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Merlin gasps painfully. His skin turns ashen every second. He doesn't have a physical wound but his magic gushes like there's a gaping hole in the chest. He will die today.
He has lived surrounded by death. It is an intrinsic part of him-the grief. It lurches like tides on full moons. Most of the time, it has wept for the people of the past or those who are past-saving. It weeps for the present today. He weeps for the past that leads to the unavoidable, predictable circumstances of today.
He has rushed into situations, desperate and reckless. Bulldozed his way through a thousand lies and taunts. Trudged from the deepest, darkest depths of hell, and shook himself off. But he has never thought.
Excalibur gleams in his hands. He thinks of Hunith-his mother.
Winters in Ealdor are cold and relentless. Seven babes died; They didn't even have the fire to burn them. He remembers the wails and shrieks. He remembers the woods- dark and deep. They were white and brilliant but very dark. his breath mists in the air. Frozen dew glistens off the tree leaves. His feet had left footprints like that monster they kept talking about- Whor son. They whisper about it in front of other children and front of his hut. Everyone's scared of it.
"Merlin!" Hunith admonishes as she catches him trying to gather sticks and logs with his magic. He startles and tucks his arms in. He's hungry and wants to eat tonight.
"Mum!" Merlin gasps, caught red-handed.
"They might see you!" She smacks his arm, as his mother usually does when he's doing what she tells him not to. He doesn't understand. Will was cold, and so was she. He had seen Ethel, farmer jones's daughter, being fussed over as she found a huge stack of wood back from the forest. She was eight summers and she always pinched his cheeks and gave him honey balls. The village children didn't like her. But they danced with her that evening, red and puffy-faced, till sweat condensed from their bodies. Of course, they didn't dance with him. He never bought any logs!
Aunt Macey and Uncle Willy cooked 'Frank the useless rooster' last night. It has a long name, a droopy redhead and mottled-looking feathers. He's old and boring and never crows so he's useless. He's a bit terrified. Merlin doesn't have a long name and a droopy head. He wakes early and has bony arms. He mentally checks four out of five things he doesn't have in common with Frank. He's still scared.
"But mother!" he whines, "The village will eat me."
Mum loosens her grip, looking bewildered. She crouches down and touches his bruise. Merlin winces- Harold had a nasty punch.
"Why would you say that Merlin?" his mother whispers, smoothing his hair down. She looks at him with big wet eyes. Must be an ailment, it's always there. They called it crying. Merlin never cries.
he reasons, "They ate Frank the useless rooster"
His mother inhales sharply. She looks a bit sad. He's four summers and he knows what sad and useless is. Merlin doesn't want her to be sad. He wants her to laugh, her honey-balled eyes crinkling and her voice ringing prettily. She did that when he made brooms dance in their bedroom.
Mum hugs him. He tumbles into her arms happy, pliant and mewls like a kitten when she massages his hair. It's so easy for him to laugh. He wishes she could do the same. Hunith giggles a little as he kisses her cheek. He tugs at her dress, "Mum. Mum! we should go before the Whor son comes out"
He trots ahead, carrying three sticks and imagines one of them as a sword he would use to kill the monster.
Hunith watches him go, carefree and innocent.
Merlin's twenty-four summers now. Her stricken face and muffled sobs throb in his head. He wishes he could forget- She never did.
He gasps, burying his neck in the dewy grass. Anything to avoid the blue wash of his sky, it's too empty, too constant, too blue. Nothing about him was ever concrete. His lies were dynamic, his smile a tragedy. Always shown to conceal.
He arrived in Camelot as a boy. He lets himself think about him today.
A newly minted coin. A hopeful, kind heart, too big for Uther's kingdom. He does not want to give himself an acknowledgement because he knows it's futile. Young Merlin wouldn't accept it after a childhood borne with a deficit of everything but mockery.
He had arrived in Camelot full of excitement and curiosity. His magic was uncontrollable-sparking and fizzing through the butterflies and flowers. At his command, ready to protect, to entertain. It had been beautiful. Golden as the bright daylight. Unpredictable as the wildflowers, shooting up by bunches on the shores of Avalon.
