Chapter Text
Merlin sat alone in the corner of the tavern at a dingy table, the wood rotting and soft. Despite his reputation among his closer companions, he was a foreign face among the patrons. He sat very still, occasionally taking a sip of his ale, the bitter taste coating his mouth unpleasantly. His eyes darted between two men – two candidates – for his little night out. Both were acceptably drunk and both were acceptably brutish. Now he just needed to ascertain which of the two would give him what he wanted faster. In a sort of nervous tick he scraped the table, soft wood lodging itself under his nail, as he tracked his quarry.
The taller of the two was accosting the barmaid, his cohort laughed and jeered along. They were a rowdy bunch, had spilt most of the night on the table in ale and coin. The shorter one sat a few tables down – alone, much like Merlin. He seemed troubled, maybe even a little sensitive. He had dark circles under his eyes and looked dangerously close to crying. Would that be enough? Was it worth the risk? To bet on his vulnerability, hope he was scared and fragile enough to be pushed to the right edge. But then the possibility of the man reciprocating entered Merlin’s mind – crying, leaning, grasping onto Merlin like a lifeline.
He tossed a few coins on the table near his half full tankard. He liked to be mostly sober on the rare occasions he indulged. Walking over to the group of men who had been heckling the barmaid, he slotted himself next to the man he had been watching for the better half of the evening. The rest of the group paid him little mind.
“They’re always so picky, aren’t they?” Merlin leaned in, smiled coyly at the man.
The man took another swig of his drink before returning the smile. “That they are.”
He looked weathered and well built, a man used to manual labour – maybe even a fighter, if Merlin was lucky. A pleasant chill went down his spine, his heart rate picked up, and his body thrummed with excitement. He had to school his expression, careful not to crack a smile or look like some giddy dope. He needed to be taken seriously. Swallowing in some poor attempt to calm his nerves, Merlin moved his hand to rest on the man’s thigh, a little higher than appropriate. “I could show you a good time,” Merlin said, eyes half-lidded and sweet. The man’s expression changed from amicable agreement to fury and disgust. Merlin had to bite his lip to hide his expression. He felt the pain before he could process the action. Rough calloused knuckles met his face, the pain reverberated throughout his entire skull. The force was enough to knock him to the floor, and he went with ease and a groan. The man towered over him, and Merlin’s stomach did flips as the man’s well worn hands came to grab Merlin by the tunic. Merlin was suddenly up and on his unsteady feet, he swayed, disoriented and dazed, but still tried to lean toward his nightly companion.
He could distantly hear commotion around him, maybe one of the barmaids was kind enough to come to his rescue. He hoped they wouldn’t. Hoped they would look at the two with the same bored expression as they did dealing with any of their other routine drunkards. The humidity of the bar was replaced by the cool autumn air as the man dragged him by the collar and out onto the street. He hit the ground hard, feeling every little pebble lodge itself to the side of his head, blood and spit spewed from his mouth and coagulated with the dirt. He heard the man shuffle around him and then a leather boot met his stomach, reeling back and hitting several times. The man yelled at him, calling him all manner of things; repugnant; vulgar; sodomite; said he ought to make a eunuch of him, ought to gauge out his eyes, and take his hands.
With one final kick, the man spat on him and stormed off. If he returned to the tavern or if he simply went home, Merlin didn’t know, nor did he care. Blood started to collect in his mouth again, and the warmth felt nice against the insides of his cheeks. With shaky and unsteady arms, he pushed himself up off the ground. He felt giddy, satiated, satisfied. He heaved a sigh of relief, and it came out ragged and clogged, and his heart swelled at the sensation. He had to remove himself from the street before some upstanding citizen came over to check if he was alright.
The small stumble from the street to the dark alley made him lightheaded and he nearly tripped over himself getting there. He nestled himself behind a few crates and hoped it would be enough to hide him from any prying eyes. His head lolled forward and he watched as the contents of his mouth dripped obscenely from his lips and onto his chest, all sticky and red, glistening in the pale moonlight. It felt good, felt right.
There was a pleasant ache in his ribs which he thought were likely bruised, and he hoped the pain in his jaw meant it had been fractured or cracked. He should’ve said more or fought back a little, it wasn’t nearly as much as he had hoped for, and he worried that his body was getting used to it. He made a mental note to eat less, abstain longer, maybe induce sickness.
The warmth of excitement and adrenaline was beginning to fade, and the cold of night numbed his skin. His head fell back and rested against the wall. Looking up he could see the moon, it was a thin crescent – a small silver scratch in the endless black.
