green_postit (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} green_postit) wrote,@ 2008-11-18 19:50:00 |
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| Entry tags: | fiction, men of legends |
the problem we all live with
title// the problem we all live with
rating// nc-17
fandom// merlin
pairing// arthur pendragon/merlin emrys
word count// 5560
The string is simple yarn, tightly woven and lightly frayed from use. It's looped around the man's neck twice, tugged experimentally. Two men with black hoods hold each end; the third presses the man's head against the ruddy stump.
Merlin watches from Arthur's bedchambers. Arthur beside him, arms crossed, face stony and regal. His lip's still split and swollen from when the man struck him—a failed escape attempt that ended with two guards dead and a third blinded.
The strings are pulled taut. The executioner takes his axe, steps beside the struggling man. He's sobbing, wretched tears that sound painful, pleas to the lord, prays and spells jumbled into an incomprehensible garble.
"What's the string for?" Merlin can feel it around his neck, thin and pinching, iron around his wrists, cold and unforgiving. The executioner raises his axe.
"Mercy."
The chill in Arthur's voice makes Merlin shake. He curls fingers around his neck reflexively, looks at Arthur. His lip's bleeding again, drips down his chin, hits the crest sewn into his tunic.
The man screams, shrill and terrified. Merlin closes his eyes, hears the thunk of metal as it tears through bone and flesh and lands in wood.
"Prepare my armor." Arthur wipes at his chin, smears the blood. He sounds pleased, avenged, victorious.
It's the ninth beheading Uther's ordered.
The ninth time a warlock's blood has been washed off a blade.
Merlin wonders when it'll be his turn.
Merlin dreams that Arthur asks to see his magic.
He's pleased that Arthur's interested, that he accepts him. He floats objects to him at first—glasses, tunics, socks—then steadily builds his up to books, plates of food, Arthur's sword.
Arthur claps, amazed that Merlin's as powerful as he is, that he doesn't require spells and enchantments to access his magic. Merlin smiles, snaps his fingers and watches as Arthur's armor walks off his body, dismantles itself piece by piece, puts itself away.
"Incredible." Arthur looks at him with pride, with awe and joy surging through his blue eyes.
Merlin feels the blush high on his cheeks.
Feels Arthur stir within him.
When he wakes, there's a pain in his chest that makes it hard to breathe, hard to see. It feels like there's a fire inside.
He blacks out.
Merlin takes sick six days before the feast for Arthur's twenty-first year.
He's confined to his cot under Gaius' recommendations, quarantined like a plague bearer. It's for the best, Gaius insists. Merlin can't argue; every time he coughs, something in his room levitates for a few moments.
The ache pulses in his skin, right through to his bones. His coughs rip through his chest, makes his eyes water. His breaths are labored and short, painful and remind him of the sound of wet fabric tearing. The potions Gaius concocts to sooth his throat long ago stopped bringing relief and only taste like burn herbs and sour milk.
His body betrays him, makes him sob at his own futility, at his weakness.
It's no curse, not a hex. A simple, human—mortal—illness.
Gaius' eyes are red and shine with fresh tears whenever he visits him. He tilts Merlin's head back, pours potions into his mouth, rubs at his neck with withered fingers to ease the liquid down.
As the days melt away, the potions become more and more abundant, their bitter taste only leaves the remains of failure. It's when they stop that Merlin shuts his eyes, accepts. He knows; has known since the first day when his skin spiked hot with fever.
Gaius passes a cool cloth across his forehead, makes no mention of the tears he wipes away. His shakes rattle Merlin's cot, make his tears all the more apparent.
"Merlin—" he begins, voice raw and scratchy.
"S'all right. Was my turn, s'all."
Gaius says nothing. He swipes away the sweat from his brow and stays by Merlin's side until he falls into an uneasy sleep.
Night brings forth the darkness and the cold.
Merlin shivers and sweats through his sheets, coughs with his lips sealed. The throb in his head pulses down his neck, furrows in the knobs of his spine and radiates through his ribs. He aches like a bruise, feels brittle like dried grass.
He coughs again, just as his bedchamber door swings open, slams shut just as quick. The flames from the candles flicker briefly, flare brighter.
Arthur.
His ceremonial robes are on, fastened tight on his broad chest, sword strapped to his thigh, cape wrapped around his left arm, crown perched on his head. He's bright in the candlelit room, shimmers like stars on the water in the heart of the night.