It's subdued now. Tempered from grief and battle-hardened from hardship. It stretches under his skin-mutated and cramped from years of use. Hypervigilant and thrumming under his finger-pads. Ready to kill, to maim, to destroy.
"I have magic, Arthur. I use it for you, only you"
"all these years, you lied to me"
"Just follow me to the lake. You'll be okay"
"you aren't going to say goodbye"
"I have to say something. I never said it before"
"Please NO!"
Merlin blinks back the tears, his jaw hardening as he sees ripples forming on the lake. The sky turns grey and distantly thunder rumbles. His surroundings darken, air misting up. A silvery sheen of mist, thick as the fog on the coldest morning rises up. Once he would have rolled his eyes at the dramatic display of power, but today his throat is scratched raw from the screaming. His eyes burn.
Blue-green bulbs of light bob on the murky surface of Avalon, sneering at him. The Sidhe have arrived.
Arthur lies next to him, ashen as the sky. His face is blue, bright golden hair dull and matted and there's a sickly white around his lips.
Arthur is dead, why is everyone alive? Why is he? The triple goddesses call him their son but he suffers beyond the limits of anything even minutely maternal.
"I-"
"We do not care Emrys"
He flinches at his name. His supposed greatness. The most powerful Warlock couldn't even save his King.
"PLEASE!" he begs, "Anything"
Kilgarrah next to him, growls, "Merlin"
He ignores the lying, conniving piece of overgrown lizard. He respects him as his kin, as his duty but he doesn't know. Losing Arthur is agony. Losing Arthur is worse than losing his magic.
"No Emrys, You failed"
"He most definitely didn't" Kilgarrah bares his teeth, his nostrils hisses out a stream of fire. The Sidhe scatter away, sputtering indignantly at the disrespect.
His heart thuds. He turns to the dragon, red-faced. Anger rippled through him.
"leave Kilgarrah"
Kilgarrah aghast, "Young Warlock!"
"I SAID LEAVE!" he growls in the dragon's tongue. He's had enough of him. Merlin pays Kilgarrah's injuries, not even a glance. He doesn't give a fuck that he's dying.
(he'll regret it later. When he knows this would fail. But he doesn't deserve anything but contempt)
The Sidhe flutter back, oscillating from dull green to bright blue. Their lights flicker. They look either smug or excited. Merlin knows that the casual dismissal of his kin is not helping his chances with any sort of bargaining. He doesn't care. He would bring the world to ruination for Arthur if asked.
They eye him. The old one speaks, "We have a proposal"
His eyes light up and the weight in his chest considerably lessens.
It terrifies him, the depth of what he has done in his King's name. Merlin already knows he's not a good person. He knows that he has lived his life as the very thing he accused Uther of- A hypocrite. Condemning his own kin time and time again wasn't easy. Choosing Arthur above them had been laughably so. His choices though, have left him lonely.
he has...companions. nothing more, nothing less. He had the knights. Jokes aside, they were fiercely loyal. They burnt the same tallow, the scorching hot flame needed to protect the King. Brothers-in-arms? sure. Friends? It's painful.
He couldn't. Not when every single person he opened up to has been ripped apart from him. This weight, this destiny, his lies are knives of jagged iron. Not meant for others to carry. A mere touch will drag them down-septic and feverish. To be ostracized is acceptable; bearable. Voluntary seclusion though? is agony. But was always willing to forge iron with bare hands for Arthur.
A bundle of contradictions-Merlin knows how he is perceived in life, it's death he wonders about.
Gaius would lose a son. He would accept it if he knew nothing else than a wildly conjured tale. And perhaps a week of mourning. His mother would never forgive Arthur for this. This is relevant because he knows he won't either.
Gwaine would get drunk-like he usually does- in the tavern. Swallow grief and heartache until he's numb or dead. Merlin knew Gwaine looked at him like he was the only one worth looking for. It's tragic but his entire life was so. Leon would mourn; then feel guilty about mourning a sorcerer. Then feel guilty about not-mourning him just because he was one. His is an endless cycle of duty 'maketh a man' versus 'man is maketh by deeds'. It's predictable.
