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Merlin has thought about it. How couldn't he have?
It's probably a scenario he's played out almost a million times in his head whenever he has a spare moment to think (which, if he's being honest, really isn't that often).
When he's sharpening or polishing Arthur's sword, he thinks about it. When he's travelling the many corridors of the citadel, delivering medicines on behalf of Gaius, he's thinking about it. When he's gathering herbs from the garden or surrounding forests, he's thinking about it.
How would Arthur find out about his magic?
Merlin already knows that it's a when, not an if. He knows that Arthur will someday find out; whether Merlin is able to do it on his own terms or whether it's forced out of him is the key difference.
He'd like it to be on his own terms. In his mind, it goes like this:
Arthur and him would be sitting down in front of the fire in the prince's chambers. Perhaps they have both drunk wine, or perhaps only Arthur has. Either way, it makes sense for Arthur to be a little drunk when he slurs out something like, "You know, I don't really think magic is as bad as I have been led to believe."
It would stir up a feeling of hope in Merlin's chest, radiating down his shoulders and towards his fingertips where he can feel the pulse of his magic begging to be let out. It would dance through his veins, sing through his skin, and he would wonder if Arthur could tell, if perhaps Arthur already knows. Merlin would glance over and see honesty and curiosity in Arthur's eyes. The words would sting on his tongue as he chews on them, wraps them around and pushes them back down like he always has. He would wonder if it's already too late, if perhaps his period of grace has run out. There's fear there, certainly, but also shame and guilt. Arthur has allowed Merlin to see every single facet of himself, and Merlin has so selfishly kept this from him, kept the biggest part of his life hidden. Maybe now would finally be the time.
In the dark, with only the flickering light of the fire to guide him, Merlin would see the complete trust Arthur has in him and perhaps, in this scenario, he would tear down his wall of deceit.
"Can I tell you something? A secret?" Merlin would ask.
And Arthur would look at him with that intensity that he gets sometimes, in these quiet moments when it's just the two of them. Merlin has always loved that look, because it so carefully balances the royal in front of him with all of Arthur's soul and compassion behind it. It embodies both a Prince reaching out for advice and a man searching for companionship. It's all of the parts of Arthur that make him the person Merlin loves most in the world.
Arthur might reply with something like, "Anything," or he might say, "Of course, Merlin," but more likely he would say, "Look at you, pretending you're interesting," if only to break the tension that both of them are feeling.
Still, Arthur's eyes would grow even more curious, and a touch of apprehension would make its way in there as well. Merlin has always been able to read Arthur like a book.
Merlin's tongue would feel heavy in his mouth, and his stomach would fill with fire, but he would murmur out quietly yet clearly, "I have magic. I've always had it."
He doesn't know whether Arthur would grow angry immediately, or whether he would take a minute to fully comprehend what Merlin has revealed, and everything that goes along with it. There are so many things that Merlin wants to tell him, but he doesn't even know where to start, and he doesn’t even know if he remembers it all.
But the secret would be out there, in the open, and that's the hardest part. Merlin thinks he can handle anything that comes later on.
He doesn't know if Arthur would execute him. He hopes he wouldn't, of course, but only Arthur knows the answer to that. Merlin hopes, beyond anything, that he isn't executed by Uther, or under Uther's orders.
For anyone else it would be a woefully morbid topic to constantly think about, but Merlin doesn't have that luxury. If he's not constantly thinking about how he will die, then he won't be prepared for it. He needs to be prepared for it.
If he's discovered by anyone it's likely to be by a sword through his neck, or chest. If he's given a trial (which is unlikely) it could be either the axe or the pyre. There's always the chance that he'll die because of some magical creature that's intending to kill Arthur (again), which he thinks is the most likely outcome, considering how many times it's almost happened already.
Call him strange, or a romantic, or even just fucked up, but he thinks that if he has to be executed, he would like Arthur to do it himself.
Perhaps that's why, in all of Merlin's imaginary conversations, they take place in Arthur's chambers, late at night, when it's just the two of them. In the dying light of the fire, in the place that Merlin feels the safest, that’s where he wants to die. With Arthur's sword cut right through him to the other side, he thinks he would still stare up at Arthur and feel nothing but love and trust. Merlin trusts Arthur, not to save him, but to let him die on his own terms.
