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The day starts out like any other. Merlin is late in the morning, which means Arthur gets to have the pleasure of laying out every single one of Merlin’s faults and shortcomings before gleefully reminding him of all the work he’ll have to do when they get back from the hunt.
In a perfect world, Arthur would have a servant who didn’t wake up late or do an abysmal job cleaning Arthur’s armour or talk back. In a perfect world Arthur’s servant would have the first clue about tracking, or at least wouldn’t go galumphing through the forest making more noise than Uther’s advisors do when they get into a particularly self-righteous squawk about something.
Arthur gives up after the second hind takes fright and dashes off into the murky green woods.
“Merlin,” he asks wearily, “were you born a noisy, clap-brained idiot or do you have to practice?”
“Still training to be the biggest prat in the kingdom, my lord?” Merlin shoots back, but without his usual smile. On a slightly closer look, yes, Arthur has to admit that Merlin, who is not really known for having any kind of physical stamina or prowess at all, looks a little tired, a bit wan, perhaps, though it might just be the effect of all the leaves and sticks in his ridiculous mop of hair. And yes, maybe they’d pressed on a bit hard today, a bit farther than usual, but still. As Arthur’s manservant, Merlin should be able to keep up on a simple hunt. He really is the worst servant Arthur’s ever had, and if he weren’t so entertaining to watch as he flounders Arthur might consider getting rid of him. But the floundering is, Arthur has to admit, hilarious.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, grinning. “Surely you’re not tired from that little walk in the woods? After all, you had such a nice long lie-in this morning.”
Merlin glares, and it’s only because Arthur is busy watching Merlin and his knights are busy watching Arthur watch Merlin that they all entirely miss the sound of the bandits surrounding them before one of their attackers snaps a branch underfoot and Arthur whirls round, discovering the trap.
Mercenaries out of work, Arthur thinks as he automatically shifts into a crouch, motioning to his knights, and it’s the first time he’s regretted that his father signed the treaty with King Bayard. If they’d gone to war with Mercia, these men would doubtless be off fighting and dying in it, not menacing Arthur’s hunting party.
The bandits are armed, most have at least chain mail shirts on, and all look like they know what they’re doing. Arthur has nothing more protective than his leather coat, though at least he has his sword. He calculates their chances and comes up with slim to nil: perhaps a score of men surround them, and he only has two knights and a bumbling oaf of a servant.
Fate, Arthur decides, must have it in for him.
“Well, well,” says one of the bandits, and Arthur decides he must be the leader because he’s actually got armour on and he’s uglier than the rest of them put together. “A couple of pretty lads out for a walk. Too bad no one ever told them walks can be dangerous, eh, boys?” The other bandits chuckle obligingly, and Arthur pulls himself up proudly.
“Let us go on our way,” he says, his voice cold, “and you may go on yours unharmed.”
The ugly bandit throws back his head and laughs. “Bold words,” he says, his grin showing all of his scraggly black teeth. “But I trust numbers, not words, and you are well and truly surrounded.”
“I am Arthur Pendragon, crown prince and heir to the throne of Camelot,” Arthur says, in a tone both his father and his training master would be proud of. “I tell you it will go ill with you should you try to attack us.”
“Arthur Pendragon,” the leader repeats softly. His eyes go dark, hooded; Arthur feels his attention unwillingly drawn to the scar running from the bandit’s jaw into his hairline and begins to feel the first nigglings of real fear. “Your father had my entire family murdered as they slept. I will take great pleasure in killing you.”
He draws his sword in one smooth, practiced move, and charges. Arthur quickly draws his own sword, shouting commands to Gawain and Kay, his blood thrumming through his veins, and then he is fighting, reveling in the clang and sweat of battle even as fear-bile rises in the back of his throat.
The bandits are too many. He knows this, knows that though Kay and Gawain are brave knights, knows that although he himself has won too many tournaments to count, they cannot win this battle. He gives himself a single moment to grieve for his father and Morgana, for Camelot, before throwing his entire self into the fight. At least, he thinks, these bandits will not take him without loss.
