Archive of Our Own

It all happened in slow, slow motion.

Tell Arthur as you wish— tell him with all your might and merit, but the young king could have never believed the unravelling of events had they not maimed him so utterly. The scars truly left their marks, and he wished to gauge them out of his eyes before actually believing them. He wished he had never been given breath to waste upon living such a day. He wished, he wished…

Merlin. Now lying in Arthur’s unsteady arms, blood smearing his face, his palms, his whole entire body. The face Arthur knew and saw and loved for many years now looked so different to his eyes. Life was slowly seeping out of it. Arthur was slowly dying from it.. and he could do nothing but tremble. 

He was a king; said to be almighty and regal, but in that particular moment, he felt like neither. He wasn’t sure it was possible to be anything but a withering, shivering soul, holding in his arms the man who stood by his side countlessly— effortlessly. He wasn’t sure he could outlive the haunts of such a day. 

He wished… He wished…

Misery was unquestionably etched unto Arthur’s brittle soul. He felt there was no way out of it, none he could foresee that didn’t involve visions of blood and shadows of a menacing ghost. See, the thing that baffled Arthur’s brain was how harmless the whole ordeal seemed when Merlin first approached him with it. Surely, there was no such thing as having released his father’s spirit into the world of the living, seeking utter revenge from his only son… right?

Joke’s on Arthur. Joke and utter nonsense, and a veiled ton of sadness amidst the sheer denial. Because how could it be anything like that? Arthur had worked tirelessly to keep his father’s legacy alive, disregarding his own will sometimes just to honour a dead man’s reign. Hence how, in the name of all that is pure from evil, could that wraith of a ghost be a reflection to his father, to the true actions of the man who raised him lest he were alive? How— how would his father sentence his only son to such misery in just the blink of an eye? How would he lead Arthur to a damned existence teetering between life and death?

Arthur looked down at his hands— they were shaking with a force he never beheld, as if the blood tainting every inch of his skin was the motive behind his trembling and fear, painting him with absurdity and disfigurement. He was never coy from blood; he single-handedly beheaded figures and saw every gory detail a warrior could come across. Yet, here and now, it was different. Here and now, Arthur was holding his slowly dying confidant. Here and now, he was facing judgement, the worst kind of it, and not enough screaming for Gaius or putting pressure on Merlin’s wound could alleviate his pain.

Perhaps he ought to face that judgement, Arthur’s traitorous mind supplied. Perhaps, for all the times he took Merlin with him in wars where only a knight should withstand, for all his dabbling with fate and taking it for granted, now it’s taking Merlin away from him in the cruellest of ways— the simplest of them.

He wished… He ached...

The tears painting his face could only be a gnaw for benediction, yet Arthur knew, with every breath that was beginning to slowly fade from Merlin, that he wouldn’t get it. He was as dead as his manservant if fate decided to take him from Arthur. For what would be left for him other than potent, poignant pain? Nothing, he thought: nothing would ever take away his guilt. Nothing would change the fact that Arthur was responsible for what happened to Merlin. Nothing, nothing, nothing…

It all happened in slow, painfully slow motion.

Surrounded by an armoury full of weapons, in the end Arthur wasn’t able to use any of them. They wouldn’t have saved anything, even if Arthur had tried. Yet, a moment’s hesitation was all it took to steal away all kingly bravery he had ever possessed. It was a moment that reduced him to a broken mess, wondering if anything he had ever done had ever mattered if he froze in the direst moment of his entire life. Nothing else mattered to Arthur. Shock and transient moments urged him to remain shackled in their cycle of guilt and fear. He wanted to waste away alongside the blood that wasn’t getting out of his hands anytime soon. He wanted to trade places, trade lives and sentients, because it was all what Merlin more than deserved.

Or did he? spoke the lingering voice that belonged to his father in his head, and Arthur immediately dismissed it, unable to listen to it anymore without the fire of resentment and remorse flaring up inside of him. Merlin will always remain the same to his eyes, the same to his soul. No life, or effervescent being, will be able to convince Arthur that their true loyalties did not lie with one another.

Not even magic would change it.

It was that single word that ruined Arthur’s life in a mere moment, trespassing upon his constants as if he were the trespasser on his own existence. In the ten years of knowing Merlin, Arthur had thought there were no walls left to break down between them— those he had built long ago in fear of opening up to anyone— as Merlin had came and broke them immaculately, brick by separating brick, and taught Arthur how to make a sheltering home for them with those bricks instead. All this time, Arthur had thought that he was in a safe haven, created by and for the two of them alone. Yet, nothing rang at that moment more than his father’s ghostly shrill, rendering him useless in the eyes of the man he held dearest to his heart, paralysing him with fear and utter disbelief.

“Merlin has magic!”

And Arthur didn’t even have time to ponder whether it is the truth or just a blow that his father must have known would be easy upon his fragile armour. Uther raised Arthur to repel just the thought, erase it completely from the face of his earth, and it was indeed Uther’s upbringing that nullified any action he could have partaken, leaving him gasping for air as a sea creature on foreign shore.

But it was all that Uther needed— that momentary hesitation in Arthur’s physique... that doubt thrusted upon him ever since the day he had blinked into a world without loving guardians... that silent second of shock emanating from both sides, surrendering to circumstance and fate.

It was all that Uther needed to thrust the sword he had into the sorcerer’s chest.

“NO!”  

It all happened in inexplicably quick motion, but nothing in Arthur’s eyes ever carried on slower and longer.

The stab seemed to have fractured Merlin’s body indeed, but it was Arthur that felt every shard of its pain. His agony, his prolonged cry of helpless agony, could only echo around the armoury, heard by lifeless maces and crossbows. Just as he desperately blew the horn with his breath of misery to rid their world of his father, he saw such glee in Uther’s eyes, as if nothing he had ever done in his entire reign could have satisfied him further than destroying the one thing Arthur never needed but.

Arthur’s heart crumpled down so swiftly. As he reached his manservant, he forcibly removed the spears that held him to the wall, regaining just a sliver of his knightly might, throwing them behind so vigorously they might have broke like his heart that was breaking. Like Merlin’s heart that was surely fractured.

“Hey, hey..” Arthur slowly whispered, unable to find it in himself to believe what just happened, bringing one palm to Merlin’s cheek, the other to his shoulder, steadying them both to the ground as Merlin’s entire weight fell down on him. “You’re alright, Merlin. You’re with me. You’re alright.”

Liar. Liar. Liar. 

“Arthur,” Merlin breathed, and with that little breeze of air came a rush of blood tumbling down from his lips, staining his jaw and neck and Arthur’s hand that was holding him. It was so difficult to get that breath out of him— chest tightening, pain erupting and never-ending— but it was all for Arthur’s name. In the end, he would do anything in the name of Arthur.

“Merlin, look at me,” Arthur croaked, urgency saturated with horror filling his voice and rattling in his chained heart. Merlin’s eyes found Arthur’s, and Arthur could see the concentration lessening every second they lingered. “You’re going to be alright; do you hear me? I swear it on each breath we take.”