Percival would draw a triskelion above his supposed grave. He was always respectful of cultures.
Gwen-
It's better not to think about Guinevere now. They were once friends, then allies, then best friends. She was once a servant, then a Lady, then the Queen. Merlin does not know what they are anymore. Her opinion matters though, more than he would like to admit. Will she be pleased?
Arthur stirs and Merlin rushes to his side, gingerly supporting his head. His heart feels too big and strong. It beats, reverberating in the hollow of Arthur's throat.
it's a pulse
Merlin chokes, the grief and the exhilaration cutting his breaths off. Tears-big, fat, ugly and burning hot- slide down his cheeks. He presses his hands to his eyes, laughing at the swirly whites and yellows in the dark. He feels weak- everything's fine.
Arthur's alive. What would he say? What would he do? How will he manage it back to Camelot? what if he encounters the stray Saxons or enemies or followers of Morgana? His heart lifts at the bleakness and hope of it. He's finally planning a future
Arthur's alive. It opens a vast array of possibilities. A vast expanse of future and age where no one will have to cower.
Merlin lays back on the green grass, comforted by the freshness. The mites buzz, biting his cheeks and the ground beneath is moist. He digs his fingers into the earth, knowing that it's his last.
Arthur-Prince Arthur was incandescent. Merlin was enthralled; they all were. Arthur was more Ygraine than Arthur. Or at least that's what they thought. It's not the druid's fault they mistook his idealism for the qualities of the Once and Future King. It's not the land's fault that it never recovered from the loss of Ygraine. It's not Arthur's fault that he was jammed into a destiny that never was his.
King Arthur is nothing but a man. A man who was drawn and quartered until every bone and sinew was pulled apart. Merlin cannot blame him for his hatred: not when it's rightful. It took away his mother, his father and his sister. It takes away his friend now. Arthur has lost so much.
Merlin reflects that the irony of it isn't lost on him.
He bitterly thinks that the one man who could have shown him something good now lies between the raw-cut grass, between the purple hyacinths; springing up as his magic flows. A spectacle for the blue bastards.
They were friends. A thousand inside jokes, jibes. Pushing and shoving each other like little boys who didn't wear the weight of a Crown on their heads. He has seen Arthur laugh- a genuine one. A laugh whose cause was Merlin. He has seen him cry, rage and whack the absolute life out of the straw dummies until they were husks. He has held him as he sobbed, in the cold, empty chambers. After Morgana, after Uther.
All through those years, he has seen him care. He recalls the ride through the Fallen Kings. He remembers his choke of voice. He knows Arthur looked for him in the caves and he was the one to ride like a maniac to the caves of Balor- his first true act of rebellion- for him.
They were prince Arthur, the ridiculous, supercilious prat and Merlin, the clumsy, abysmal, thick-headed fool. They were masters and servants existing beyond the outlines of one.
Striking ocean blue eyes open.
The air crackles, smelling of sharp ozone and petrichor. A clap of thunder booms around and lightning flashes on the surface of the lake. The wind picks up howling and roaring, uprooting grasses. The Sidhe glow a frightening olive green, their ruby-red eyes lit ominously. Avalon trembles, the calm water turning into whirlpools. He can hear the world screaming.
Nature clamours for balance. Merlin closes his eyes as the first droplets of ice-cold rain splatter his face. A torrential downpour starts and the cold seeps into his bones. Merlin shivers and his eyes glow.
The pain begins.
Arthur gasps awake, wild-eyed and mussed up hair, slightly dull. He looks at Merlin, his jaw falling slack at the sight of him. Merlin knows he looks like an eldritch terror; a pitiful one at that.
"What did you do?" Arthur looks at him, eyes squinting and hollowed. If he didn't know him better, it would be what he calls Arthur's thinking face.
Merlin huffs, weakening every second. Arthur rushes next to him, cupping his face, shuddering at the coldness of it. He leans into the warm touch and looks at him as non-pathetically as possible.
"What did you do Merlin?!"