There are other scenarios that Merlin imagines, often against his will, often at night before going to sleep. He thinks about how it might feel to be in the dungeon, knowing this time for sure that there was no way to escape. He wonders about how Arthur might feel. Would he be the one to turn him in, or would he plead Merlin's case before his father? Would Arthur defend him, or would Arthur condemn him?
And it’s a recurring nightmare for all magic users, he supposes. The heat of the pyre. The shine of the axe. The coarseness of the noose.
With how much he thinks about it, it’s almost as if he’s experienced it over and over again, a hundred times already. He wonders if he’ll be resigned, or if he’ll fight. He doesn’t really know. There’s a lot he doesn’t know lately.
He wonders if, instead, Arthur would just send him away.
Somehow, out of everything, this one hurts the most.
He’s been reckless lately. Careless. Gaius is always on his case these days, but it feels like his magic is getting restless, impatient. Like it’s begging to be let out.
It’s only a matter of time, now.
Merlin knows he should do it. He should do it sooner rather than later, to have the upper hand, to be in control of it, to ensure all of it happens just how he wants it to.
Of course, that’s not what happens at all.
It actually goes like this; Arthur has dragged Merlin out hunting again, except this time it’s just the two of them. As much as Merlin hates hunting, he does love spending time with Arthur, so he supposes that he can’t complain too much, and Arthur is softer out here when it’s just the two of them, in a way he isn’t with anyone else. (Merlin tries and fails to not read into that.)
Either way, he counts himself lucky that, if he’s forced to go out hunting, at least it’s only with Arthur.
There’s something in the air, a warning sign like millions he’s felt before, but it’s been one hard week after another, and Merlin thinks that a few hours in the woods surrounding Camelot surely wouldn’t do any harm.
He still hasn’t learned, has he?
“Merlin,” Arthur drawls, smirking at him as the two of them canter through a particularly thick part of the woods. “You’re frowning. Is nature not renewing your soul?”
The impending sense of dread that has been filling him melts away, replaced by something softer and lighter. He smiles, but he knows it does not reach his eyes. “Nature renews me plenty, sire. I believe it’s the company I keep that is draining.”
Arthur scoffs, the way he always does, as if he’s surprised by Merlin’s insolence. “I do believe I asked you if you wanted to come and you said yes.”
“Oh, I assure you, it was under much duress,” Merlin smirks back.
Arthur considers him, all jest removed from his face. “Would you tell me, if there was something wrong?”
Merlin smiles and lies. “Of course.”
They continue on in comfortable silence for a little while longer.
His unease does not go away.
And he knows he’s not fooling Arthur, not one bit, and so he allows Arthur to slow them down to a stop under the pretence that he’s seen some kind of game.
“You found something?” Merlin asks, playing into the role.
“Perhaps,” Arthur responds before grimacing. “And Merlin, do try not to scare the game away today.”
Merlin smiles. “No promises, sire.”
“I mean, really,” Arthur says, giving Merlin a long-suffering glance as the two quietly dismount from their horses. “I used to bring home something after every single hunt before I met you. Now, I’m lucky to even see one.”
“Are we sure this is my fault?” Merlin asks, even though he knows beyond a doubt that it’s his fault. “Are you not getting sloppy in your old age?”
Arthur bristles as he ties the reins to a nearby tree. Merlin copies him, tying his own horse to an adjacent tree. “Old age? I’ll not stand for such blatant insolence.”
“Is it insolence if it’s true, sire?”
Arthur’s eyes flash in outrage, but Merlin can see the mirth hidden deep below. He stalks forward quickly, and Merlin laughs as he ducks out of the way, but before Arthur could land the playful blow across his head, they hear a sound that stops them in their tracks.
“Stop talking,” Arthur says as he crouches down, eyes scanning the horizon as the sound of crunching leaves rings through the forest again.
Merlin narrows his eyes in disbelief. “I wasn’t even talking-!”
“Shut up, Merlin!”
