But he had hurt Arthur. He had made him bleed, had attempted to end his life. He couldn’t let that stand.

He had been down in the caverns below the castle many times before, but the last time had been twelve-hundred years ago, so he had to stop several times to make sure he knew where he was going, for there were several paths, most leading to dead ends and only one leading to where Uther Pendragon kept his deadliest possession.

He took a sharp left, walking up a rocky incline, before the path dumped him out at his destination—a rock cliff, overlooking a large cavern. The large subterranean area appeared empty to the untrained eye, but Merlin knew better.

He shut his eyes, inhaling deeply, and tapped into powers that had been dormant for a millennium.

“Kilgharrah,” He spoke in the tongue of the Dragonlords, the gift that was passed down to him through his father running through his veins.

Immediately, there was movement. The cavern shuddered as the Great Dragon flew down from his perch and onto a rock formation, his wings flapping as he gracefully came to a stop.

“Old friend,” Merlin acknowledged with a smile, bowing his head.

Kilgharrah peered at him with his great, golden eyes. “Who are you?” he asked eventually in his deep timbre, and Merlin’s eyebrows shot up.

“You can tell I’m different, then?”

“I can tell that you’re not the same warlock that I saw a few weeks ago,” Kilgharrah responded, confused but intrigued. “You’re older. More powerful by far. Not to mention that you’ve inherited your gift, though Balinor remains alive.”

Merlin stared into the eyes of the Dragon. “What about the future, then? Can you tell me anything about that?”

Kilgharrah shook his head. “No, young warlock. I am no Seer.”

“My destiny.” Merlin felt like he couldn’t breathe, desperately needing to know if there was even a chance he could change things. “What about that?”

“Your destiny remains the same, no matter who you are,” Kilgharrah said easily. “In fact, I’d say it was destiny that led you back to this time.”

Merlin gritted his teeth. Destiny. He was tired of destiny. He wanted to make his own path, one that meant Morgana didn’t have to be evil and Arthur would be alive. “It wasn’t destiny,” Merlin spat, angry at the continued riddles. “It was an enchanted dagger. I was in the seventeenth century, and now here I am. Destiny has caused me nothing but trouble for centuries, and I am through with hearing about it.”

Kilgharrah cocked his head. “There is more rage in you then there was before. More anger, more hurt.”

“Yeah, well,” Merlin scoffed, looking down and kicking a stone. “The last millennium hasn’t exactly been pleasant.”

“Indeed. Though, underneath that anger, you have heart,” Kilgharrah told him. “You are still good, Merlin, you are still light—though it has been dimmed with sorrow.”

In that moment, Merlin felt especially guilty for torturing Aredian. He swallowed. “Mm,” he acknowledged, trying not to show how much he desperately wanted Kilgharrah to be right.

“Now, about that promise you made me,” Kilgharrah said, and there was a note in his voice that wasn’t there before. “Do you plan on keeping it, or are you going to leave me down here, now that you know what I plan to do?”

Merlin’s eyes flashed. “You will not set fire to Camelot,” he ordered, and Kilgharrah immediately bowed under the force of his command. “It is under my protection.”

Kilgharrah remained in a submissive state, not looking up when he answered. “You have commanded me, and so it shall be.”

Merlin regarded him. “I wish to be civil with you, Kilgharrah. I understand your dislike of Camelot and her current laws, but it will not be like this for long. Arthur’s time is near.”

“Indeed, it would seem that way.”

Merlin observed the chains keeping Kilgharrah shackled to the floor of the cavern and making a decision. He muttered an incantation, and they fell off of the dragon’s limbs with a loud clang. “You’re free,” Merlin told him in his native language, before switching. “You will leave Camelot untouched. Find somewhere to hide that Uther’s men won’t find you. I’ll call for you when I need you.”

Kilgharrah bowed once more. “I thank you, young warlock, for your generosity and kindness. We will meet again soon.”

With that, Kilgharrah lifted his great wings and flew out of the cavern and into the first moments of his freedom, and Merlin watched him go, a small smile on his face.

He turned to leave and winced when his ribs twinged, successfully reminding him that he wasn’t recovered from the beatings he received from Aredian. With a sigh, he started the long trek back to Gaius’ chambers, intent on finally getting some sleep.

Chapter Text

The following morning, before the sunlight casted its feeble light on the citadel, Aredian escaped from his cell. The guards didn’t see him go, Gaius told him. No one knew how he did it. It was as if he disappeared out of thin air.

“Father blames sorcery,” Arthur said, pensive, casting his gaze over the deconstruction of the pyre. The servants took it apart, piece by piece. “He says that Aredian must have escaped using magic.”

Merlin pursed his lips, mood darkening further. After receiving the news, he’d gone into the forest under the guise of gathering herbs and stuck his fingers in the hard ground, casting his magic through the fine roots arching and intwining beneath the dying grass. He located Aredian within minutes, stumbling through wet autumn leaves, barefoot. He moved with the desperation of a dying man, tripping over himself in his haste to get away.