Merlin, for all the wrong he was, had gotten away with so much and was so rarely was punished for it. The issue was that it wasn’t so simple, both life and Merlin himself. He was too much of a coward to kill himself, and had one too many responsibilities and grand destinies to fulfil before he could let himself die.
He had once hoped for comfort and freedom, had once thought himself deserving of it. Especially when it had seemed like him and Arthur were becoming friends. When his magic was something he thought he knew, and was convinced of its goodness. But now he’s done one too many misdeeds, seen one too many deaths to think that true anymore.
But he was doomed from the start, well before his first misdeed. He was a genocide, he was all those dead witches and wizards wrapped up in a frail body. It was his responsibility, his burden to carry, all these crimes and misuses of magic. He knows why he was sent here to deal with destinies, and dragons, and princes, and knights, and witches, and death – it’s so everyone else might be forgiven, so that magic could be something good and pure. But not for him – Merlin was their cancer, festering and growing. He’d take it all, capture the rottenness of humanity and then he’d be excised and with him the sin would die.
So this would have to do for the meantime, the self-punishment. Just enough to justify his still being here. It was only until Camelot was safe, only until Arthur’s place on the throne wasn’t so precarious. Then he’d do the right thing, he’d save Arthur the trouble and run himself through with Excalibur. The thought tingled his fingers pleasantly, and he indulged in the fantasy that maybe Arthur could do it for him. He couldn’t help it, he was a selfish creature and still wanted a bit of comfort. Some of the pain began to ease as his magic began to stitch him back together. Standing up, he dusted off his pants and frowned at the missing ache in his jaw. Only until Camelot is safe. He reminded himself. Merlin had to do everything around here anyway, he may as well be the one to dole out his own punishments.
༺༒︎༻
The following weeks Merlin is on his best behaviour, the incident at the tavern all but forgotten and his face a distant memory to its most loyal patrons. If he indulges too often he runs the risk of being found out, and he knows none of his companions would understand – and if Arthur were to find out well, Merlin would have to go through the trouble of telling him why he was doing what he was, and then he’d surely be sent to the pyre.
He keeps the promise to himself to stop taking breakfast, and tries for dinner when he can. It’s harder than he thought it would be, only because Arthur is rather adamant these days that they spend evenings together where he rather insists that he cannot finish his own plate. Merlin knows his trick and it makes him feel warm. It’s nicer than Merlin’s allowed to feel, and for a moment he forgets that.
They’re both wine drunk, and Arthur is trying to collect himself as he laughs himself silly at something Merlin said. He looks wonderful like this, cheeks red and bathed in the golden light of the hearth. That awful familiar feeling reaches him and makes his heart flutter, and the guilt follows soon after. He feels bad for ruining the moment, making it perverse and obscene with his wants. And Arthur, poor Arthur, is none the wiser that Merlin was violating him.
“Oh, you’ll whip them into shape.” Merlin smiles.
“Goddess above, I hope so...I don’t remember being this awful at their age,”
“Ah, that’s because you were worse,” and to that Arthur had nudged him, shoulder to shoulder, in faux hurt. He lingered, still pressed to Merlin’s side looking at him like he was a puzzle to solve.
“I’m glad to have met you.” Arthur says, his voice is low, not quite a whisper but something just as intimate.
Merlin smiles at him, stares into the king’s glassy eyes. “Look at you, getting all sappy on me, I think you’ve had enough to drink – I think it’s about time we both retire for the night. It’s late,” Merlin stands grabbing the goblets as he does.
“Is it really?” Arthur looks up at him sweetly and a little sad, arm reaching out to gently hold Merlin’s wrist. The touch burns and Merlin swallows, fighting his inebriated impulse to cave into his worst desires.
“You’ve got some early meetings tomorrow,” Merlin reminds him. Arthur looks at him with an expression Merlin can’t quite parse, and he gets the distant notion that it’s imperative he does, but regardless he does not. Arthur’s thumb caresses over Merlin’s wrist before he gives it a reassuring squeeze before letting him go. He doesn’t know why but the small action is enough to undo him.
Merlin rushes from the king’s chambers and into his own small room. He feels too loose in his own skin, his body fit strangely around his bones, and a dangerous feeling had begun to grow in the pit of his stomach. He locks his door and all but throws himself onto his bed, the image of Arthur’s eyes still on him and the gentle press of his fingers linger on Merlin’s pulse. He hates the way his hand reaches down of its own accord, hates how a gasp escapes him as he palms himself desperately through his trousers.
