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Things got bad again as autumn faded into the icy chill of winter.
“Merlin, how about my jacket instead of my cloak today?” Arthur asked as he stepped out from behind the changing screen. He had a thick shirt under his tunic with a pair of trousers lined with fur. The boots Merlin set by the head of his table were also fur-lined and soft.
“Yes, sire,” Merlin murmured, the evidence of everything wrong in Arthur’s life. Merlin didn’t even look up as he shuffled to the wardrobe and pulled free the exact jacket Arthur had been thinking about, even though he hadn’t specified.
He came over and helped Arthur into it with a few perfunctory movements. Usually, he would straighten the neckline or run his hands along his shoulders, making sure the fit was correct. But he barely looked at him now.
Then again, Arthur wasn’t sure Merlin was really seeing him.
Dark lilac bruises under red-veined eyes said he hadn’t been sleeping again. The hollows of his cheeks — already always visible — seemed to get deeper as the days went by. His tunic and trousers hung off of him limply. He barely picked at the food Arthur left him. Sometimes, he ignored it completely.
The black mass of worry in Arthur’s stomach made it hard to focus on other tasks. His mind whirled, trying to figure out what could have upset Merlin enough to result in this.
The last few weeks had been quiet. There were no magical threats, which meant no pyres had been lit and no executions had been threatened. The druids came to the castle nearly a fortnight ago to trade goods for the winter, and not a single knight stepped out of line. The harvests all made it in, and Hunith had written to say she would be supplied for the cold months even without the care basket Arthur sent her.
While Lancelot and Elyan were out on patrol, no word came of bandits or injuries. The worst danger was the cold, and they were kitted against the freezing weather.
Nothing should have torn the smile from Merlin’s face so completely.
“Merlin,” Arthur started, reaching out to catch his arm gently when he almost went sliding away. The blank look he got in response made his jaw clench. He focused on keeping his grip light and friendly. “Are you okay? You’re not cold, are you?”
The cold wouldn’t do this, but it was the most inconspicuous thing he could think to ask. Besides, if Merlin was cold, Arthur wanted to know. He would get him a new jacket or a cloak or, hell, an entire new wardrobe if he would just tell him what was wrong.
The blank look now included narrowed, vaguely confused eyes. Then, slowly, Merlin shook his head no. “What?”
Arthur sighed and let him go. If he pushed anymore, there would be more questions, and his explanation wouldn’t prompt answers. Concern never did, one of the many mysteries that made up his manservant.
Merlin drifted off.
Unfortunately, Arthur’s work didn’t stop for one man, no matter how much he wished it would. He still needed to go to the council meeting, sit in on the petitions, eat dinner with Lord Bevan, and approve the guard rotations Leon put together.
First, though, he could sit down to eat. He dropped into the seat at the head of the table where a platter of food waited. The order came out before he could think it through. “Sit with me.”
“I can’t. I need to get to Gaius’s rounds and pick up your new cloak from the tailor and…” Merlin trailed off as he fled the room.
Dropping his head forward, Arthur considered banging it against the table.
He should have just stayed quiet. Handing off small pieces of food prompted Merlin to nibble like the bird he was named after. And he might set morsels back on the plate, but Arthur had perfected the art of handing him the choicest pieces first. It meant, sometimes, if he was lucky, Merlin ate a full piece of bread or an entire sausage. He even occasionally tricked him into eating what some might call a full meal.
Now, he wouldn’t eat anything.
Shoving the platter away from him, Arthur stood.
He wasn’t hungry either.
Arthur sat on his throne, legs spread so he could plant his elbows on his knees. He pressed his hands to his lips and absently stared at the heavy door. Lords and ladies loitered after the petitions, but none came to speak with him.
Leon, his First Knight, stood nearby, stiff and tense.
The other Knights of the Round Table were stationed around the castle, ready to step in if they saw Merlin so much as sniffle. They all knew something was wrong. But Merlin continued to walk through his days in a daze. He replied late to conversations, if he bothered to reply at all. He stared at his best friends like he didn’t quite recognize them. He even took to bowing to people randomly. Only his place as a beloved servant in Arthur’s household kept the cook from smacking him when he accidentally bowed to her.
