Work Text:
Fandom: Merlin (BBC)
Prompt: This is deliciously painful. More with what happens next and some mini slash mayhaps? - MonAlice
one of the best oneshots i've read in a while possible sequel where we get the heart-felt talk between merlin and arthur, and see them fight back to back? :O jk.. unless? this was really good tho :D - biittersweets
The ride back to Camelot is slow.
Merlin rides next to Arthur, the Knights of the Round Table creating a guard of honor around them. The rest of the men stay a good few meters back. They don’t speak; Arthur because he’s just had his entire worldview pretty much shattered, Merlin because he’s exhausted.
He’s never harnessed that much power before in his life. Even killing Nimueh didn’t take that much force. The energy that had fueled him, taken from the earth, had fled as soon as the spell was complete. Now he only has his own magic left, a slow trickle compared to the flood, barely enough to keep him awake. Thankfully, Cara seems to understand that her rider isn’t as perky as usual, taking care when she places her feet.
When they make camp, Merlin slides off and carefully tethers Cara, giving her neck an extra few scratches before he starts to set up the rest of the stuff. To his surprise, by the time he’s turned around, a fleet of the other servants has already made up the tents and prepared the food, leaving him to just awkwardly finish tending to the knight’s horses and perch next to them, waiting for them to be finished.
He doesn’t really want to talk to anyone.
Not Lancelot, who he’s sure would continue saying that Arthur should knight him.
Not Elyan, who would just remind him of the armor that he wears and how it’s failed to protect so many.
Not Percival, who reminds him of the other men that could not hope to fight this kind of war.
Not Gwaine, who couldn’t distract him, not now.
Not Arthur. Not yet.
In the end, it’s Leon who comes to his side, helping him with the horses’ saddles and the last of their feedbags.
“Come,” he says softly when Merlin fumbles with the girth, “let me.”
Merlin lets Leon push him gently to the log and he watches as the knight finishes with the horse. Then he crouches down to pick something up and joins Merlin, placing the item in his hand. Merlin turns it over in his fingers.
“What is this?”
“During the time of Uther Pendragon,” Leon starts quietly, “when a man was knighted, his family made a token to signify his loyalty to his king.”
Merlin looks at the round thing in his hand. This far away from the light of the fire, he can’t see it too well, but he can feel the imprint of a crown and the thin outline of a sword.
“When the knight fell in battle,” Leon continues, “or…when his loyalty shifted, the family would give the token to the king. To the ruler the knight wished to serve in perpetuity.”
Merlin’s head shoots up, staring at Leon with wide eyes.
“I may not know much about magic,” Leon says, meeting his gaze easily, “but I know that I should have died many times. And yet I am still alive.”
The Cup of Life.
“So…” Merlin swallows, throat dry. “Why…why are you giving this to me?”
“I have been serving the King of Camelot for the longest out of our little group of knights,” Leon says, “and I have seen it both before and after you’ve arrived.”
He nods to the token in Merlin’s shaking hands. “You have done more to win the loyalty of a knight than Uther ever did. And you have done it by showing your own loyalty.”
Merlin looks away, unable to reconcile the trust shining in Leon’s eyes with the pit of blackness still bubbling in his stomach.
“…if you knew,” he rasps, “all the things I have done…you may not make the same decision.”
“That’s not up to you to decide,” Leon chides gently, “and my hands are not clean either.”
I don’t think it’s the same thing.
“If it is any consolation,” Leon says, leaning closer to bump their shoulders together, “bad people do not care about being better.”
Merlin turns the token over in his hands. Leon…Leon is giving him this. That…that must mean he’s done something right, mustn’t it?
“I’ll keep it safe,” he promises, “for as long as I can.”
“I know you will.” Leon stands, offering him a hand. “Now come. Share our fire. You must be hungry.”
The ride is easier after that. Merlin surrounds himself with the knights—or rather, they surround him—and sits, soaking in their presence, letting Lancelot or Gwaine prop him up and watching the antics of the others. Arthur stays in his tent, and only occasionally will he venture out to join them. Still, they do not speak. The few times they’ve tried they’ve realized that this isn’t the place. Neither of them is fully prepared to have this conversation out here.
Merlin doesn’t allow himself to rest, not fully. Morgana has probably figured out that the crows are gone, but that won’t stop her for long. He’s not sure she’s figured out exactly why her crows are gone, but he can’t afford to be lax. Not now.
When the walls of Camelot come back into view, the men perk up. Even Cara steps lightly. The instant they pass through the walls Merlin’s shoulders slump, the prickle of his magic telling him to stay alert dissipating at last. It’s replaced soon by a soft gray mist.
He’s going to have to talk to Arthur now.
Thankfully, the bustle of arriving back takes care of most of his need to move. He puts Cara away, thanking her for being so wonderful. He goes to see Gaius.
