Work Text:
Arthur had decided that if his father asked, he would say he was crying because of the smoke. And truly, that was not entirely a lie, the thick black smoke enveloping the square and the even thicker stench of burning flesh was enough to make even those with the strongest of constitutions cover up their mouths and noses with handkerchiefs, shirts and cloth scraps. But the one thing that set the prince of Camelot apart from the rest of crowd, besides his royal blood of course, was his childish nature. For he was only 8 years old.
See, children have an immense capacity for empathy and trust, they are like sponges, soaking up ideas and beliefs without bias. As one grows older, their sponge in a sense, dries out, becomes less able, less willing to absorb new world beliefs.
Up to this point in his life, Arthur has had the belief that sorcery is the darkest, most corruptive force on the face of the earth beaten into his mind through lectures, speeches, and grief-filled days where his father would all but lose himself to rage and despair. Though, all the hatred of sorcery had always been in theory. In practice…
Well…
Children also have an immense capacity for fear.
It hadn’t been so bad, watching the soldiers carry the accused out of the castle, iron chains wrapped tight around her wrists. Seeing them bind her the pyre, stacked high with firewood from the castle’s store. Observing as they removed the gag from her mouth, offering her the chance for last words, though she did not elect to take it.
The boy watched with morbid curiosity. For goodness sake he jeered along with the crowd, clapped when his father spoke the sentence one final time, and stared, transfixed at the flickering torch in the knight’s hand before he lit the pyre.
And then the screams started.
For as long as Arthur Pendragon lives, after every horror the young prince has yet to face, beasts of other worlds, spirits from beyond his own, mass murder and cruelty on a scale he had never before imagined, he still would never be able to forget the screams that woman let out.
With his feeble, childish constitution he had tried to turn away, to bury his face in the cloak of his father who stood behind him. But Uther would not stand for that. He grabbed Arthur by both his shoulders, holding much tighter than what was needed to control the small boy, and turned him forward to face the flames.
“Watch Arthur. You mustn’t turn away from what needs to be done to those who betray our kingdom.” The King explained, with a calmness that at any other time would have put Arthur at ease, but now only made the tears flow faster, especially as his father continued speaking.
“One day the duty of finding and sentencing sorcerers for their crimes will fall to you Arthur, and you must be prepared for when that day comes.”
In that moment, the small prince felt smaller than he ever had before. Despite the fact that he had been learning sword play for 3 years up until that moment, despite his father’s lectures on one day being crown prince, and eventually king, despite all his education on the politics and laws of his kingdom, that moment was when the weight of the Pendragon name truly began to settle on the his shoulders.
That moment was also the first, and only time, for a very, very, long time, that Arthur would question whether he wanted to bare the weight of that name.
With fat tears flowing down his baby-fat cheeks, his father’s broad hands tightly grasping his tiny shoulders, and the smell of death clawing through his sinuses, Arthur watched the execution until the women stopped moving and the flames burned out.
Pyres are not slow deaths. And by the goddesses that woman could scream for a very, very long time.
When Uther finally let Arthur head back to the castle, the pyre was nothing more than a blackened skeleton, half buried in glowing charcoal. The rest of the crowd had left a long time ago, only the two Royals and a scattering of knights had remained by the end.
By the time Arthur got back to his room, he could no longer keep himself together. The 8-year-old prince sobbed, and cried, and curled in on himself until he was sick into his own chamber pot, retching at the smell still lodged in the back of his nose and deep in his throat. He cried until the sun went down, and cried until he passed out from exhaustion, and cried in his sleep.
---
When Arthur looks at Merlin, sleeping and leaning up against him where they both lay in Merlin’s bed, he can hear the woman screaming.
He can hear Merlin’s screams from back in the forest, when he was hunting him down like an animal, he can hear them warp and mix with the woman’s from all those years ago, and when he closes his eyes he can see Merlin’s face juxtapositioned over hers, and he can smell the scent of Merlin’s flesh, and feel tears flowing down face mixing with the smoke and-
“Arthur?”
A small, tired voice asks, breaking Arthur out of his stupor, and suddenly once again he can hear soft breathing, and smell the overwhelming scent of herbs, and feel Merlin’s body pressed against his.
Speaking of Merlin.
