Chapter Text
I.
What now, destiny? What now?
Merlin was finishing up in Arthur’s chambers for the night. It was a quiet evening—there was no talking, just the soft patter of Merlin’s feet walking from task to task, and the soft shh, shh of his cloth against the wood of Arthur’s table. It was one of the nights when Merlin was invisible to Arthur, and that was comfortable.
A clear evening, but Merlin felt like he was watching storm clouds roll in from way afar. After years of settling, years of watching the seeds of Arthur’s kingship begin to blossom, Mordred had reappeared.
Now, Mordred had been knighted, and every day he wove his way into the fabric of Camelot.
Now, Merlin knew what Morgana sought—Arthur’s bane—and what was he supposed to do when it wasn’t Mordred, wasn’t Morgana, wasn’t Sefa or some other traitor, but Arthur himself?
What now, destiny? he’d been wondering bitterly.
There was a pile of parchment sheets on Arthur’s desk that he was supposed to be getting through, sitting there with his quill lying beside, both untouched.
Instead, Arthur, in casual dress, had turned his chair toward the window, leaning his chin in his hand, watching the last rays of sun go down on Camelot. The sky was a royal blue and steadily getting darker, swallowing the clear day with a crisp wind that had stung Merlin’s cheeks pink, earlier.
Merlin glanced at him through the stone arches.
There was so much Arthur didn’t know, so many dangers. It was almost laughable how unprepared he was, despite his years of diplomacy, despite being brought up only to rule. Even if Merlin told him, it would be, you and your funny feelings Merlin, and, what is this really about? and always nothing would come of it, and always Merlin would be alone.
Perhaps that was why he was thinking about it again.
He was thinking, again, about: Arthur, I’m a sorcerer. For some reason, the thought always seemed to come to him—drifting in like a breeze through an open chamber window—while he was wiping the table in Arthur’s rooms, at the end of the day. After Ismere, the imagining had become more persistent, less fantasy, more realistic.
Real enough to get his heart thudding in his chest.
Perhaps it was just sense-memory by this point, the rough cloth pressed between his fingers, a mindless motion of wiping the cloth in circles. The breeze coming in, cool and refreshing like first breath after suffocation. Perhaps it was the way he was so comfortably invisible to Arthur right now: this was the last task before, will there be anything else, and then his duck out the door.
Merlin imagined the words coming out of his mouth:
Arthur, I’m a sorcerer, before fleeing from the room without having to stop and observe the consequences, remaining invisible all the while.
And Merlin was thinking—so hard—about the words he’d imagined time and time again—
Arthur, I’m a sorcerer
—that when he finished wiping the table, he stood upright and crossed through the arches, and by some sort of slip or split-second stride off the coming cliff,
“Arthur, I’m a sorcerer.”
He was surprised to hear it in his own voice.
The high ceilings of Arthur’s chambers tossed it around the room, echoing, and it somehow didn’t sound at all the way Merlin had heard it in his head.
Arthur looked over his shoulder, like Merlin had only just become visible to him again, blinking at the statement, the sudden change of script.
“What?” he said.
And Merlin realized, suddenly, this wasn’t some fantasy, some hypothetical, this wasn’t, Arthur I’m a sorcerer in the confines of his head, but Arthur I’m a sorcerer out loud, in Arthur’s chambers, six paces from Arthur’s desk, and Arthur—the King of Camelot—looking at him like that.
He had said that aloud, and all the muscles in his body tensed.
“I’m…”
Arthur swivelled his chair around, for proper facing. In that moment Merlin had a choice: he could play it off as a joke, or he could decide that, yes, this was the moment.
Was this the moment?
Maybe this wasn’t wise, but the idea of turning back made his stomach twist nauseously. His heart thudded, rattling his ribcage, and then Merlin drew himself up and repeated, more deliberately,
“I’m a sorcerer. I thought you should know.”
Silence, for another moment.
Arthur’s eyes searching his face, Merlin searching his. Seeing him, seeing each other, shoved viciously back into visibility. Then Arthur raised an amused eyebrow and Merlin thought deliriously, he already knows, he’s known all along—
“Very funny, Merlin,” Arthur scoffed.
