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Merlin had always only wanted Arthur to be happy. His life had been a collection of moments, some more significant and memorable than others, but all of them being recognisable because of Arthur. The ones spent with him shone like a golden light, piercing through the otherwise black veil of his existence, and the one’s without were dark blemishes against all that was good. Arthur had always been the most important thing in his life – and the words sung by destiny had nothing to do with the need he felt to protect him, to always be by his side, whether to save his life or to be the support he needed when his resolve began to crumble under the immense weight of responsibility that sat on his shoulders, growing heavier and heavier with each passing day. He was the person that Arthur would turn to when in need, time after time, but never realise how large that need for him was. Nor would he ever have to know. He would be by Arthur’s side all through this life and into the next.
People would always comment on how Arthur and he seemed to fit together like pieces of a puzzle, how they were, essentially, two sides of the same coin. At first Merlin had been adamant that this man would never mean anything to him. What would it be to him if he were to die? It did not concern him in the least. But then, after time, he began to see through the mask that Arthur put up around all but a select few. He saw that there was a heart in there, and a heart bursting with compassion and love at that; love that Arthur would never give to him, but would come to receive nonetheless.
Some of the worst months for both of them had been those first few after Guinevere had left Arthur for Sir Lancelot, running away in the dead of night, off to some far corner of the kingdom to have the peaceful life that Arthur could never give her. It had torn Merlin up to watch his king – his friend – weep over the loss of the one woman that had ever managed to take his heart and keep it. He guessed that fate had never really planned for Guinevere to be his Queen. As good and fair as her rule was, she had lacked the vigour to be the ruler that Arthur and Camelot needed her to be.
Arthur had been heartbroken, and as much as he denied it, he had never really gotten over her. Merlin could see that he tried, he really did, but her betrayal hung over his head for the rest of his years. The only time his eyes ever turned from the sad blue-grey, like an ocean before a storm, back to the bright blue that they had been when he was younger and still whole was around Merlin. The only person to ever see his smile was Merlin. Sometimes, on rare occasions, when the moon was high and Arthur full of drink, he would hear that silvery laugh that made his skin tingle and his heart jolt violently in his chest. Arthur would swing his arm over Merlin’s shoulder and not notice the redness in his cheeks. He would press his cheek against Merlin’s and not notice how raspy and forced his breaths became. He was, as with everything else, completely blind. But those nights were Merlin’s favourite, because a drunken, clumsy Arthur had no resolve. On those nights Arthur would look at Merlin with that same adoration that used to fill his gaze back when they had been young and everything had been much simpler. Those nights were when Merlin let himself peck Arthur lightly on the forehead as he tucked him into bed, before blowing out the candle and leaving his King alone in the bed that always seemed far too big.
Of course, those nights were as rare as a blue moon, and for Merlin, most days consisted of burying himself in his thoughts and trying so very hard not to hate Guinevere for causing this pain to the man that she had said she cared about -- the man that Merlin cared about. The man that Merlin cared about more than anyone else in the world. He tried not to hate the way that she had pulled Arthur in and made sure that there would never be anyone else for him, and then run away without so much as a goodbye. Before her, there may have been a chance that Arthur would grow to love him back. There had been those looks, those stolen touches, those tiny nuances that had used to send jolts of hope running through Merlin. Those first years had been a constant loop for them. There had never been any moving forward from the childish longing that consumed them both, longing of both the internal and external kind.
He told himself that maybe it was not Guinevere’s fault that nothing had ever happened, but he knew in his heart of hearts that it was. From the first time Arthur had laid eyes upon her all thought of Merlin as anything more than a friend and servant had been pushed from his mind. They had been getting so close, Merlin thought. A few more months, or weeks, or even days, and it might have become too much for both of them and they would have broken, jumping on each other in a much awaited frenzy of heated mouths and sweaty skin and soft, gentle words that would warm them to the core as they fell asleep in each other’s arms. But instead, Arthur had married and Guinevere had given him everything he could ever need in terms of a relationship, leaving Merlin to make their bed for them after a particularly frisky night and to put up with the banter on Arthur’s behalf about how for once, he was finally happy.
He had given Arthur to Guinevere. He had never tried to get between them, and nor had he had any desire to do so. Arthur happiness was predominant to his own. He had set him free, let him make his own choices and his own mistakes when it came to love, never dreaming at the time that it would end in a broken marriage and a broken King. Maybe if Guinevere had been gentler with her departure, then Arthur would have taken it better. Oh yes, he still would have been heartbroken, but maybe after a year or so it would have passed, instead of leaving them here, seven years on and Arthur’s pain still as ripe as it had been the first night without her.
Now, there would never be any Arthur and Merlin. There was Arthur, and there was Merlin, but one piece of the puzzle was lost, one side of the coin tarnished almost beyond recognition.
Arthur’s sadness remained strong until his final battle, on the field of Camlann, where a blow from the sword of Mordred, once his trusted knight and friend, struck him down. Merlin was, in some ways, glad that Arthur’s death had been quick and relatively painless. In as many other ways, he wished it could have lasted longer. He knew he was selfish for wanting his death to be prolonged, but it would have been worth it for a few more hours with him, a few more stolen glances and tentative touches. Mordred had disappeared, and it would be many years before anyone heard so much as a whisper of his name, but in those last few moments, neither man cared about anything other than each other.
Merlin cradled Arthur in his arms, spilling all of his secrets to him, not bearing to look at his face, not wanting his last memory of Arthur to be the look of betrayal and disgust that was no doubt there. He told him how he had magic, how he was born with it, how he had never used it for anyone but Arthur. He told him how he had saved his life more times than he could count, but he never sook recognition because that was not why he did it. He told him that the reason he had always been there was because he loved him. He loved him! He had never dared to say the words to anyone before, but now he told him how if things had turned out differently, if he had been open about everything earlier, that he would have willingly married Arthur, if that was what he wanted, how he would have always been there and always been faithful and never ever let him down. Last of all, he apologised. He sobbed into Arthur’s shoulder and said I’m sorry over and over again, his words droning into a broken and pain-filled chant.
He was stopped by a gloved hand reaching up and gently cupping his face. In that moment, Arthur somehow managed to look sadder and happier than he ever had before. His eyes were clouded and his face deathly pale, the life all but gone, but there was a softness about his features that had nothing to do with death. He gently pressed his chapped lips against Merlin’s, the touch so light that it was barely a kiss. More love was conveyed between them in those last few seconds than could have been in a lifetime. There was the happiness of youth and the desolation of their older years all pressed into one touch and then driven forward, intensified by tenfold and bursting with more raw emotion than words could describe. Arthur pulled away, staring into Merlin’s eyes and with his last breath, whispered ‘me too’ and then left the world forever.
Merlin sat beside him and cried until the sun rose in the east, signalling the beginning of a new day. He did not bother to wonder what Arthur’s last words had meant, because he knew. He knew that Arthur loved him and that Arthur was sorry, and somehow, those last seconds were worth more than a thousand years of being friends could ever have been.
Merlin had only ever wanted Arthur to be happy, and maybe, just maybe, in the very end, he was.