He rolls his eyes but follows the instruction (for once), falling in step behind Arthur.
Typically, on hunts, Merlin would either try to ward off any unsuspecting animals with his magic, or would make enough noise to scare them off. Even after so long by Arthur’s side, he has still yet to feel anything but hatred at the thought of hunting down innocent animals for nothing more than entertainment and pride.
In Ealdor, hunting had a purpose, and every part of the animal would be put to use, from the hide for warmth to the bones for helping the crops to grow. Here, in Camelot, where food is bought rather than grown or found, hunting has little purpose. Merlin can’t stand it.
Still, he knows that for some reason, it’s one of the only things that will put Arthur in a good mood, and so sometimes he plays along with the cruel sport, pushing down his unease like he does for most of the little idiosyncratic differences between this new world and his old one.
He follows Arthur, allowing him some fun. Goddess knows that Merlin could use some fun nowadays, but he’s content to just watch his prince as he stalks through the forest floor, barely making a sound despite the abundance of leaves on the ground. It’s close to the harvest season, which has always been Merlin’s favourite. Camelot doesn't celebrate the harvest festivals like Ealdor does, but perhaps Merlin could drag Arthur to a village closer towards the border that does.
A smile graces his face at the thought of Arthur dancing in the late-afternoon sun as it dips below the horizon, the red and orange of the forest painting him an ethereal portrait. Arthur looks good in red.
He’s dragged out of his thoughts by another sound of crunching leaves. Except, this time, the sound is nothing like an animal.
He can almost pinpoint the moment all of that unease comes rushing back, cursing himself for not recognising the telltale buzz of magic in the air sooner.
“Arthur-!” Is all he manages to squeeze out before a ripple of magic tears through the forest, sending the two of them to the ground in an instant.
It’s powerful magic. Extremely powerful magic.
Merlin lifts his head slightly from where it had been pressed up against the root of a tree, feeling the skin of his cheek sting. He’s sure there’s a cut there, or at least a bruise. His hands had taken the brunt of the fall, the skin there raw and tender, while his arms ached from the sharp impact.
“Merlin!” Arthur calls out. He’s maybe a few feet away from him, too far for Merlin to reach anyway. Their horses spook where they’re tied to the trees, but otherwise look unharmed. “What’s going on? Who are you?”
There’s a tingle that runs along Merlin’s back that lets him know the sorcerer is behind him, but he’s still weak from the blast, unable to turn around to face them. He can feel their power, however, can feel the darkness that surrounds them and how it budges up against Merlin’s own magic. He feels how the sorcerer creeps towards them, and he hears the sound of metal scraping against metal, but barely has any time to react before Arthur is yelling and charging.
“Arthur, no!” But he’s too late.
He turns around, wincing at the pain, just in time to see Arthur swing his sword across the sorcerer’s body, but just as quickly the sorcerer raises their arm and murmurs a familiar spell. Arthur goes flying back and hits a tree with a loud thump, though thankfully Merlin doesn’t hear a crack or anything to suggest too bad of an injury. Despite this, Merlin’s heart still sinks to his chest as he lets out a pained groan, pulling himself up on his knees to face the sorcerer head on.
The sorcerer dresses in dark grey robes, their hood shielding their face from view. Merlin can’t even determine how old they are. They stand with confidence, as if they belong here, with the Prince pushed up against a tree and the autumn leaves falling onto their shoulders, a perfect picture of the triumph of magic over the tyrannical Pendragon rule.
“My quarrel is not with you, young prince,” the sorcerer says, and the pit in Merlin’s stomach opens even wider. The sorcerer’s voice is rough and guttural, and causes the hairs on Merlin’s arms to raise. “Oh, don’t fret. There is retribution coming for you, Pendragon. I can assure you that. There will come a day where you and your father will rue the years you have spent terrorising the people of these lands, but that day is not today."
They turn towards Merlin, and he can see their eyes glow like ichor underneath the darkness of their hood.
He steels himself, prepared for all manner of pain.