His heart thudding faster, racing like a drum roll against his breast bone—
“I’m not joking.”
That amused eyebrow lowered. “Stop talking nonsense.”
And maybe this was a new script for Arthur, but Merlin had imagined it so many times, and it wasn’t a new script for him. The rest of the words came to him in a rush, the words he’d imagined saying to Arthur, imagined changing the fabric of Camelot with—
“I was born with magic,” Merlin said, “and—” his voice almost caught, but he steadied himself before it did, “—and I’ve been keeping it a secret. All this time. Because of the law. This isn’t a joke, Arthur.”
That was so visible he felt bare, but Arthur just scoffed again.
“Who put you up to this?” he asked. “What is this? A bet?”
He stood, went around the desk, and made to approach Merlin—evoking the image of a father approaching his young, foolish son—but Merlin raised his hand, and Arthur halted. Those six paces went down to four.
“Merlin.”
Merlin didn’t want them to be within striking distance of each other, not yet.
“I’ll prove it to you,” he said. Arthur crossed his arms, and waited.
Alright… Merlin cast around for something small he could do, some proof of his magic, yet proof that he wasn’t a threat, and certainly no threat to Arthur. And then he saw it—the candles set on the wall, flickering with the movement in the room, glowing brighter as the evening drew close.
He raised his other hand toward the candle, and for one sickening moment he failed to grasp his magic, like cupping water in a trembling hand.
And then, he forced himself steady, and said the incantation.
“Dwimor dracan.”
Warmth passed through his eyes, and the candle flame danced, forming the illusion of a dragon’s head, its mouth open in a roar. It was brief, and the flame quickly settled, but it had happened, as clear as if the dragon had been in front of them.
Merlin looked at Arthur, to be sure he’d seen it.
Arthur stared at the space where the dragon’s head had been. Perhaps it was only seconds, but those seconds moved like tree sap. Merlin saw every movement in Arthur’s face the same way he saw every tension of muscle in a tourney match—the widening of his eyes, the knitting together of his eyebrows, the shocked downturn of his mouth. And then, excruciatingly slowly, Arthur turned his gaze back to Merlin. For the first time in a long time, Merlin couldn’t tell what Arthur was thinking. It was eyes meeting eyes, both frozen, both, for once, seeing.
At last, Arthur opened his mouth to speak—
“Who are you?”
His eyes moved from Merlin’s, darting around the room quickly. Locating his sword, Merlin realized, which was lying across the top of Arthur’s desk.
Arthur spotted it at the same time Merlin did, and lunged back to his desk for it. In a second, Merlin decided against moving it out of his reach. The hilt fit into Arthur’s expert hand.
“Just me,” Merlin said, getting panicked.
“Who are you?” Arthur repeated more forcefully, sword at the ready, but not making a move toward him, yet. Merlin backed up anyway.
“Just who I’ve always been—”
“Answer me, sorcerer.”
“Please, Arthur—”
Arthur strode forwards, backing Merlin towards the arches he’d just marched through, and he registered the question. Arthur didn’t even believe he was Merlin?
“It’s me.” His mouth scrambled for something to say, for some proof—he’d never prepared proof... “I’m your servant, Merlin. I, I—I’m your servant, I led you to the stone you pulled Excalibur out of, I—I waited all night for you the night you grieved your father.”
He knew immediately he shouldn’t have brought that up, when Arthur’s face shifted from angry to stricken. Time slowed down again, and Merlin watched every muscle move, watched the slow deepening of his frown lines. And then, just as slowly, Arthur raised his sword, coiling to lunge at him, and Merlin instinctively raised his own hand in defence. Arthur paused, and Merlin saw the flash of fear on his face—felt it like a blow to his chest. Then, time went back to normal, as Arthur lowered his sword.
“It’s me,” Merlin was saying, stumbling towards Arthur’s table. “It’s—it’s just—”
“What is your business here?” Arthur’s voice low, a growl.
Merlin tried to calculate the right answer to that, but couldn’t find it in time. His heel hit the leg of a dining chair, and he put it in the ten paces between them.