He tosses and turns as he flails against his clothing, hand reaching under and stroking his growing erection. His mind keeps telling himself to stop, and the shame that builds in his chest only makes his hand move faster and more urgent. He needs to stop, he wants to stop, this isn’t right, he is violating Arthur. How much more of a coward can he be? How much more shame can he invite into his body before he is more guilt and sin than he is man? He is already so little man. His hand squeezes tighter around his shame and he has to turn his head into his pillow to muffle the sounds that escape from his lips. His motions become frantic and he feels the pressure building up, gasps out a strained ‘No!’ as he cums unbidden. His hand slowing and pulling at himself to ride out the feeling. He feels tears well up in his eyes as he revels in the pleasure, and hates himself for it. He continues to pitifully hump himself against his mattress. When the feeling grows numb and the high wears off, he’s left only with guilt and embarrassment.
He stares down at his hands in horror. His face scrunches up and he grinds his teeth together. He quickly cleans himself and dresses, then sneaks off into the night to find his penitence.
༺༒︎༻
“This won’t be comfortable, but let me know if it hurts too much alright?” Merlin says, as he pulls out a needle and thread. Poor Gwen had gotten into a bit of an accident, something about a squire in a rush to bring weapons over to the training grounds.
Gwen presses her lips into a thin line a she tries not to complain too much, and Merlin’s heart almost breaks. Her head was turned away from him as he worked on her arm, finding the image too much to bear along with the pain. He’s thankful for her queasiness, and hides an enchantment in the needle while she’s not looking, and hopes it enough to ease some of the pain.
“There we are,” He says after a while and then rests an arm on her back.
“Not so bad,” She tries to smile at him.
Merlin stands to put away the water and rags he used to clean the wound. “Does Lance know yet?”
“Oh, no. Well, can’t exactly hide this, so I suppose he’ll find out soon enough.” She shrugs “I just didn’t want to worry him, and I’m near certain he would’ve wanted to be here as you stitched me up and if I had him fretting about while you did I might’ve been driven to madness.” When she laughs its light and musical.
“I might’ve also.” Merlin agrees. “Anyways, you’re free to stay here as long as you like, it might bruise and hurt a bit as it heals but nothing too bad.”
He continues to flutter about the room tidying up a bit as Gwen watches him. He steals a few glances her way, feeling a little exposed at her attention. Her hands gently ghost over the stitches, careful not to disturb them. “Merlin, have you...been doing alright?”
He huffs out a laugh. But, and like she can sense his deflection, she doesn’t let him answer. “Elyan says he saw you get into a fight,”
“A fight?” Merlin says, both out of shock and to feign ignorance. Merlin had all but forgotten about the incident, likely thanks to the concussion he sought out, and likely because it was just one night in a sea of many like it. So when Gwen looked at him all doe-eyed and worried, he was at least somewhat taken aback.
Gwen frowns at him, her lips turning to one side like she was trying to parse out if Merlin was playing a fool or not. “Yes, says you got a proper beating, but that you’d managed sneak off before he could get to you.”
“Gwen, I promise I haven’t gotten into any fights, are you sure your brother didn’t just mistake someone else for me?”
Gwen stands cautiously, walking over to Merlin and taking his hands into her own. “Merlin, if you’re in some kind of trouble you know that any of the other knights – any one of us – would come to help you, right? No matter what it was.” She had said that last remark with a pointed look, eyes wide and obvious.
He pulled his hands away, feeling overly sensitive and exposed. Before Gwen could reach back he placed his hands gently at the sides of her arms. “I promise you Gwen, if there’s any trouble at all you’ll be the first to know.” With one final squeeze of her arms, he leans in to give her a chaste kiss on the cheek “You’re a great friend, Gwen.” And he means it, though he tries to ignore the way his heart clenches at the knowledge that this was less than an honourable interaction. Some cousin to lying but not quite. Gwen deserved better than what he was, what he could give.
༺༒︎༻
Bone met bone as fat knuckles connected to his cheek. Immediately at contact he felt the rush of ecstasy and satisfaction fill him. He gathered his spit and blood with a snort and rudely spat onto the filthy tavern floor. He heard people jeering and making bets around him. He’d gotten a little drunk, well maybe a lot more than a little drunk, then roused some man into a fight by insulting one thing or another about him. Merlin stood, put his arms up in a sloppy mimicry of what he’d seen the knights do. His opponent swayed back into some sort of fighting posture, drunk and unsteady but certainly ready to fight for whatever honour Merlin had insulted. Merlin watched hungrily as the man rolled his shoulder back, hearing the joint pop dully, he tracked the beautiful arc of his fist, bobbing in anticipation, then reeling all the way back before it came pummelling toward Merlin.