It was a conundrum, one Arthur didn’t have enough information to puzzle out.
This wasn’t the first time Merlin seemed to fade into a shadow of himself. It wasn’t even the first time this year. But Arthur found himself stunned each time. Merlin was usually so bright, a light in the darkness. He wasn’t prepared for that light to wink out, even for a single moment.
It worried him and infuriated him in equal measure.
If he found out someone had done this to Merlin, Arthur would kill them. He’d already made his piece with the fierce, protective part of him that counted Merlin as uniquely his. He would do whatever he had to to drag him out of this — no price was too high, no sacrifice too large.
The arrival of Mordred, frowning and pale, had Arthur raising an eyebrow. He knew Mordred and Merlin had a contentious relationship. And by that, he meant Mordred worshipped the ground Merlin walked on; and Merlin hated his guts for no conceivable reason. The starry-eyed stare that Mordred took on whenever Merlin spoke to him always made Arthur uncomfortable. But he couldn’t help but like the kid and still promoted him to the rank of knight when he passed his test, something he usually wouldn’t do with Merlin dead-set against him. He only regretted it occasionally, when the hero-worship got a bit too starstruck.
Mordred ducked into a stiff bow. He only spoke when Arthur waved him up. “I found Merlin leaning against a wall near the armory. He.. I think he passed out there.”
Arthur reached up to scrub over his face and wondered if maybe he should just intervene and put an end to this.
“Lady Guinevere said she would help him back to Gaius’s chambers. But…” Mordred looked toward the wall and shut up. Whether it was because Arthur’s expression twisted or if it was because he didn’t want to speak against Merlin, Arthur didn’t know.
Arthur finished the thought for him anyway, “But Merlin probably walked out the second she left.”
Guinevere was the one who told him to let it play out this time. Arthur had called her in to speak with her over a week ago, when the dark circles had just started to appear around Merlin’s eyes. He’d hoped she would know what was happening and why Merlin was so upset, but she didn’t. And, as much as she worried, she warned him against intervening like he had the last few times.
When Merlin got like this, holding him down for longer than two minutes resulted in him passing out. He’d sleep like the dead for a full day, sometimes two. And, when he woke, the shadows would be lighter. Maybe not gone, but he went back to his old self.
Apparently, Arthur tackling him in a hallway and wrapping him in his travel cloak like a particularly stubborn child didn’t actually treat the underlying issue. And Guinevere worried Merlin would get worse if they didn’t figure out the root cause. She said it was like poison, that it needed to be dug out of him, or it would just keep happening. And Arthur had listened, because he didn’t know what else to do.
“I’m sorry, sire. I didn’t know what to do when she ordered me away,” Mordred admitted, frowning. He glanced at Leon, who shook his head just slightly.
None of them would recommend he argue with Guinevere. It was best to do as she said.
“It’s fine, Mordred.” Arthur shook his head too. He glanced sideways at Leon. “Keep an eye on him?”
“Of course.” Leon bowed, meeting his gaze reassuringly when he stood up straight again. “Come, Mordred. I’ll teach you the fine art of caring for Merlin when he wants nothing less.”
“But what if he notices us?” Mordred asked, sounding terrified.
Leon laughed and didn’t answer.
Dragging a hand through his hair, Arthur pushed to stand. He needed to get ready for his dinner with Lord Bevan. He had to trust that his knights would be able to watch out for Merlin in the interim.
Dinner dragged impossibly long. The low light of the feast hall made it seem later than it was as the lord drank himself into oblivion. Arthur slouched in his seat and scanned the hall again.
No matter how many times he checked, Merlin never appeared.
“Arthur,” a soft voice called to him.
Arthur turned to see Guinevere standing near his chair. He tensed when he registered that she used his first name, something she usually didn’t do in front of guests. A bolt of unease ran through him at the thought that, whatever she was here for, it was serious. She wrinkled her nose delicately when the lord belched but made no move to get closer.
A quick glance showed the lord was long past speaking and was likely to remain in that seat overnight if his personal servant didn’t peel him out of it soon. But, well, Arthur wasn’t feeling very charitable, so he simply slid out of his own seat and hurried over to where Guinevere waited.
“What’s wrong?” he asked immediately, frowning when Guinevere twisted her fingers together. She wasn’t often nervous around him anymore.