“Just—just Camelot, just...”
Arthur’s expression darkened.
“The truth.”
“That is the truth!”
“You expect me to believe that?” Arthur said, stalking towards him.
“I—Arthur—”
“You have—have worked your way into the heart of Camelot—”
“I only want to serve you—”
“—gained my trust, all while having magic—”
“—all I’ve ever said, I never lied to you—”
“You being here is a lie!”
A pit of ice dropped into Merlin’s stomach.
“No—no, that’s not true,” he said.
“Isn’t it?”
There was still space between them, but Merlin could see it closing, and he backed up. The hearth wall pressed against his back. Arthur scraped the chair out of his path, and took another step with his sword.
“Answer me this,” Merlin rushed out, panicked, “have I ever tried to harm you? In all the years you’ve known me.”
“You have magic,” Arthur hissed. Merlin could see his mind working, struggling desperately, his eyes flickering from place to place. “You—you—” and something clicked in Arthur’s head:
“You’ve been in league with Morgana!”
“No,” Merlin said. “That’s—no.”
“She’s had you planted for years. Like Agravaine, and Sefa!”
“If I were in league with Morgana, why would I be telling you any of this!?” Merlin shot back. “Come on, Arthur, you can’t think I’m that stupid.”
Arthur looked as though Merlin had thrown a gauntlet at his feet.
“I’m not stupid either!” he exclaimed. “You expect me to believe you’re here innocently, after years of hiding? I should arrest you!”
“Well, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.” Why did he say that? Why couldn’t he help it? He prepared to duck aside, or defend himself, but Arthur didn’t seem to be making a move. Three paces away, still.
“Is this funny to you?” Arthur demanded. For some reason, he pointed with his finger instead of his sword. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now!”
Merlin’s features quickly arranged into something more serious, and a few responses flickered through his head: because you couldn’t if you tried, because I’m your friend, because I haven’t done anything wrong and magic shouldn’t be a crime. And he thought, if Arthur really wanted to, why wasn’t he calling the guards?
“I have the right to a fair trial,” he managed to say.
Arthur’s face slackened with a look that was almost incredulity.
“I just witnessed you perform magic with my own eyes!”
“Because I admitted it willingly. Tell me that’s grounds for execution. Here, and now, without a hearing.”
If Arthur could say that he did, then Merlin didn’t know him at all. He had this over his father: Arthur could be reasoned with… Merlin hoped he could be reasoned with. Reasoned out of, tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now.
And something changed, because Arthur was strangely still. His weight shifted, nearly imperceptibly…
“Guards!” he yelled.
Merlin flinched, and Arthur raised his sword to him, warning him against running away.
Two guards ran into the room, and then stopped by the open door, confused at the scene before them, hands on the hilts of their swords but nothing drawn. It was as though they, too, were only seeing Merlin for the first time. Merlin eyed the guards, and then looked at Arthur, somehow—still—shocked.
The thought floated through his head: he’s going to sentence me to death.
“Arrest him,” Arthur said, stretching his sword toward Merlin, “on the charge of sorcery.”
For a split second, both of the guards looked like they were going to protest. They blinked at Arthur like he’d asked them to do something insane. But that second passed, and then they were stalking toward Merlin.
Should I struggle?
Merlin had to make the choice, and he decided not to, as if somehow that placid going would convince Arthur he had it wrong. He let them grab him, each taking an arm, clasping their hands around him tight enough to bruise.
“Whatever you think, I’m still loyal to you, Arthur,” he said, as the guards began to walk him past the chair askew, meeting no resistance. “I’m still your friend.”
“I will never be friends with a sorcerer,” Arthur spat.
Something in Merlin’s chest lurched, and wouldn’t right itself. He still felt off-balance when the guards dragged him out of Arthur’s chambers, and the big wooden door echoed as it slammed closed behind him. His heart was hammering. What now? The question was presenting itself to him over and over, louder and louder, as they dragged him farther from Arthur.
What now, destiny? What now?
II.
