Chapter Text
Uther Pendragon stood from his seat and raised his cup to the crowded hall before him. “I would like to propose a toast,” he proclaimed.
A hush blanketed the room, nobles and soldiers and servants alike falling quiet and still under the sudden attention of the king. Arthur climbed out of his chair and kept his eyes downcast, on his own cup held in his hand.
“As you all know, sorcery is a blight on our kingdom that continues to pervade,” Uther continued. “An infection more deadly than any disease, and one that must be eradicated entirely if we are to ever live free of it. So how fortunate we are that my son—your prince—is dedicated to a cause I began so many years ago.” His hand came down on Arthur’s shoulder, squeezing, and he looked up to see his father’s crinkled eyes and his warm smile.
Arthur offered his own tentative smile in return.
Uther turned once more to the many faces before them. “It brings me great pride to say the raid he led on a sorcerers’ encampment only a week ago was a success. With these dangerous men apprehended and brought to justice for their crimes, this brings our beloved kingdom even closer to a land free of the evil magic inflicts on it.” Uther raised his cup even higher, this time in Arthur’s direction. “To Prince Arthur, and to a future where Camelot is free of sorcery.”
As the banquet goers echoed back the toast, ‘To Prince Arthur’ echoing around the hall, Arthur raised his own cup and said, “Thank you, Father. I will always endeavour to do right by Camelot and our people.”
Uther nodded approvingly.
To the left of the king, Morgana looked unhappy. There was a smile on her lips, a beautiful smile, brightening when Uther glanced her way, but there was a distance to her eyes as she sipped at her drink.
As soon as his father wasn’t looking, Arthur lifted his cup to his lips and drank the whole thing down.
The feast picked up in pace and noise again, music and chatter filling the room and echoing off the stone walls. Arthur sat in his chair and simply watched, taking in the sights and sounds of it all. Servants bustled back and forth with their trays of food and drink and empty plates, soldiers and knights laughed and slapped each other on the back, noble men and women preened and gossiped with each other. It was a banquet like any other, happy and free and celebratory, with laughter and cheer and goodwill.
It was a terrible thing to see.
Arthur wasn’t one to shoot down a successful mission. The encampment of sorcerers had been taken out after all, cleanly and swiftly and with no casualties on their side. It was everything Camelot could hope for.
But to celebrate killing other people seemed distasteful, whether they were practitioners of magic or not. He wasn’t new to bloodshed by any means, sometimes killing truly was unavoidable; but to have music and entertainment and laughter afterwards sent something uncomfortable shivering down his spine.
Arthur picked up his cup and held it out to the side, wiggling it pointedly.
Merlin, hovering close behind and to his right, responded immediately, a jug of wine in his hands and a raised eyebrow on his face. He looked an awful lot like Gaius when he did that. “Perhaps you should take it easy on the wine, my lord,” he murmured as he poured, voice barely audible under the music.
Arthur scowled at him. “And perhaps you should shut up.”
Merlin rolled his eyes and moved away, and Arthur drank from his cup again, revelling in the way the wine warmed a path through his body and in his veins and up into his head, until things became a little more fuzzy and he didn’t quite hate the sound of laughter as much.
They had been sorcerers. So he shouldn’t feel so strange about it. Sorcerers were the enemy, they were dangerous, and they had to be stopped. A single magic user alone could cause untold damage; five of them banded together on the borders of Camelot had been far too great of a risk to simply let go.
Arthur eyed the crowded hall. The smiling faces and the easy going attitudes. Sir Kay and Sir Baudwin—the knights who had accompanied him on his successful, celebrated raid—both off with their fellow soldiers and congratulating each other on a job well done. His father beside him, laughing with Morgana.
He drank again.
*
When he left the banquet later into the evening, the world was beginning to spin, tilting in tandem with the uncomfortable buzzing in his skull.
Arthur made his way through the corridors of the castle carefully, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, brushing his fingers against the wall to keep his balance. The stone felt so pleasantly cool and solid under his skin, he wanted to press his face to it to soothe his head.
Merlin walked with him, alternating between leading the way and staying beside him whenever he seemed dangerously close to tripping over his own boots. Deliberately ignoring any of Arthur’s protests, of course, and sending him incredulous and amused looks instead.