But at that moment it was Merlin’s turn to flip Arthur’s world from its axis, as if Arthur hadn’t been thrown from the highest of peaks already, as if he didn’t just visit hell’s freshest birthplace, as if, as if—

Merlin just smiled.

“No,” Arthur knew that smile; he saw it several times on Merlin’s face before. He normally associated Merlin’s smile with all that is good in life, yet there existed just one type of smiles that were reserved for calamities, and each time Arthur saw them he wished to rip them away from that face he direly loved, because loss and love could never coexist in peace within Arthur’s heart. He knew that smile is his sentence to damnation, and in desperation, Arthur wished the blood on his hand to be his alone to salvage away. He wished for it all to go away, for him to go back to the child he never got to become; watching other children wish upon faraway stars and steady water streams, wishing on the magic of the air to make their lives auspiciously happier.

Magic. Something suddenly glimmered in Arthur’s eyes: it was the teetering edge of frantic hope.

“No, Merlin, you listen to me,” Arthur said hurriedly, readjusting his cautious grip on Merlin’s face, his bloodied handprint besmirching it even further. Still, that flicker of light shone in his direction, and he placed all the hope he ever had upon it. “Merlin, heal yourself.”

“Arthur, I—” Merlin began again then stopped, a painful blood-smeared sob breaking in the middle of his words. The blood was now all over his face. He looked and felt slaughtered, but to Merlin it all didn’t matter. If he was to perish on Uther’s hands as he had always predicted, then it is just one thing that he wanted to convey. “I’m so… sorry, Arthur.”

“Heal yourself!” Arthur commanded, tears intermingling with his cracked voice. He never wished upon the stars but now he wished upon Merlin.

“I can’t,” Merlin replied, and with fading vision he said what he had always believed would be his sole destruction. “I— won’t.”

“God damn you, Merlin, for once do as I command!” Arthur thought he bellowed, but it really was nothing more than a ragged sob, a cry in misery and ache.

But it all didn’t matter. It all coalesced to a final single sentence, uttered by a slowly fading Merlin into his slowly fading world. It was, Arthur will later retrace, Merlin’s passage to salvation and his to utter damnation.

“Your eyes will hate mine.”

And with it, his smile and entire body sagged against Arthur.

“No,” the king whispered in horror to the air between them, grounded by the child in him that’s so desperate, so in pain. “No, no, don’t kill me, Merlin, please. Please don’t leave me be.”

For the first time, Merlin did.

Π∆

Throughout his childhood, Arthur always noticed that there existed a momentary flash of green that could only be seen in dawn and dusk. He never really understood how it came to be, but in the days he would skittle away from bed, restless and unable to sleep, seeking refuge in the highest of towers, he would sometimes see that fleeting reflection of light, and somehow life got calmer because of it.

Today he could not see it. Today, he presumed the sky would only be vivid red.

In his rush to Gaius’s chambers, Arthur couldn’t see anything other than blurring shapes. There were no lights flickering amongst the castle; just a few guards positioned in entryways that startled as they saw their king run past them. Arthur didn’t even need to reach the physician’s tower before he started bellowing his name. His nerves already delayed him enough.

As he reached the top, the door flung open. Arthur could see the old physician in front of it, alarmed from just the noise. His face was another story when he actually saw a glimpse of Arthur, carrying Merlin like an oblation for God to save. Arthur couldn’t even bother to try and comfort the old man.

With gentleness, or perhaps just excessive trembling, Arthur laid Merlin down on the patients’ counter. In their years, Arthur would sometimes come into these chambers to find Merlin behind that same counter, tending to knights and commoners as he tended to him: with utter compassion and loving hands. Silently, Arthur began to take notice of how essential Merlin’s existence had become, not just to Arthur but to the entirety of Camelot as well; a steady flame that somehow never ceases its caring.

Arthur would at times wish he were the match for that candle.

Looking behind him, Arthur noticed that Gaius was still frozen in place, shocked to his core as if the scene hadn’t yet registered in his brain. Arthur couldn’t blame him, but he needed someone to take on the actual mantle here.

“Gaius, Gaius come; he needs you.” With the way Arthur spoke, all kingly authority vanished in the air, he felt like an obsolete beggar, imploring for his most basic and desperate needs. He didn’t care that he felt like that. “Please don’t freeze like I did.”

The pin dropped. Gaius reformed back to his physician self, speeding up towards them and immediately getting to work.

“What happened?” Gaius asked Arthur as he began tearing out the layer of fabric on Merlin’s skin, inspecting how deep the wound was.

“Sword. Father— he.. please.” hyperventilating, Arthur barely made sense anymore. Nothing made sense. Nothing, nothing… “Gaius, please. Heal him. Heal him.”

“Arthur, you need to tell me what happened so that I can.”

“I—” the words were stuck in the back of his throat. He could say anything except for that damning truth.

“You said sword,” Gaius tried to get out of him while simultaneously checking Merlin’s airway, desperate to find him breathing. A small sigh of relief got out of him when he did. “Was he stabbed with your sword?”

“No,” Arthur faintly registered the words. “A conjured one. He conjured one.”

“Put pressure right here.” Gaius ordered Arthur, giving him the cloth he retrieved. He immediately hurried to the physician’s instructions.

“It was Father. His spirit. He—”

“It’s fine, sire,” Gaius replied, having heard enough as it is, speeding up to his desk for a specific book in mind. “It will be fine.”

Arthur didn’t believe him.

“What are you looking for?” he asked instead. There had to be anything that could take away his mind from the scene he was thrown in— a figurine with strings in motion, trying to alleviate Merlin’s pain as much as he could while avoiding looking at the expanse of the blood that was covering them both. 

“Heart wounds require special caring for.” Gaius replied distantly, focused on the pages he was flipping between. “I need to find a tincture powerful enough to at least stabilise him.”

“At least? What.. what do you mean at least?” Arthur asked, not even bothering to hide the desperation that was not leaving his voice or essence any time soon. “You must find a way to heal him fully, Gaius. There is no least here.” 

“This is the work of dark magic, my boy.” Gaius finally looked up, truly acknowledging Arthur for the first time ever since he entered. “My skills do extend to a certain reach.” 

“What? No.” Arthur vehemently interjected. That was not even an option. He might have been lamenting his whole entire existence back there, but he refused to lament Merlin. “Gaius, you must promise me he will live.” 

“Sire—” Gaius began.

“No!” Arthur cut him off once more, finally looking down to the expanse of Merlin’s chest that was covered in red. It felt like they were both drowning in a crimson river. “Resort to anything, to everything, I plead of you.” 

The room was devoured by their silence. If he was to be honest with himself, Gaius was only awaiting the moment Arthur leaves the room so that he would try every tinge of faraway magic that may still reside in him. But that wasn’t something he could tell the man that learned on Uther’s hand of tyranny. Gaius had every sense to believe that Arthur was different but—

“Please do not refuse me your magic like he did.” Arthur finally whispered, unable to take his eyes away from Merlin’s still form. 