“Merlin collapsed in the kitchen,” she told him.
When he jerked forward, she grabbed his arm and dug her nails in enough to hurt. It stopped him, though he slowly turned a dangerous glare on her. He let her get away with a lot because he appreciated her friendship and her wisdom, but he wouldn’t let her keep him from Merlin.
“He’s not there anymore. Something happened. He seemed… afraid. He took off. Mordred went after him, but he said he’s in your room,” Guinevere said urgently. She met his gaze firmly. “You need to be kind, Arthur. Whatever is going on, he might tell you now.”
Offended, Arthur shook her hand off.
“I’ll figure it out,” he said, stalking past her with a scowl. He forced his features into a pleasant mask by the time anyone else saw him. He didn’t want anyone to get the wrong impression and think they needed to punish Guinevere when she was just trying to help — not even if he didn’t need it.
“Are you leaving, my lord?” Percival asked, standing guard near one of the doors. He’d been stationed there to keep an eye out for Merlin.
“Yes. Make sure Lord Bevan makes it back to his rooms, please,” Arthur ordered, throwing the door to the hall open.
He had to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth to force down the urge to run.
Adrenaline flooded his system now that he was away from prying eyes. He couldn’t imagine what would scare Merlin. He was notoriously unshakeable. He followed the knights into certain-death situations and walked away again without flinching. He regularly spoke out against cruelty, even when it was a knight or a lord he spoke against. Arthur saved him from no less than three lashings in the last two years, either punishing the knight for his behavior or insisting that the maids Merlin protected lay their grievances against the lords before his council.
Both lords had been stripped of their titles and their lands when Arthur learned what they had been doing. The second one lost his life to Gwaine’s blade when it came out he tried to importune Merlin too.
None of it seemed to bother Merlin. He always bounced back.
The idea that something might have broken that unshakeable calm had Arthur moving faster.
Arthur pushed the door to his room open carefully. He let the hinge squeak as he did, a comfort and a warning. A quick glance showed someone had stoked the fire just enough to give off long shadows on every surface. None of those shadows looked Merlin-shaped on first glance.
Stepping inside, Arthur closed the door behind him. He didn’t lock it, not yet. He needed to be sure Merlin was here first.
“Merlin?” Arthur asked in a quiet, gentle tone he rarely used. It was the same way he spoke to scared children and feral animals. The same tone he took the few times Morgana trusted him with her nightmares. He wished, with that aching hole in his chest that lived just to tell him he failed her, that he had used it more often.
He refused to lose Merlin the same way.
The empty room stared back at him. But he still stepped further into the darkness. He knew, intimately, which spots of his room weren’t visible from the doorway. Each hidden spot was another place an assassin could hide, another place Arthur could hide, if his father came looking for him after a particularly bad night. The rug right before the fire, tucked behind his favorite chair, was empty. The corner behind his armoire, a crack he grew too big for when he turned fourteen, also held no one. The door to the antechamber was closed, leaving no hidden nook there.
Stealthily, Arthur slipped around the end of his bed.
And froze.
There, curled on the floor in front of the bedside table, was Merlin. He didn’t so much as twitch when Arthur appeared.
Slowly, Arthur lowered himself into a balanced crouch. It put him on Merlin’s level and allowed a little bit of the firelight to make it past him. He could see Merlin had pulled his knees up to his chest and had tucked his face into them. His curly hair looked soft and limned in gold.
“Merlin?” Arthur tried in the same soft tone.
Nothing.
His heart clenched.
Merlin never failed to answer him. Even on his worst days, in his worst moods, he always let Arthur know he heard him.
Which meant, for whatever reason, he couldn’t hear him now.
Pushing upright, Arthur turned and strode quickly back to the door. He fitted the lock in place. He locked the door to the antechamber too, just to be sure. His room was the safest place in the castle, the safest place Merlin could be, especially with Arthur there, ready to defend him against the entire kingdom if he had to.
Arthur went back to the edge of the bed. This time, he inched closer before he dropped to his knees. The cold stone bit into his kneecaps, but he ignored the discomfort.
For a second, he sat there and observed.