The moment was undercut as he heard the wet awful sound of flesh on flesh. A hand had come in the way of the punch, grabbing the unsteady fist and twisting it away. Merlin threw an incredulous look at his savour, mouth agape and eyebrows furrowed.
“Alright you sorry lot, go on, show’s over.” Gwaine shooed the crowd away, uncharacteristically serious. The patrons noted his armour and crest, then thinned out, not wanting to gain the ire of a knight of Camelot.
“Gwaine,” Merlin groaned. The knight looked at him, a big frown plastered on his face. He grabbed Merlin by the arm and walked him outside. A few people looked toward the pair, but no one tried to stopped them. Gwaine ushered them into a quiet alleyway.
“What the hell was that?” He threw his arms in the air, exasperated and bewildered.
Merlin looked at him through the headache that was growing, both from the altercation and the unwise amount of alcohol he had consumed. Who was Gwaine anyways pry into his private pleasures? So what if he went out to the tavern to look for some trouble? Gwaine should understand, of all people. Merlin tried to shove past him, but was easily stopped.
“Merlin? Oi?” His voice and tone were rude and offended, but still worry was plastered over his face.
Gwaine was a fighter, Merlin remembered. He’d be able to knock him into next harvest. Merlin barely contained the laugh that crept its way up through his throat. “Punch me,” he slurred.
The knight shook his head in confusion, eyebrows knit together as he was registering the words “What?” He spat out.
“Punch me, you idiot,” Merlin pathetically pushed Gwaine in a poor attempt to rile him up.
“Merlin, I’m not punching you. What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” Gwaine held Merlin’s arms by his side, restraining him.
Merlin tried to spit at his armour but only ended up dribbling all over himself. He struggled against him, and as best as he could, bodily pushed into Gwaine. “You’ve rui’nd my night, you-you oaf.” He managed to rip his arm’s from the knight’s grip, and the force sent him doubled over. He sized Gwaine up again and his eyes fell upon the sword at his side. Merlin smirked, looking obviously between Gwaine and his sword. With poor precision, and even less grace, he lunged toward the weapon. Arms came to push him away, but he wouldn’t be deterred from his quarry that easily.
“Merlin, stop!” Gwaine was still showing restraint, still trying to be gentle.
“You’re stup’d,” was all Merlin said as he continued to try and grab at the other man’s weapon. “Just hit me,” he pleaded, growing impatient and whiny.
“No! And stop that!”
“Shove off, Gwaine”
“Merlin-”
“Do it,”
“No!”
“Just-”
“Stop it Merlin-”
“Gwaine for fuck’s sake-”
Merlin managed to grab the hilt of the sword and Gwaine finally decked him in the face. It had been some time since he’d felt the dizziness of a good proper punch. Unsteady knees wobbled and he staggered back into the wall. He tried to bask in the numb feeling spreading across his face, he could taste the blood in his nose and it made the front of his face tingle strangely. But, and for the second time that night, he was interrupted by Gwaine’s worried pestering.
“Fuck, Merlin, why’d you do that? ‘m sorry mate, let me have a look – move your hands.” Gwaine examined his face gently “Fuck, okay, nothing’s broken.” His eyes scanned him erratically “I hope…” he added. Gwaine hooked his arm into Merlin’s and began to usher him into the street. “We’ve got to get you to Gaius, what the hell was all that Merlin?”
A shiver of panic went through his body, he stopped, staggering behind and Gwaine didn’t pull too hard on him “What’s wrong? D’ya need me to carry you?”
“Not Gaius,” Was all Merlin could muster up. He still hurt like hell, but some of his senses were returning to him.
“What in all the kingdoms do you mean ‘not Gaius’? I will chuck you at him myself.” And the knight was all but ready to manhandle him there now.
“No, please, Gwaine.” Merlin slipped his arm out, he didn’t try to run or push him away, but he was feeling dizzy and anxious, and like he needed to throw up. He knelled into a squat, head hung low and arms around his knees. “Please, not a word….to anyone...anyone.”
He heard shuffling as Gwaine lowered himself down next to Merlin, a hand on his back rubbing reassuring circles. “Merlin, what’s this all about?”
He could tell Gwaine. The thought lodged itself dangerously into his heart. But no, that wasn’t right, he couldn’t, he shouldn’t. He’d be implicating him, and Gwaine deserved a lot of things, but this was not one of them. No one could know. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the pleasant way Gwaine’s hand felt on his back, but something had made him linger on the loneliness of it all. “I don’t know,” He choked out as a sob undercut his voice.
