Chapter Text
Merlin rushed through the forest, keeping eyes and ears open for any clue of where the prince had gone, as well as using his magic to point him in the right direction. He couldn’t help wondering how it was that they always seemed to get into these kinds of situations. What should have been a small and uneventful patrol had gone horribly wrong, when Arthur, Merlin, and a group of four knights had been ambushed by a band of about twenty renegades. Merlin had lost sight of Arthur in the chaos, and had left the last remaining knight to fight off the last three renegades on his own, while he went to find his master. The young servant had felt a pang of guilt at leaving the knight behind, but Arthur was the important one.
After a few minutes of running the young man came upon a clearing, and stopped briefly in horror. Arthur had been led into a trap. He was now at the other side of the clearing fighting about five men all by himself. Merlin had seen his friend fight countless times before, and he knew something was wrong. The prince was much slower than usual, and he appeared to be favoring his right side. Merlin shouted out to his friend, running towards him once again, hoping to distract the fighters who were slowly but surely overpowering the prince. Before he could get to him, he was overset by several other men who had appeared out of nowhere. Merlin hadn't noticed the extra men on the edge of the clearing, but they had his attention now. Merlin used his magic immediately, sending one of them slamming into a tree and making a heavy branch fall onto another one. Subtlety was not an option here. There were too many of them, and Arthur was in danger. There was no time to be careful. Bursts of fire and wind left his hands, slamming into the rest of the approaching men. Some he hit with fire, and others he slammed full force into trees. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this desperate. He had to get to Arthur before something happened to him. He had to protect him.
When he chanced a glance at Arthur, the prince was down to the last two men. He saw that the older man had glanced back at him and had seen the obvious magic he was displaying in order to dispatch the attackers. Arthur’s eyes had been filled with confusion, doubt, hurt, and worst of all, betrayal, anger, and slight fear. The emotions had been clear to see for a split second, before the prince snapped back to fighting for his life. Merlin felt a sharp pain shoot through his heart at that glance before he forced himself to refocus on defending himself and rescuing Arthur. There would be time to talk and explain later. He just had to get them both out of here.
Merlin dispatched two new attackers, and merely glanced at them as they fell to the ground, ready to rush off to Arthur. That glance made his blood turn cold and he stopped in his tracks, just staring in abject terror and growing denial. These two men had been two of the ones attacking Arthur, and they would never have started after Merlin unless he was the only one left that was a threat. He didn’t want to even think about what that meant, but he turned his head to where he had last seen his friend, desperate to know, and felt his mind white out for a few moments. The world felt like it had stopped for that brief span of time as he stared at Arthur lying on the ground, unmoving.
After processing this horrifying sight, the world started again and Merlin ran frantically to the prince. His mind was frighteningly clear and already shrieking frantic denials. Arthur was fine. He had to be fine. The men were gone; they were finally safe. They could go back home to Camelot now, and this would be one more victory for Arthur to boast about, like the arrogant prat he was. They would have a long talk about Merlin’s magic, Arthur would be furious and hurt and would probably yell at him, but eventually he would understand and though he would probably give him a mountain of chores to do for a while as revenge for keeping such a huge secret, their friendship would remain intact and they would be stronger for it.
Arthur was fine. He was just wounded. He had collapsed from exhaustion or blood loss, and the men had given up on him believing him to be dead, but he was just hurt, and Merlin would be able to heal him. Arthur was going to be alright. He probably wasn’t even seriously hurt. He was probably just unconscious. Merlin knew how often that happened. The clotpole had been knocked out so many times that the real magic was how he managed to not get brain damage. Well, more brain damage than he probably had normally. The prince was knocked out. That was what had happened. He was hurt, or unconscious, or just unable to move from exhaustion, but he would be fine. Merlin knew that his thoughts were chasing themselves in circles at this point, but he couldn’t help it. His best friend, his prince and future king, was lying on the ground and hadn’t risen or moved for who knew how long. But it was going to be alright because Arthur was going to be fine and Merlin would fix whatever was wrong with him and then they could head back. He needed to believe that the older man was fine. No, Arthur was fine. He had to be. Arthur couldn’t be dying. Arthur couldn’t be dead.
