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Arthur had been taught from a young age that if you walked into a battle without the complete certainty you could and would win, the fight was over before it had even begun. What Merlin called arrogance, Arthur knew was simply training, the knowledge that he was going to secure victory because he had to, because anything else was unthinkable.
Yet now, even as an unusually reticent Merlin helped him into his armour, Arthur found he couldn’t foresee a single way the coming fight could end in Camelot’s victory. He couldn’t even find a thread of hope, let alone nurture it into his usual confidence. He'd faced monsters before; the afanc, the troll. He’d readied himself for fights no one believed he could win; Valiant, the griffin, the Black Knight. Not once had he truly given up, and from all of them he’d come out alive. But he’d faced the dragon before, night after night as it attacked. He’d been wounded, he’d watch so many knights fall, while all their efforts did not so much as hinder the beast, as the people it killed grew beyond count. The dragonlord had been their last hope, their only hope, but he was gone. This final resistance, riding out, fighting on their own terms, it was nothing more than selfishness: making sure he was the first to die, that he wouldn’t have to watch the city and people he loved fall.
He tried to push the morose thoughts to the back of his mind. Confidence, he reminded himself sternly. But, if that failed, teasing his manservant was not a poor substitute. “Well, look on the bright side, Merlin,” he said, trying to force a grin onto his face. “Chances are, you’re not going to have to clean this again.”
Merlin didn’t rise to the bait, but did at least speak, ending the long, grating silence. “You must be careful today. Do not force the battle.”
And though it wasn’t their usual banter, the thought of Merlin giving him advice on the topic of fighting was enough to put a weak smile on his face, as he declared “yes, sire!” in a mockery of the voice one might use on his commander.
“I’m serious,” Merlin said.
“I can hear that,” Arthur agreed. He’d been nothing but serious for days, ever since the dragon attacked. It was understandable enough given the circumstances that wishing for the old, cheerful, joking Merlin back seemed selfish, but nonetheless he did.
“Let matters take their course.”
And that was the difference between them, he thought. Morgana had once told him that Merlin was a lover, not a fighter. He’d expressed his scepticism when she’d first voiced it, not that he didn't agree he wasn't a fighter, of course, but wondering how someone could possibly think of his bumbling manservant, too awkward to talk to a girl, as a lover. Even so, he had grown to see she was right. Perhaps not on the talking to girls front, but he believed in things like destiny, fate. Merlin was young, hopeful, trusted that everything would turn out alright in the end. Arthur had seen enough good knights and innocent people die, too many villainous acts go unpunished, to know that the world never quite worked like that.
And now, it was his turn. He wondered if he was a good knight, a good prince, dying valiantly but ultimately uselessly for a noble cause, or simply a bad person – the man who’d watched raids on druid camps become slaughters, and stood back as innocent people like Gwen’s father had been killed, who’d invoked curses like the slaying of a unicorn on his kingdom – finally getting the justice he deserved. Either way:
“Merlin, if I die… please…”
Leave Camelot. Forget me . Merlin was a servant, not a serf. He wasn’t bound to this city past his employment and his loyalty to Arthur, which would most likely soon be over. Then, there would be nothing to stop him returning to Ealdor, to his mother, where he could live his life in peace. Where he could live. Because if they failed to defeat the dragon, Camelot would burn. Arthur could only hope Merlin wouldn’t burn with them.
And though he didn’t want to think it, he also didn’t want Merlin to mourn. Arthur knew the boy wore his emotions on his sleeve. The thought of Merlin – happy, cheerful, joking, hopeful Merlin – being weighed down by grief over Arthur’s death was more than he could bear. And Merlin was… if he wasn’t a prince, Merlin could have been his friend. But he also couldn’t ignore that Merlin was his servant, that he was paid to always be by Arthur’s side. For the first time, he hoped that that really was all it was, like they would so often claim to each other. That once he was gone, Merlin could easily move on.
That wasn’t to say he didn’t want to believe that his death would be mourned. He hoped that his father would mourn losing a second child – or as good as – in a week, as he did the first. He didn’t know if he could believe it, he knew he wasn’t the son his father always wanted him to be, wasn’t as perfect as he wanted him to be. But he hoped his father still cared enough about him to regret his death.
He hoped Gwen would mourn too, for a while. It was selfish, perhaps, but he liked to think he had made a mark on her heart, as she had made on his. But he also hoped she would escape the fires consuming Camelot and be able to travel, see the most beautiful things in the world, that still wouldn’t compare to her. Maybe she would see Lancelot again, somewhere outside the bounds of the kingdom, or meet another handsome, good man, who could give her the life she deserved. The life she could never have with Arthur.