“Merlin, mate, I really think we should get to Gaius, tell him-”
“No- no, please,” His head shoots up to look at Gwaine, and he immediately regrets it, nausea and vertigo hitting him at once. He winces and then continues “I will I promise, just,” He breaths out, “Not now...not now…Please, not a word to anyone.”
“I just think-”
“Please Gwaine, or else, or…” He was certain if he continued to speak he’d throw up every meal he’s had since last week. “I’ll tell everyone you punched me,” He tried to tow the line between jest and real threat, but it came out pathetic and out of character.
“I don’t like that, Merlin. That’s not...proper.” And Merlin almost laughs at the notion of Gwaine caring about something like that.
“Please Gwaine,” He leans into his friend.
“Alright...Alright, fuck’s sake Merlin. But promise you’ll deal with this, yeah?” Gwaine gets his answer with an eager nod, and then Merlin suddenly lurching forward and throwing up on the street.
༺༒︎༻
Comfort was something only good men deserved. Comfort was something a well trained horse could be awarded. Comfort was a thought forbidden to Merlin. He dragged himself past the treeline and Camelot reached his vision like a cool river in the heat of summer. He hurt all over, and was almost certain his shoulder had been dislocated. Another sorcerer was plotting the king’s demise, but Merlin had managed to intercept him before he breached the walls and made his attempt.
There was a pulsing numbing ache in his left leg, where the sorcerer had rent his flesh open with a particularly nasty spell. Magical wounds tended to heal slower and worse than regular wounds, and Merlin wondered if he could subtly enchant his occasional nightly companions. He didn’t have time to think about this, and chastised himself for getting distracted.
Merlin needed to get to his chambers before anyone could see him and ask uncomfortable questions, he couldn’t risk another Gwaine situation. And secondly, and arguably more importantly, he needed to get back before he bled out and died. Unconsciously he frowned, a conflicted feeling nestled in his chest, tugging back and forth between opposing wants and needs. Wasn’t Camelot safe enough now? Wouldn’t they be fine without him now? Wasn’t he allowed to go off into that still nothingness? Gods, he wanted it to be over, he wanted finality, an end to it all. But the work was never over, and so he would not get to rest, he would continue to use his magic to aid the king, and so his penitence followed.
Merlin shook his head again, he needed to focus. Vaguely somewhere in his memory he was reminded of a mostly abandoned hallway that could offer him safe passage, at least partially.
He sneaks into the citadel, makes sure to take back alleys and dark streets, and he feels like he’s running through a maze before he ends up within the safety of the castle. The hall is dark and unloved, dust collecting on frames and unlit sconces. He makes haste, stumbling through the hallway as fast as he can, one hand gripping the wall. Between his state and the darkness, his vision blurs and becomes unfocused, the lines of the stonework beginning to shift and collide in strange ways.
And then the floor warps and the tiles are growing closer somehow. Before he could intimately familiarise himself with the stonework he is abruptly yanked up by his arm. He sucks in a quick breath, adrenaline pumping through him again. Arthur stands before him, eyebrows furrowed and his face scrunching up in something akin to anger and annoyance. Merlin wants to say something, but the words get caught and tangled in his throat, so the only thing he manages is a halfhearted wheeze. Almost imperceptibly the king’s face twitches, and with a laboured sigh he turns, sharp and sudden, pulling Merlin down the hall. The grip on his arm is tight enough to hurt, and Merlin bites down hard on his lip to stop his whine. He was caught between too many thoughts, his anxiety and his pleasure mixing in confusing ways, and his mind was too addled and too exhausted to sort through them.
He wanted Arthur to pull on him harder, he wanted to tell Arthur everything, he wanted Arthur to throw him in the dungeons and leave him to die. The thought died quickly as the shame set in, he hated when Arthur was in his fantasies. Hated what it said about himself, hated that it implicated the king, hated that Merlin seemingly couldn’t help but taint Arthur’s image with his vulgar nature.
Arthur leads them through the castle and into his room, then roughly sits Merlin down on a chair. Merlin has gathered himself enough to try and speak again but Arthur stops him with a dismissive hand gesture. “I don’t want to hear it.” He says sternly, and he vaguely has the same lilt he uses when he’s The King. “You’re a rather pathetic liar, and I’m not to keen on playing the fool tonight.” That sobers Merlin, makes him sit straighter and his throat dry. Arthur knew. How much or what he knew Merlin wasn’t quite sure of yet, but Arthur knew enough to know that Merlin was lying. Too stunned to do much of anything, he allowed the king to undress him. Arthur didn’t speak further, and if he had Merlin did not register it.