Merlin looked incredibly small. He was almost exactly Arthur’s height when he bothered to stand up straight. While he wasn’t a broad or particularly muscular man, he bore the kind of wiry strength common in rural farm children who never got enough to eat but needed to do a full day’s work anyway. On more than one occasion, he’d made Arthur feel small, especially when he spoke like the Gods themselves murmured in his ear. His personality was larger than he was, and Arthur regularly forgot that he hadn’t grown up in the wealth and comfort of the citadel.
Now, there was no forgetting it. This wasn’t the man he’d come to know in the last few years, the one that faced a dragon with him. No, Arthur rather thought he faced Hunith’s son instead. He could practically see it, Merlin as a small child, curling himself into a tight ball to get away from the world in the tiny hut they called home.
Did he make himself so small because he’d never had the space to feel this way before?
Braced for whatever reaction he got, Arthur reached out and set a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. He curled his fingers around the fine bones and squeezed.
Slowly, Merlin’s head came up.
He stared at him blankly, that unnerving nothingness in his eyes. The pulsing black mass of Arthur’s worry writhed, hurt arcing through him. But he forced himself to meet Merlin’s gaze.
“Merlin,” he said again, drawing out his name the way he always did. “You’re in my chambers, safe. Do you remember how you got here?”
A long blink. Then, “Arthur?”
Relief crashed through him so hard that he had to take a moment to breathe through it. Arthur squeezed his shoulder. “Yeah. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
Merlin blinked, and Arthur mirrored the tilt of his frown. Slowly, Merlin peeled one arm away from his legs and held out his hand so Arthur could see a shiny, swollen mark on his palm. It stretched from the base of his thumb across to where the line of his hand cut through. It was hard to see, but the bulbous shape made it easier to trace the outline.
“Shit,” Arthur hissed, gently taking his wrist in his hand. He had nothing in his chambers that could help with a burn like that.
“It hurts,” Merlin told him. He didn’t try to take his hand back or pull away. He just stared blankly at it like it wasn’t even a part of him.
“I’m sure,” Arthur forced himself to think. The blister might be bad, but it hadn’t torn open. And there wasn’t a chance of infection so long as the blister remained. He just needed to keep an eye on it. It was honestly a miracle Merlin hadn’t torn it yet, especially since he seemed to only vaguely register it existed. He swallowed hard and forced himself to ask, “Is that what upset you in the kitchen?”
Merlin’s unnerving stare found his face again. He stayed silent; and Arthur blew out a breath. He didn’t actually need to know what was going on, he reminded himself. For now, he just needed to be here. Some day, Merlin would trust him with whatever it was that threatened to drown him every time Arthur dared look away.
A glance showed that the extra furs on his bed were within reach. Brushing his thumb along Merlin’s quick pulse, Arthur let go of his wrist. As soon as he let go, he dug his fingers into the soft pelt of the nearest fur and dragged it off the edge of the bed. It was a bigger one, just what he needed.
He carefully rolled onto his knees and shook out the length.
Merlin didn’t do anything but stare when Arthur carefully wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, the side with the fur against his skin to trap warmth. Unable to help himself, Arthur fussed to get the fur to lay right and keep Merlin warm for however long they ended up sitting here. He wished he could get him to move enough to put a fur under him. The stone had to be freezing. But trying to convince him to move wasn’t a fight he was willing to start right now.
Merlin’s lips twisted; and Arthur knew he was chewing on his lip again. It was an awful habit that resulted in torn, bloody skin some days.
“It wasn’t the burn,” Merlin said slowly, jerking Arthur out of trying to decide whether he should tell him to stop chewing or not. He tilted his head and eyed Merlin, hands still caught in the fur. Merlin tilted his head so his cheek — cold — brushed Arthur’s hand. “Not really. Have you ever thought about what it would be like to burn?”
Arthur felt his heart drop out of his chest.
He rocked back on his heels and rubbed his hands up and down Merlin’s shoulders and arms as he took a second to acclimate himself to this knowledge. It sat like a stone in his chest and grew thorns that stabbed him.
The image of a pyre flashed in his mind, but bile burned in his throat when Merlin’s face superimposed on the last sorcerer his father burned.
No.
Nope, not thinking about it, Arthur decided.