His face resembles a quiet storm, so much anger and destructive intent. Three wide strides bring him to Merlin's side. He kneels, kneels like he's a common servant and not the crown prince of Camelot.
"Merlin," he whispers, urgent and scared.
Arthur's voice spreads warmth through Merlin, chases away the cold, sends a flare of power through his hands that crackles like lightening on his fingertips. Arthur's eyes flash wide, startled. Merlin can feel him tremble, can see the hunch in his proud shoulders, the hitch in his breath.
He's caught. Can feel that invisible string around his neck again, tugging and squeezing the last breaths from him, holding him still for the axe.
Still.
"I'm sorry. I—"
"Not now," Arthur silences, rushed. He swallows loudly, breathes out a steadying breath. "I'm not losing you to this." His hands bracket Merlin's face, calloused thumbs against his eyelids, holds his eyes shut. "Not like this."
"Arthur, please."
"No." Resolve. Arthur draws his dagger, metal slipping through the ore of its sheath. A slice, flesh rips open. Arthur hisses, lets the dagger fall against the cobblestones. The smell of blood wells up in the room like a fragrant rose, makes Merlin faint.
Arthur presses his thumb against Merlin's lips, wets them with the blood beading on the pad of his finger, slides it into his dry mouth. The taste of copper is sharp, electric. Merlin involuntarily sucks once, feels Arthur grunt against him.
He can hear Arthur's voice begin to chant, something low, foreign. He can't make out the words, knows he should, but the darkness creeps along the corners of his vision, lifts him off into oblivion.
Merlin wakes with Arthur's blood flaking on his lips.
The fever is broken, skin cool and dry, strength in his joints. His stomach snarls for food, his throat in dire need of water. He smells like death, like misery and stale vomit. He can still taste Arthur.
He scrabbles out of his cot, kicks at the tangled sheets, lets the burn of atrophied muscles twist though his body. He stumbles to the door, catches himself before he falls. His knees collide with the stones, has him hiss in pain. He swallows thickly.
Tastes blood.
Arthur.
He forces his magic through his limbs, opens the doors and lets it flow. His powers feel unfamiliar and raw, tinted slightly different. He lets it repair the damage the illness caused, lets the magic refamiliarize itself with his body. It seeps through his pores, drags the breath from his weak lungs, swirls in his gut.
It's different. Merlin's certain of it now. A subtle difference, something new, something added. It feels warm instead of cool, thick and present. It feels like Arthur.
The realization has Merlin rushing into the heart of the castle. He slumps against walls, slips, relies on his awkward feet to carry him toward Arthur's bedchambers. He pants despite the oxygen flooding his lungs, feels breathless when he hooks his hands under the latch to Arthur's door.
He spills inside, messy and graceless.
Arthur is by the window that faces the courtyard. He doesn't turn, but his shoulders pull tighter.
Merlin's knees knock together, lock, collapse beneath his weight. The warmth in his magic blazes when Arthur faces him. Heat races through his veins. It's agonizing, scorching from the inside.
"What've you done?" Merlin feels ill, struggles for air.
"What was necessary." Clipped, direct. Regal.
The internal flames lick higher. Merlin cries out, curls in on himself. He tries to stem the flow of his power, needs to cut off his magic. The heat barrels through his wards and feeble defenses.
He's about to sizzle to dust on Arthur's floor. Arthur crouches over him, places the flat of his palm against the back of his neck. Merlin gasps when the heat expands and expands right out of him, leaves him shivering, teeth clattering.
Arthur's fingers card through his hair for just a moment, nails grazing his scalp, a gentle tug.
"She said it would cure you," he sighs, fingers still softly threading through his hair.
"She—wha—?" Merlin's skin prickles. "Nimueh." Panic builds in his chest. He bolts upright. "What did you promise her?"
"Nothing I could not repay." Arthur looks right at him. Merlin feels his heart clench, his pulse quicken. "It makes perfect sense. Magic'd blood to fix blood magic."
Merlin's back tenses. "I don't—"
"I saw you, Merlin. Do not insult my intelligence and deny it." Merlin looks away. Arthur continues. "How long?"
Merlin looks at his hands, feels the crackling beneath his skin, the magic aching for release. "My whole life. I was born this way." He thinks of Gaius and Uther's furious betrayal. "No one else knows."