“What?” Gaius paled. Could that day get any worse? Was it all meant to crumble away in a mere minute, every bombshell proceeding the other?

“I know he has magic, alright?” he looked up to his old mentor, burying down the erupting feelings of betrayal of how he’s probably been living a lie all the while. “I know he uses it, and by extension you most definitely do. So please, just— just heal him, Gaius. Just heal him in any way.” 

The shock left no more words to be needed. As Arthur changed the blood-soaked cloth in his hands with a more sterile one, Gaius left behind the revelation and instead hoarded the book he was trying to find until the information he needed was at the palm of his hand. In the speed of an arrow, he rushed back to his cabinet where he quickly mixed several potions together and got back to where Arthur was still tending to Merlin. The old physician noticed his breaths were barely visible now. They needed to hurry. 

As Arthur tilted Merlin’s head, Gaius tried to make him swallow it. With incredible precision, they made him drink as much of it as they could, all the while wishful of any signs of betterment on his face.

But it was as if the effect was reversed. Merlin’s entire body suddenly contorted, fitful of shudders going throughout it; an autumn leaf in high wind. The wound began to seep even more blood. Both Arthur and Gaius froze in horror, trying to steady him but in vain. 

“This shouldn’t be possible.” Gaius said in a low voice, backing away for a second. With a last resort, he looked at Arthur, seeking a silent approval.

But Arthur was in another world. 

Gaius stepped forward, positioning his hands above Merlin’s trembling body, and with a final look at Arthur, he closed his eyes and gathered all the strength he had ever possessed. 

“Frēos.”

Merlin’s entire body sagged back, as well as Gaius’s. The old man leaned forward to steady himself, breathing heavily from the magic that poured from him.

“I immobilised his heart,” Gaius said, short-winded. “It was going into shock, which would have killed him in mere minutes. This should give us some time to figure out what to do.”

Arthur nodded absentmindedly, on the verge of stopping breathing himself but trying as much as he could to control himself. Merlin needed him.

I need him.

“Arthur…” the physician began but his words trailed, not thinking that this would’ve been the way Arthur found out; with Merlin having nearly met death’s angel just seconds ago.

“Not now, Gaius.” Arthur responded to his own lingering thoughts as well as Gaius’s— confessions be damned. “Not until you wake him alive for me.”

Π∆ 

It took nearly half an hour for Gaius to finally despair. He searched everywhere possible, even threw Arthur books across the room to go through them, too, but neither found anything. All the books on spirits and ghosts that Gaius possessed had no inclination as to treat sword-conjured stabs in the heart. Not to normal beings and certainly not to someone Gaius knew breathed the sole magic of the world. It was all slowly unravelling to become a fully-fledged nightmare.

Until…

“Gaius, do you presume enchanted poultices would do the work?” Arthur spoke, not lifting his eyes from the book he was devouring quickly in order to find any solution. He frowned when he didn’t receive an answer. “Gaius?” As he looked up, he saw the physician rooted in place a few chairs away, the colour draining from his face like a washed off palette. 

Arthur sighed. He knew Gaius found their answer... knew he was close to hearing his actual sentencing. “What did you find, Gaius?” he asked dejectedly. He felt like a star stranded in the middle of the sun.

“Nothing.” Gaius replied quickly, shutting off the book he was apparently staring at for a few minutes. “Just another dead end… will you pass me that book behind you, si—”

Gaius stopped short.

“Listen to me, Gaius.” Arthur said with deadly precision as he advanced on the man and held his gaze. For the first time Arthur projected his authority as king, and damn if he didn’t reap its effect, even as tainted as he felt it to be. “I will not allow you to let Merlin perish just for some fickle explanation you may currently have in mind. I will not allow you to take him from me, or for anyone to do, you hear me? Or else I swear to God that I will reign down hell upon this land that even Father will fear returning!” 

“I do not have a way that Merlin would allow.” Gaius replied steadily in the face of Arthur’s rage.

“W– what? To hell with what he would allow!” Arthur stuttered in utter shock and vehemence. When did him and Merlin ever see eye to eye when it came to sacrifice? Their history long proves otherwise. “I want him, and that shall be enough!”

“It won’t be enough when he wakes with your heart beating inside of him instead!” Gaius finally shouted back, sick of the back and forth with the juvenile king that had no idea about what he was even saying.

“What?” Arthur exclaimed quietly, momentarily disoriented.

Gaius took a deep breath. “This is it, Arthur,” he responded, dejection paving his words. “This is the only way. It is a ritual of the Old Religion; a saviour of one but never the two. For a heart so deeply fractured like Merlin’s to live, it will have to be exchanged with a healthy, beating heart of its most similar essence. But it is a life for a life, Arthur. It is not a simple give and take— it is giving with no return. It is giving and never even knowing if your sacrifice has come to pass, because you will be long gone by then. So, do you see now, sire, how it’s yet another dead end? Do you see why there’s nothing we can do?”

And with that, silence fell upon the room. Gaius never wanted to lay that revelation he found on Arthur, not sure the young king would be able to live with himself now that he knows there could have been a way. But the old man knew that Arthur needed some transparency by the end of it all. If time and again he had stopped Merlin from giving it to Arthur, then the least Gaius could do was present him some of it, now that Merlin would never have the chance to do the same. His heart terribly ached with that last thought.

“I don’t, actually.” Arthur finally replied after a few moments of the lingering silence. He spoke with a distant voice and a faraway look to Merlin’s still body, as if his eyes had ventured to the place where his heart already resided. “This changes nothing. I will gladly undergo this operation.”

“What? No, listen, Arthur,” Gaius said hurriedly, not having anticipated such rash words. “You listen this time. Merlin has sacrificed so much for you these past ten years that I shudder what you would do when you find out everything. Behind every time he put himself in line with danger, you were the reason why. I had to physically restrain him at times from recklessly getting himself killed just to stave off some pain on your heart. So, believe me, he would never allow me to give it to him. It is the only beating rhythm he had always lived upon knowing it thrives. And if it’s not yours anymore, then believe me when I tell you that nothing but destruction will thrive then.”

“I don’t care,” Arthur said dismissively, reaching for the book that held the key to his salvation. As he skimmed the pages for the one he was looking for, he continued, “I trust his destruction far more than mine.”

“This isn’t the way, my Lord,” Gaius replied in a haste, shocked from the foolhardiness he never saw Arthur exhibit before. “This isn’t what you signed up for. This isn’t your destiny. But Merlin— Merlin always wanted to live and die for you.”

And all Arthur could remember was Merlin’s promise a few days back: that one of utter loyalty that Arthur never knew what he had ever done to deserve.

And I swear, I will protect you or die at your side.

He tried not to also remember how he was the one to tell Merlin that to betray one’s beliefs would be the source of their true destruction, but he wasn’t betraying his beliefs, not when it came to saving Merlin above all else, not really.

“May destinies be damned, Gaius.” Arthur said as he found the page that he was looking for at last. Gehwyrf of Heortean shone brightly in front of his eyes. “If you won’t be of help, I’ll take this to someone who will be.”