Merlin could kill him. Could snap a tree branch around his neck and stop his breath. But it was cold—as cold as autumn has ever gotten, with frost coating the ground and the wind piercing through his coat. The elements will take care of Aredian.

“Despite evidence pointing to the contrary,” Merlin murmured, “I don’t think Aredian has magic.”

Arthur stood quiet to his right. Below, one of the servants wrenched a large piece of lumber from the pyre. It fell to the flagstones with a bang, echoing off the castle walls.

“I’m glad he ran.” Arthur said, words nearly lost in the bustle below. “It saves me from watching a man burn.”

Merlin squinted at him, at his stony face and stormy eyes, the flat set to his lips. A foreign ache pulsed in Merlin’s chest;. it was one of those days.

 Days in which Arthur seemed to drown beneath all that he was, all that he could be. Where he’d suffocate beneath his robes and tunics, seek comfort in the biting cold of his armor, the burn of lactic acid in his muscles. It was a characteristic of a much older Arthur, one burdened with the weight of kingship, the madness of his father and sister. One that Merlin buried a millennium ago, whose body turned cold and stiff in Merlin’s arms. One whose destiny was unfulfilled, and would forever remain that way.

Would the other Arthur ever come back? Or was this him rising again, twenty-one instead of thirty-one, prince instead of king? Memory wiped clean, an empty slate to fill with new experiences, new perils. Maybe his time with Arthur would be cut even shorter, this time. Maybe he’d only get a few precious months with him before he was cruelly stolen away and the wait begun, once again.

He’s here, now, Merlin reminded himself as he watched a servant scamper across the courtyard. He’s right next to you, alive. You can hear his breaths, the beat of his heart.

“How are your ribs?”

Merlin’s eyes jumped to Arthur’s face. “What?”

“Your ribs, Merlin. You’re breathing strangely. Did Gaius give you something for them?”

Merlin glanced away, embarrassed. “They’re alright. Gaius worked his wonders.”

“Good.” Arthur turned to him. “You’re released from your duties for the next two days.”

Merlin blanched. “Sire?”

“Someone else can attend to me in the meantime.”

“That’s not necessary—”

“Merlin.” Arthur fixed him with a stern glare. “You were beaten senseless by a man my father hired. This is simple repayment for damages. Take the offering while it still stands.”

Merlin didn’t want the offering, but he knew Arthur wouldn’t budge. He likely figured he was benevolent, giving Merlin time off, when all Merlin wanted was to exist in his golden shadow.

“You are much too generous, sire,” Merlin murmured, injecting just enough sarcasm into his tone, “to grant me reprieve from washing your back and mucking out your stables for forty-eight hours.”

A toothy-smile unfurled on Arthur’s face, the heaviness in his expression lightening for the briefest moment. His hand came up and rustled Merlin’s hair, his bulky rings catching on some of the strands and tugging lightly. Merlin was reminded awfully of Arthur’s last moments, of unfocused eyes and clumsy fingers in his hair, the scratch of his leather gloves against his scalp.

Merlin swallowed down the emotions, forming his stiff cheeks into a vague impression of a smile. Arthur’s grin faded into a bemused expression, his hand falling to his side.

“Rest up,” he said, walking away. “It’ll be the last day off you get in awhile.”

Merlin watched him go, observing the sway of his hips, the confidence in his gait. His broad shoulders, the muscles in his back moving beneath his crimson tunic.

 He wondered when it would stop hitting him that he was back in Camelot, that Arthur was alive. Maybe he’d never get used to it—maybe in a decade, he’d wake up to Arthur and still be shocked, still have to reach out and touch him to be sure he wasn’t dreaming.

It’d only been less than a week, Merlin realized as he turned to watch the servants below again. Just days ago, he lived in that shack by the lake, spending his days choking on his own sorrow, his mind a flickering mirage of his own failures.

Merlin shivered and looked out at Arthur’s kingdom, at the best home he’d known. Smoke rose from stone chimneys, ghosting past thatched roofs and colorful trees to dissipate into the cloudy morning. Murmured conversation floated up to meet him as people mulled about, small blotches on his vision. A northern wind kissed his face, caressed his cheeks and howled in his ears as if to say welcome back.

Merlin laughed aloud, throwing his head back and grinning up at the slate sky. Magic pulsed beneath his skin, singing with his joy. He could bend the Earth to his whim, could flood the land and flatten mountains, but he was content to stay here, in this place, in this moment, forever.

Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. His gaze snapped to it—a faint shift in one of the windows, imperceptible. A second later, Morgana pressed herself against the glass and gazed down at the deconstructed pyre, unrest in her face, her eyes.

Merlin’s pulse jumped, unease settling in his stomach. Gone was his boundless joy. All of his problems were back, and they took the shape of an untrained, mistreated, powerful witch.

#

Morgana was a mystery Merlin had yet to solve.

Even in his infinite musings over the long centuries, he’d yet to come to a conclusion about her. The dark to his light, Kilgharrah told him. The hatred to his love.

