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The feast was in full swing by the time Merlin returned from the kitchens with a fresh pitcher of wine.
When Arthur had informed him that he would be serving half of the knights as well as the prince tonight, he had been tempted to complain, but honestly, he was enjoying himself too much to care. Camelot had not hosted such a feast for weeks and a night of entertainment as thrilling as this was just what Merlin needed after the long days he had spent preparing for the arrival of the neighbouring kings.
King Alined’s jester was performing for the court as Merlin stepped forward to fill the many cups that had run dry. Arthur had barely made it through half of his goblet, likewise with Sir Leon and Sir Bertrand, respectfully sipping their drinks, too enthralled by the jester’s magic hands to focus on the meal in front of them. Then there was Sir Edric and Sir Montague, the eldest of the knights who were drinking like two clumsy fish caught in a draught. Any wine they didn’t gulp down with each mouthful ended up spilt down the sides of their goblets in their heavy-handedness returning it to the table. It looked like Merlin was going to be making another visit to the kitchens sooner than expected.
For now though, he was content to step back and enjoy the show.
The jester’s fingers moved with such precision as he juggled three daggers in the air, the light glinting off the metal each time one flew above his head. He glided back and forth across the floor, exciting guests at all ends of the hall, and when he was finished, he made them disappear behind his back with such ease, Merlin was almost convinced he had done so with actual magic.
His own applause was lost amongst the hearty acclamation that filled the hall.
The jester jumped immediately into his next trick as he cupped his now empty hands around his lips. Taking a dramatic inhale that delighted the already excitable crowd, he released a plume of fire to rival that of an enraged dragon. It curled out of his mouth in such dramatic fashion it sent a rush of something tingling up Merlin’s spine. The jester did it again, coming so close to the kings at the head of the table that the flame licked the wicks of the candles in front of them, setting them alight. It left the prickly uneasiness – because yes, that’s what it was, uneasiness – humming in the pit of Merlin’s stomach.
Numbness crept into the tips of his fingers, his grip on the mostly empty jug loosening involuntarily. He wasn’t sure where this sudden discomfort had come from; it wasn’t as if this was his first encounter with fire. He’d dealt with the Great Dragon’s moodiness on several occasions, for goodness sake. So why was—
The jester jumped on the spot, his movement all playful and childlike as he turned to repeat the trick in Arthur’s direction and as the flame leapt towards Merlin, the cheers of the crowd turned to a muffled buzzing in his ears and the banquet hall disappeared entirely.
The air all around him felt staticky, like the storm clouds gathering in the sky above were charging up ready to strike. It left an odd chill clinging to his skin while the hairs on his arms stood on end. His heart was bouncing so hard against his chest he was sure it was about to break a rib. Or maybe it already had, because his lungs were definitely struggling to take in a breath he so desperately needed.
He blinked rapidly as the scene blurred in front of him, like rain on a window obscuring the image from his view. The grey of the stones and the green of the grass all blended together but he could still make out the slumped form of his guardian and mentor, dead by the sorceress’ feet.
But no—Nimueh was dead, not Gaius.
Wasn’t she?
His heart thumped faster leaving the spot at the bottom of his ribs aching something fierce, but as he went to rub against it, he could almost hear his skin sizzle from under his shirt. Smoke wafted from the centre of his chest from the fireball that had just slammed into it, knocking him from his feet in an instant.
His knees almost buckled from the shock— which couldn’t be right because that meant he was still standing.
But he could have sworn he was just—
He could feel the dampness of the grass through the shirt at his back, could feel the fear running through him, scorching him from the inside, could feel the jug scarcely clinging to his fingertips. The castle walls returned for a few seconds, the jester’s fantasy fire blurring with Nimueh and her lethal ball of flame. It made his chest blister, the blaze burning into his lungs.
The din of the jug bouncing against the stone floor was barely audible over the still roaring crowd.
His feet were moving before he could ask where they were taking him.
His palm grazed the wall outside the banquet hall as he stumbled along the corridor, his other hand still clawing at his chest as if that would halt the gasping breaths he was so desperately trying to inhale.
What the hell was happening?
The corridors shifted as he tried to choke down the overwhelming fright that was clouding his mind. He didn’t know where he was going, just that he had to escape the fire.
Fire meant pain. It meant burning and screaming and agony.
It meant death.
And he didn’t want to die.
He didn’t—
With a gasp, he almost fell to the floor. He couldn’t recall closing his eyes but they had been squeezed so tight that he didn’t notice the approaching turn in the corridor until the wall suddenly disappeared from under his palm. The jolt it caused ran cleanly up his spine and through his chest and he was sure to have dropped painfully to his knees if someone hadn’t have grabbed him by the arm, slowing his fall to a much more gentle descent.