Gaius stands abruptly when Merlin pushes the door open, concern etched into his forehead.
“Merlin,” he sighs in relief, coming forward to take the young man into his arms and hug him firmly, “you cannot imagine how happy I am to see you back.”
“Gaius,” Merlin croaks, almost falling over in Gaius’ arms, “Gaius.”
“Yes, Merlin, what is it?” Gaius hurriedly sits him down and begins to look him over for signs of injury.
“‘M not hurt,” Merlin manages, swatting away Gaius’ probing hands, “just tired.”
“What happened, Merlin?”
“I—“ Merlin gulps. “I…had to show him.”
Gaius nods anxiously. “And?”
“Merlin!”
The door swings open. Arthur stands there, still mostly clad in his armor.
“There you are,” he says, “I’ve been calling you.”
Merlin gets up. Arthur glances at Gaius then back to Merlin.
“Come on.” He turns away. “I need to talk to you.”
Merlin shoots one more look at Gaius before following his king. Gaius just watches them go, hands folded anxiously in the sleeves of his robe.
The door to Arthur’s chambers closes behind them. Merlin reaches into his pocket and traces the outline of Leon’s token. He can do this. He can do this. Everything will be alright.
He frowns when Arthur starts fiddling with the straps of his armor, reaching around awkwardly to get the straps at his back. He starts forward, reaching out. “Let me—“
“No,” Arthur says hurriedly, “I’ve got it. You don’t have to.”
“You don’t,” Merlin argues, seeing how Arthur’s straining to reach the strap, “you’re going to break it.”
Arthur looks up at him and relents, letting his arms fall to the side as Merlin strips him out of the armor. This. This is easy. Taking Arthur’s armor off after a battle, listening to the complaints about what went wrong, what could’ve gone better, any particularly heroic endeavors. Now, though, Arthur doesn’t say a word.
Merlin finishes and gathers up the armor, putting it away. His fingers itch to finish cleaning it properly, repair it, make it better, go back to normal, but he knows he can’t.
He’s ruined that, hasn’t he?
“Come here,” Arthur calls quietly from behind him. He turns around to see Arthur reaching out his hand, his face inscrutable.
Merlin obeys, prepared for a blunt question, an awkward opener, anything just to get this over with. He isn’t prepared for Arthur to start taking off his armor. What is he supposed to do? He knows what Arthur does, but that’s Arthur. He ends up just standing there, blinking dumbly at the look of concentration on Arthur’s face. He never really noticed that Arthur purses his lips ever so slightly when he’s especially focused on something. When Arthur moves around to get the straps on his back, Merlin tenses, trying to turn his head, see what he’s doing. Somewhere, he knows—he knows Arthur won’t hurt him, not now.
The last piece of armor falls away and Merlin gasps, rubbing the spots where it dug into him too tightly. Arthur chuckles as he sets it aside.
“The shoulder ones are the worst when it’s new, isn’t it?” He taps his own shoulder, rolling it around a few times for emphasis. “Almost got it dislocated because I wasn’t used to it.”
“It doesn’t like to move,” Merlin says, feeling his shoulder blade and wincing when yep, that’s definitely a bruise, “does it?”
“It’s like it forgets that I need to use my arm.”
“And my shoulder.”
The brief moment of levity fades almost as quickly as it arrived. Arthur leans on the table, clears his throat.
“You have magic.”
It’s not a question.
Merlin swallows around the lump in his throat. “I was born with it.”
Arthur glances up at him. “That can happen?”
Merlin shrugs. “Apparently.”
“Does it hurt?”
Merlin frowns. “…what?”
Arthur gestures to him vaguely. “When you use magic, does it hurt?”
“…no, Arthur, it doesn’t hurt,” Merlin answers, bemused when Arthur’s frown only deepens. Why…why did Arthur ask that? “Er…why?”
“Hmm?” Arthur looks up from where he’d been staring at Merlin’s hands. “Well, I, er…when I fight or train with a sword, my arms get sore after a while. I just…” He waves at Merlin again, “figured maybe it…was the same type of thing.”
“When I use a lot of power, it’s…tiring, yeah.” Merlin’s hands twitch under Arthur’s scrutiny. “But, er, it’s more draining than anything.”
Arthur hums noncommittally. Merlin’s skin starts to itch under the weight of the silence. The mist thickens into a bank of fog and he can’t see anything through it. All he can see is Arthur.
“Why didn’t you tell me,” Arthur whispers finally, looking up at Merlin, eyes wide, “that you had magic?”
“I wanted to!” Merlin winces when it comes out as a shout. “I wanted to,” he repeats at a much more reasonable volume, “I really wanted to, Arthur, you have no idea—“
“Then why not?”