“Think about your throne, Arthur,” Gaius continued, now feeling desperate, even reaching out to touch Arthur’s arm but to no avail. The king wasn’t even listening. “Think about Camelot. I want nothing more than to see my boy alive again, but not at such a cost he would terribly suffer from. You will be destining him to an everlasting hell and you won’t even be here to make it better! This is not what he deserves.”

“No,” Arthur replied suddenly, tilting his head to look down on his old mentor. The menace it held was dripping. “No, what he truly doesn’t deserve is to die because of me… because of my father. I will not allow him to die while I breathe, Gaius. I will not inhale a breath he doesn’t. I will not choose the easy road here.”

“This is the hardest you are choosing!” Gaius began to lose his temper. Their saviour complexities, the two of them! “You are choosing to damn him, damn us all, just to save yourself the misery. I have always known you to be honourable, Arthur, but this— this is the worst form of greed. Do you even know what he would do if he blinks into a world without you in it? Do you even know how cruel you’re being right now for your own benefit?”

“There will be no benefit from my existence if he dies!” Arthur finally cried, back to the little hiding kid that was never meant to live in a world without love. Gaius stopped short, gazing at Arthur as if he never saw him before.

The wounded king gulped. “This isn’t me being selfish and merciless; this is me knowing there is no use in my survival without him. I—” he halted, finding it hard to even do that simple breathing required of him. “I haven’t just learned to live by a manservant all these ten years, Gaius; I learned to live with a heart. That same heart you’re scorning me for bequeathing to him when the need asks for it, even if it has always been his to shape and his to mould.”

“Arthur, I know—”

“No, you don’t!” Arthur shouted, the tears racing themselves back to fall onto his cheeks in rapid succession. No one truly knows Arthur. No one but— “Without him, I would have been the same empty shell I have always been as a child. Without him, my heart wouldn’t have known any nourishment. Without him, my heart is as good as ruined. I am as good as ruined.”

And with that, both Gaius and Arthur and even the immobilised Merlin could do nothing but fall into contemplative silence. There were no words, no actions to ease what has been said and felt, and Arthur knew he would be damned if he let that air haunt him anymore.

With surety looming around his broken heart, Arthur finally whispered, “Without him, my heart beats for nothing.”

“Even if he’s lied to you all this time?” Gaius tried his final card, helpless in goading him and utterly incredulous from what he heard.

Arthur smiled in bitter pain.

“Even if he lies to me forevermore.”

Π∆

The trip to the knights’ chambers was quicker than Arthur had previously recalled. One second he was with Gaius, resignedly asking for his help, only for Gaius to tell him that even if he wanted he couldn’t. His elderly magic was too weak for such a ritual.

“And what other options do you have for me?” Arthur had demanded, not taking no for an answer. “Who else may possess such power close-by?”

“Arthur, believe me, I have no clue.” the old physician replied, weariness becoming all too evident on his face. “The only one that comes to mind is Morgana as she herself is a priestess of the Old Religion, but I’m not inclined to think she’ll particularly help, would she?”

Arthur felt like yet another slap to his face. He honestly wouldn’t mind seeking her out at such a point. What would she want, the throne and Camelot? Fine, let it be.. He would sacrifice it all. He would tear it all himself and give it to her if only she helped. He would—

“There is someone though,” Gaius said hesitantly. “I believe he could be of help.”

“Who?” Arthur inquired quickly.

“I—” Gaius wanted to tell Arthur. After all, what does he care about a boy whose supposed destiny is to be Arthur’s doom? He might as well prevent what Merlin feared from, now that he wasn’t so sure if he’ll live to do it himself. The thought twinged Gaius’s heart and brows. 

Arthur noticed, interpreting it differently. “No one will come to harm today, Gaius. I thought you had already presumed this.”

“No, I know, sire,” he responded. “It’s just— he’s too young, he might not be of that great help we require.”

“Serves to ask, still. Now, who is he?”

Gaius gulped. “It’s Mordred.”

Arthur scoffed internally. Well, of course it is. He can’t grow fond of anyone without at least a single vein of magic in them, can he?

“I’ll go to him.” Arthur said, and hurried out of the door.

With that, Arthur practically ran through the castle, the morning sun barely evident in the sky. He didn’t bother waiting a few seconds after knocking on the most recently occupied chamber.

“Sir Mordred, I need your—”

Arthur halted. He had expected the knight would be in his own dream world, untouched by all the trauma that latched itself unto Arthur’s heart. Instead, here was Mordred, on the floor by his bed, hugging his knees like a child who just woke up from a scary nightmare.

Arthur could have flung himself from the window right then.

“My Lord,” Mordred stammered as he saw Arthur fling open his door, brushing himself and wiggling upwards. Only when he righted himself and stood straight in front of Arthur did he say, “Forgive me, sire, I – I had a bit of a restless night.”

“I share the sentient.” Arthur responded dully, wishing the connection he just made in his head wasn’t true. “Let me guess, you feel it when other creatures of magic are stabbed to death, too?”

Mordred’s entire face gasped. “Sire—”

“Save it, sir Mordred. I am not here to act as your executioner,” Arthur said collectedly, realising what his stance could really be looking like and how the young knight must be too alarmed for Arthur’s own good. “I came to ask for your help.”

“You need never ask, my Lord.” Mordred replied hurriedly, getting on his knees in submission. He might have barely lived a few weeks in Camelot to give Arthur true deep-rooted devotion, but he couldn’t deny that it felt right doing so. “Whatever magic and might I possess is yours to command. I never wished to deceive you. I—”

“Thank you, Mordred.” Arthur responded as he took Mordred by the arms to pull him up, inwardly appreciative of the loyalty he was displaying, but too tired to acknowledge it when it would all be gone in a bit anyway. “I never doubted your loyalty, and not even now I would.”

“You’re the greatest king I have ever laid eyes on.” Mordred said, eyes shining with veiled idolatry. Arthur recognised that look— of course he did. He saw it time and again on his own face while looking up to his father. Arthur never wanted to be anything but a person who his father would be proud of, and in trying to do so, he nearly lost the essence of his being.

He never wished to break the cycle more than now.

With a warm smile that he did not feel, he laid his hand on Mordred’s shoulder once more and pulled him for a side embrace that the young knight was too stunned to reciprocate. In a hushed voice that was barely even heard by Arthur, he said, “I leave knowing my kingdom is safe because of people like you, sir Mordred.”

And he released him. Before Arthur could begin to tell Mordred of what he needs of him, Mordred hurriedly interjected with a confused look, “Leave? Where would you be leaving, my Lord? Shall I accompany you?”

“I—” Arthur began but stopped himself. He needed to know whether he should share the whole story with the young man in front of him or save himself and Merlin the time. “Mordred, how powerful is your magic?” he asked instead.

“I’m not so sure,” he responded, the question confusing him even more. “I— I mean… growing up, I lived with the Druids, and there my magic was nurtured. But it was mostly elemental; I had no need for spells and enchantments. My magic is rooted to the core of the earth, just like—” Mordred faltered before quickly regaining his words. “Just like the Druids.”