The fight is going about as well as expected when suddenly, irrationally, in the middle of parrying the leader’s calculated thrusts, he thinks of Merlin. He tries to back off, to gain a little room so he can look for the wretched boy – smiling, clumsy, irritatingly endearing Merlin – but his opponent is too skilled. Arthur snatches glances as he fights, hoping to catch a glimpse of that tell-tale red neckerchief and yet praying he won’t see it, praying that Merlin has half the sense God gave to rocks and has managed to escape.
He sees Kay on the ground. There is blood, though he can’t tell how much, and his gut clenches. If Merlin falls, if his broken body is lying somewhere on this godforsaken strip of forest... Arthur’s not sure when his manservant became this important, but it doesn’t matter now because all Arthur knows is that if Merlin is hurt he’s going to kill every pox-ridden bandit in Camelot himself.
He’s looking over the bandit leader’s shoulder for Merlin when he trips over a root, stumbles, falls, somehow losing his grip on his sword. The leader closes in, smiling grimly through the blood on his face, and all Arthur can do is scrabble for his sword with one hand and think inexplicably of Merlin.
He’s preparing himself for the final fatal blow when the ugly bandit jerks back, dropping the sword. His eyes roll back in his head and he grabs at his neck, making horrible choking noises. It takes him an eternity to fall, to stop thrashing his limbs, to stop making wet, gurgling sounds as he tries and fails to breathe.
Hand back firmly on his own sword, Arthur raises his head up cautiously. He knows magic when he sees it, and one sorcerer is probably more dangerous to them than fifty mounted knights.
At first, all he sees is Merlin, standing dead center in the middle of the path like a complete idiot, and he wants to laugh. But Merlin is glowing, throwing so much light it hurts too look at him. His hand is outstretched, he’s speaking strange, guttural words in a commanding tone Arthur didn’t know he was capable of, and whenever he speaks another man dies, legs jerking, clawing at his throat as Merlin watches with calm, weirdly golden eyes.
When the last bandit falls and goes still, Merlin turns and looks at Arthur. His eyes are still gold, shining with a power that makes Arthur’s teeth ache. He takes a trembling step, tries to speak, and collapses, falling facedown into the dirt.
Silence falls heavy on the path. All Arthur can hear is the painful thudding of his own heart and Sir Kay’s soft moans. Arthur shares a bleak, defeated look with Gawain before heaving himself to his feet and looking around, automatically tallying, assessing. Nearly twenty men killed, a knight wounded, blood everywhere, and Merlin in the middle of it all.
Merlin, who he thought he could trust, who he thought trusted in him.
Merlin, who has left him no choice.
“Tie up the sorcerer,” he tells Gawain, his voice a croak. “I’ll see to Kay and find the horses.”
He does not look at the inert body slung over the back of one of the horses as they make their slow way back to Camelot. He can’t.
*
They keep Merlin in the dungeons for nearly a week, partly because Uther wants to use him to root out his associates or fellow sorcerers, and partly because Merlin is weaker than a newborn kitten and couldn’t magic a candle flame, let alone escape.
Two guards have to carry him to the throne room, but he’s still stubbornly Merlin, strong enough to resist Uther’s interrogations even if he can’t stand up.
“When did you first tell Gaius you were a sorcerer?”
“I didn’t,” Merlin says.
“How did you convince the servant Guinevere to help you conceal your powers?” Uther presses.
“I didn’t,” Merlin repeats, his voice flat. He doesn’t meet Arthur’s eyes, and Arthur is furious with himself when he can’t decide whether or not that makes him angry.
Arthur knows that Morgana and Gwen have both been to see Merlin in the dungeons, knows Morgana has been slipping him food and water, but he refuses to go with them when they ask. Gwen’s obviously in love with the idiot even though he’s lied to them, even though he’s a dangerous magician, and Morgana’s always been soft in the head about hopeless cases.
Arthur is different, Arthur is stronger. Merlin betrayed his trust. Merlin is a sorcerer, has used his magic to kill in front of the crown prince, and must pay the price.