The worst part is Arthur’s not yelling at him. Merlin’s prepared himself for anger, for Arthur to scream and shout and throw things or even threaten him. He’s prepared himself for all of that, and worse when Arthur asks about what else he’s done.
He isn’t prepared for this. For the Once and Future King to help him tenderly out of his armor and plead with him, his voice barely above a whisper, sounding like he’s only a few seconds away from crying.
Merlin tangles his hands in his hair. No, no, no, this is all wrong. If Arthur were angry it would mean Merlin was right not to tell him, right not to break Arthur’s trust because it would hurt, it would be bad. At the very least, after all he’s done, he would’ve been right about that.
But that’s not what’s happening. Arthur isn’t mad, he’s not shouting, he’s…he’s heartbroken and that means Merlin should’ve told him so he wouldn’t hurt Arthur like this. But what if he’s only heartbroken now, when should Merlin have told him?
“Merlin!”
A voice through the fog.
“Merlin,” Arthur pleads, trying to tug Merlin’s hands away from his head, “stop it, you’re going to tear your hair out, you fool, stop.”
“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Merlin wails, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve kept this, I—I didn’t want you to be angry, I—I’ve ruined everything.”
“Merlin.”
Merlin freezes. Oh. Oh, no, now Arthur is angry.
Arthur pulls his hands away from his head and slams them against the—wait, how did Merlin end up pushed up against a wall?
“You were going to hurt yourself,” Arthur mumbles, not letting Merlin go, “I couldn’t let you.”
“Oh.”
He could free himself. He could push Arthur off without much effort at all but he dares not. Judging by the way Arthur’s grip isn’t anywhere near painful, Arthur knows it too.
“It’s for you,” Merlin blurts out, closing his eyes, “my magic. I only ever used it for you.”
Arthur doesn’t say anything, but his grip on Merlin’s wrists falters. He lets go and Merlin lets his arms slide down the wall, not daring to move any more than that.
“Why did you come to Camelot?”
“Because it’s my destiny.” Merlin squeezes his eyes shut. “Because you are destined to be the greatest king the land of Albion has ever known. And it is my destiny to serve you.”
Arthur’s fingers carefully cup Merlin’s jaw. He opens his eyes to see Arthur staring at him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Merlin swallows. “Because I didn’t want you to have to choose.”
“Choose?”
“Between what you’ve been taught about magic and—“ Merlin cuts himself off. “I didn’t want to put you in a position where you didn’t know what to do.”
Arthur stares at him intently. “You were going to say you, weren’t you?”
Merlin nods shamefully. “That’s not fair to you, though, and it’s not true, I know—“
“Because I would’ve chosen you.”
Merlin freezes, words caught in his throat. It’s Arthur’s turn to swallow and press closer against Merlin, against the wall.
“My father…was a hateful man,” he starts, “and he was wrong. About lots of things. And I didn’t want to be that kind of king, but I didn’t know how to be any other kind.”
He tilts his head. “Until you, Merlin.”
Merlin can’t speak.
“You came in, as clumsy and rude and insolent as you are,” Arthur says, smiling a little when Merlin frowns, “and you taught me how to be a good king. I…I would not be the man I am today if you had never come.”
The way Arthur’s voice says the word ‘good’ makes Merlin’s stomach clench.
“…I am not good, Arthur,” he mutters, looking away, “I…I’ve done things that no one could describe as good.”
“Is this why you’re so determined to call yourself a monster?”
Merlin nods.
“I forgive you.”
Merlin’s head jerks up to see Arthur staring at him, no uncertainty in his gaze.
“I forgive you,” Arthur repeats, smiling a little, “does that help?”
“You don’t even know what I’ve done.”
“And you don’t know what I’ve done.”
Merlin frowns. Arthur shifts his weight from side to side.
“Before you came, I was a very different man. I did…many things that would not be considered ‘good.” He levels Merlin with a stare. “If you are a monster, then so am I.”
Merlin shakes his head frantically. That’s not the same, he’s done so many terrible things—
Arthur stops him with a gentle hand, cupping the back of his head and holding him still.
“You’re not a monster, Merlin,” he says firmly, “I forgive you. And if you like,” he continues when Merlin opens his mouth to protest, “you can tell me all of the things that you think are unforgivable, and I will forgive you for them.”
“N-now?”
“No, Merlin,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes fondly, “not now. But perhaps…one day, I will tell you a story. About a raid I led when I was fifteen. And then perhaps we will see how monstrous we both are.”
The fog is clearing, slowly, but it still stings Merlin’s eyes, drawing tears to the surface.
“Why,” he croaks, “why are you doing this? Why…how are you able to forgive me so easily?”
“Oh, Merlin,” Arthur murmurs, pressing forward.
His mouth lands on Merlin’s and the fog lifts.