Merlin fell to his knees by Arthur’s side, grasping at him desperately. He gripped Arthur’s wrist tightly, trying to find a pulse, but not being able to. Merlin was still caught up in his denial. His whole body was shaking, heart pounding rapidly in his chest. It was his fear that was preventing him from finding a pulse; that was all it was. It had to be.
He saw the deep wound in Arthur’s side, and his eyes blurred. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t a fatal wound. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t Arthur’s destiny to die like this. He wasn’t even king yet. He hadn’t united Albion, he hadn’t brought magic back, it wasn’t even Mordred who dealt him the blow, and Kilgarrah had said the druid boy was the one destined to kill Arthur, although Merlin wouldn’t be letting that happen either if he could help it. Still, Arthur wasn’t destined to die as a prince in a patrol gone awry, so that meant he was going to be fine. The young warlock put his head against his friend’s chest, praying to hear a heartbeat or feel him breathing, no matter how faint it was, because as long as he was still alive, Merlin would be able to heal him. He choked on a sob as he heard and felt nothing, and his mind was slowly starting to let go of the denial that he was still desperately trying to hold on to for his own sanity, because it couldn’t be true.
Merlin shook his friend, and slapped his face lightly a few times, trying to make him wake. He even started pleading with the prince, although the more time went on, the more the denial was stripped from him, and yet still he tried, his voice breaking more and more with every plea that passed his lips.
“Please Arthur. Come on. You’re going to be fine. Just wake up. I’m begging you, and you know I never beg you for anything, since your head’s big enough as it is. Come on you supercilious, arrogant, patronizing, dollopheaded, prat. Wake up. Please. You have to be ok. Please!”
The prince still didn’t move, and as his body became paler and colder, the last shred of denial Merlin possessed finally broke. Arthur wasn’t going to be fine. Nothing was ever going to be fine ever again. Arthur was never going to become king, Albion was never going to form, magic was never going to come back, and most importantly to Merlin, his best friend was never going to wake up again. There was not going to be any more banter between them, no more friendly teasing, no more playful insults that they didn’t really mean but had instead become some kind of strange form of affection, no more confusing the people of Camelot with how a prince and servant could be so uncommonly close despite status difference, no more arguments over what was best for Arthur to do, no more hunting trips that he hated and sometimes purposely sabotaged but still went on because Arthur asked him to, no more patrols, no more moments of closeness that Arthur tried to cover by giving him a list of even more chores to do afterwards.
Merlin was falling apart. He would never hear Arthur call him an idiot again, the insult often laced with affection, never hear him say “shut up Merlin,” in that tone of fond exasperation or plain frustration that usually meant that he was right but Arthur didn’t want to admit it, never hear the prince berate him for being too loud or clumsy on a hunt or patrol or for not being able to understand his strange hand signals when the prince tried to silently direct him to do something. He would never see the moments of pratishness that Arthur couldn’t seem to get rid of completely, despite being much better than he was when they had first met, never see any more stupidly dangerous tournaments, with Arthur walking away triumphant as always, never see those moments, that had been getting more common every day, when Arthur showed the signs of the king he was destined to be, the king that Merlin would serve happily for the rest of his life, the king and friend that he would be proud to stand beside as they ushered in a time of peace together. Now he would never see that day, never see Arthur crowned, never serve at his side, never see the dawn of a new and prosperous Camelot where magical and non-magical people alike could live side by side without fearing harsh and unjust laws. He was never going to be able to explain his magic to Arthur, was never going to be able to earn forgiveness, and they would never strengthen their friendship now that they would have no more barriers of secrets between them that had been keeping them apart. His last memory of his best friend’s expression was going to be that look of pain and betrayal and fear in the well-known blue eyes that cut him to the core. Arthur was never going to be alright, and Merlin was never going to be alright again either. Nothing was going to be fine, because Arthur was dead.