It was cold in the dungeon. The stone absorbed the cold from outside and pressed it into his back and buttocks where he sat. It wasn’t colder than winters in Ealdor, but it was a good deal more uncomfortable, and Merlin had to keep shifting around so that parts of him didn’t start to fall asleep.
Now, he was curled up on the rusty metal cot.
He hadn’t been able to sleep these last two nights, and spent his days alone, except for Gaius, who had seen him today, and yesterday. He wondered if Arthur was keeping people from visiting him, or if no one wanted to.
“Why aren’t I dead yet?” Merlin had asked Gaius. Trials didn’t usually take this long to arrange. Merlin happened to know there wasn’t a long lineup for the gallows.
“The King is conducting an investigation,” Gaius said. It was the sort of answer that he thought Arthur might have told him to say. Merlin had seen Arthur’s investigations, though; he knew what it would be like—Arthur inquiring around about any suspicious activity Merlin may have been involved in.
Merlin put his face in his hands. Friends finding out he’d been lying to them too, all at once. How had he really thought this would go?
And then Arthur would go to the council chambers, and listen (so carefully, Arthur was so good at listening) to his advisors. Advisors who had served under Uther—Lord Constan, whom Merlin had seen argue heatedly against the treaty with the Druids, who had argued that any crimes against the Druids were deserved for the crime of practising magic. Or Sir Proctus, who had bragged about the number of raids he’d led that ended in mass execution.
Under the influence of these men, Arthur would come to despise him. It was probably happening at this very moment, and there was nothing Merlin could do about it. Was this the price of vanity? Of the recognition Merlin coveted?
He couldn’t make himself stop thinking, asking the same questions
(what now destiny what now destiny what now destiny what now destiny)
over and over.
But in the end, what did it matter what destiny had to answer? Because even if Merlin managed to save himself from the pyre,
(or the rope or the axe)
there was no way Arthur would ever trust him again. He’d broken his trust. Torn up the script. Worse—he’d burned it.
He never should have done it, should’ve stayed invisible.
Merlin had never thought he would miss doing chores of all things, but he did miss it; at this time a week ago, he’d dropped a basket of laundry all over the floor, only to be treated with Arthur’s undignified snickering. What he wouldn’t give for Arthur to call him a clumsy oaf at this moment.
It was Arthur he was thinking about when he heard footsteps begin to pace toward his end of the cell block. A change of guards, probably, or maybe Gaius was coming to see him one last time before he was brought to his trial. He didn’t move from his spot. He was exhausted now, and didn’t want to move more than he had to.
“Merlin.”
Merlin startled, drawing his head out of his arms. It wasn’t Gaius’s robed figure on the other side of the bars. It was Arthur, who looked almost as usual, although Merlin noted the sword at his hip. He eyed it, and wondered wildly if Arthur was here to kill him before he even had a chance to be tried. He sat up.
“Arthur.”
“No need to get up.”
“What are you doing here?”
Arthur watched him for a moment—just watched him. Merlin wished he knew what Arthur was thinking, why he looked so conflicted, so wary. Finally,
“I want to ask you some questions.”
Merlin furrowed his brow.
“…Questions?”
Arthur nearly cut him off.
“I have no doubt that you are a sorcerer,” he said, “so there will be no trial. Instead, there will be a sentencing. Tomorrow morning.”
There was a buzzing sort of numb starting in Merlin’s fingertips and beginning to travel up his wrists. No trial?
“However,” Arthur continued, “I have come to question you. About whatever plot that has led you to Camelot.”
Was there any point arguing at all? He watched Arthur; perhaps he was imagining that Arthur was a touch unsure. He was using the voice he used to give orders—authoritative—but still, there was… something, some hesitation.
And what was this? An interrogation, maybe. A one-on-one trial, too, before his sentencing? That wasn’t like Arthur, it wasn’t how things were done. Was he trying to give Merlin a chance to speak freely, away from the rest of the court? Away from the law? Merlin uncurled, sitting up a little straighter. Maybe he was working himself into a fool’s hope, but maybe—just maybe—Arthur was reconsidering.
“There’s no plot,” Merlin said, “I told you that.”