Arthur looks down and see’s his friend’s(?) beautiful (okay maybe friends didn’t call each other’s eyes ‘beautiful’) blue eyes staring up at him through his half-lidded lashes.
“Merlin!” Arthur cries, his face cracking into a smile, “You’re awake!”
Merlin stares for a long moment at Arthur, before reaching a hand up to touch his Prince’s face.
“Why are you crying?” The warlock asks gently, staring at Arthur with evident worry.
Arthur’s eyes widen in surprise, his own hand quickly shoots up to his face and- oh, the tears hadn’t just been his imagination.
“Oh… just, my eyes are dry.” He speaks lamely, unconvincing even to himself.
“Your’a bad liar ya know.” Merlin responds, hand still on the blonde’s face staring at the tears like they’re a puzzle he’s trying to solve.
Of course, Merlin, drugged up and lain in bed with a severely broken leg, would be concerned about Arthur crying, even though he’s been unconscious for the better part of 2 days.
Arthur takes a deep breath before replying “It’s… nothing you should concern yourself with Merlin. Just a… bad memory.”
This seems to satisfy Merlin’s curiosity enough that the worry lines in his brow loosen, and relax. Though he doesn’t move his hand from Arthur’s face.
They sit like that for a few minutes, just drinking in each other’s presences. Conscious, alive, and relatively safe.
Arthur’s gaze shifts down Merlin’s body, he looks to the injured leg supported by a pile of pillows. His eyes flick back up, landing on the cuts, covered by nearly blackened scabs, and the bruises, turning from purple to green, littering his face.
“How are you not afraid of me?” Arthur asks, near a whisper. The guilt in his gut coming up like stomach acid, burning his throat and staining his words.
Merlin smiles that smile that Arthur can never manage to read, the kind that makes you feel like the blue-eyed man knows secrets that you could never even begin to speculate about.
“I could ask you the same.” He responds, teasing, but with something… deeper, older, colored behind it.
“In my blindness I could’ve killed you with one well timed blow.” Arthur replies. Merlin’s hand is still on his face, and Arthur is all too aware of the thumb gently rubbing at his, no doubt, horrible looking under eyes.
“I could destroy Camelot with less than that. I’m not even human Arthur.”
Before Arthur has a chance to reply, Merlin, quite stupidly in Arthur’s opinion, tries to shift his position in the bed. Which results in the warlock moving all of nowhere, and instead letting out a pained, cut-off cry.
“Oh gods.” Arthur mutters quickly turning toward the bedside table where Gaius had left of a couple of vials he instructed Arthur on administering to Merlin as needed.
Arthur had been so hyper focused on the whole magic, sorcerery, Merlin, pyre, thing that he had entirely forgotten that Merlin being in such a lucid state likely meant that the pain medicine had begun to wear off.
“Stay still Merls, I’ll fix your pillows then give you some of this tincture.”
As Arthur begins to adjust Merlin’s pillows, supporting his neck more properly and tucking the blankets in closer the young man in question lets out an annoyed huff.
“I don’ want the medicine, ’s gonna make me all loopy.”
Arthur breaths out a laugh “I hate to tell you this Merlin, but you’re already meeting that criteria pretty well.”
“Nooononono, I can still talk to you like this though.” Merlin attempts to explain, though from Arthur’s perspective it’s a bit like bargaining with a drunk. Or a child. Or maybe a drunk child.
“Don’t stay in pain for my sake Merlin,” The prince responds, already uncapping the liquid and measuring out the dosage in a small wooden cup “This may be news to you, but I can actually last a day without your incessant blabber.”
The raven haired boy stares at the cup like it’s just threatened to kill his mother, steal his gold, and kick a puppy to boot. Then, his face falls, crumples into something broken open.
“…I’m sorry.” He says. It’s such a simple phrase I’m sorry but it can be spoke in so many different ways. One could probably make a language just from the 2 words alone simply by slightly changing the intonations. But the way Merlin says it, like a child torn up with guilt, sparks a realization inside Arthur.
“Merlin.” He says firmly, leaning down, attempting to look the warlock in the eyes. But despite his efforts Merlin avoids his gaze.
“Merlin look at me, please.” He pleads gently, pressing a hand to Merlin’s chin and delicately turning his face to meet him, holding the boy’s head in his hand like it’s something precious.