Arthur stares at him, long and judging. "You're a godawful liar, you know that, Merlin?" Merlin turns away as Arthur sighs, heavy and anguished. "Were you ever going to tell me?"
Merlin stays quiet. He doesn't have an answer
The seasons change twice.
They've barely spoken a word to each other, orders and chores, as you wishes and yes, sires.
Merlin breaks first.
"I would have told you."
He's preparing Arthur for bed, removing the plates of armor adorned to Arthur's body. He starts on the greave, unlatches the belt to the poleyn, slips the schynbalds down and tugs off the chausses. He won't meet Arthur's gaze, but knows he's staring at the top of his head. Merlin's been able to feel Arthur's eyes on him more and more since that night, a warm prickling just under the skin.
"Would you, now?" Arthur doesn't sound disappointed. Not skeptical.
"Yes." Merlin responds without hesitation, looks up. Arthur's eyes are clear, bright and blue. He keeps his hands working, unhooks the culet and the faulds and the brigandine, feels the chill of the hauberk under his fingers, can feel Arthur's chest rise and fall. He's breathing heavily, lips pressed tight.
"I swear to you, Arthur. I would have told you."
Arthur growls, grips Merlin's wrists tightly, squeezes until Merlin winces, pries Merlin's hands free from under the loose hold of his armor.
"Arthur—" The pain is sharp, borders on agonizing.
"Stop me." He squeezes tighter. Merlin's knees buckle, Arthur holds him easily. "Stop me or I'll shatter the bones."
"No," Merlin hisses, tries to struggle. Arthur's grip strengthens, Merlin cries out, feels his magic rush forth. His fingers spark, but he holds it at bay.
"Swear to me," Arthur snaps. "Swear yourself to me, that I saved my friend and not the next dark sorcerer!"
"I swear," Merlin chokes on the pain. Arthur releases him, steps back and turns. Merlin clutches at his wrists, rubs at the jolts of pain. He can already feel the bruises, fresh and sore.
"I'm not my father," Arthur announces. "I would have—I would have protected you."
Merlin closes his eyes, breathes through his mouth in steadying gasps. "I would have told you."
Arthur looks remorseful, jaw wired tight. He nods. "I believe you."
Merlin picks himself up, finishes undressing Arthur before he sulks off to his room.
The chores are only slightly hindered by the state of Merlin's wrists.
He carries the ceramic water container with both hands, sets it down on the table with a clunk he's partially sure wakes Arthur. The sheets haven't moved, though, Arthur's soft snores still audible.
Merlin doesn't want to be in the room when Arthur wakes.
He has to make two trips to the kitchen to fetch Arthur's morning meal, the warm bread and churned butter—both on solid brass plates that would be a problem carrying with no injuries—then the fresh fruits and smoked pig. He tries to carry them, but ends up placing a small spell on the plates to make the load easier.
Arthur's awake when he returns. He's perched in the middle of his bed, sheets pooling around his hips. His eyes are sleepy but clear, hair and tunic rumpled with the remains of night. He watches Merlin, keeps his gaze locked on him as he sets the plates down, watches as he awkwardly tugs at the cuffs of his sleeves.
Merlin faces him, bows respectfully. "May I take leave, sire?"
Arthur snarls. Heat pools in Merlin's gut, makes it all the harder to breathe. He can feel the weight of Arthur's emotions crushing his skin, too early to be fully in control of his reactions.
"Come here, Merlin."
Merlin obeys, downcast eyes, stands at the foot of the bed. Arthur makes a disapproving sound in his throat, slides from the sheets and closes the gap between them. He gently takes Merlin's hands in his, pushes the loose material of his sleeves away, examines the purple welts.
He's quiet for a long stretch of time, just his hands—thick and calloused—carefully holding Merlin's. Merlin focuses on Arthur's fingers, how they gently stroke his palms, how little flickers of heat burst through him, at the deep cut that's just starting to scab on Arthur's left thumb.
Merlin wants to apologize all over again.
"I'm sorry. I had no right." Arthur rumbles, low, private.
Merlin can't look up. Can't meet Arthur's eyes. Can't stop staring at Arthur's hands. "Arthur," he feels breathless.
"Hmm?"
"Your wrists."
Arthur looks.
They're bruised as well.
They spend the next few days having the boundaries tested for them.