The young sorcerer gathered his friend into his arms and let his head fall onto Arthur’s shoulder, now sobbing openly. He remembered his friend’s words, “no man is worth your tears,” and knew the prince wouldn’t want him to cry like this. He knew the other man had died with honor, taking down more men than most people could stand against and helping get rid of a threat to his kingdom and his people. He could just imagine Arthur’s words, if he could see Merlin breaking down like this. “Don’t be such a girl Merlin.”
Merlin knew all this, and yet he just couldn’t stop. This hurt. This hurt more than anything he had ever experienced. There was a painful pressure in his chest that kept growing to unbearable levels, which he only found relief from by screaming or sobbing as loud or as long as he could, but it would just build up again, forcing him to do it all over again in a vicious cycle of pain and despair. He was distraught and falling apart more and more with every passing minute. Merlin was being torn apart by guilt and sorrow. His best friend was gone because he wasn’t strong enough, smart enough, or quick enough to protect him. He had failed his destiny. He had failed Camelot. He had failed Arthur.
Even his magic was screaming in agony. Merlin was just barely managing to keep a hold of it, knowing that it would decimate the clearing he was in, and who knew how much more, if he let it have free rein. He could feel it burning in his body, scorching his veins, eager to burst out of him in order to rip and tear and destroy whatever was in its way. Anything to get rid of the overwhelming pain, the growing sense of emptiness. The young man remembered the dragon’s words about how he and Arthur were two sides of the same coin and two halves of a whole. Merlin had thought he had understood what that meant because as opposite as he and Arthur were, Arthur was still his closest friend, as close as a brother.
Now, however, he had true understanding because it felt like half of him had been viciously ripped away, like he wasn’t even whole anymore. Merlin hadn’t known that his magic had an awareness that allowed him to feel if his friend was alive or in trouble, although he should have guessed after the incident with the Morteus flower. It was only now that he realized this; now that there was a gaping hole in him where that awareness of his friend’s life had been before. There was a jagged wound in his soul that would never heal.
After what seemed like an endless amount of time, Merlin had no more tears left to cry, but the pain still hadn’t abated. He needed a release of this build up of magic, anger, and hurt. Still keeping a tight hold of his best friend’s body, he raised his hand, and his eyes burned gold as, with a yell, he released several blasts of fire and wind at some trees in the distance, decimating them where they stood. Then with another yell and wave of his hand he caused several rocks and boulders in the clearing to blow apart. Merlin heard a gasp and turned his head towards the sudden sound. The knight who he had left behind had finally managed to find them, but it was too late. Much too late.
He saw the man, a newer knight who he didn’t know as well as some of the others, approach cautiously with some fear in his eyes. His eyes dropped to the prince’s body still cradled in the servant’s arms, and Merlin saw them fill with pain and sadness. The knight came right next to Merlin, and looked at him in distrust, fear, and uncertainty, having seen the display of destructive and obvious magic and not knowing quite what to do. Merlin knew he was going to be arrested. This knight didn’t know him, had no reason to trust him, and now Arthur wasn’t even around to defend him. Merlin couldn’t bring himself to care, and merely stared up at the man with dead eyes.
“I couldn’t protect him,” he whispered, voice breaking and raw.
Merlin saw the man’s eyes soften and flash with sympathy for the briefest of seconds, before his expression hardened again. “You will come with me to bring the prince’s body back to Camelot, and then you will be tried and executed for the crimes of sorcery as the law of Camelot dictates.”
Merlin nodded, not even having the will to resist anymore, but looked up pleadingly for a moment. “Can you at least wait to turn me in until after Arthur has been laid to rest properly? I want to be there for that, and besides, I don’t want my execution to distract from his death rites. After those have been done, I’ll come quietly. I promise I won’t even resist.”