“Would you say just like Merlin?” Arthur asked, curious because he really didn’t even know the first thing about Merlin’s magic to presume.

Mordred’s face was split with shock once more. “He told you,” he said in profound betrayal. Every time he thought he could cross the menacing bridge between him and Merlin, the older man just proved him utterly wrong. Mordred wanted nothing more, coming here, being knighted, than to find true kin. And what was Merlin, if not exactly that? He was magic and bravery; loyalty and love. He was everything Mordred wanted to be, and a bit more. “That’s why I can’t reach him.”

“No, not really.” Arthur replied stiffly and Mordred sagged back, now frowning. “And what do you mean you’ve been trying to reach him?” he shot back in bewilderment. As far as he knew, it was only him in that doorless nightmare.

“We can speak through our minds but he hasn’t been responding. I thought he was ignoring me, but.. I – I can’t feel him.” Mordred finally muttered, looking away, and Arthur understood the face he saw when he entered. It was the face of losing faith.

Arthur truly did share the sentient.

“He’s been wounded,” Arthur finally plucked up the courage to admit. “It’s a mortal blow and he— Mordred, listen... have you ever performed any form of rituals?”  

“I have once. It was a basic elemental ritual of binding.” Mordred replied, trying not to show the dread he started feeling from Arthur’s words. Merlin might have feared and detested him, but Mordred’s admiration to the most powerful of all magical beings could never be denied. He kept trying to hate Merlin like the man did, but how could anyone look at Emrys with anything but awe of his power and devotion? He desperately wanted the guide he found in Merlin all these years back after he had just lost his father. He wanted the mentor he always ached for, and wanted to know how fresh air of belonging ever tasted like.

And that moment, back when he woke up feeling like all the air had lost its magic, he couldn’t breathe.

“And what of exchanging; do you think your magic could be capable of performing that, too?” Arthur asked, getting him out of his reverie.

“I think so,” Mordred said hesitantly. “But exchange of what… exactly?”

Arthur took his time in replying.

“Well, of hearts, per se.”

Π∆

“I take it back; you’re definitely the maddest king I have ever laid eyes on.”

Arthur could have laughed. After all, lunacy was always a part of his and Merlin’s back and forth banter. But really, there was nothing left in Arthur other than the constant, firmly implanted fear of how he could go back any moment to find that Merlin was already gone. It was one of the reasons why he started telling Mordred of what had happened on their way back; he couldn’t take the separation any longer.

“No, sire, I truly mean it.” Mordred continued in masked horror, jogging to catch up with the speedy king. “I mean, not the mad thing of course but— sire, you can’t!”

“Listen, Mordred,” he sighed. He had no energy to indulge the same conversation twice. Not when so much was at stake. Not when both of their hearts were on the line. “I appreciate your concern and all, but I’ve had such a long time to get accustomed to the concept of sacrifice. I wouldn’t expect you to understand it fully now, but someday I am sure you will, and maybe then you won’t look back at me in madness.”

“It isn’t what he would want.” Mordred spoke quickly, trying to get out the articles in his mind before it was too late. “You’re too important, you’re— Emrys wouldn’t ever want you to sacrifice yourself for him!”

“Emrys?” Arthur asked in puzzlement but then couldn’t even be bothered. “You know what, don’t even tell me. It is better I go into this not knowing anything. It is better my heart goes to him unannounced.”

“Why does it have to be you?” Mordred pleaded, trying to find other solutions out of this. “It could be anyone else, just with a similar essence.”

Arthur scowled at him. “I will not go around the castle trying out hearts for our liking until one of them works when I already know our hearts beat the same. No more sacrifices will be made today, there has been enough.”

“Are you sure about that?” Mordred said, hiding in the shadows of his plain words.

“What?” Arthur stared, registering the accusation of betrayal even before Mordred can explain himself.

“I — I mean.. how long has it been, sire?” he asked, seemingly innocent. “Even when I was here as a kid he hid his nature from you. How can you be so sure your sacrifice isn't on wasteful grounds?”

Arthur smiled mirthlessly to himself. Well played, Mordred.. well played. First Gaius and now Mordred, thinking he was fragile enough to be deterred by betrayal when all he had ever lived and breathed was Merlin’s loyalty.

“We're all veiled, Mordred; we just need our safe space to unveil.”

Going further, Arthur began recalling a life he could no longer fathom. “When I was of your age, I was nothing but a façade of indifferent royalty. I was rude, condescending, and everything a king can never merit to become. I hid my true nature, yet for it I met Merlin. He taught me how to get it out, and helped me become the person I am now content with.”

Gulping soundlessly, Arthur continued to voice his encompassing guilt, sounding nonchalant yet truthful all the while. “So it is not his fault I never did the same. I never thought he needed to hide anything from me, but perhaps I never saw past to his fear. It is on me that I never gave him the safety he gave me, and it is in me that I tell you we are made of the same.”

And Arthur began to climb the stairs up to Gaius’s chambers, ready to finally meet his horning bell. His eager step couldn’t have faltered for anything, except—

“I won’t kill you.” Mordred voiced a few steps from below. It felt like yet another blow to Arthur’s armour. “I refuse it.”

“You just swore to help me.” Arthur said, hand on the rail, crestfallen. His entire heart was not beating anything other than raging ache of disappointment and fear.

“But not this way, my king.” Mordred implored him, walking up the few stairs to audaciously touch Arthur’s forearm. “Not this way.”

“Mordred,” Arthur's voice broke, grasping the hand that was holding him so tightly, finally taking off his composed mask that showed the desperation that was hiding all the while. “I am no king asking here; I am misery etched unto a man that cares for no one like I do him. I am in pain,” Arthur’s heart stammered. It even felt like it. “Truly, in its uttermost, and there can be no way out of it for me other than to know he’s alive.”

Exhaling and trying to recompose himself, Arthur let go of Mordred’s hand and nodded solemnly to his own words. “You said you can’t feel him anymore, but I do. I feel every shard of pain piercing his heart. I feel his fading breaths like my own lungs can’t lung for air anymore. I feel it all, and with him gone I will feel nothing else.”

The words were taking the most supreme effort from Arthur to get out, but each second he stood there, being questioned like a commoner on his actions not a king, Arthur felt himself surrendering even more. “You may think of me a heartless man for leaving Camelot without a king, but in all cases I will be without a heart, so it is better for the safest option here, the one that I know would keep it intact. Otherwise, I won’t be a king you need, but a king you need to dispose of.”

Without lingering any longer, Arthur said, “So I ask of you for the last time; will you help me, sir Mordred?”

The misery on the young knight’s face spoke it all. Arthur couldn’t begrudge him the distortion, only wished it would lead to the road he wanted. At last, Mordred closed his eyes and opened it a changed man; one that felt and understood his role in the greater schemes of the world.

“I will.”

The confirmation resonated between them with the solemnity of a judge in court; a final call. Arthur never knew there’d come a day he’d become his own slayer.

Somehow, he never felt more relieved.