“If you hadn’t drank so much,” he said when Arthur tripped again, “then maybe you wouldn’t be having this problem.”
Arthur glared at him, then decided the floor was definitely more important to look at in case it suddenly decided to run away. “If you weren’t so ugly,” he shot back, “then maybe you…wouldn’t…be having problems.”
Merlin merely grinned at him, unfazed, and he continued to lead the way to Arthur’s chambers. Arthur contemplated shoving him for a moment, then decided the risk of falling flat on his own face simply wasn’t worth it. Mostly because Merlin definitely wouldn’t let him live that one down.
“In you go, sire,” Merlin said, when they finally made the journey, unlocking the door and ushering him inside.
Arthur brushed him off. “I can manage,” he sneered, then promptly stumbled on his way in.
Merlin sounded like he was trying not to laugh. “Of course you can.”
Arthur stripped off his jacket and tossed it aside, ignoring the annoyed sigh behind him, and he made his way over to the window by the fireplace. It was dark outside now, the sky practically black, but the clouds were gone and he could see the half-moon shining down from above, silver light spilling through the glass and onto the floor around him.
“You’re in an odd mood,” Merlin remarked. He worked at Arthur’s bed, plumping the pillows and getting the blankets back and ready. “Something on your mind?”
He considered being snarky, something perfectly suitable for Merlin and his nosiness, but the wine had clouded his brain and he found he couldn’t think of something good enough in time. “Nothing worth talking about,” he settled on.
“You sure drank a lot at the feast.”
“Is that a crime?”
Merlin hummed. “No, it’s just—” he looked up and saw Arthur’s glare. He raised his eyebrows and gave a patronising smile in return. “Fine, fine. I can take a hint. I know when to shut up.”
Arthur rolled his eyes and turned back to the window. “You do not know when to shut up.”
At least the banquet was finally over and dealt with. He had been dreading it for days, the prolonging of this latest raid. Making a spectacle of it. He didn’t want to celebrate killing people.
He tried to reason with himself again. They had been sorcerers, they were dangerous, they were a threat. They had committed a crime. It had been justified.
But twenty soldiers against five of them.
It wasn’t the first time his father’s orders and hatred of anyone with magic had made him uneasy. Arthur could understand the logic of taking out an enemy pre-emptively before they could make a move, even if it did feel a little barbaric—but who was to say they had been enemies in the first place? Who was to say they had been planning any sort of attack? They had been on the border; perhaps they had been planning to leave for another kingdom entirely.
It was easy for his father to think in absolutes. They had been sorcerers and so they were naturally an enemy of Camelot. And any enemy of Camelot needed to be stopped.
But what Arthur remembered most about that raid was that it had practically been a slaughter. It had taken him by surprise; he had expected a much bigger fight, not such an easy kill.
He hated being in conflict with his father’s way of ruling. Arthur believed in striking an enemy when they had made themselves known to be an enemy, by deliberate attacks. Not this aggressive, fearsome drive to wipe out mere potential threats.
But by Uther’s logic, they had already made themselves known as enemies simply by having magic. In his father’s eyes, an attack was simply inevitable.
He was protecting Camelot, Arthur tried to convince himself. He had done it for the good and safety of his kingdom.
Arthur let out a breath and ran his hand over his face. It was over now. The raid, the banquet, all of it. Best to simply put it behind him and move on.
He turned for his bed, only just slightly stumbling into the bedpost on his way around it, pointedly ignoring Merlin’s snort of amusement. “I won’t need anything else for tonight,” Arthur told him. “You’re dismissed.”
Merlin hesitated, frowning and seemingly unsure of himself when Arthur raised his eyes to look at him. “Really?” he asked. “You aren’t exactly sober right now—”
“You’re dismissed, Merlin,” Arthur repeated. He dropped down onto the edge of the bed to pull his boots off. “I do know how to dress myself and get into bed.”
“Of course you do,” Merlin snickered, then held his hands up in surrender when Arthur glared at him again. “All right! I’m going! I know when I’m not wanted.”
“Now that’s a lie if ever I’ve heard one.”