The king dropped to his knees in front of Merlin, placing a bowl of water and some clean rags next to him. Merlin was peppered with small cuts, and bruises that were already beginning to purple. He cleaned what he could of the smaller cuts, but he paid most of his attention to the large gash at Merlin’s thigh. It was red and angry around the edges, it went from his inner thigh almost all the way down to his knee. It had made a mess of most of his leg.
Arthur’s hand was steady and sure on Merlin’s leg, fingers splayed across the pale flesh, gripping the skin slightly to pull the wound open so he could clean it properly. He dabs away at the wound with a gentleness most would assume him bereft of. When he’s satisfied, he stands and grabs the small container by his nightstand, only vaguely knowing what it was but remembering that Merlin had used this one in particular and often when he was the one tending to Arthur. He dips two fingers into the salve and generously lathers it across the wound, his fingers only slightly disturbing the wound. He hears Merlin take in a sharp inhale of air, and instinctively his eyebrows furrowed, annoyance resting on his tongue ready to tell Merlin to suck it up. But when he looks up Merlin’s eyes are glassy and wet, and he begins to shiver bodily.
Arthur moves his hand from his thigh to rest at Merlin’s knee, “Merlin…?” He says, cautiously.
Merlin looks down at him, chokes on his words as a sob bubbles its way up first. “Stop,” And then he’s standing, stumbling away from Arthur. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to go,” He says nonsensically “You’re- You-you-you-you” Arthur stands, but doesn’t move forward. Merlin has never acted this way before, and Arthur’s stunned and confused at the outburst. “Please, sire, just kill me,” Merlin is suddenly at his feet clutching his leg and taking in deep ragged breaths. Merlin continues to babble, pleading in slurred words and half started sentences.
“Merlin, stand up, what are you on about?” The words come out harsher than he intends. But when Merlin doesn’t stop he reaches down to place a hand atop his head, hoping it would be enough to calm him. Merlin settles for a moment, then he extracts himself from Arthur’s legs and stands, unstable and nearly falling over. He shakes his head at Arthur.
“I’m- I’m sorry.” He says, and runs from the king’s chambers, leaving him dazed and confused.
Arthur gives him a few days off.
The night had left him rattled and worried. He had purposefully kept himself ignorant to Merlin’s hobbies. Mostly out of respect to his privacy, but also for a semblance of plausible deniability when his father was still alive. But his father hadn’t haunted the halls or his conscience for the better part of a year now. And he and Morgana had even spoken a few times, albeit in curt and tense meetings laced with thinly veiled threats, but they had spoken non the less. Still, what was Merlin getting himself into, to be stumbling half aware through his castle and tracking in blood and dirt, begging for his death at Arthur’s feet?
The king thumbed through the parchment on his desk, eyeing the repeal he kept tucked away under grain reports and crop yields. He needed Merlin’s advice, his approval of it, he’d meant to ask him but the time was never right; be it for himself, the council, and now – Merlin.
He heard his chamber doors open rudely and without warning, and he not so subtly smacked the parchments back on the desk, leaving his hand on top of them for extra measure. He stares dumbly at Merlin who locks the door as soon as its closed. He holds a scabbard and a sword, and for a moment the worst thought crossed Arthur’s mind. But then Merlin was walking toward him and kneeling, offering them above his head for Arthur to take.
“I’m sorry, Arthur.” He begins. “I have…I have magic, it’s all yours though you’ve not asked for it, and I’m sorry. Please, grant me this one wish, I am afraid of burning.”
Arthur looks at Merlin with wide eyes, standing there like some halfwit still learning what words meant. He swallows, eyes scanning over Merlin’s knelt position, his head facing the floor and his arms shaking slightly as he holds his death for Arthur to take. Feelings were still a new and foreign concept to Arthur, something he’d struggled with as an ill-adjusted boy, and something he still felt inadequate in dealing with – and now he felt his inadequacy tenfold as he watched Merlin tremble before him. Despite himself, his own hand shook as he took the sword from Merlin, and he heard him release a breath and his shoulders relax. He slumped with resignation and leaned his head forward, exposing his neck which lacked its usual neckerchief. The thoughtfulness of the act made his stomach turn in horror.
Arthur set the sword down to lean against the chair, and at the sound of the hilt resting on the wood Merlin raised his head to look at Arthur. Arthur lowered himself to sit with Merlin on the floor. “Merlin,” He chanced, afraid that any sound at all would scare the other away.