However, he's pulled out of his focus by Arthur, who scoffs loudly, despite looking quite ridiculous flailing two feet above the ground against a tree. "You have a quarrel with Merlin?" He asks in that annoying way where he's doubting why anyone would spare his manservant more than a glancing look. If Merlin wasn't currently fearing for his life and the life of his prince, he would have retorted back with a scathing comment, but he's too focused on trying to figure out exactly what this sorcerer wants. Arthur continues, blind to Merlin’s internal struggle. "What could he have possibly done? Did he perhaps spill wine on you? He's known to do that."
The words are belittling, but Merlin can hear the fear that accompanies them. Something in his heart shifts slightly at the idea that Arthur is trying to protect him.
"Oh, he knows what quarrel I have with him," the sorcerer says. In his mind, a voice echoes out. Don't you, Emrys?
Ah. A druid, then. A rouge one. How lovely.
"What are they talking about?" Arthur asks, his voice taking on a dangerous tone. "Merlin?"
"I don't know," Merlin lies, keeping his eyes trained carefully on the druid. His magic hums with a warning beneath his skin, understanding possibly even better than Merlin just how horribly this can go.
The druid snarls at him. "Constantly lying. At least I'm honest about my failings. I failed to save my father and sister. You…" they growl over the word like it hurts. "You hide behind your prince, you hide from your destiny, and you lie."
Merlin expects Arthur to cut in here, but he doesn't. Instead, when Merlin takes his eyes off of the druid for just a second, he sees Arthur considering the both of them with a dark curiosity, a hint of doubt and suspicion glowing in his eyes.
He's going to let this play out.
Merlin swears under his breath and turns back to the druid, levelling them with a glare.
You don't have to do this, Merlin says in his head, knowing the druid can hear him. Please. The druids are peaceful.
He's hoping the druid will be content to keep this away from Arthur, but his hopes are quickly dashed.
"I won't allow you to hide anymore," the druid says. They gesture to Arthur. "But I won't tell him. That would be too easy for you.”
A chill settles down his back.
From beneath the hood of their cloak, Merlin catches a glimpse of a smirk.
To his left, Arthur shuffles, making his presence known. “Merlin…” he trails off, but his voice is harsh and commanding.
Looking around the clearing, there’s no chance for escape. The druid has Arthur pinned up against the tree, his sword a good ten feet away from him, and Merlin can't move an inch without them doing something drastic, like snapping Arthur’s neck.
Nothing short of revealing his magic and -
Oh.
That’s what they want.
They want Merlin to reveal his magic.
His revelation must play out on his face because the druid laughs. “There’s no easy way out of this. Well, there’s one. And I'll make sure that's your only way out.”
Merlin blinks at them. “I won’t.”
The druid’s stance stiffens. “You will,” they say, like a promise.
They still have a hand raised towards Arthur, but they raise their other hand now towards Merlin.
He braces himself.
It’s still not enough to prepare him from the onslaught of pain that erupts out of him.
Every piece of skin on his body feels as though it’s on fire, burning inwards towards his core, like something is eating away at him slowly. If he didn’t know better, he would say that he’s been actually set on fire, but when he wrenches his eyes open he sees nothing as he collapses onto the ground, his face falling into the soft dirt. It burns through him, wrapping around his throat until he can't breathe.
Echoing across the clearing is a horrible choking sound, loud and harsh and persistent, and it takes him a second to realise that sound is coming from him .
He makes desperate grabs at his throat, trying to ignore the way everything aches when he moves.
Over his own screams, he hears another voice join.
“Stop this at once! I command it! Stop this!”
Merlin tries to gasp out something, anything, to get Arthur to stop talking, but nothing comes out.
Then, just as quickly as it had started, the pain stops.
Laying there, panting, Merlin feels the aftershocks run through him, shivering as his fried senses begin to calm down.
The druid hisses above him, “You don’t command me to do anything!”
Arthur lets out a pained grunt, but Merlin can’t bring himself to lift his head from the ground to see what happened.
“Stop,” he whispers, once he regains control of his body.
“You know what it takes to stop me,” the druid drawls as they step closer. “I know you’re more than capable of doing so.”