Merlin gave him a level stare. “Goodnight, sire. I’ll be back in the morning. Bright and early.”
Arthur fought back a groan as Merlin locked the doors behind himself on his way out. ‘Bright and early’ with anyone else was a rather pleasant thing to say, full of cheer and optimism and determination.
With Merlin, it was a threat, a promise of retribution. Arthur didn’t doubt it either. He wouldn’t put it past Merlin to arrive earlier than usual, storming in like a behemoth at some ungodly hour, just to get back at him. As if that was completely normal behaviour for a servant.
He dressed as quickly as he could, still balancing precariously even with both feet on the floor, his head swimming with the effects of the wine, and then he threw himself onto the bed.
He was out before his head even hit the pillows.
*
A dull thud pulled him from his sleep.
Arthur blinked heavily, groggy, disoriented. His head still felt as though it were swaying from side to side, like a ship on the ocean, almost nauseatingly so, and he took a second to curse his own foolishness. He really shouldn’t have drank so much at the feast.
He lifted his face from the pillows, surveying his surroundings. Listening carefully for any other sound. It must have been well into the night. The moon’s silver-blue glow was long gone and had left the room enshrouded in a deeper darkness, and the castle held that midnight sort of stillness to it. So it couldn’t have been Merlin bustling about; his manservant would already be sleeping in his own quarters by now.
Arthur frowned and held his breath, froze in his place on the bed, but no matter how much he strained to listen for another sound—breathing, the shuffling of shoes on stone, clothes rustling together, anything—all he could hear was the faint ringing in his ears that heralded an awful headache later.
Wait, there. Footsteps.
Arthur tensed, but only for a moment, his brain a little too slow to catch up. Those footsteps were heavy, armoured, and there was more than one set. Distant. Guards moving about the corridors beyond his chambers. He waited until they faded, and listened to the silence that followed, but it remained unbroken.
With a sigh, he pressed his face back into the pillows and settled in to rest for the night.
*
A loud thud.
Arthur jerked from his sleep, adrenaline jolting through his veins before he could even open his eyes, his body ready for an attack. Then he heard a muffled curse, a familiar voice, and he relaxed back into his bed with a relieved sigh. It wasn’t actually an intruder, then—just Merlin tripping over his own feet and making a complete idiot of himself again.
He groaned and pressed his face harder into the pillows, listening to the sounds of Merlin’s boots crossing the room, each step a little too loud, the sounds pounding against Arthur’s skull. Did he really have to stomp like that? Was he doing it on purpose, determined to make Arthur’s morning as miserable as he possibly could—a likely scenario, considering this was Merlin—or was he really just that incredibly ungraceful?
Maybe if he thought about it hard enough, then his servant would simply just disappear for a little while. He would stop making so much racket and leave Arthur to sleep in peace.
“Come on,” Merlin said, far too cheery and wide awake for the morning, and certainly not disappearing anywhere.
Arthur heard the sharp rustle of curtains and he had to fight against a wince at the mental image, picturing the way they would be thrown back haphazardly. As usual. Perhaps he was a little naive of the way peasants lived their lives out in the country, but surely they had curtains where Merlin came from and he had been taught how to use them. It couldn’t be that difficult of a task.
“Arthur, come on,” Merlin continued as he unlatched the window. It stuck and creaked the way it had been doing lately, and he gave it a couple of loud thumps to get it open. “I was nice enough to let you sleep in for as long as possible, but it’s time to get up now.”
Arthur groaned again. Just because he could.
“You never seem to protest this much on hunting trips.”
“That’s different,” Arthur mumbled into his pillow.
“How?”
“We’re outdoors on hunting trips, where things are dangerous. Here, I’m in my bed. It’s safer here. I can sleep.”
Merlin snorted at that. “All right. Whatever you say.”
“I do say,” Arthur muttered, but, of course, Merlin wasn’t listening anymore. Terrible, dreadful servant, the nerve of him—
He wasn’t going to get back to sleep, was he? Merlin certainly wouldn’t be having any of that, and he had duties to attend to today anyway. Arthur sighed again into his pillow and mourned the loss; his head still ached from everything he drank at the banquet last night and he would have liked a little extra rest before training the knights. Couldn’t have everything, he supposed.