“Sire you- what are you doing?” His eyebrows furrowed, and he held an expression of frustration and annoyance. Still the same Merlin, despite it all.
“Merlin, if I’ve not made it clear enough I’m-” Arthur pauses, pressing his teeth flush against one another. “I’m sorry.” And he almost laughs at the way Merlin blinks back at him in disbelief. “You’re one of my closest friends, and I can’t- won’t- you surely you know that I wouldn’t,” he flounders. But then he sees Merlin’s eyes well up with tears and he can’t say anything more. He leans forward and wraps his friend in his arms. Merlin shudders against him, sobbing and taking in big gulps of air. He shakes his head and continues to blather on about heavens know what.
“Sire you must- you must-”
“Actually, I mustn’t do anything unless I want to. Lest you forget that I am king, Merlin.” He hopes it’s enough to bring some levity to the conversation. But Merlin’s breath picks up and he’s in a state all over again. He wants to understand, but there’s too many gaps, too many missing pieces in the picture that is Merlin. Arthur stands him, best he can, and ushers him over to the bed. Somehow he manages to wrangle Merlin’s boots off and swaddle him under the covers. He climbs in next to him, and doesn’t say much of anything. Partially to give Merlin time to calm himself, but mostly because he had no clue what he could or should say.
He stares up at the canopy, worrying a nail into his palm. After some time he hears Merlin shift next to him, his hand sneaking over to halt Arthur’s nervous tick.
“You should stop doing that,” Merlin says, hand retreating back.
Arthur huffs out a laugh and stares at him. Stares at his servant, his closest friend, this stranger, in his bed. “That’s hardly the most pressing matter at hand here,” Arthur retorts.
“It’s boyish, and unbecoming,”
“You’re boyish and unbecoming.” It lacks the usual bite, the usual jokey tone, but Arthur is scared he might startle Merlin if he speaks any louder.
“Clever as always, sire.” A small smile creeps onto Merlin’s tired face. This is comfortable, it’s familiar. Dodging tough conversations with jokes and deflections. But Arthur doesn’t want that. What happened was transgressive, absurd, out of the ordinary, downright lunatic; it was most of all concerning.
“Some of our friends are worried about you.” Arthur doesn’t miss the way Melrin’s eyes squint slightly, and how his mouth curves downward slightly in a scowl. “I’m worried about you.” Another difficult expression crosses Merlin’s face and he sits up suddenly, legs swinging over the edge of the bed.
“I’m fine. I’m sorry to have worried you. Let’s just- if- if-” He lets out a shuddered breath and calms himself enough to speak again, but there’s still a slight tremble to his shoulders. “If I’m free to go.” He begins again heavily, “I’d rather we just forget this.”
“Excuse me?” Arthur sits up, grabs Merlin by the arm and turns him around, his temper getting the better of him. “I think not! You scared me half to death waltzing into my chambers with a sword, and you want to- what? I haven’t known you to be a coward, don’t start now, it’ll make me think less of you.”
“That’s the thing, you- you should!” Merlin yells right back at him. “You should think less of me, not whatever this is!” His eyes dart back to the sword resting against the chair. “I wanted you to do it,”
“Why in the world-”
“Because it has to be you, it has to be. You’re good Arthur, and you bring good in this world and vanquish the ills and evils. I wanted you to do it.” And Merlin seems genuinely upset by this, and genuinely upset with Arthur at his rejection.
“Merlin, you’re being idiotic.” Arthur grits out. “We’re going to Gaius.” He says resolutely and swings himself over the bed and quickly laces on his boots.
“No! No-no, sire, please,”
“I’m not hearing it, Merlin, shut up.”
He doesn’t register what is happening until Merlin has the sword in his hand, unsheathed and unsteady in his ill-trained hands. “Please, it will be quick, and you’ll feel better, I’ll feel better.”
“Drop the sword Merlin, you’re- you’ll hurt yourself, or worse me.” Arthur hates the way his instinct even now is to mock, but he’s in a panic and wishes for the comfort of familiarity.
Merlin laughs, manic and full of mirth. “No, Arthur, never you.” He grips the sword tighter, “I’m a monster, my Lord. I’ve stayed for reasons of necessity, duty to you, to Camelot and for that I am not sorry – but I’ve stayed for selfish reasons too, and I’ve made you worse and betrayed you, I’ve kept you obscenely in my thoughts, without your knowing, and I can never be sorry enough for that. I can never be sorry enough for what I am, this wretch, this sin, an awful disease that plagues your walls, and I’ve stayed and let you rot, and I’m sorry.”