He swallowed hard and focused instead on Merlin. Merlin, who had paled drastically the longer it took Arthur to answer. Merlin, who watched every execution like he had to personally stand witness. Merlin, who never had to worry about burning because Arthur would never let him, damn it.
“I did,” Arthur blurted, because he knew this fear intimately, even if the thought of Merlin fearing it had never really occurred to him. The only time he ever imagined Merlin on a pyre was when the witch finder accused him, and even then, Arthur had a plan to get him the hell out of Camelot. He wasn’t about to let his best friend burn, and he would never let anyone — not even his father — tell him otherwise.
But Arthur had lived in Camelot his entire life. And everyone here thought about it at least once.
Taking a deep breath and throwing his mind back to when he watched his first pyre, Arthur said, “I was seven when my father had me stand witness to my first execution. She was my nursemaid. A knight claimed he saw her enchanting a stuffed bear I slept with.”
Wide eyes stared at him with quiet fascination.
“I don’t know if she did it or not. But I watched her die, and I kept the bear because I never had nightmares when it was with me, and I wondered what my father would do if the bear was enchanted,” Arthur admitted. He buried the ache of betrayal in his gut. He knew, in some way, his father loved him. Did he think that he would burn him for magic if he had it? He hated admitting that he didn’t know.
He thought maybe Uther would have changed the law for Morgana, if she’d just told them about her magic. The king had always loved his daughter more than anything — certainly more than Arthur.
Did that mean he wouldn’t have done it for him?
He would never know.
Arthur cleared his throat and forced himself to keep talking, hoping Merlin would give him more if he gave him honesty first. “I used to fear it. It looks excruciating. And no one should have to die like that.”
The way Merlin’s face crumpled made Arthur panic. He rubbed against his arms faster and hoped it was reassuring and not overwhelming. The tears that glimmered on Merlin’s cheeks made his stomach sink further. “The law…”
“The law doesn’t say a pyre has to be built,” Arthur told him, desperate to reassure him. He felt tears burn the back of his own eyes, and he had to stifle that urge too. This wasn’t about him. “And, if you’ve noticed, there’s been no pyre built since I became king. I want to get rid of the practice. I don’t think crimes should go unpunished, but…”
But he didn’t believe that the pyre was a merciful death. And even the criminals in his kingdom were still his people. He couldn’t stomach burning any of his citizens, not even the worst of them.
“Crimes,” Merlin repeated absently, sniffling. “But no pyre.”
“No pyre,” Arthur vowed. He made a decision then and there: no one else would burn. He would put it into law at the next council meeting. The council agreeing with him made things easier, but many of them still feared Uther’s reign and would do as they were told if he used the right tone of voice.
This was one of the few decisions he would push through without debate.
Slowly, Merlin’s shoulders softened under his hands. He still cried, silent and aching, but the tension holding him up eased.
“Is that what you’ve been worried about for so long?” Arthur asked in a low voice. He inched closer so that his knees pressed against Merlin’s feet.
Dark eyes glanced at his face, like Merlin knew he had other questions. But Merlin slowly nodded. Just slightly. And admitted in a low voice, “Nightmares.”
Arthur hissed and wondered how long this had been going on. Why hadn’t Merlin told him? He would never put Merlin on the pyre — or anywhere near a pyre, now that he knew how much he feared it. This kind of fear… it came from instinct. The kind that had an animal chewing its own leg off to be free of a trap.
How long had he feared it? When did he even find out about the executions? Merlin might not be from Camelot, but it was naive to think the tales of the Purge hadn’t spread far and wide. Someone just over the border would have heard about it. And, while Arthur couldn’t imagine Hunith telling her young son, he could see an oblivious adult blurting it out when they didn’t realize little ears were listening. Either way, it wasn’t something he needed to fear anymore. Arthur would ensure it.
“You can sleep safely. You’ll never have to worry about the pyre, Merlin,” Arthur promised, tucking that one deep in his heart.
The look on Merlin’s face changed, melting into something pained and afraid again.
Arthur dug his fingers into his shoulders hard enough that he was just this side of bruising and ducked down to meet his gaze. “Never.”
“What if… what if I did something terrible?” Merlin asked in a watery voice.
That took no thought at all. “Then, I’ll pardon you for it.”