Resigned, he rolled onto his back, ran his hands over his face, and then opened his eyes.
Darkness.
Arthur frowned, then pushed himself up onto his elbows, appalled. “Merlin! What time is it?” He knew Merlin had threatened to arrive early, but surely he hadn’t woken him before the damned sun had even risen, that would be ridiculous—
“It’s mid-morning,” Merlin replied, nonchalantly, from somewhere in front of him. Down by the end of the bed, Arthur thought. “Anyway, you have a council meeting in an hour, so you have just enough time for breakfast and—”
“Mid-morning?” Arthur cut him off sharply. “It is not mid-morning! What are you playing at?” If it was morning at all, then why was it so dark? Darker than anything he had ever experienced before. Even in the middle of the night he could still make out the familiar shapes of his bedposts and his wardrobe, as faint as they were, but this was so dark he couldn’t see anything.
Merlin paused, then said, “I’m…not? I’m not playing at anything. It’s the middle of the morning. And time for you to get up.”
Arthur remained on the bed, feeling frozen to the core, trying to work out if this was a trick Merlin was playing on him. But, when he took a moment to listen, he could hear the bustling of the courtyard outside, nobles and servants and knights going about their daily business. A woman with a coarse accent called out to someone loudly and playfully, and there was an uproar of good-natured laughter from a few men in response. They didn’t seem to be affected by the darkness, and Merlin didn’t seem to be either.
Arthur blinked, strangely lightheaded. He blinked again, harder, and something cold washed over him, ice pouring through his veins.
If it was the middle of the morning, then why couldn’t he see anything?
“Arthur?” Merlin sounded hesitant now, a little alarmed maybe. “What’s wrong?”
Arthur scrambled up until he was sitting and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, rubbing firmly before pulling them away again, blinking.
Nothing.
“Arthur.”
“I can’t—” Arthur started, then stopped because his voice came out far too choked and vulnerable and he hated that. He took a breath and tried again, quieter. “I can’t see anything.”
Silence. Arthur found he hated that even more, not being able to see the reaction on Merlin’s face, not quite knowing where he was standing.
But then Merlin began moving, coming closer to the side of the bed, his boots thumping and hurried against the floor. “What do you mean you can’t see anything?” he said. Definitely alarmed this time.
“What do you think I mean, Merlin?” Arthur snapped back. “I can’t see, it’s all gone, I can’t—” he rubbed his eyes again, harder this time, but it didn’t do anything to alleviate the darkness.
Hands grabbed his wrists, and Arthur batted them away with a snarl. “Stop that,” Merlin said firmly, “you might make it worse.”
“How can it get any worse?”
Merlin’s hands were on his shoulders suddenly, his grip firm, and Arthur had the distinct, disconcerting feeling he was being stared at. He swallowed thickly and ignored his pounding heart. Panicking wouldn’t solve anything.
“Your eyes don’t look any different,” Merlin murmured. “You really can’t see? At all?”
“No.” Arthur clenched his jaw and fisted his hands in the blankets. “Not a damned thing.”
“Right,” Merlin said, quiet, and he sounded a little strained this time. His hands pulled away from Arthur’s shoulders, and it was as if he was slipping away into the darkness. Somehow, it wasn’t comforting to hear that Merlin sounded just as unnerved as Arthur felt. “All right, I’m going to get Gaius. Stay right there.”
Arthur slapped the bed covers hard enough to make his fingers sting, snarling, “Where am I going to go like this?”
“I mean it! Just—just stay right there, Arthur. Don’t move.” Merlin’s boots thumped against the floor as he rushed across the room. “I’ll be back as fast as I can.”
“Hurry,” Arthur said quietly, swallowing down that spark of fear again.
He heard the doors open and slam shut again, and then he was alone, with the deafening silence and the overwhelming feeling that the world was suddenly so much bigger than before. It felt vast with the way he couldn’t see anything, an uncharted ocean, and, as much as he wanted to move around and pace to burn off his anxious energy, he didn’t dare get out of bed.
He was frozen, unable to move, and unable to escape.