“Good grief, you’re many things Merlin, including the world’s biggest idiot, but you’re my friend and a good man. What has gotten into you? What has made you think this?” and Arthur regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth, because what a stupid question. He thinks he sees something akin to genuine anger flash across Merlin’s face before it settles back into that crazed resignation.
“It’s alright, it’s alright. This will by my final punishment…” it’s like he’s not even speaking to Arthur anymore.
Arthur is faster, and Merlin was never all that adept at wielding a sword. He disarms him with swiftness, a practised maneuver that is more instinct than intent. The sword clangs cacophonous on the floor and Merlin fights him still. There’s part of Arthur’s brain that registers him as a threat, knows he’s likely capable of shunting Arthur across the room with nothing but a word and he involuntarily tenses. But he knows Merlin could never, is quite literally willing to gut himself before he does anything of the sort.
“Merlin, enough of this,” his tone is angrier than he wants, and it makes him grow more frustrated. “Just stop whatever this is Merlin,” Arthur’s arms were sure around him, but still he squirmed and struggled against him, “Please,”
When Merlin doesn’t stop, Arthur’s frustration boils over and he grabs his arm, twisting it behind his back with little regard to the other’s comfort. He roughly walks him to the unused servant’s antechamber, throwing him onto the floor with more force than necessary. “You are to stay here, under no circumstances are you to leave until I give you permission. Do you understand?” And Merlin nods, his demeanour suddenly quiet and stilled, but the mania had not left him. Instead Merlin stared up at him with a disconcerting sort of glare that made Arthur feel uncomfortable and exposed.
He does a cursory glance around the room in case they’d decided to store anything dangerous in here. The thought of coming back to find Merlin bleeding out on the stone floors almost enough to stop him from leaving.
Gaius was roused from his sleep and called for, informed as well as he could be with Arthur’s jumbled recollection of the night and his hazy theories. He let him know about the whispers he’d heard among their companions, about Merlin’s injury leading up to this mental break, that Arthur knew about the magic – had known for some time. He reassured Gaius that no harm should come to Merlin by his own hands, that he was safe in Camelot, magic and all. Gaius’ brows had creased with worry, and his hands shook a little. Arthur could hardly blame him, Merlin was practically a son to him and the news of this mental break, spurred on by lord knows what, was surely not something the old physician had expected. And the realisation that Merlin had been hiding things from Gaius left them both uneasy.
He allowed them privacy, meandered and hung around the other side of his chambers while Gaius examined Merlin in the antechamber. At some point Gwaine had entered, somehow learning of the incident and distantly Arthur became annoyed at the gossip mill that was this damned castle.
The knight sat down at the dining table, having brought a pitcher of wine with him, and for once Arthur was thankful for Gwaine’s inclination to suggest alcohol at any given situation. The both of them downed a goblet each in silence. Arthur felt his nail begin to worry his palm again, but stopped himself soon after, opting to instead clasp his hands together on the table.
“I punched him, you know?” Gwaine said suddenly, and a bit confused, like he was still trying to figure it out himself.
“What?”
“I...-” He floundered for a second. “He asked me to, and then he tried to- well he grabbed my sword and-” He sighed in frustration, refilled his goblet and drank again. “Elyan said he’d been getting into fight. I thought he was joking or maybe just mistook someone for him. But I found him barely putting up against some local, and when I asked him what the hell he’d been doin’ he just-” Gwaine waved his hand around like he was trying to conjure up the words or a reason, “He tried rousing me into a fight,”
“Seemingly successfully,” Arthur said, a little dangerously.
“I didn’t mean to, well- he grabbed my bloody sword.” He said defensively.
“And this wasn’t reported...why?” He was aware that Gwaine was growing uncomfortable, that his own tone had slipped away from Arthur, his friend, and more towards Arthur, his superior.
“He begged me not to, he said- said he’d tell someone, that he’d deal with it on his own.” Gwaine had leaned toward Arthur when he said this, keeping his voice hushed as though someone, Merlin maybe, could hear him. “Something’s deeply wrong here,”
Arthur looked down at a few drops of wine that had spilt onto the table. “Do you think it could be enchantment?”
His knight eyed him suspiciously, going very still all of a sudden. Arthur met his gaze slowly and with little emotion. “Merlin’s-…” Gwaine began, and then “No. No, I don’t think so,”
Arthur downed the rest of his drink. “I want you to put that useless proclivity towards gossip to good use for once. Ask around the serving staff, discretely, and then use whatever discretion you deem among our friends. Don’t return until you’ve something useful to report.” He said, dismissing the knight.