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He didn't think twice before letting the flurry of words spill from his mouth. Didn't think about the fact that Arthur was right there, sword very in hand should he decide he need it. All Merlin could see was the mass of arrows headed the King's way and he thought, not on my watch.
"Gestillan!"
The bolts stopped not an inch away from Arthur before falling to the ground. He stared at them, tense. The bandits fled at—Merlin assumed—the open display of magic, stumbling backwards through the bushes. Neither man stopped them. The gold bled from Merlin's eyes as his actions caught up to him, and he almost keeled over as the weight of what he'd just done swept over him. He didn't dare breathe.
Arthur turned. The coldness in his eyes made Merlin's stomach curl uncomfortably.
"You're a sorcerer." It wasn't a question, he knew what he'd seen; Merlin couldn't lie his way out of this one.
Merlin swallowed audibly, the noise sounding all-too loud in the tense quiet. He nodded, eyes downcast. "I was born with it."
"Impossible," the King immediately dismissed. His grip was firm on the hilt of his sword, the leather of his gloves pulled taught. Merlin was sure he'd leave an indent. "You've betrayed me."
Merlin frantically shook his head, eyes glassy with tears. This wasn't how this was supposed to happen. "Arthur, please, I swear. I can't help it. It's part of me; I am magic."
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "And I'm supposed to take your word for it—the word of a sorcerer?"
Merlin's chest ached at the way he spat the word out as if it was something filthy. But he didn't miss the pure, unadulterated hurt in Arthur's eyes, the weary crinkle to the corners of his eyes, and the sight of it hit nearly twice as hard. "I'm sorry," he choked out. "It was only for you, Arthur, only for you. Please, I could never harm you—"
"Shut up!" Arthur seethed, closing the distance between them, sword still in hand. Merlin fought not to back away, breath catching in his throat. "You're a liar and a traitor. You've committed treason, Merlin."
Merlin opened his mouth to talk, to defend himself, but Arthur beat him to it and the words died on his lips. "Kneel."
The warlock looked up, meeting Arthur's eyes and seeing the thinly veiled pain, the betrayal, the anger. His gaze flicked anxiously to the sword in the King's hand and back again. Voice shaking, he asked, "What?"
His tone booked no room for argument. "On your knees."
Heart pounding against his ribs and limbs about ready to collapse under him, Merlin dropped to his knees. His breath was shallow and ragged. He'd never been so scared.
In all his years in Camelot, he'd constructed a multitude of different scenarios of Arthur finding out about his magic. He'd dreaded the moment from the very start, had been kept up at night thinking about it, dreaming of soot-clogged lungs and rope-burned skin. He'd never let himself imagine that Arthur would accept him—hoped for it, but never fully indulged himself in the belief. One thing he had adamantly refused to believe in, however, was that Arthur would kill him for it. Banish him, maybe, but not kill him.
He flinched as the cool metal of Arthur's blade kissed his throat. The edges were sharp (Merlin vividly remembered running the wetstone along them just last night, a careful and meticulous process that he took great care with, Arthur lounging in the chair across from him with various documents as they sat in a comfortable silence), cutting into his skin with even the lightest of pressure. Blood beaded along the shallow cut, trickling down his throat before soaking into the worn fabric of his neckerchief. A taste of what was to come.
He closed his eyes tightly, wondering if maybe he willed it hard enough this could all have just been another dream.
Whispered apologies slipped from his lips; He begged and pleaded, swore to everything he could think of that he was telling the truth, he was born with it, he would never hurt him, please don't kill me until he ran out of breath, could do nothing but pant in harsh, gasping breaths, shoulders shaking.
"I trusted you."
He hardly heard the words over the tattoo of his frantic heartbeat, soft as they were. Arthur's voice was quiet, almost hesitant, the openness and vulnerability of it tugging at Merlin's heart.
"All those years, Merlin. It was always you. I really thought—"
Merlin looked up at him then, vision swimming with tears, a steady stream down his cheeks. Arthur cut himself off, shaking his head. He looked irritated with himself for letting his guard down, shifted, reasserting his grip on his sword. Merlin bit his lip at the sting, lowering his eyes. He did this to Arthur. He hurt him.
He fought a flinch as the flat of the sword knocked his chin ever so slightly, tilting it upwards. "Look at me." His gaze travelled slowly up, across the jaw that was dusted with stubble (Merlin automatically flitted through Arthur's schedule for a moment to shave it once again), over his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose before he hesitantly met Arthur's eyes—they were cold and calculating but still swamped with hurt—, trying to stop the quivering of his lip. "You made me do this."