"Saved your life, you big prat"
"You idiot!" Arthur's eyes shine. He turns away, shaking his head. Arthur shakes Merlin's shoulders. Merlin groans as the movement heightens the cramps racking though his body.
"There has to be a way to reverse it!"
A sort of calm washes over Merlin. He smiles. "There isn't"
Arthur's demeanour changes. His facial muscles relax, Merlin's too far gone to know what it means. Arthur removes his hand. Merlin closes his eyes, unwilling too see the raw pain in his friend's eyes. He instantly misses the warmth and roughness of Arthur's calloused hand
Merlin speaks quietly when he hears a sniffling, shifting sound. " Arthur. I am sorry. There's nothing you can't do"
A sharp point pokes his throat. A strange energy buzzes near his head. He blearily looks up to see the blue of his Kings eyes. "Arthur?"
He sees in the hollow of Arthur's dark what he would never have believed even if seen from his own eyes.
Arthur speaks simply, "oh I know"
The pointed notch of Excalibur digs at his throat.
Arthur is king now.
The memory clouds thick as the sooty air on cold mornings; Arthur's refusal to suspect Agravaine. his refusal to believe him. Arthur's hostility to Gaius who had been loyal to him and his father. Arthur's jokes and acerbic words hit a little too close to the heart. A hundred goblets thrown. His concern and advice slapped away. Intentional threats of exile if his opinion ever disagreed with the King's heart. Class differences being struck in the face and then taken away. Whenever convenient.
"I once thought you were the bravest man I have ever met; I guess I was wrong"
It's fine. It isn't manipulation.
His chest spasms as his magic surges, clawing at the wrongness of it, at the realization that maybe, just maybe Merlin never meant to Arthur what Arthur means to him. He exhales as salt lines its way through his cheeks, there's an acidic tang in the air, he can smell it-The Lake of Avalon. A cold gust blows past him and he flinches at the bite of it. Instinctively a heat builds beneath his irises-slow and sluggish and then erupts. He lets out a strangles shout as it sears his eyes. Merlin opens them.
He still sees the blue. He remembers the grey of before.
"Arthur," he chokes. "Why?"
Arthur laughs contemptuously. His blue eyes harden as Merlin feels he's being struck by sharpened sapphires.
He spits, "did you really think I would leave my kingdom? My queen in the debt and mercy of a sorcerer?"
Arthur might as well have slapped Hunith. He curls on himself as his flesh contorts. A part of Merlin is relieved- Arthur's words hurt far more than the loss of his magic ever will. He blubbers, "I would never-Everything I did-It was only you sire. I thought you knew"
"I once thought I knew you. I was wrong"
This is a nightmare, it must be one. He'll wake up to see Gaius screaming in his ear about him being late again. Despite the rain that's hammering down their heads, his mouth is dry. "so everything?" He clenches his eyes shut. Yelling at his brain to wake the fuck up.
Arthur scoffs, his eyes glinting, "yes Merlin. How does it feel being lied to?"
Merlin exhales. Once enunciated with affection and common exasperation, his name now connotes something darker and more twisted.
Two sides of the same coin indeed. For they can never exist face to face.
Death, demise, fatality, the passage of life. All these words define something mere mortals would never understand. He understands Nimueh, his first kill, for the first time now. They were both selfish. Somewhere along the way it became less about the old religion, least about the consequences and more about want. He can call it 'love' but it was just a cold spitting burn of approval.
Nimeuh yearned for Ygraine. She could never refuse her; he can't refuse Arthur. The true difference was the consequence. Her inability to refuse served as an inoculum to the rot that already festered in people's minds. She started the purge of magic, he purged the thought of any hope of an end.
Her charm, slyness, and cunning made her a formidable adversary. Her power was evident. But she had been predictable. beneath Nimueh, anger and injustice bubbled and frothed. It had been the same for Gilli, Morgana, Morgause and every other sorcerer out there. It was absolutely the same for him. Denial comes at a cost, he wishes he could have learned that an easy way.