Merlin cuts his palm sharpening Arthur's sword and Arthur complains about the ache whenever he grips the handle. Arthur drinks too much wine at dinner and Merlin's the one who feels dizzy. Arthur rubs at sides of his ribs and Merlin drops the plate of vegetables he's carrying in a fit of laughter. Merlin pokes himself in the eye and watches Arthur choke on a mouthful of water.
Bruises from training with the knights, Merlin's general clumsiness. Merlin can feel Arthur's nails on his skin from when he scratches at the bug bites on his forearm, can feel Arthur's presence with him wherever he goes, a steady thrum of energy that merges with his magic, that spikes in heat when Arthur's angry, spreads warmth through him when he's happy.
The heat is always stronger when they're together, when Arthur's hands are on his shoulder, when they practice sparring, when Merlin undresses him, redresses his bandages.
It becomes a game. They sit at opposite ends of Arthur's bed, eyes closed, and pinch their arms, their knees, tug their ears, their hair, the other guesses. Arthur bites his tongue and Merlin yelps, retaliates when he digs his nails high on his forearm, over the freshest injury on Arthur's body.
"Prat," Merlin jokes. Arthur laughs.
"You still can't address me like that."
Merlin's smile splits his face. "Royal prat, then."
Arthur doesn't laugh.
Instead, he looks at Merlin. His face is empty, eyes hard and jaw clenched tight. Merlin feels the mirth vanish from the room, all too intensely feels the scrutiny of Arthur's gaze. Arthur looks torn when he raises his hand, hesitantly strokes at his neck with gentle fingers, right over the spot that has Merlin shiver, has him bite his lip to keep from groaning. Arthur looks like he's waiting for retaliation, waiting for Merlin to walk away or crawl forward.
Merlin shivers again. He's boiling hot.
"What does it feel like for you?" He asks.
Sweat drips down Merlin's neck. He knows what Arthur's talking about. "Like fire. Like I'm being burned, but it doesn't hurt." He coughs, embarrassed. "And you?"
"Something cool. Something calming. You—" he pauses. "It's—it's quiet when you're around."
Merlin swallows. Needs to know.
"What did you promise her, Arthur."
"It doesn't matter anymore."
"Ar—"
"Are you ever going to touch me again?"
There it was. The unspoken question. Merlin clamps his mouth shut, eyes wide. The expression on Arthur's face is horrific; disbelief and embarrassment, hope and longing, lost trust.
He looks scared. Merlin's never once seen him look scared.
"Never mind. Take your leave. I wish to retire for the night."
"Arthur—"
"Leave, Merlin."
Merlin wants to stay, wants to crawl up Arthur's legs and take the spot beside him, wants to take back what he lost before the illness and Nimueh's spell and the whole mess of his magic.
One look from Arthur sends him scrambling off the bed, out the door.
A memory, far kinder than most.
Merlin's dozing on Arthur's bed, too hot for the sheets, morning sunlight pooling through the part in the drapes. The light stings his eyes, makes him wince and press his face into the sheets, nightshade bending to the shadows of day.
Arthur's stretched against his back, perched on his elbow, watches. His other arm is woven around Merlin's waist, tugs him closer with ease. Merlin knows Arthur prefers waking like this, with Merlin close against his chest, at his disposal from the moment his eyes greet the new day.
"Sire," Merlin yawns, squirms in Arthur's hold. Arthur snakes his hand to the groove in Merlin's shoulder, holds firmly, leans down. His mouth is wet and warm against his neck, sloppy kisses, the graze of teeth. Never rushed, always at a pace that makes Merlin whine and rut against Arthur in a frenzy.
Arthur bites with blunt teeth, licks across the marks, sucks, repeats and repeats until Merlin's panting, heady and thick, wiggles and writhes, buries his face in the soft goose-down of the pillows, bites the fabric to keep quiet. His hips jerk back when Arthur's hand drags down his chest, under the thinly woven barrier of his tunic, pads of Arthur's thumbs caress the hard peaks of Merlin's nipples.
Arthur groans around the skin between his teeth, hooks his ankle over Merlin's legs, draws him against the thickening hardness in his pants. Merlin's arousal dances on his skin, beads of perspiration that Arthur laps at, that he sucks from his hairline, above his lip, until Merlin twists in the sheets, latches onto Arthur's face, kisses him with firm lips and desperate need.