Merlin coughs, his throat is raw and hoarse. Breathing heavily, he pushes himself up onto his knees so that he’s on all fours. “No.”
“It’s on you then,” the druid says, and then they lift their hand once more.
This time, there isn’t immediate pain or false-flames licking at his skin and deep into his bones. No, this time he’s lifted into the air and smashed against a tree.
Precious air that he’d only just replaced spills out of his lungs through clenched teeth as he groans, the bones in his back aching, but he’s given no reprieve as the spell lifts and he drops to the ground.
And then he’s thrown against the tree again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and -
“Stop! Please! Please! Let him go!”
The abrupt stop leaves him dizzy. For a moment, he’s not quite sure where he is, or what’s going on. His head rings and there’s pain everywhere and he can hardly even see as his eyes threaten to close. He doesn't even know which way is up, his whole world spinning around him.
All he knows is that Arthur is screaming, and he should be doing something to fix that.
He lifts his head, taking monumental effort to do so, and locks eyes first with Arthur, who’s struggling against the spell hard enough to bruise despite there being nothing physically holding him back. Sweat drips down his face and his eyes are pleading with Merlin’s when they meet. Merlin lets out a small breath at seeing his prince relatively unharmed.
Then, he turns his head to look at the druid.
They’re looking back at him with what Merlin can only describe as morbid curiosity. More of their face has been revealed, the hood inching back slowly over their head, showcasing the pale skin that was hidden. Their head is cocked to the side as a sadistic smirk begins to pull itself on their lips.
“I see. You won’t break.”
Merlin exhales, his whole body moving with his lungs. “Never.”
The druid clicks their tongue. “Not even to save his life?”
His blood freezes.
No. No.
He doesn’t even think before he starts to move.
Despite his whole body screaming in opposition, he stands up on shaking legs.
“You will not harm him,” he growls, willing the pain away.
“Merlin?” Arthur calls across the clearing, but Merlin doesn’t dare look at him.
The druid laughs. “There he is. The great Emrys. Lowering himself to save the Pendragon stained with so much blood.” They raise both hands towards Arthur. “I expected so much better from you.”
“Merlin, what’s going on-“
Arthur is interrupted as the druid hisses out an incantation. “Mille syna.”
His screams tear through the forest.
It's an awful sound, a sound he's never wanted to hear from Arthur, who's typically so strong and resilient, who would rather die than show any form of weakness. But now he writhes against invisible bonds, his screams growing hoarser and hoarser as the pain prolongs, as he's kept in that state of eternal suffering. It's almost too much for Merlin to witness, something that should be elicit.
“No,” Merlin chokes out. He makes a run towards Arthur but is pushed away as the druid waves a hand in his direction. “No, please. Not him.”
“You can stop this,” the druid taunts as Arthur’s screams grow louder. “ You have all the power here.”
Arthur collapses to the ground - the druid’s first spell holding him in place having been lifted - and writhes in the same pain that Merlin had just gone through.
The forest is quiet other than Arthur’s choked screams. Merlin can’t stand it.
“Please, stop this. Why are you doing this?”
The druid turns to him, eyes flashing and angry. “Because they’re dead! They’re dead and you’re alive and you do nothing to stop it. You stand there with all the power in the world and the prince of Camelot at your fingertips and still you refuse to help us. You’re alive, but I want you to die like my family, I want you burnt on a pyre or impaled on a sword, and I want you to be betrayed by your precious prince!”
They prepare themself to cast another spell, but they never even get the chance to utter it.
For in the few moments, Merlin upholds the promise he made to himself years ago.
No one is to hurt Arthur.
He feels more than sees the blast he sends towards the druid - the way it ripples out from within him, powerful in a way that has always come easy to Merlin.
The druid lands several feet away, their body seemingly lifeless on the forest floor. They’re not dead… not yet.
It feels monumental, and in a way it truly is. His magic moves unencumbered around the space, free in a way it never has been before, like it’s finally found its purpose after twenty odd years. It’s exhilarating, the way it pools in his lungs and spills out of his mouth, drenching the air with power and causing the forest to fall eerily silent.
Life startles back to motion around him in an instant, circling his soul as he breathes in and out. A piece of him feels whole.