“Then enlighten me,” Arthur said, with some force, “why a sorcerer comes to Camelot, if not to try and kill me.”
Merlin bit back a retort—that he’d saved Arthur’s life more times than he could imagine.
“Not all magic is evil,” he said.
Arthur’s expression darkened.
“So I just imagined what happened to my mother, and my father, and my sister.”
Merlin took that in. He didn’t know if he was even supposed to respond to that, or if Arthur just wanted to be angry. Despite what Arthur would say, Merlin had learned that sometimes he shouldn’t talk back. Sometimes, when the situation was too delicate. He watched him through the bars. The torchlight reflected off the gold of Arthur’s hair like flame.
“Nothing to say?” Arthur demanded.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, sire.”
“I want you to explain yourself!” Merlin flinched. “I trusted you, for years! You claim there’s no plot, so what have you been doing?”
Merlin’s heart was racing again. There were bars, and the space of a cell between them, but he had a distinct fear that Arthur wanted to run him through.
“I came to Camelot because—” he laughed, a touch hysterically, “—my mother thought it would be safer for me here. The people in my village were starting to suspect…”
Arthur stared at him for a long moment; his mouth flattened, his eyes narrowed. It was long enough that Merlin started replaying what he’d said in his head, to make sure something else hadn’t come out.
“Why didn’t you just stop using magic?” Arthur asked, finally.
Merlin crossed his arms.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Merlin—” Arthur stopped, and looked away, gathering himself. Then he looked back at him. “I don’t want to execute you. So I need you to explain.”
His expression cracked, just barely. Merlin wouldn’t have noticed at all if he didn’t know him so well, and if he’d had anything new other than Arthur to examine in this cell. And Merlin thought,
You don’t?
He shifted to the edge of the cot, swinging his legs off the side. Was this a trick? Would explaining damn him more? But what did he have to lose?
“I can’t stop doing magic,” Merlin said, after a long moment, “because it’s a part of me.” Then, remembering something Lancelot said once, “Like a good swordsman. The sword becomes an extension of who you are.”
“You can’t stop?” Arthur said. His frantic anger settled for a moment into a baffled frown. “You use magic often?”
“For you,” Merlin said. “For Camelot.” Sometimes to cheat at dice.
“For me?”
“I’ve saved your life more times than you know,” Merlin said. If there was ever a time to be direct with him, it was now.
“And I’m supposed to just believe you?” Arthur shot at him. “You’re talking nonsense again.”
“You’ve never doubted me before.”
“You’ve given me a pretty big reason to doubt!”
Merlin looked away, picking at the bits of straw on his cot, unable to help feeling wounded. Far down the dungeon’s corridors, he could hear the indistinct voices of guards on duty, echoing in the underground chill. He tried to think this over, tried to figure out what his next move would be. He got the sense that Arthur would appreciate deference.
Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur tried again to straighten the tension out of his shoulders. He put his hands on his hips. Merlin had seen him interrogate criminals this way. He supposed that was what Arthur was doing now. Straw lodged under Merlin’s nails.
“Gaius says you’re very powerful,” Arthur said.
Merlin looked up at him. “He did?”
“Yes.” He was watching him, examining his reaction.
“He wouldn’t be the first,” Merlin admitted, quietly. If Gaius was already espousing his power, there was no use downplaying it. Then, trying to turn that around, “But—but, look, if I wanted to kill you, wouldn’t I have done it by now?”
He knew Arthur had been hurt, he knew he was—although he wouldn’t admit it—scared of magic. But this was ridiculous. Merlin’s show of magic had been so small.
“Why haven’t you tried?” Arthur asked.
“Tried to kill you?” Merlin repeated, incredulous.
Arthur nodded, stone faced.
Merlin gaped at him. He hadn’t thought there was so much Arthur could say that could hurt him. He’d been discovering new wounds since his secret came out.
“You’re my friend,” Merlin said. Wasn’t that obvious? “I wouldn’t... I wouldn’t.”
“I want to believe that you don’t mean me any harm,” Arthur said, quieter, “but I have known too many traitors who I trusted just as much as you, Merlin. Prove to me that you aren’t some spy, or—or saboteur, or—something.”