This is Merlin's favorite part, when Arthur rolls until Merlin's awkwardly slumped on his broad chest, when he can get his hands all over the hard plains of Arthur's body, where he can feel the thick ropes of scars from blades and arrows—the dedication to a life of warrior training. Merlin's obsessed with the muscles in Arthur's arms, at the ease in which Arthur can manhandle him against his sheets, can hold him down with one large hand, can make him feel powerless and normal for the first time in his life.
Arthur fists his hair, pulls Merlin's mouth closer to his, rubs at the joints of Merlin's jaw when he slides in his tongue, when he twines them together tighter than any binding spell, when he takes control of the kiss like the king he's soon to be. Merlin's clothes never last past this part, Arthur's impatience and strength have his shirt ripped in tatters, in two equal parts in Arthur's hands, two folds of fabric that are tossed away without a single thought.
"Clothing doesn't suit you," Arthur told him once; once, when they were twisted together, Arthur's body crushing, his mouth and hands and words gentle and cool on Merlin's fevered skin. "Never again in my presence."
"That an order, sire?"
Arthur smirks, growls against Merlin's throat.
"Consider it Camelot law."
There's a chill to the room that raises the hair on Merlin's arms.
The fire burned out long ago, blue and orange embers smolder in the hearth. His knees ache from the cold stones of the floor, his joints stiff from being folded in on himself. He doesn't shift, doesn't flinch, keeps his vigil. He knows Arthur's training ended when the sun came down, knows he'll return soon.
He doesn't have to wait much longer.
The footfalls are heavy, familiar. Merlin tenses briefly when the door opens. The heat hits him from all angles, warms him immediately. He clenches his fingers, gathers his courage.
"What are you doing?" Arthur's voice is rough, deep. The look he gives Merlin makes him blush, red-hot, makes him shake with need. The connection thickens, makes Merlin feel vulnerable and transparent, like Arthur can see the very mechanisms that enable him to function.
He's felt broken for too long now.
Merlin pushes himself to his feet, matches Arthur's gaze. He hasn't moved since he entered the room, stands still as stone, golden and shimmering. Merlin licks his lips, can already feel the tightening in his stomach, the dip of emotions that crossover to arousal.
He keeps advancing, tugs at the laces that fasten his overshirt, yanks the material off in one quick gesture. Arthur stares at him like he's a feast, like he's starving.
"What are you doing?" he repeats, sounds less like it matters.
"Never in your presence, remember?" Merlin closes the distance between them, lightly pushes Arthur flat against the door behind him, presses their bodies together. They both moan. The contact feels incredible, warm and cool, fantastic in every way.
Merlin buries his face in Arthur's neck, inhales, skims a kiss over the pulse that pounds, thick and resilient. He's always found Arthur's scent intoxicating—exciting and masculine—delicious on the tongue, fragrant on Merlin's skin the next morning, always strongest whenever they can't bathe immediately in the morning.
Merlin licks Arthur's throat, Arthur grips his hips, squeezes tight enough to hurt, only makes Merlin's blood rush faster. "For God's sake, Merlin—"
"You were so angry with me," he sucks at Arthur's jaw, bites down on the spot that makes his knees weak. "I didn't know if—if it was all right anymore."
Arthur sighs, content and happy, cups the back of Merlin's head, encourages his mouth as it marks up his neck. He grunts when Merlin's hands work their way through his clothing, when he finally has skin on skin, when he can feel Arthur shake under his fingers.
"Enough." It's a command. Merlin pulls away with a whine, is met with Arthur's arms around his hips, picks him up, marches to the bed. He slams Merlin down, crawls on top like a preying animal.
When they kiss, Merlin sobs in relief, clutches harder.
He's not letting go.
They make quick work of their clothing, a rush to hit skin, minor tears and rips that not even Merlin's magic will be able to repair. They groan in synch, take time to refamiliarize themselves with each other.
"You're too thin." Arthur looks sad, traces down the groove in Merlin's hips.
"You look fantastic." Merlin can't stop touching. Arthur's stronger, darker. His hair's longer, curls behind his ears.
Arthur chuckles, holds Merlin's face, kisses him. It's a messy brush of his mouth, takes Merlin's lip between his teeth, nips, repeats and repeats until their saliva is thick between them, their tongues licking and curling. The heat is overwhelming, makes Merlin woozy.