He should feel exhausted, he should still be trembling in pain, but he's not. He doesn't know whether it's simply adrenaline or his magic renewing him in some way, but he doesn't entirely care.
A mix of relief and terror fill him as he hears shuffling from across the clearing.
He turns and meets Arthur’s eyes.
Arthur is standing now, closer than Merlin remembers him being - he doesn’t quite know how long he’s stood here, basking in nature and his own magic. The prince is breathing heavily, and there’s tremors in his muscles as the curse fades from his body. Merlin can tell he's exhausted, and yet he's pushing through it like he always does, as if the torture he had just endured was nothing more than a particularly grueling day at training.
It's a trait that Merlin usually hesitantly admires (hesitant because he loathes to see Arthur in any kind of pain) but right now he wishes Arthur could just collapse in pain like any other man, if only to delay the inevitable.
His eyes are cold. The softness that was present just earlier, when they had started their journey, is gone. In its place is pure, unfiltered hatred.
Perhaps the most important thing, however, is the sword now gripped tightly in Arthur’s hand.
Arthur begins to move, but it's not towards Merlin. He turns on his heel and starts to briskly walk towards the druid.
“Arthur…” Merlin begins, but stops when Arthur raises his sword.
The druid is dead before Merlin can even utter another word.
Around him, his magic and the life of the forest swirl as one, disturbed by the act of violence committed in cold blood. Everything in him bristles at the ease of Arthur's sword, despite the druid's actions to them just moments ago. Because the druid was downed, and Arthur did not act in self-defence, so Merlin cannot defend him.
The druid was still of his own kind, after all. Merlin wonders how many more people will die for him, or because of him, or in spite of him.
Arthur turns back to Merlin, fury clouding his blue eyes, but Merlin can still catch a glimpse of the regret, of the guilt. He can always see the glimpse of human behind the prince, no matter how hard Arthur tries to bury it.
He takes a step forward with his sword slightly raised, and Merlin breathes out in time with the blood dripping onto the forest floor.
The air is charged between them, and Merlin can’t help but be reminded of that rainy night so long ago, when he struck down Nimueh where she stood. It feels the same now, somehow, like lightning is crackling along the edges of his mind and fingers.
Fear, like he’s never felt before, surges through him. No amount of thinking, and no amount of nightmares, could’ve ever prepared him for the pure terror he feels right now, with his secret truly, completely in the open. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
Arthur takes another step forward and Merlin straightens up, eyes on the sword as his breathing quickens.
“Tell me…” Arthur’s voice is dangerous as it echoes through the clearing. “… that I was mistaken. That I was too overwhelmed by pain to recognise what was happening.”
And, almost impossibly, Merlin breathes out in relief. Because Arthur has given him an out.
Merlin can lie, like he always does, and claim that the druid's power had overcome them, that all Merlin had done was stand there and watch the display of sorcery unfold. He can claim that he himself was too overwhelmed to recognise what was happening, that he came to with the druid already dead on the ground.
They could return to Camelot, and sure, things would be different, but Arthur is giving him a chance to continue the facade. They can continue on as if nothing happened and never speak of this again.
But…
Pushing past the terror, past the fear, Merlin remembers that feeling of weightlessness, of belonging that he felt when he used his magic in front of Arthur. Allowing it to spill from his fingers in the prince's presence felt so right.
And, more than that, despite how many times he has been deceitful, he doesn't think he can continue like nothing happened.
Perhaps the druid was right. And, perhaps, Merlin should fulfil their dying wish.
He swallows harshly, painfully, and then takes a deep breath. “I cannot, that would be a lie.”
Arthur’s eyes harden even more, impossibly. “Evidently, that hasn’t stopped you before,” he spits out, and Merlin knows he deserves the ire.
Still, the accusation hurts, mainly because it’s true.
His eyes close as a sob bubbles up to the surface, his body shaking from the force. Pain spreads through his veins, different to the physical pain. It begins in his chest and infests every part of him.
It's so similar to their usual banter, and yet it’s all wrong, all so wrong, because it’s never felt so real before, and it’s never felt so awfully cold and distant before.