The adrenaline firing through his nerves told him to panic. Someone had followed him out of hall. Someone had seen how defenceless he was, stumbling along, barely able to catch his breath, and had waited until they were alone before announcing their presence. His heart raced at an uncontrollable speed, his hands growing clammy as he pushed them into the floor— until the stranger spoke up.
“Merlin, what’s wrong?”
A flash of red as Arthur crouched in front of him sent another flash of fire through his mind. It replayed on the backs of his eyelids in perfect colour; the ball of orange flying straight towards him over and over, hitting him again and again and again.
A hand on his shoulder pulled him out of that place, but as his eyes fly open, Arthur’s worried frown twisted itself into something else entirely. Pale lips and bruised eyes and skin so white it felt wrong to hope there was any life left in the still and silent body. Arthur was dying, and his mother was dying, and Gaius was—
dead.
Dead, dead, dead.
And the air was being ripped from his lungs again and he tried to call for Gaius, to choke out his name with whatever life he had left in him, but it was no use because Gaius was—
“I’ll go and get him.”
What? No, he was—
“It’s okay, he’s in the banquet hall. Just stay here and I’ll fetch him, okay?”
No—
Merlin’s shaky hand darted out to grab Arthur’s arm before he could leave.
His whole body was shaking and the thought of being on his own suddenly flooded his veins with a unplaceable sense of dread. As if the few seconds alone would leave him defenceless against the hoard of monsters just waiting to jump out from the shadows. As if Arthur’s presence was the tiny stream of light in the darkness that threatened to consume him, which– wow – even in his muddled state, there was no way he was giving Arthur that much credit.
Although, it did seem like the prince’s words had dislodged a tiny cog that had gotten stuck in the inner workings of his mind. If Gaius was in the banquet hall, then that meant he was alive. And of course he was alive because Nimueh had been defeated months ago. And Arthur was in front of him, alive and well. And Merlin wasn’t lying in the grass with a hole in his chest—
Ow—
Okay, he needed to stop thinking about the fire.
Because thinking about the fire made his chest ache. And his chest aching made him clutch at it like he was an old man about to keel over. And clutching at it made Arthur’s frown deepen as he held back the urge to ask questions like—
“What’s wrong?” and “Are you hurt?”
Merlin pursed his lips as he tried to take a deep breath. In…out…in…out. His brain knew it needed to calm down, but his body wasn’t quite getting the message. His knuckles dug into the grooves of his ribs as he forced the air to reach the bottom of his lungs.
“Merlin, show me.” Arthur all but demanded despite his temperate tone, getting the wrong idea about the issue as always. He grabbed the hem of Merlin’s shirt and hefted it upwards, entirely unfazed by Merlin’s swatting hands nor the act of almost undressing his servant.
Merlin shivered as his stomach was exposed to the coolness of the corridor. He tried to pull his shirt out of Arthur’s grasp, but the prince dodged his hands easily with a scowl, unprepared to let go until he found what he was looking for.
Only— what he was looking for wasn’t something that could easily be explained away. It wasn’t some fresh wound caused by something at the banquet, but a faded white scar where a ball of fire had burned his chest. Puckered at the edges and only a shade or two paler than his skin, it would have been fairly easy to miss if it wasn’t about the size of his fist.
Arthur froze as he ran his eyes over the mark, taking every edge of it in. His brows pulled down low into a frown, mouth slightly open yet unspeaking as if trying to work out what exactly he was looking at. It was so out of a place; a wound like this on his servant of all people. Arthur hadn’t exactly been dragging him into any burning buildings recently so…
“What happened?” Arthur whispered, his wide eyes pulling away to meet Merlin’s.
“It’s nothing…That’s not— It’s fine--”
He groaned as his chest tightened.
This wasn’t working. He tried to force the images out of his mind, but they refused to leave. The harder he pushed, the further they planted themselves right in the centre of his brain, taking root, growing until they consumed his thoughts entirely.
This shouldn’t still be affecting him. What happened with Nimueh was months ago and in the grand scheme of things, she barely touched him. (Explosion via lightning bolt was probably a much, much worse way to go after all.)
He shouldn’t still be this afraid of fire.
But as another flash of orange skimmed across his vision, he realised that something was different. Not a ball this time, but a towering flame, engulfing everything it touched. It shrivelled up the kindling stacked neatly in a pyramid. It left tendrils of black smoke drifting through the air. It scorched the sorcerer tied helplessly—
A ragged gasp drew itself from Merlin’s lips as the true source of his fear made itself known. One reveal of his magic, one slip up, and he could so easily be the next person executed on the pyre. And that terrified him.