Π∆

The king flung the door wide open. The young knight closely followed, smelling the stench of blood everywhere. It was as if everything was heightened indeed because of the fact that it was Merlin in pain. The particles of the air they breathed weren’t in compliance with what was happening. He couldn’t doubt what Arthur had told him.

As Mordred laid eyes on the fragile figure, he thought how ironic it is that fate brought him to this moment after all these years. That same person he admired for helping him had once turned on him in the blink of an eye, deeming him unworthy of any feelings other than resentment and suspicion. How easy would it be now to chase his own revenge, to rid himself the mere notion if he wanted.

But he couldn’t. That same debt he owed Arthur he owed it to Merlin, too. The mere thought of betraying the man felt like a betrayal to himself, to his own nature and existence, and he came to Camelot wanting nothing more than the safety of fealty and the warmth of kinship.

Now he just had to choose which kin to save.

Mordred looked around until his eyes landed on the physician. His old eyes spoke so much that Mordred wished to have communicated with him in their heads– a channel to express their boundless fears. He could see how the man was leaning back against a wall, weary of all that had happened and was about to become, and he wished he could say anything comforting, anything that would make this somehow better.

There was nothing better. It was either the king dies, or his heart dies in him.

Mordred walked up to where Merlin was resting, the air of frozen magic circling around him. It would only take a second to reverse its effect, to let him crumble away, to—

He stopped in his tracks. There was no use. Every thought was in vain if he had already decided to help his king. Looking back at Arthur, Mordred wished to see just a flicker of doubt, just anything that he could deter Arthur with.

He found none. He only found loss and misery.

Looking down at the opened book beside Merlin, Mordred’s eyes easily found the ritual. Exhaling, he began to recite it silently, clearing his mind of how he’s doing the one thing he vowed against. He was a knight of Camelot, but now he was to kill the king of Camelot. How great. How abysmally superb.

A few minutes had passed while Mordred assessed the situation and his own power to be able to perform it. There was no doubt that this was intrinsic magic, bound to backfire in his face in the merest second. Yet, with a final glance at Arthur’s direction, Mordred asked, “Are you sure, my Lord?”

Arthur walked until he was standing next to Merlin’s frozen body. His hands seemed to subconsciously brush the soft skin of Merlin’s pale and blood-dried cheek, wanting to feel it for the last time, getting his answer from it.

“I am, sir Mordred.” he replied steadily at last. Mordred never felt so wishful of a different answer. 

Mordred traced the king’s movement as he started to lay down beside Merlin, looking regal even with his bloodied skin and ragged face. As Arthur pressed his shoulder close to Merlin’s frozen one and closed his eyes, the young knight could see the pained expression that had been haunting him nearly fade. Mordred wondered if that’s what he would have to learn to become a warrior; surrendering to death with peace at heart. He didn’t think anybody else could ever really reach that. To him, even with how little time he barely spent with the two men, they were the highest example of fealty.

In his peripheral vision, Mordred noticed how Gaius came forward from his corner nearing Arthur— no longer the stance of a physician, but one of a loving guardian that was being torn wide open from what was happening. Still, as much as Mordred had thought the man was breaking, he laid his hand on Arthur’s hair, patting away the wildness of the day, and slowly, kindly even, whispered, “We will be safe, Arthur.”

Mordred understood it sufficed. There was no deterring the man from his choices now, so might as well make it as worthwhile as it gets. And maybe, there would always come a moment when people cannot interpret the shortcomings of the world, but perhaps that was all they had; those sweet nothingness they breathed into the ruinous air.

Gaius stepped back, and with it the small frown that was on Arthur’s brow disappeared fully. The man looked the epitome of calm when all Mordred could feel was the calamity looming on them. 

Breathing in, Mordred left his post and neared Arthur, distracting them both with instructions of a manual that would end him. “You will need to say the words of the ritual while I perform it, sire. Shall I chant it and you repeat afterwards?”

“There’s no need,” Arthur shrugged him off, eyes still resting. “I already memorised it.”

When, when, when, Mordred’s own head chanted. How did the man even have time to blink in the words, let alone memorise them? Mordred certainly felt like his memory was failing him in keeping up with the king’s ardour. But perhaps that was for the best. Perhaps, in many years to come, Mordred will only remember that.

The young knight’s magic began to vibrate the room. He started by getting out Merlin’s heart, floating in the air of endless possibilities. It was so broken— Mordred never thought the literal and figurative could ever coincide this easily. And with it punctured this deeply, Mordred didn’t think it was possible it would keep radiating some essence of his magic the way it was. For a moment it scared Mordred, even more than what he was about to commit. The fear that always accompanied his admiration resurfaced, and he felt so out of his league to be in a room roaming around the magic of the most powerful of beings.

But Merlin’s magic felt warm and soothing; a silver lake in the middle of dry earth. It didn’t feel sinister like Mordred had thought a part of it was. Or maybe it was, and that spark of evil that once touched Mordred was flamed away by the overruling rest; significantly unimportant. Mordred’s own magic was on the verge of breaking from what it would perform, but he held on; for Arthur, kill Arthur.

Taking in deeper breaths, Mordred stepped closer and touched the king’s wrist so gently, voicing what he felt would be the last untainted words he would ever speak. “It was an honour, my Liege.”

Arthur smiled, and with it began the ritual. His voice could’ve been made just for that moment in time and space only— a spaced vacuum of memories and commitment.

“I grant you my strength, and with it my eternal soul,”

The words rolled as easy on Arthur’s tongue as his friendship had with Merlin. A roll of images flashed behind his eyes; laying eyes on Merlin for the first time, “how long have you been training to be a prat, my lord?”, steady banter, solid companionship—

“I gift you my beats, and wish to be thy utter console,”

Rageful fits, nights of solidarity, “you have to believe, Arthur”, tears and tantrums, magic and might, betrayal and love, love, love…

“I give you my heart, and will it be yours a whole.”

Arthur Pendragon fell in the abyss of his own creation.

Π∆

Time, at that minute, stopped. Mordred could have lived so many adventures in his little time in life— the same could be doubly presumed about Gaius, for the elderly man had nothing but time on his hourglass.. but neither ever breathed a day so miserable.

As he laid Arthur’s heart in Merlin’s chest, Mordred watched as the blood and veins joined forces with the magic of the world, consolidating to give Merlin the breath and strength he needed. Merlin’s heart remained beside them untouched, beating alone by its own, fractured and worn. He looked at the two entwined souls, wishing he had the power to save them both from misery. But his power was only there to mismatch their lines.

Out of breath and panting heavily, he toppled on the floor, falling on his knees with no tinge of grace. The tears that were at the back of his eyes now flew gracelessly as well, because how could it be that in a span of a few weeks he grew to admire and idolise a man like Arthur? The man walked the earth with dignity, and Mordred wanted to learn everything from him. He wanted to become as committed to people as the king was. He wanted to be a good human like Arthur.

He killed that good human.