"Do you feel this?" Arthur's voice is filled with awe, disbelief. Merlin nods, whimpers when Arthur finally touches him, strokes once, dry and rough. It feels better than anything.
Arthur shudders, violent and sudden. "I—I need," he pants against Merlin's neck, growls.
"I know." Merlin prepared everything. He looks at the bottle he placed on the table earlier, concentrates. It snaps into this fist.
"Your eyes," Arthur murmurs, grips the sides of Merlin's face a little tighter, looks at him with the awe and pride Merlin once dreamed about. "One day, you'll have to show me the full extent of your magic."
"One day," Merlin agrees, watches Arthur tip the bottle into his hand, lets the slippery oil spill out in a rush. Some lands on Merlin's chest, cold and slick. Arthur swirls his fingers in the mess he's making, sends chilling sparks of need through his body.
"You've no idea how many times I've come close to ordering you into my bed," Arthur breaks their kiss, mutters against Merlin's lips, keeps preparing himself, grabs at Merlin's legs with greasy hands, hoists them high on his back. Merlin slides the few inches required, shudders when he feels Arthur against him.
"Now, please."
Arthur wastes no time, spreads the globes of Merlin's ass, grips himself, pushes in the tip firm and snug. Merlin hooks his leg higher, forces himself up, past the burn, slides Arthur all the way inside of him without waiting.
Arthur nearly collapses on him, chokes on his cry.
Merlin can feel Arthur's pleasure course through him. It's incredibly intense, borders on too much. He knows Arthur can feel it too, sees the strain in his body to keep still, the way his arms tense. Merlin shimmies his body, encourages Arthur, sighs when Arthur slides out of him, thrusts in with a sharp slam that jerks him off the bed, that bends his back, makes him squeeze the sheets and yank.
"I can feel you," Arthur moans, low and loud, shakes with every thrust, every ripple that's shared. Merlin clutches Arthur's shoulders, nails like talons, feels the skin on his back break in the exact same spot, feels the way it affects Arthur, the way his body spikes with the pain.
"Me too." Merlin feels his body disintegrate, feels Arthur encompassing him, feels them merge and mix like liquids in a pot. It feels like they're bonded permanently, like their souls have finally settled into each other, nestled close. Two sides of a coin.
Like the Dragon always said.
They spar in the fields behind the castle.
Arthur increases his training now that Merlin's a liability, now that Merlin is an extension of his body that can bleed and suffer from the slashes of invisible swords.
Merlin sits under a tree while Arthur fights a knight made from twigs and chain mail and a touch of Merlin's magic. Arthur smiles with every landed blow—an opponent finally worth his skill.
He sweats, exertion visible in the thick coils of muscle in his forearms, in the strain of his legs that Merlin rubs at absently. Arthur's pants vibrate on Merlin's skin, tickle him. When Merlin laughs, Arthur looks over with a fond smile.
The knight takes that moment to strike, swipes his sword against Arthur's cheek. The cut is shallow, but blood blooms on both their cheeks. Merlin gasps softly, the cuff of his sleeve instantly pressed against the wound just above his cheekbone.
Arthur runs the knight through with his next strike, watches as the magic lurches and crumbles, sticks and metal clanging to the grass in a sloppy pile.
"Are you all right?" Arthur sounds apologetic, wipes at his own cut. Merlin's reminded for the hundredth time about Arthur's contract with Nimueh. About their bond that came at the price of Arthur.
"Merlin, are you—"
"Arthur, what did you promise her?"
Arthur tenses. "What does it matter? What's done cannot be undone."
"What does it matter?" Merlin parrots back. He scrambles to his feet, matches Arthur's gaze. "It matters, Arthur! Whatever you promised her wasn't worth the—"
Arthur slams his forearm under Merlin's chin, smashes his back against the rough bark of the tree. "It was worth everything, Merlin."
"Then if it was so unimportant, why won't you tell me?" Arthur falters in his hold. Merlin pushes him off with a firm application of magic. "Just tell me, Arthur. I deserve to know."
Arthur rubs at his eyes, takes four steps away from Merlin. When his shoulders slump, Merlin knows he's won.
"I promised her my destiny."
Merlin blanches. "What—no—no, you didn't, Arthur—"
"Nimueh told me every soul has two destinies—a lesser and a greater—two options for every decision. It was no great sacrifice."
Merlin's breath stutters from his chest.