“It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you. To talk about… all this. It’s not that I’m afraid of you, or trying to shut you up. But you need rest, and I know you are in more pain than you are letting on.” Arthur explains, desperate to get Merlin to truly digest the words he is speaking.
Merlin stares into Arthur’s eyes, seemingly contemplating what he’s said. His blue eyes narrow.
“Five more minutes.”
Arthur scoffs “Merlin this isn’t a negotiation.”
“Five more minutes of talking, then I’ll take it willingly. Anything less and you’ll have to force it down my throat.”
Despite the fact that Arthur could easily force it down Merlin’s throat if he really wanted to. He decides that perhaps wrestling the tincture into his manservant’s gullet would likely result in the exact opposite effect Arthur was trying to achieve with his loyal companion. So, with a long sigh, letting Merlin know he’d won even before Arthur even speaks, he agrees to the terms, and settles back down on the bed next to the warlock.
“I don’t think we’re going to make any sort of productive headway by playing the blame game with each other, so… what would you like to talk about.” Arthur asks, turning his head to look down at Merlin, who has comfortably leaned his head against the blonde man’s shoulder.
“Hmmmm,” he hums, pretending like he’s considering something, when in reality Arthur can tell he knows exactly what he wants to talk about. “What were you remembering earlier?”
Damn Merlin’s curiosity, evidently Arthur had not shifted his attention effectively enough.
“You don’t want to hear about it I assure you.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because it’s an awful memory.”
“Is it now? And what makes it so awful?”
“Well for starters, there was this big-eared oaf who kept dodging my attempts to hit him with a flail.”
That get’s Merlin to truly laugh, and subsequently wince, but the euphoria of hearing Merlin let out a sound of such genuine mirth manages to cool his worry ever so slightly.
They sit in a companionable silence for a minute or so, but the question still lays heavy in the air, and Arthur feels equally the need to address it and hide the true answer at all costs.
He settles somewhere in between.
“You know,” he begins “I wasn’t always like this.”
Merlin glances up at that “No one tends to be.” Is all he responds, but it somehow coaxes Arthur to continue.
“I’ve quite literally been training to be King in my father’s image since I was 5 years old. Probably before that too honestly, but I don’t remember it much.”
Merlin doesn’t say anything, he listens, and waits.
“It is sometimes… difficult for me to, decipher what I truly believe and what my father has told me to believe. And by sometimes, I mean it is a constant whisper in the back of my mind making me question everything about everything I do!”
He’s rambling, he knows he’s rambling, get to the point Pendragon.
“But… You.”
Merlin lets out the softest of gasps, so small it could have just been a breath of air.
“You have always been the one thing I have had no doubts about. Your loyalty, and your bravery, and place by my side have never been a question for me, they are the one thing I know is mine, without my father’s input. Which is funny honestly, seeing as he was the one who hired you.”
Neither of them really laugh.
“I almost ruined that. I almost lost my way, but… though I’d never admit this in front of anyone else, you always manage to put me on the right path. And even though I’ve realized my error, I am sorry.” The prince concludes, feeling his eyes grow wet again. Gods he’s tired of crying.
“Thought we agreed to stop the blame game for tonight.” Merlin responds, quickly, easily, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “There is no need for apologies. At least not today.” He continues, his voice far to light for one who has carried such heavy burdens.
Arthur wishes he had more time to unpack all of that with the young man next to him in bed, but alas he knows deep down this conversation is not one to be had tonight, and furthermore, Merlin’s 5 minutes are up.
So, their discussion comes to an abrupt end. Arthur adjusts Merlin’s pillows once again and helps him drink his tincture, praising him for his cooperation once the bitter liquid is down his throat.
And Arthur sits with him as the drug slowly takes hold, and drags Merlin down into a hazy slumber. Right before the warlock tumbles over the point of no return Arthur runs a hand through Merlin’s hair.
“I hope you know I love you, Merlin. You deserve everything this world has to offer.”
Merlin seems to hear him, but doesn’t respond beyond a gentle hum.
Then his eyes are drooping, his pupils wide as the medicine takes hold, plunging him into a softer, dimmer world.
And if Arthur misses a meeting to stay by Merlin’s side, well, his father will just have to cope without his presence this once.