It’s never felt so dangerous before.
Because this time… this time Merlin really has crossed the line.
Nothing could save him now.
Arthur takes another step forward and Merlin fights the urge to flinch. It won’t do any good. He’s a dead man. He knows it.
“Liar,” Arthur snarls, looking lost in thought as he stalks Merlin like some kind of prey, like the game they were hunting just moments before. “You’ve lied this whole time. I trusted you!”
And Merlin’s heart breaks. “I’m sorry, about the lying,” he says, holding his ground as Arthur steps even closer, despite his knees feeling so close to giving way. “I never meant to hurt you," he begs Arthur to understand, begs to be believed.
Arthur shakes his head, and Merlin can’t even be sure that the prince is really seeing him right now. There's a haze of rage over his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”
“Please, Arthur,” and it’s only as Arthur steps into Merlin’s personal space that he takes a step back. Merlin can see his reflection in the metal of the sword, metal he had polished just that morning, and his breathing quickens. “Please, I have not betrayed you.”
“But you have,” Arthur growls, and whether he realises it or not, he holds his sword up slightly.
And Merlin…
Merlin drops to his knees, in line with Arthur's sword, and leans forward.
“Then, kill me,” and it’s an order that Merlin speaks.
The forest is still.
Merlin's chest heaves against the sword, the druid's blood dripping down the front of his tunic, and it feels so poetic and so full of irony that Merlin almost laughs. Arthur stares down at him, slightly taken aback, but his hand never wavers. Merlin closes his eyes in acceptance.
Because, ultimately, this is what he wants. If he can't tell Arthur on his own terms, and if Arthur is only going to respond with hate and anger, than he would rather be run through with his sword a thousand times before he lets Arthur drag him to his father.
"I have magic." The words fall from his lips like honey, and something sings in him because of the confession, despite the tension still gripping his body. It feels freeing, even though the secret is already out, to still be able to say the words. "I was born with it, Arthur. Did you even know that was possible?"
He opens his eyes and sees the conflict on Arthur's face. "You want to die?" He asks, brokenly.
Merlin shakes his head. "Of course, not."
"And yet, you ask me to kill you?" Arthur's eyes grow dangerously wet, and Merlin's heart lodges in his throat. Arthur speaks the words like poison, like Merlin has asked an impossible quest of him.
Merlin smiles and leans into the blade, not even wincing as it slices lightly through his skin. "I would have no other man end my life. My life - my magic - has always been yours. Let my death be also."
Arthur chokes, and unknowingly pushes the blade in further. Merlin's blood mixes with the druid's, and it feels right in a sick way, because the druid had a hand in his death. They'll get what they wanted, but they won't be around to revel in it.
"How dare you ask that of me?" Arthur bites through clenched teeth. "How dare you - after all of this, after everything we've been through. You betray me and you ask this of me, as if it's easy for you?"
"I have not betrayed you," Merlin answers, and it's more truthful than he's ever been. "I have only ever been loyal to you, to my own detriment as well as to the detriment of my people."
Something changes in Arthur's expression. "Why should I believe a sorcerer?"
"Because I am not just a sorcerer, I am your friend," Merlin yells, rather feeling as though they've strayed too far from the point of it all. "Would you just get it over with? Please?" He presses even further into the blade, wincing as it cuts through deeper layers of skin.
As if only just realising that his blade has actually been doing its job, Arthur draws his sword away and tosses it on the ground as if it burns him. Merlin sinks down, resting on his heels but not daring to take his eyes off of the other man.
Arthur heaves a breath in as if it pains him. "I will not kill you. I will take you back to Camelot to have you tried for treason."
"You wouldn't dare!" Merlin shouts, and it feels like everything is boiling over. The wind picks up around him, swirling the leaves into a funnel. He stands up as well, revelling as Arthur takes a step back. "You are many things, Arthur. A coward is not one of them."
He knows the words cut deep, for he intended them to.
Arthur takes the bait. His face screws up tightly and his hands clenches into a fist as though his sword is still there. When he realises that it's not, he snarls, and says, "You dare insinuate I am afraid…?!"