Morgana, Merlin thought. Agravaine.
“Why would I reveal myself?” Merlin said, quietly, “If I was a saboteur?”
“I don’t know!” Arthur exclaimed. “I don’t understand why you’ve done any of this!”
Merlin flinched. Arthur was so angry, and for a moment Merlin thought he was going to turn and go, and that would be the end of this.
But he stayed. Merlin let out a breath.
“I wanted you to know,” Merlin said. His voice didn’t shake, but it was a near thing. “There was no good way to tell you, but I didn’t want it to be a secret anymore.”
“What do you expect me to do?” Arthur demanded. “The law is the law.”
I didn’t expect it to go this far, Merlin thought. But that was stupid, and Arthur was right. He watched the familiar way Arthur looked at him—Arthur, with his chin at an angle, like someone long ago had told him that princes held their heads high, and doing so was deliberate instead of instinctive. There was more anger than Merlin was used to, but he recognized the look. Arthur was inviting counsel.
“Be merciful,” he said. A plea for himself. A piece of advice. It was any other day, Merlin pretended, and Arthur had an innocent sorcerer in his dungeons.
“The law says that sorcery is a crime punishable by death,” Arthur said. Merlin had rarely seen him look so much like Uther’s heir. “Countless sorcerers have come here with plots to kill me or my father. How do I know that being merciful to you wouldn’t be a mistake?”
What could he say that he hadn’t already said? Arthur was angry, still, but Merlin thought… maybe he was also asking for something. Merlin wished his heart would stop pounding in his ears long enough for him to figure out what it was.
“You can trust me,” he said, feeling like he was asking for something too. He winced right after he said it, expecting Arthur would shout at him for that. It was no proof, just another claim, just another way to beg Arthur for the mercy he wouldn’t give…
“I can’t make an exception for you,” Arthur said. His voice was different then—defeated. “Don’t you understand?”
He hadn’t expected Arthur to accept that, not after how sharply he’d spoken when Merlin was arrested.
“I’m sorry.”
Arthur made a movement, almost like he wanted to hit something, but was holding himself back.
“That’s all? You’re sorry?”
“Of course I’m sorry! I don’t know why I said it!” Merlin said, finding a well of anger he didn’t realize was there. Suddenly, he was standing. He swung his arms around at the cell, cramped and miserable. “Obviously, I wish I could take it back now.”
“Well, I wish that as well,” Arthur said, his voice like a stalemate.
Arthur hates me, Merlin thought, hurting. And what did he expect, after all sorcery and magic had done to him? He swallowed, thickly, and looked away again.
For a moment it was just them two, and the bars between them—Arthur there, with the torchlight illuminating him, Merlin cast in shadow. Neither of them able to meet eyes.
“Is there someone who can corroborate your story?” Arthur asked.
Merlin thought about the answers he could give: Gaius, and Mordred. But he wouldn’t reveal Mordred. He couldn’t trust Mordred.
“Just Gaius,” he said. And then thought, with a familiar ache of grief, Lancelot.
“Just Gaius,” Arthur muttered.
Merlin nodded. He could tell Arthur didn’t like that. Arthur sighed.
“Alright,” he said. “Thank you for cooperating.”
Something inside Merlin lurched. He went to the bars as Arthur turned to leave.
“Arthur—” He didn’t have a second step in his head.
Arthur stopped, and turned back to look at him. They were close now, and Arthur let that be. Close enough that Merlin could’ve reached out for his wrist.
Was he supposed to beg for his life? Was he supposed to be wise, and entreat Arthur to reconsider his sentencing for the future of Camelot? Should he speak as a friend, or a servant, or a criminal?
“I’m still me,” he said.
“That’s clearly not true,” Arthur said. His voice was steady, but Merlin thought, from how well he knew it, that he may have detected a tremor. Merlin’s gaze fell.
He was looking down with Arthur’s shadow cast over him, looking down to hide his hurt, and his anger, looking down waiting for Arthur to say something else, or leave; and, after another long moment, Arthur did.