It took everything in him not to tear his gaze away from Arthur's. The word's cut through him, ripping at his heart and making his stomach roll so violently he thought he might choke it up and out of his mouth. His lips went white with how hard he held them together, trying to hold back a choking sob. He shook his head minutely, wanting to explain himself, wanting Arthur to listen.
Tears cut rivers down the path of his cheekbones, welling under his chin. Some distant part of himself, the part that wasn't choked and dizzy with panic, scoffed at the thought that he was about to lose his life because this prat, for all Merlin's effort, still hadn't learned how to listen to others and not throw tantrums in his anger. He almost laughed at the thought—hysterical and ugly—but bit his cheek instead, teeth just short of cutting into the soft flesh there.
Arthur breathed harshly through his nose, eyes narrowed dangerously. His eyes bore into Merlin's as though searching for something, a way out of this. Merlin hoped he found it.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment. "Answer me something," he said evenly. Merlin wondered how his voice had not trembled once this entire time, but the King had always been stronger than him.
"Anything," he said, meaning it.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
He didn't even need to think about it, knew the answer like it was part of him, had repeated it like a maddening litany so many times over the years, if only to spare himself the slightest shred of guilt for hiding something so monumental from Arthur, from his King.
(It never worked, but Merlin was drowning in the guilt already, clinging to the closest bits of rubble he could find in the vicious, unrelenting storm that was his mind)
"I couldn't do that to you," he said, voice thick with tears but steady for the first time since the bandits had attacked. His eyes never left Arthur's. "I couldn't put you in that position."
Arthur looked at him, really looked at him, and Merlin thought he saw the slightest hints of apprehension in his cerulean gaze. It was gone before he could be sure.
"Were you ever going to tell me?"
"I wanted to," he answered, subtly dodging the question but knowing Arthur would notice anyway. Arthur did always call him a coward.
He nodded stiffly, catching the carefully worded 'no, not if it could be avoided.' His grip on his sword shifted again, the quiet crinkle of leather on leather reaching Merlin's ears. Goosebumps prickled under his skin.
A gloved hand reached behind Merlin's head, thumbing at his neckerchief. Deft fingers undid the messy knot, letting the cloth slip from his neck. Merlin shuddered, confused, as the cold leather of Arthur's glove grazed his nape in the barest of touches before leaving, neckerchief in hand. Merlin spotted the dried dribbles of blood that still lingered on it from just minutes earlier; he'd worn his blue neckerchief today, and the rust-red of his blood stood out against the faded blue. The sight made him sick to his stomach—the sight of his blood drawn from Arthur's sword—and suddenly the situation felt so much more real. His chest rose and fell in tandem with his panicked breathing.
Arthur tucked the neckerchief into his belt before turning back to Merlin, jaw set. Through his confusion, Merlin recognised the look, had seen it a thousand times over; He'd worn the same look when they faced the Great Dragon, and when he'd pulled Excalibur from its hold in the stone and– when he'd fought Uther after finding out the true circumstances of his birth. It was a look of grim determination, and it was that that told Merlin he would not make it out of this alive.
So lost in his thoughts, Merlin hardly felt it at first, the swift drag of Arthur's sword through his throat. But then it began to burn and he couldn't possibly ignore it if he tried. He sucked in a breath, the blood clogging his throat, choking him, filling his lungs. He vaguely registered Arthur stepping back, re-establishing the distance between them, the edges of his sword painted red.
Merlin lifted an unsteady hand to the gaping wound in a fruitless attempt to slow the rush of blood. His body crumpled and he landed on his back, the physician in him screaming nonono turn your head, get off your back, you'll choke, you'll choke, you'll choke but any attempt at moving sent white hot pain through his bones and he let out an awful, garbled scream at the sensation. Blood pooled at the back of his throat before he coughed it up, gagging on it. It spilled from the crease of his lips, colouring his cheeks and jaw a vibrant crimson wash and sinking into the plush dirt beneath him.
He blinked rapidly, eyes stinging as he fought to let some air into his lungs. Harsh, grating sounds were pulled from him with each failed gasping breath, wet and terrible and it hurt so much, it hurt, it hurt, it felt like it would never end, he just wanted to go home, to have Gaius check him over like it was any old bruise and cuff him over the head and call him an idiot but they'd both laugh and he'd be safe, he'd be warm and safe and it wouldn't hurt anymore andpleasehejustdoesntwantittohurtanymore.