His eyes burst open in an attempt to rid himself of the image and the surprise of Arthur still kneeling in front of him instinctively sent him scrabbling backwards along the tiles, his shirt getting yanked from the prince’s grip. Arthur’s hands shot up to placate him, but it did little to stop his still heaving chest and racing mind.
“Woah. Okay.” Arthur muttered. Another cheer erupted from the hall and Arthur’s eyes flicked towards the noise for a second. “…come on.”
Before he could protest, Arthur pulled him upright onto shaky legs and led him through the castle, only letting go once the cool evening air brushed their skin. He followed Arthur’s lead and dropped down onto the steps, only now noticing the tears that had grown cold against his cheeks.
It was quiet in the courtyard. The people of Camelot were either safe and sound in their homes for the evening or – if they were important enough – were inside the banquet hall enjoying the feast that had been prepared for them.
Darkness clung to the edges of the open space, driven away into the corners of the courtyard by the fierce white light of the moon. It had been like this on the Isle of the Blessed; silent, serene, the chill nipping at his skin. He didn’t like it. It was too similar to before. As the dull buzzing in his ears grew louder, he rubbed at his chest, begging the suffocating feeling to leave him.
He could feel himself trembling, his hands rubbing up and down his arms in a stilted soothing motion, and as he tried reassuring himself that he wasn’t back there, Arthur’s voice started to filter through the haze.
“…probably two or three months after I was officially appointed as a knight, we were on a patrol to Tír-Mòr. It wasn’t as if it was my first journey out of Camelot, but we had just escorted an important dignitary back home and I guess the excitement of it all got to me. I was talking loudly; I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings.
About halfway there, we were attacked by a group of bandits. They came out of nowhere, about twenty of them running towards us with their weapons. The other knights didn’t hesitate, they jumped down straight away, swords at the ready to fight them off but I froze.”
Despite his still stuttering chest, Merlin raised an eyebrow as Arthur glanced over at him. Did the prince just willingly admit not one, but two faults to him?
“Yes, you heard right. I…panicked. In a split second I went from over-confident to having no idea what to do. Before I could finish getting down, my horse got spooked and bolted, half dragging me behind it until I could get free. And the second I was free, he took off, leaving me hurt, alone and completely lost, staggering through the forest with no clue of where anyone else was or how to get back home.”
As Merlin listened to Arthur’s tale, he found himself taking deeper breaths, eyes fixated on the bright light above as the cool air started to tickle rather than terrify.
“I knew I had to go back for my men, but my horse had dragged me so far and I’d completely lost my bearings. On top of that, I was on edge, waiting for more bandits to pop out from behind every tree and I knew I couldn’t take them all on by myself. But then that made me panic even more because it was hardly befitting a young prince to be scared of a fight and my father was bound to be disappointed with me should I ever make it back home.
It got dark very quickly, and I could barely see three feet in front of my face. But soon, I stumbled across this huge, open clearing and suddenly I felt like I could breathe again. I wasn’t trapped in the forest anymore and the moon was lighting up everything now that it wasn’t hidden by the trees.”
As Arthur’s word washed over him, Merlin was shocked to notice how much better he was feeling already. The stillness of the moment, the bright light, the magic he felt radiating from the moon – recharging him almost – it was all helping him to relax.
“I don’t know how long I stayed there for, but it was long enough for me to calm down and remember my tracking skills, enough to get me home and find my horse on the way.”
Merlin took a deep breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth, and glanced over at Arthur. The prince was watching him carefully. Vibrant cheers echoed out through the corridors, fading into the courtyard and Merlin was suddenly reminded of the feast that he was currently keeping Arthur from enjoying. He tried to stutter out an apology which Arthur brushed off without hesitation.
“The point I was trying to make was…sometimes people panic.” Arthur swayed to the left, knocking their shoulders together. “Though if you tell anyone what I just told you—”
“Let me guess, you’ll have to kill me?”
“Of course not.” Arthur frowned. “Who will wash my clothes if I do that?”
Merlin huffed out a laugh, the tiny sound dislodging the last rattle of dread from his chest.
Glancing to the side, his gaze was drawn to the torch mounted to the wall, flickering delicately in the breeze. The orange burned vividly in the darkness and Merlin knew just how much harm that simple flame could cause— how much death. But as he stared at it unblinking, the brightness causing little spots in his eyes, he told himself that the fire couldn’t hurt him. Nimueh was dead, Arthur was by his side, his chest had healed, and his secret was safe.
He was safe.