"But you still have a destiny, right? It could work out—things could still work out fine, couldn't they?" The hope in his voice scares him.
Arthur sighs, looks down, swings his sword once. "It's double-edged. Things could very well work out, yes. But the price I pay is knowing that everything around me—that my happiness—was not meant to be. That every person I meet, that every pleasant thing that happens to me, was not meant. That the people who die or live at my hand were not meant for the fate I give them. That I am ultimately, robbing everyone around me of a greater purpose. Of their happiness."
Merlin's chest constricts. "Oh, Arthur. How could you?"
Arthur walks up to him, takes his face between his hands. His smile is beautiful; warmth and compassion and overwhelming love flows through him, mingles with Merlin's magic in delicious swirls.
He kisses him, gentle and tender, soft lips against Merlin's mouth, against his cheek, tongue lapping at the drying blood. When he pulls away, Merlin feels cherished, honored. When Arthur speaks, his voice is lost in his emotion.
"I had no other choice, Merlin."
Merlin dreams, stretches his magic through his mind, across the lands, contacts Nimueh.
He opens his eyes to a lake; Nimueh perched at the edge, fingers skimming the surface. The water doesn't ripple, but the sky shakes. She turns blue eyes on him, smiles as if they're old friends. Merlin's anger dances in his fingertips.
"You can't hurt me here," she says softly, returns to stroking the water.
"Oh yeah? Who says?" Merlin feels the fight build, the irreparable rage that tears through his organs.
"The law of dreams," Nimueh laughs, stands. She's beautiful bathed in the sunlight, the light breeze that swirls around her hair. She looks like a fairy, not the witch she truly is. "You asked me here, Merlin. This is your dream. I'm safe here as long as you still breathe."
Merlin swallows his anger. "Take it back, Nimueh."
She laughs, dainty and cheerful. "If I remove the magic, your lungs will cease to function properly and you'll wither into an old man. You're only alive because of Arthur Pendragon's promise to me."
"It's not fair! Arthur's done nothing to inspire your vengeance! Your fight is with me. Take it from me. Leave Arthur out of this."
She laughs again. "Oh, Emrys. You do not understand." She advances, the blades of grass bend with an invisible force around her. "You have to possess something I want if you wish to trade. I've taken my boon from the young Pendragon. Your desperation does not interest me."
"Take my magic," the words tumble from his mouth in a rush. "Take all of it, just give Arthur is destiny back."
For a moment, Nimueh looks sad, regretful. "Even if that were possible, Emrys, your magic is of no use to me. Your power is too—" she stops herself, looks up into his eyes. "Go back, Emrys. For now, he's happy."
"But—"
"Go back." She snaps her fingers.
Merlin's eyes open, jumps up in fright. Arthur's already awake, is looking at him with soft, sad eyes.
"I am happy," he repeats Nimueh's words. It sounds like a vow, a promise.
For now, it's all they have.
Uther stands on the balcony, addresses the people who gather below.
He speaks of change, of the new laws of Camelot. His armor gleams under the unforgiving sun, his voice severe and final. He tells the people that his tolerance for magic is over, that his leniency toward the wizards and witches has extinguished itself.
The people buzz with excitement, with nervous energy. Merlin shivers. Uther's leniency. He finds it hard to imagine the bodies of his kind left pilled up and rotting on the streets were a result of Uther's kindness.
"Magic," Uther booms, "is the problem we all live with. No longer, my loyal subjects. A new era is upon us."
He has three people lined up for beheadings, a whole family in a row, chop chop chop.
Merlin feels the sting of tears in his eyes. There's a child there, between his mother and father. Arthur steps behind him, watches over his shoulder. The woman's cries resound in the courtyard. Merlin swallows thickly.
"What's going to happen to me?" He's reminded of his carelessness, of Gaius' reprimands. The close calls and the impossible situations. Of being caught between a rock and a hard place where magic was the only solution, the only way to save the lives of those he cares about the most.
Arthur's fingers curl around his neck, draws Merlin flush against his chest. Merlin feels Arthur's breath against the nape of his neck, feels the heat from their connection, the comfort.
The axe swings, ends the life of the father. Arthur's fingers clench briefly, release. "I can protect you."
"What if it's not enough?"
The crowd's already leaving, buckets of water tossed on the pools of blood, two women with scrub brushes and the sole task of wiping away the red stains left from the traitors.
"It will be."