No one, Arthur knows, is above the law.
He tries to tell Morgana that much when she confronts him about it, but she’s pigheaded about it as usual.
“I don’t understand you at all,” she says, her eyes flashing. “Merlin saved you, and you’re just going to throw him to the dogs?”
He turns away from her angrily. “He used magic, Morgana. How can I turn a blind eye to that? I can’t play favorites when I’m the king; how can I do it when I’m the prince? If I’m to rule, I can’t put myself above everyone else.”
There is silence after that, and Arthur knows Morgana well enough to know that means she’s beyond furious at him.
“Fine,” she says stiffly. “Do nothing while your manservant dies, while a man who gave up his life to save yours burns in front of you...”
“Enough!” Arthur shouts, wheeling to face her. Don’t you think I know that? he wants to say, but instead he just repeats, more quietly: “Enough.” She is pale with fury, but she doesn’t know what it’s like, being the prince, being Uther’s son, doesn’t know what it’s like to feel guilty because two men are warring for his allegiance where there should rightfully only be one. “Get out,” he says softly, dropping his eyes and turning away again to brace himself of the fireplace – which is dark, because he hasn’t yet brought himself to hire anyone to replace Merlin.
“You truly are your father’s son,” Morgana says tightly, and then in a rustle of fabric she strides out of his chamber, slamming the door behind her.
Arthur slumps into his chair and buries his face in his hands.
*
The day of the execution dawns bright and clear, a perfect summer day to laze around in the sun or go for a hunt. But Arthur hasn’t gone hunting since the day his world went crashing down, and instead of lazing around he’s in his second-best tunic, standing ramrod straight next to his father on the castle ramparts as his former manservant is led out – dragged, really – into the square below.
Merlin looks awful; he is dirty and bruised, probably even scrawnier than usual, too. He’s lost the stupid little neckerchief, but his jacket still has blood on it.
The blood makes Arthur flinch, and his gut rolls unpleasantly. Morgana, curse her, is right in the end. He can’t just stand here and watch Merlin die. He has seen men die by fire before, and he’s not sure he can bear watching Merlin, stupid, careless Merlin, scream.
He turns to his father, waits until Uther has finished reading the charges and the guards are tying Merlin to the stake. “He saved my life,” he says, though in his heart he knows it’s useless. “Should he really be punished for that?”
“The laws of Camelot must be upheld. You know that,” Uther tells him, and Arthur knows his father’s tones and moods well enough to realize that the conversation is over.
Uther raises his hand and Arthur looks toward Merlin as the executioner touches his torch to the dry wood. He grips the stone wall in front of him until it cuts his hand, and Merlin looks up and meets his eyes, steadfast as the fire flares and catches. Arthur holds his gaze, desperate, trembling. He wants to say anything, everything to Merlin, who listened and laughed and gave Arthur as good as he got.
And betrayed, in the end, he thinks, but that doesn’t hold as much importance as it once did, not when the flames are licking hungrily higher and higher and Arthur’s finally realized he can’t actually live without Merlin, because life without Merlin is dull, worthless, colourless and dry as a tomb.
Still looking at Arthur, Merlin nods once and tries to smile but it comes out wrong, twisted around. Arthur leans forward, mouth open in a desperate gasp of breath, and the fire roars up, consuming the pyre completely. He can feel the heat of it on his face, can hear the guards shifting, murmuring uneasily behind him. Uther is smiling in satisfaction; another day, another enemy of Camelot destroyed. It is the duty of a king to eliminate enemies; it must be the duty of a prince as well.
Arthur turns and walks away before the flames burn out, head held high, because a prince cannot show weakness. He walks to his chambers, though afterward he cannot remember how, and bolts the door, because a prince may only show emotion in private.
And when nothing happens, when no one is in his chambers to greet him with a wide grin and a biting comment, Arthur sinks to the floor and crumples, folding himself up, chest heaving with dry, wracking sobs, but the tears don’t come because above all a prince must never cry.