Clarity comes after a loss, and then all he can think about are the reasons- the glaringly obvious signs that he overlooked- that built up to this. Arthur isn't Uther, but Uther is his father.
He should feel angry, he should feel vehement. He should get up and choke the life out of- the thought sputters out before it can fully form.
" A naïve bumbling idiot, a dimwitted tree stump" he had heard Arthur, so eloquently put. Back then he had sparked like flintstones against dry grass. Regurgitated his brand of venom, solely reserved for the brattish prince of Camelot. He was nothing but a child, wearing his heart on his sleeve. He regrets not burning the linen apart.
It's unfamiliar now. That spark, that burn of anger, that clench of heart. He would gladly welcome the frantic blood rush of panic (it hurts to breathe). Merlin of seven years ago would have sputtered angrily, heartbroken at the pathetic, wrangled web of destiny. He would have raged and stormed and cried.
I am sorry
That's all merlin of today would say. 'I am sorry he would repeat, has repeated. All through the years. He still feels the simmering anger, the betrayal, the ingratitude and a selfish want of being acknowledged. But it's Arthur and Merlin is tired. So it slips away like the last vestiges of his magic.
"You can't be this cruel" Merlin rasps, sweat-clinging to his brow as unimaginable pain ebbs and rises in waves. A sudden thought leaves him heaving for breath. He turns his head towards the lake. The Sidhe look back at him, floating in the air like some sort of ghostly afterlife. He clenches the poor green strands in his fist.
He turns to Arthur and begs. Desperation spilling through his blistered throat. "Tell me this is an enchantment. Tell me it's the price for your life!"
He'll accept it if that's what it is. He'll walk through hell, as his feet blister and skin chars. All for him. Arthur just has to say that it is. Even if it's a lie.
Arthur eyes flit back to the Sidhe and then to him. He tenses. Merlin feels slivers of hope springing through him.
Arthur just-shrugs. "it isn't"
His next cry resonates in the air. Grief making the flowers wilt. He chokes, " "I want you to always be you" Tell me what you meant"
"Merlin-"
"TELL ME!"
Arthur looks at him with conflicted eyes. If he thinks that he's sparing Merlin the mercy then he couldn't be more wrong. But Merlin knows it isn't mercy. Arthur's just savouring the last blow.
Arthur rotates his sword, tracing swirling patterns on Merlin's heart. "A friend" he says, and smirks. "A loyal foolish friend. Endearing though"
He smiles, dazzling white. Horror tightens his noose on Merlin's neck.
Arthur strikes, as metaphorical blood spills. The king says, "A foolish Warlock"
It's getting stuffy now, as the life drains out of him. Black spots darken his vision. White spots cloud black. It's a balance. The surroundings are now kaleidoscopic, they blur together. His head spins. A golden gleam of a sword pierces his eyes. It's surprisingly comforting. To be standing or lying on the edge of his world. Even in the haze, he can recognize the irradiant notch of Excalibur. It scrapes his tunic gently as it moves down towards his heart. Merlin shivers at the ringing sound.
It will pierce it. Arthur is a remarkable swordsman.
He lets himself think of the delusion of a man he thought Arthur was. Dying man's last wish, he muses.
He loved him. He loves him, even now. No part of Merlin could ever loathe the man looking down on him- eyes red in vengeance, in betrayal, in anger.
He thinks this is a delusion too, for there's no part of Arthur left that wouldn't hate Merlin.
He chokes, struggling for air. The grass quivers and stones tremble. The leaves whisper-he can hear the mournful cry of Kilgarrah rumble in the air. Merlin curses himself-the Great Dragon. He will raze Camelot to the ground. He calls out to him in his head.
Heed my promise.
The earth twists and roots wrap around the bony limbs of its favoured child. The triple goddesses weep.
Somewhere in the distance, the dams flood open.
Merlin is pulled under until he's enwrapped in the very roots. His magic curls enshrouding his pale, milky body-calm even in death. The air whistles as flowers bloom around his grave. Purple hyacinths with hints of sea blue and trimmings of gold. The bird's chirp, cocking their heads at the new species. They fly away, scattering the seeds of Camelot's destruction