Fear, he realized as he stole down the stone steps, uncertainty a dark cloud over his head. Fear was her motivator, was what opened her soul to Morgause’s manipulations. Fear and loneliness.

For years, she lived beneath Uther’s thumb, watching sorcerers like herself scream as the flames licked their skin from their skeletons. It made sense why she turned to Morgause—someone who understood what it was like to live in fear.

Maybe Morgana just needed a friend. Someone who understood what it was like to hide.

So Merlin went down to the armory and fetched a rag, a bottle of polish, and Arthur’s pauldron. Then, he made his way back up to the east wing, sat in a secluded nook, and let the pauldron polish itself while he pretended to read a book.

He cast his feelings out, finding Morgana with ease. She descended the stairs leading up to her tower and traveled down the left corridor, en route to where Merlin sat, creating a display of magic use more frivolous than he’d performed in centuries.

 He bounced his knee in trepidation, the words of his book blurring before his golden eyes as he felt her presence draw nearer. Soon, he heard the faint click of her slippers. His stomach twisted.

A sharp gasp. The ceasing of movement. Merlin’s head jerked up and molten gold met ice blue, both with eyes wide.

The pauldron dropped with a clang. The polish bottle shattered upon the stone.

Merlin shot to his feet and pulled his magic in tight. Morgana took a step back.

“I can explain,” Merlin said in a rush, hands spread wide.

“You have magic,” Morgana whispered.

Merlin winced. A range of emotions played on Morgana’s face—shock, awe, upset—before it settled on unbridled anger.

“You have magic,” Morgana’s words trembled, “and you kept it from me.”

Merlin flinched, keeping his gaze down in the face of her rage. He twisted his fingers together, hunching his shoulders to paint the perfect picture of deference.

“All this time I’ve suffered.” She spat the word as if it were poison. “And you’ve been here all along. Hiding. Allowing me to be frightened of myself and feel as if I’m going mad—”

“Morgana.” Merlin spoke to the ground, arms wrapped around himself. “Please allow me to explain myself.”

“Yes,” Morgana said, bordering hysteria. “I do think that’s in order!”

“I come from a land in which sorcery is not banned.” Merlin raised his gaze, morphing his expression into one of guilt. “I’ve been practicing magic long before I arrived in Camelot. Some habits are… hard to break.”

Morgana’s face changed. “You were not born with it?”`

“Most are not born with magic, Morgana. I practice—practiced—it.”

“You must be mad to practice magic in Camelot.”

“Have you seen the amount of chores Arthur gives me? I’d never sleep if I did it all by hand.”

Morgana became incredulous. “You use magic to do your chores?”

Merlin winced. “No?”

“Maybe Arthur was right about you,” Morgana whispered. “Maybe you are a fool.”

“I use magic as it’s meant to be used. As a tool, nothing more.”

Morgana frowned. “But there’s such power, such propensity for evil—“

“Magic is like a fine sword, or a sharp axe.” Merlin cut through her, harsh. “It can pierce through skin and sinew, yes. But it can also slice meat, can chop wood. It is not good or bad, it just is.”

Morgana stared at him with parted lips. Merlin inhaled deeply, struggling to rebuild his facade.

“Teach me,” she breathed.

He stiffened. “What?”

“I want to learn.” She took a step forward, hands clenching on his forearms. “Please. Tell me how to use this for good.”

“I don’t know much,” Merlin admitted. “Only simple spells.”

“Anything is better than nothing. Please, Merlin.” She grasped his hand in hers, tugging it to her chest. “Please. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”

Merlin swallowed. “Alright. I’ll…I’ll teach you what I know.”

She released a great breath, as if all of her burdens had been lifted at once. Within the depths of her eyes sat undying trust, burning incandescently blue. It made Merlin shift, guilty. “When do we start?”

“Not right now.” Merlin cast a wary gaze down the corridor. “Give me a few days.”

“Alright.” Morgana released his hand, taking a step back. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Merlin sighed. “Magic’s illegal. Not that I think you’re untrustworthy, Morgana, it’s just…”

“I understand.” And it sounded like she did. A part of Merlin was shocked at how well this was going—almost entirely according to plan. A beat passed, and then, “Does Arthur know that you practice magic?”

Panic—raw, unfeigned panic—struck Merlin fast. “What? No!”

Her eyes widened at the sharpness of his tone, and he took a slow breath. “Arthur can’t know about my magic. You have to promise me that, Morgana.”

“I promise,” she said, and the words rang with sincerity. “I would never let him execute you, Merlin.“

“Arthur wouldn’t—“ He swallowed, abruptly nauseous, because would Arthur execute him? Would he fasten Merlin to the pyre and let flames engulf his body, peering down from his perch with eyes colder than the darkest winter?

He couldn’t think about it. It was far too horrifying. “Thank you.”

“What are friends for?” Morgana smiled, and temporary guilt closed Merlin’s throat, made his stomach ache.

He bit it back and gave her the best smile he could muster.