The knight looked uncertain for a moment, but finally nodded. He too didn’t want the scandal of the prince’s manservant being a sorcerer to take the attention of the people away from where it should rightfully be: the funeral of the crown prince. He reached down, and removed the prince’s body from Merlin’s arms, slinging the body over his shoulder. He would carry Arthur back to the horses and from there they would head back to Camelot, for Arthur to be put to rest and for Merlin to be executed soon after. Merlin was beyond fear of execution now; nothing they could do to him could hurt more than how he felt now anyway. Let Uther kill him. He was already burning. The flames were blazing higher and higher and-.
Merlin sprang bolt upright in his bedroll with a scream. His eyes wide, he swung his head back and forth frantically to take in his surroundings, forgetting where he was in the wake of his terror. It took him awhile to recognize his location, but he soon remembered that he had been out on a hunt with Arthur and they had settled down for the night to return to Camelot in another day or so. Fighting his impulse to walk across the campsite and wake the prince to make sure he was still alive, or at least to look in his direction and watch him breathe for a few minutes, he brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, trying to calm his frantic heartbeat. Merlin shuddered, recalling the nightmare in vivid detail, and against his will a few tears slipped down his cheeks.
The young man had dreamed of Arthur dying several times before, and dreaming of the prince dying while hating him for his secret was even more common. It was his worst nightmare, so of course he dreamt of it more than once. This nightmare was different though, in a way that he was scared to truly examine. For one thing, this was the first time he had awoken after the desperate grieving; usually he would wake after finding Arthur dead. For another, this dream had hurt. He could still feel the agony that his friend’s death in his dream had caused, the painful experience of being only half of what he had been before, and knew instinctively that at least that part of the dream was true. He knew somehow that it was how he would really feel should Arthur die before him. He started shaking at the mere thought of that. That kind of pain would be unbearable. That was another thing. The dream was so real. It had so much detail that it was like it was really happening. He could even feel a residual ache in his magic, as if left over from the excruciating burning he had felt. Merlin stiffened, and started shaking even harder as he thought of something he hadn’t considered.
What if it hadn’t been just a dream? What if it had been a premonition? He wasn’t a true seer like Morgana, but he had seen the future before. He had seen several horrible events before they had happened, and he hadn’t been able to stop them until after so much damage had already been done. Merlin had tried going against destiny before, and it had never really worked. He was sure that several times he had actually made things worse. What if this was going to happen? What if Arthur truly died? Even worse, what if this possible future was brought about through his own efforts to prevent it?
Panicked thoughts raced through his head, and the young man tried desperately to stop the constant flow of fears and doubts, but he had lost control. There was a small part of him that recognized that he was being irrational, that the nightmare could have been simply a nightmare, and that even if it had been a premonition, there was still a good possibility that he could stop it from coming to pass. However, that part of him was being overpowered by a currently much larger part of him that was still completely shaken from the dream, the representation of all his worst fears come alive in a way that a mere dream had never done before. This part of him was screaming that his magic was already feeling a phantom pain from Arthur’s death, an echo of the terrifying and unbearable future that could possibly come about. The magic was crying that his soul felt like it might rip apart any moment from the idea that the dream might be a vision of the future, and his mind was throwing every single failure he’d ever had when it came to protecting people into his thoughts until he couldn’t take it anymore. Merlin was so overwhelmed that he let out a loud, harsh, and partially strangled sob, and then he buried his face in his arms, which were still wrapped around his knees, and started to cry as quietly as he could.
The young man soon felt a hand grip his shoulder, firmly yet still somehow seeming hesitant, and he looked up from his knees, blinking his eyes to remove the blur, and had to choke off another sob. Arthur himself knelt in front of him, his familiar, and wonderfully alive, blue eyes looking at him in sympathy, uncertainty, and slight concern. The prince’s grip on his shoulder tightened when their eyes met and he had barely asked if Merlin was alright before Merlin launched at him, gripping his wrist tightly and placing his head over his heart, remaining there as he listened to the comforting proof that his best friend was with him and still alive.