It could have been a joke; people’s hearts were never made of gold, but the moment he saw Arthur’s heart floating in the air, blinding them with its brightness, Mordred could have fallen for the illusion and sobbed. If he were to dissect his own heart, Mordred wasn’t sure what he would find there. Would it be as heavenly beautiful as Arthur’s? Could it be the reflection of it, or was he always destined to be a refraction?

He wished to hold it in his palms— to weigh it and to take some strength and bravery from it, for in the face of all that was petrifying, Arthur didn’t even hesitate to climb onto the empty space beside Merlin and lay down his life for him. Mordred wondered if recklessness was just a prelude to limitless bravery, or was it the defining passageway to destruction.

He bowed his head in defeat.

Π∆

Merlin woke up with Arthur’s name on the tip of his tongue.

His heart shot up straight, hammering as if he had dreamt thousands of events in the timespan of a few seconds. He blindly reached to his chest to steady its beats, finding them too quick to their usual rhythm. Too quick to be sustaining. His mind hadn’t yet made the connection. He only began to truly feel there was something wrong when his heart couldn’t stop beating its fear. What could he have been dreaming about that caused him such panic and residential ache? Last he remembered Arthur and him were.. were…

He gasped in shock and defeat.

“Arthur,” Merlin croaked, reaching out only to find Arthur’s solid hand loosely around his. He looked asleep, but Merlin’s heart couldn’t attribute its fear except for something else entirely. Did Arthur think Merlin was on his deathbed so in retribution to Merlin’s betrayal he would sit and watch him wither away? Or did he cry for Merlin until he couldn’t anymore and succumbed to ill-mannered sleep? The last thought pained Merlin’s frantically rhythmic heart as much as it warmed it. Maybe their eyes cannot hate one another after all.

Yet, something didn’t make sense. How is he alive, even? Looking down at his own chest he could barely see or feel the stab of agonising pain that fully consumed him just before he had sagged against Arthur. In those flashing few moments, he had made peace with the fact that it was how he would go: stained by the dishonesty he had imposed on Arthur’s life yet wholly removed by the sanctuary of his arms. But at least, with him gone, Arthur could live on with the magic Merlin had safely put on his body. With him gone, Arthur will stay okay— betrayed and deceived, but okay.

Merlin never cared for anything other than for Arthur to be okay.

“Arthur,” Merlin softly nudged him, fearing his awakening but drugged for nothing else. He needed to reassure his frantic heart that they were both okay and there was no need to overdue the stress. He needed to see Arthur’s eyes and beg for its forgiveness and at the same time accentuate his reasons and make Arthur understand that it’s not forgiveness he owes Merlin, not really. Merlin never did it to make Arthur feel honourbound. He did it all because he himself was lovebound, and damn the seven hells if he doesn’t convey that now to Arthur.

But Arthur didn’t respond.

“Come on, Arthur,” Merlin said, his gentle nudges turning into urgent, incessant ones. “I’m alive, you see? Wake up and command me just however much you like.”

Still, it was as if Arthur’s deep slumber knew no measures. With how Merlin’s heart seemed to wish to jump out of his chest, his worry kept skyrocketing. No matter how forcibly he shook Arthur, or how desperate his cries for him began to turn, Arthur just stayed in place, unmoving. Desperately, Merlin finally looked up, searching for Gaius to help him, aid him, anything. 

But it was not Gaius that he first laid eyes on. Instead, he found a grovelling Mordred by Arthur’s side, looking at them in utter despair, eyes lost and tears rolling down from them like he had no control whatsoever on how pained, truly, horribly pained he was.

Merlin physically felt his heart stutter.

“What did you do?” his disbelieving voice asked on its own, taking the edge of a deadly force. A mantra of not true, not true took hold of his brain, trying to convince himself with anything, anything but.

“I—” Mordred started, but couldn’t finish. What could he say, really? I killed the one person you vowed to love? I gave you his heart because he’s just too noble and selfish to live?

“WHAT DID YOU DO!” Merlin yelled in fragmented agony, launching himself off the table, just on the way to break Mordred entirely while breaking himself, only to be restrained from behind by weak but firm arms.

“Merlin, Merlin..” Gaius tried to reach to him, to console him, to make anything better, but Merlin couldn’t hear anything beyond his own shattered scream. It wasn’t a scream of sole pain and anguish, but the magic in his core lashed out in the entire room. It could have destroyed them all. It wanted to destroy them all.

“Merlin, it was his choice.” Gaius continued, speaking so factually. It broke Merlin twofold. “He gave you his heart because he wanted to let you live. You honour him by doing so.”

“How could you.. how could you..” Merlin sobbed, his entire world failing him. Gaius’s words rang mercilessly in his head. His heart, he gave you his heart. 

“Merlin, calm down.” Gaius said, strengthening his firm hold on Merlin to move him away from Arthur, but Merlin physically couldn’t. It was easier to collapse in place and take the old man down with him than move away an inch from Arthur. “It will all be for waste if you don’t take what he gave you.”

“I DON’T WANT IT!” Merlin wailed and it echoed, creating an entirely new wavelength of its own. He screamed and held his heart, Arthur’s heart, too close, wishing it would stop beating for him. Was it even beating his pain, or was it Arthur’s? “I don’t want his heart, I want him. Does he not know I live and breathe for him?”

And it all stopped, as if life itself seeped out of his hands, unable to take his torment any further. His body sagged away from Gaius and closer to the ground like it did earlier in Arthur’s arms, and his magic turned dormant from the riptide it was just in. Distantly, from where Mordred sat, he could only see it as Merlin’s body surrendering— surrendering wholly to helplessness and nonexistence.

“I only ever wanted him.” his whisper ended; a prelude to his own end. Merlin’s entire magic seeped from his hands to the ground, wrapping the whole room with brightness that opposed the destructive force that tried to ruin them earlier. Closer and closer it flew up around Arthur, as if his magic wanted to wrap itself around its king one last time, wishing it was any worthy of the sacrifice it never needed.

It could have been eternity or just a moment’s worth of motion like the one that took to stab him, but Merlin felt his magic breaking free from his soul, as if its immense existence could be quantified to the halo that started circulating Arthur. A song of lamentation from the soul that would only live to lament. A final mockingbird melody, grieving its only companion.

In shuddering awe, the room seemed to be incapable of holding in the magic he reeked, and both Gaius and Mordred stood transfixed, watching Merlin’s magic fade away from his body, seeking refuge somewhere that didn’t hold that much hurt and pain, seeking a hallowed heart instead of the warm one beating in Merlin’s chest undeservedly.

And suddenly the halo disappeared, gone straight into Arthur’s limp unmoving body; hiding, running from its origin, for that origin was nothing but the true depiction of a famined soul— stripped bare of his whole solid ground and sacred destiny, wasted away like his love was. And wasn’t that what was left for Merlin, anyway? Nothing was worth living for, breathing for, when his sole anchor had dropped himself willingly in the bottom of the sea.

I failed.