Jerking his head up, Merlin stared at him, startled.
“There’s quite literally nothing you could do that would make me want to hurt you. And, even if you did something horrible, I’d wager my kingdom that you were doing it for the right reasons,” Arthur told him, pushing his belief into his voice. He’d never believed in anything more than he believed in Merlin.
“You can’t just say that!” Merlin said, sounding horrified. The tears started coming faster, his breath hitching on a sob.
“Yes, I can. I’m the king, Merlin,” Arthur said, putting his usual condescending tone behind the claim. Because, as much as he joked about it, Merlin was the one thing he didn’t think he could ever compromise on. If the council wanted to hurt him, they would swiftly be reminded that Arthur was still a Pendragon and could lay waste to this land just as easily as he could rule it.
Merlin finally gave into his tears.
Arthur caught him when he tipped forward. He let Merlin claw at his shirt and bury his face in his shoulder, shaking apart. And he held him there and silently vowed to keep all his broken pieces together until he could do it on his own again.
It took over an hour for Merlin to cry himself out. He went limp in Arthur’s arms, leaning fully into his chest. Arthur rubbed his hand up and down his spine, counting the nobs again and again and again. Occasionally, he murmured nonsense under his breath, just enough so Merlin knew he wasn’t alone. But he didn’t think the words themselves got through, so he just repeated variations of the same thing: That Merlin wasn’t alone. That he never would be. That the pyre would never be lit again. And, even if it was, Arthur would make sure he wasn’t on it.
The moon was high in the sky by the time Merlin stirred.
“You’re okay. You’re safe,” Arthur said, squeezing the back of his neck.
“Tired,” Merlin managed to get out.
Sighing, Arthur let the relief slide through him. The worry curdling his gut eased. He shifted slightly, grimacing when his legs ached. From the knees down, they were numb. But he hadn’t wanted to move in any way that might imply he didn’t want Merlin here.
“We can’t sleep on the floor. The bed’s right here,” Arthur said, nodding his head toward where it almost brushed his shoulder.
Merlin slowly peeled himself away to look at his face.
Arthur wasn’t sure what he could see, considering the fire had burned low. But he still sent him a reassuring look. He meant what he’d said.
Merlin allowed Arthur to help him onto the bed.
Arthur couldn’t help himself. He tucked the blankets around Merlin like he was a small child, fussing until he couldn’t find an excuse to anymore.
Then, he crawled right over Merlin so he could sit between him and the door.
The noise that came from Merlin’s chest was gut-wrenching and had Arthur reaching to bury his hand in his hair. He smoothed out the wild curls and murmured, “I’m right here. I’m not leaving. I promised, remember?”
“Please… I’m so tired,” Merlin said, a half sob breaking on the word.
Arthur shook his head. “Then sleep. I’ll stand guard.”
“I thought you said it was safe here?” The way Merlin started to wake, shifting like he might sit up, had Arthur pressing the length of his leg down Merlin’s side.
“It is. But you don’t feel safe, do you?” Arthur asked. He might swear he would go against the entire world for Merlin, but he knew that this type of fear wasn’t rational. All his reassurances helped, but they wouldn’t cure it.
And he was proven right when Merlin shyly murmured, “…not yet.”
“Then, I’ll stand guard until you do,” Arthur promised. In his heart, he promised to do so every night until Merlin could sleep again, until he could close his eyes without the specter of the pyre haunting him.
Slowly, Merlin relaxed. He rolled toward Arthur, pressing his face into his hip and curling into a tight ball. It didn’t look comfortable, but Arthur just ran his fingers through his hair and scanned the room.
The door was locked. The low light of the fire barely gave any light, but he’d already checked the hidden places. They were alone. This was the safest place in the castle, and a dagger waited for him under his pillow if someone did manage to get in. Arthur could protect them both if they needed it.
And he would.
The exhaustion dragged Merlin into its depths only moments later, his deep breathing spreading warmth against Arthur’s leg.
Arthur sat still and on guard for the rest of the night and well into the next day. He was still waiting and watching when Merlin woke sometime after the noon bell. And he would keep watching for days, weeks, and months — until the pyre was destroyed, the laws were changed, magic returned to the land, the Golden Age dawned, and Merlin could finally, finally rest.