His ears were ringing, loud and disorienting. His lungs were on fire, filled to the brim with blood, burning from the lack of oxygen. His head was pounding and his veins pulsed uncomfortably in time with the now sluggish pull of blood from his throat. The pain dragged him under, swallowed him whole. He thought Arthur's eyes looked a little red-rimmed and glassy, but his skull was stuffed with cotton and his vision began to blur and darken around the edges and the thought slipped from his mind like sand through his fingers.
And as Arthur turned to leave, wiping his sword clean on the grass beneath him with a cold detachedness that would've hurt like hell had Merlin even been half aware of his surroundings, his thoughts strayed to Gaius and his mother; What would Arthur tell them? Who would send his mother money to keep her on her feet when he was gone? Who would gather herbs for Gaius to spare his joints the pain? Who would look after the old man, make sure he didn't run himself to the ground because as much as he told Merlin to take care of himself, he did a laughable job of it himself?
Would his friends miss him? Or would the truth of what he was, what he'd done pull at the strings of their friendship and turn them bitter, make them hate him? Would Gwaine find someone else to drag him from the tavern at ungodly times of night and listen to his sad, drunken ramblings about his father and how he missed him and how he sometimes thought of running away from Camelot, from the responsibility because it scared him, being so close and so fond of so many people? Would it even make a difference to him?
Would Gwen, sweet Gwen, find another servant with better taste and hand-eye coordination to sew and make flower crowns and laugh at nobles with? Would she be glad for the change?
Surely Elyan could find someone else to congratulate him on each new sword or set of armour he made at the forge—Leon seemed a good candidate for the job, what with his fascination with weapons that he'd let slip to Merlin that one day (Merlin could never manage to retain much of the information, but the look of wonder and glee on Leon's face as he talked of the different mechanisms and uses of crossbows and spears and the like would always make it worthwhile), and now that he thought about it would Leon find someone else for that too?
Would Percival give someone, anyone else those not-so-gentle-but-he-tried shoves and claps on the shoulder? Did they ever mean as much to him as they did to Merlin?
And surely Lancelot would be glad for the weight off his shoulders now that he needn't carry Merlin's burdens with him—all while running the risk of being hung for treason should he be caught. He didn't need Merlin, didn't need his troubles or to be tangled in his ridiculous, complicated web of lies and deceit and magic and betrayal. He was a good man, a noble man, deserved better than that, better than Merlin.
And Arthur. Arthur Arthur Arthur. Would he find a new servant? Would he put up with George without complaint because anyone would be better than him, than a sorcerer? Would he even think of him? Remember him? Would anyone?
Tears slipped from his eyes, still, as he realised he'd never again wake to Gaius' tinkering in the other room or the birds singing outside his window or hold his mother and breathe her in, that sweet smell of flowers and herbs and the wind, and it'd been far too long since he last saw her and he missed her so much and would she miss him? He'd never laugh as Gwaine flicked his hair in a mockery of some noblewoman that had visited, never feel safe in the hold of Lancelot's warm gaze as he showed him some new spell he'd learned, never finish learning how to braid hair with Gwen or hear her laugh as he tripped over nothing or help her with her chores on the days her father's death weighed on her. He'd never feel Percival or Leon's comforting hands on his shoulder or learn more effective ways to sharpen Arthur's swords from Elyan because he understood how tiresome being a servant could be from Gwen and would help in any way he could. He'd never feel the wind in his hair or see a butterfly or hold a rabbit or look for silly shapes in the clouds or ride a horse or do anything and it scared him because he never realised how much those small things meant to him until they were gone and he'd never get them back, never. Arthur had left him here to rot and there was nothing he could do, couldn't even move or breathe or call for help and he was so scared, so so scared and he didn't want to die, he wasn't ready, please come back, please help me, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please—
But Arthur didn't come back, and Merlin wished he could call the dragon to him, tell him he's an ass, a lying, manipulative, deceitful ass and there'd never be a Golden Age, never, it was always going to be like this, Merlin would always fail, wouldn't he?—always, no matter how hard he tried, there was no way for him to get it right, and that 'a half can never hate that which makes it whole' bullshit was exactly that—bullshit.
Even Emrys could only go so long without air to soothe his desperate lungs, and eventually his heart slowed to a stop, thoughts slipping away with it, hand falling limp at his side, slick with blood, face pale and gaunt and eyes fixed, unseeing, on the trees above him. Dead.
Moss grew over his skin and flowers sprouted from the gash in his neck, roots sewing the broken flesh back together and weaving between bones that no longer ached, his blood dyeing the petals red. It rained that day—it rained and rained and rained, washing away the blood and soaking the dirt beneath him so that he could sink into it, let it encase his lifeless body, safe in the Earth's embrace.
And the wind cried, harsh and cold and unrelenting, because Magic had died.