Merlin saw them, side by side once standing on a hill overlooking the entirety of Camelot, and remembered how the only thought that crossed his mind was his readiness to jump off that steep hill only if it were to save Arthur the calm breath he was inhaling. That wearisome devotion Merlin never understood or wanted an end to, for looking at Arthur then, Merlin saw true peace on his face, treading like a new visitor, and he ached beyond everything to save a fixed seat for it in Arthur’s heart. 

I failed.

Did Arthur even know how long it has been like an unrequited lie between them? Did he perhaps shrug his father’s words, disbelieving the idea of Merlin possessing the greatest threat that was constantly imposed on his life and his kingdom? Or worse, did he know the liar in Merlin, and still felt obliged to save a dead man limping?

I failed.

Could anything substitute that scene in his head; Arthur’s deathly still face, his closed eyelids in a manner so familiar yet in a state so abhorred? Could Merlin really outlive the haunts of such a day?

I failed.

I failed.

I failed.

Π∆

Yet maybe he didn’t.

Π∆

As the tears swallowed Merlin a whole, leaving him perishing away in a darkened world without Arthur, and as Gaius’s own tears rolled in acquiescence, only Mordred, eyes fixed on Merlin’s fading magic, noticed its conscious course of action; a mind of its own, or maybe, if the connection he made in his head was right, a heart of its own.

“Emrys..” Mordred began, unable to tear his eyes away from the miracle he was witnessing, yet feeling wholly undeserving to be its sole witnesser. “Emrys, don’t listen to me or give me any of your attention. Just.. just, look at him, Emrys. Just look.”

And though Merlin could hear nothing but the rattling pain of his freshly embedded heart, Mordred’s words penetrated his mind so easily, despairingly pleading for anything that involved Arthur.

Arthur who, upon Merlin having looked up, was now bathed in the light that faded from Merlin, encompassing him so easily as if it were his. And wasn’t it all his, really? As Merlin looked at the magic of his creation, he saw how effortlessly it belonged to none but Arthur. It was a conscious decision; to love and to be loyal to the man, yet maybe even his subconscious took note as well. Maybe it couldn’t live without Arthur, too. Maybe the centrepiece of that steadfast universe couldn’t bear the mere thought.

And it all unravelled in Merlin’s magic shaping itself as the living, beating heart it was, disrobing Merlin of his core yet giving him the one thing he couldn’t live without—

“Arthur,” he breathed. It was his breath of life. 

The scene barely registered to them all. Gaius, having slipped his firm hold away from Merlin, backed a few steps to take it all in. Next to him stood Mordred, who had been unable to stay any longer in the same space as the two he ruined the most. Still, the old man and the young man stood side by side, united by their amazement and disbelief altogether.

Because never had a life been exchanged with the magic of the other.

The two of them thought they knew the extent of what it meant being in the presence of the greatest sorcerer to have ever walked the earth, but not even the man himself knew what he was doing. It was all the prowess of his existence, the one that readily created a heart in exchange of the one it was given. And even though that was its last standing act; sacrificed for the direst chapter in a drawn-out tale, there was nothing more worth it. 

The king opened his eyes, blinking into a tapestry of pained piety. He saw Mordred and Gaius standing afar, ducklings in hiding weather, transfixed by both admiration and bafflement. He saw them moving silently out of the door, but mostly, Arthur saw Merlin, a darkened spot in a ground of luminescence.

His only luminescence.

“Merlin, how—” the king whispered in tender turmoil, but was silenced by Merlin nearing close, crawling on bended knees back to him like an infant seeking his only radiance— no humility, just utter gentility. He bowed his tear-streaked face until it rested on the back of Arthur’s hands, finding its only residence.

“How could you…” Merlin repeated his earlier words, now only realising his brain was short of anything else. How could Arthur think it’s better that Merlin be given his heart and live without him? How could he for a second presume that peace would follow? How could he believe that Merlin would ever rest this way? “How could you make me live without you?”

“How could you never tell me?” Arthur echoed his own pain, only now able to feel it, to show it, to get utterly consumed to the point of drowning because of it. Was he never worth Merlin’s honesty, always worth living a lie instead? Was everything he felt and lived one-sided? Was it all ever even real, or just another fabrication made of Arthur’s void?

“I—” Merlin began then froze, a record of their entire life playing in front of his eyes. It all came and ended at that question, Merlin innately knew. “I wanted to. You must know I always wanted to, but..”

“What?” Arthur asked, voice filled with anguish, no anger.

“You would have driven Uther’s sword in my heart yourself.” Merlin whispered, speaking to Arthur’s hands rather than his eyes, deflating with every cell in his being.

Arthur wouldn’t have it. With a hand of dried up blood and wretched memories he lifted Merlin’s chin, holding it in place, gazing into its infinite blue void and breaking in its midst.

“Is that what you truly think of me?” he asked, crestfallen as if his hearts, both new and old, knew no liberty. 

“It’s not,” Merlin breathed in genuine faith, tears falling on Arthur’s calloused hand. He lifted his own quavering hand to cover Arthur’s, anchoring them both in place. How could Merlin tell him it was his own burdensome fear that never allowed him to breathe? How could he say that sometimes it felt like his fear of losing Arthur surpassed even his love for him? “I swear it is not, but it was easier on my heart than you hating me.”

Arthur smiled. It was not a bitter smile, rather one that thought it held the secret to the whole universe, lest it was only asked. “You should’ve known I’d never hate your eyes, Merlin, nor ever let them dim– not for any reason, not at any cost.”

And Merlin tasted salvation right then from Arthur’s words. He could try and try to give Arthur everything, and yet the man always knew how to give more. He could fear however much of losing Arthur, yet maybe what eluded him was how he never realised that Arthur feared just the same.

“You gave me your magic.” Arthur finally croaked, having connected the dots, feeling the thrumming veins of magic within him flowing, dancing on a note only the two of them sang. 

“You gave me your heart,” Merlin cried back, as if trying to get into his thick skull how unacceptable of an act that was. “Don’t dare do that to me again, Pendragon. Don’t ever dare.”

“Have you still not noticed? I’m the king, Merlin.” Arthur leaned back on the table, replying in jest, breathing back life, knowing they both needed nothing but mirth at that moment. Confessions, revelations and all, can wait. They can wait.

“King or not, I—”

“And you are my heart,” Arthur interrupted, looking sideways to his only person, softly fluttering the brush against his face. Merlin fell silent. The reverence in his eyes was only matched with the one in Arthur’s. “My living, beating lionheart. So you can ask of me the world, Merlin, the world and its entirety, and I’d still give it to you, for my heart is readily yours.”

It will take them days, years even, to come to terms with one another’s actions, but it was the beginning of an era that can never be forgotten. What Merlin had lived his whole life fearing did come to pass but with an ironic twist of fate, making Mordred kill Arthur indeed as prophesied, yet the one that woke the hearts of their kingdom with magic and might and dismantled prophecies. Bards would later recount the greatness of King Arthur and his flourishing kingship, but the tale of his sustaining heart would remain forgotten, remembered only by the two of them. Generations would hear of Arthur’s steady leadership, of Merlin’s leading counsel and wisdom, but never of their hearts.

These were readily, solely, theirs.