But Merlin… he just wanted Merlin to stay being Merlin.
“What?” Merlin asked, when he hesitated a moment too long.
Arthur turned, so that he could look Merlin in the eye, wondering how he could express any of those feelings.
“The dragonlord today,” he said. His servant’s eyes were still red-rimmed, from his tears over Balinor. Arthur wasn’t sure if he was broken about the loss of the man, who he had become strangely close to in the short time they knew each other, or of the hope he represented for Camelot’s safety, but either way Merlin had cried for him. A man he barely knew. Merlin always wore his heart on his sleeve. “I saw you.”
He reached up and grasped the boy’s shoulder, to make sure Merlin’s eyes, straying as they were, returned to fix on his own. “One thing I tell all my young knights – no man is worth your tears.”
I’m not worth your tears, he tried to fill in with his eyes. Don’t lose yourself because of me. Don’t stay in Camelot over some misplaced loyalty when I’m gone. He tried to add all the words he could never say aloud into that look, into the half-finished thoughts, and hoped Merlin understood.
“Yeah,” Merlin whispered, almost to himself, and then, finally a smile, forced as it was, crossed his face. “You’re certainly not.”
And Arthur smiled as he pulled away – at the fact Merlin’s insults were back, and the fact he had understood – and picked up his sword, only for it to turn to a frown of confusion as Merlin lifted another sword from the table.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m coming with you.”
And… no… no! Merlin was supposed to be staying alive, staying safe. “Merlin, the chances are I’m going to die,” he reminded him.
“Yeah,” the boy agreed. “Yeah, you probably would if I wasn’t there.”
Arthur scoffed, the ridiculousness of the claim, and the realisation that he was teasing, finally overruling his anger and worry. “Right.”
“Do you know how many times I’ve saved your royal backside?”
Merlin sometimes mentioned saving his life time and time again; a gross over-exaggeration, of course. There had been a couple of times, simply because when two people spent so long together, sometimes hunting bandits and facing monsters, things happened, but Arthur had saved Merlin so many more times than it worked the other way around. Merlin claiming to save Arthur had become something of a joke between them.
“Well, at least you’ve got your sense of humour back,” he said, tapping their swords together as knights did, before moving to the door. It was only when Merlin reached it at the same moment as him, still holding the sword, that Arthur realised this may not have been the jest he thought it was. “Are you really going to face this dragon with me?”
“I’m not going to sit here and watch,” the servant replied, looking disgusted at the suggestion. And that was Merlin all over – following Arthur wherever he went, ignoring the fact the prince was a highly trained knight, and he was a farmer-turned-servant from a small village and could barely use a sword.
And yet, Arthur found himself straightening. Because Merlin’s bravery, his inability to let anything pass by him without involving himself, even if it was facing a dragon, was… almost inspiring. Sometimes, Arthur thought that if things had been different, Merlin’s fearlessness and absolute loyalty would have made him a brilliant knight. Perhaps Arthur had wanted Merlin safe, far away from Camelot, but more than that he had wanted Merlin to be Merlin, and Merlin wasn’t the kind of person to let other people walk into danger alone, but for a contingent of skilled knights with heavy weaponry, however much armour they were wearing, when he could be beside them in that ratty neckerchief and faded tunic.
“I know it’s hard for you to understand how I feel, but…” he hesitated, and Arthur waited patiently even as he tried to finish the sentence. Understand what? His loyalty to Arthur? If he thought Arthur wouldn’t understand that, it was only because Arthur had never dared, could never dare, tell him that he felt the same way. That as prince he commanded dozens of knights, hundreds of soldiers, and yet there was no one he would rather walk into danger beside than his goofy servant who didn’t even know how to hold a sword properly. “Well, I care a hell of a lot about that armour, I’m not going to let you mess it up,” Merlin finished.
And Arthur laughed, because there was Merlin. His Merlin. Merlin who’d walk into certain death with a joke, and come out smiling. Suddenly, knowing Merlin was there, beside him, he felt that spark of hope he’d been missing. He could fight this dragon. He would. He would save Camelot, and Merlin would be beside him, as he always was.
He gave the boy a slap, trying to infuse all his gratefulness, the debt he owed to this limitless source of courage, into that single gesture.
Arthur strode out of the room and to where his knights were gathered preparing to ride to battle, and he knew they were going to win, because they were all that stood between Camelot and a fiery oblivion, so not winning simply wasn’t an option.