"Then do it!" Merlin reaches his hand out and summons the sword to his grip, not even speaking the incantation. He sees the all-encompassing terror in Arthur's face as he hands the sword to him, hilt first, and practically shoves it into his hand. "You just saw me do magic. A crime punishable by death. So, prove to me, Arthur Pendragon, that you are not a coward! Kill me! Do not hide behind your father! Make up your own damn mind!"
Arthur stares at the blade as if its foreign to him, as if he couldn't even imagine it ever hurting Merlin, even though he had just a moment ago used the same blade to end another person's life for the same crime. Merlin holds his gaze as he lifts it, jutting his chin out, daring Arthur to kill him.
"Come on, kill me. Do it!" Something akin to desperation coils tightly in his chest. Why couldn't Arthur just get it over with? "Please, make it quick. Please, I cannot bear the thought of dying by your father's hand, it has to be you, it's always only ever been you!"
He exhales heavily, the weight of his words settling painfully on his tongue. There's nothing he can do now, they've been spoken, and he doesn't want to take them back either. Honestly, if he was ever going to say them, he should say them before he dies.
"It's you, Arthur," he whispers as Arthur takes a step forward, his sword trembling in his hand for perhaps the first time in his life. "Everything I am, it's for you. I-" He chokes suddenly, and a tear falls down his cheek. "I love you."
Arthur places the tip of his sword against Merlin’s chest, and Merlin thinks that this must be what love feels like.
He'll die, but he's okay with that, because if he can't have Arthur's trust then he'll take his judgement any day. Because he believes in Arthur, and he knows Arthur, and he can't help but trust his decision.
He'll die, but he'll die in his love's arms, his blood staining his sword and his hands, and so in a way he'll always be with Arthur, even in death.
Any fear he had has left him, and only that sweet acceptance remains, tainted as it may be.
It’s almost indignant now, the way Merlin presses back into the sword. The two of them are at eye-level, and Merlin sees more fear in Arthur’s eyes than he’s ever seen in them before.
He’s about to ask again when he’s cut off by Arthur’s soft-spoken confession. “It’s only ever been you,” he says, repeating Merlin’s words from before.
The sword drops to the ground for the second time that day, and Merlin doesn’t have any energy left in him to try to convince Arthur to pick it up again.
Instead, he slumps over, not even realising just how much tension he was holding in his body. Parts of him still ache from the torture he had endured beforehand, but the last few minutes have felt more torturous than anything he’s ever experienced. His back hits the tree and he slides down it.
Arthur looks at him. It’s treason. Arthur has just committed treason for him.
“Oh Goddess,” Arthur breathes. “Oh, what have I done?” And Merlin doesn’t quite believe he’s just talking about today. Deep within his eyes, Merlin sees years upon years of guilt stacking up quickly like a castle wall.
Arthur sits down as well, legs buckling underneath the enormity of his decision. The two of them stay there, breathing heavily as the sky turns darker and the forest grows still, with nothing more to say.
There will indeed be more to say, later on. Merlin knows that this is not the end, despite it feeling that way, despite the fact that Merlin couldn’t imagine his life past this moment. He sees a myriad of emotions cross Arthur’s face, and curiosity is one of them, alongside a need for understanding. He knows they have a long few days ahead of them, full of even more secrets being revealed, full of even more regret and anger and betrayal.
But the worst of it is over. Merlin can breathe. For the first time in his life, Merlin can breathe.
Nothing else matters except for Arthur’s quiet acceptance. His treason. Their treason.
The ride back to the citadel is comfortable. When Uther greets them with a confused smile at their lack of game, Arthur’s silence burns itself into Merlin’s heart.
Yes, later they’ll talk about it, but for now Merlin undresses Arthur like he’s always done after a hunt. He releases Arthur from his chainmail carefully, methodically, and indulges in touches that he would normally have to fight himself to hold back from. Arthur’s eyes flutter closed, and Merlin feels a surge of fire settle low in his stomach at the thought that after everything - after everything that Arthur still doesn’t know about - he’s still the only one who sees the prince like this. Arthur sighs into his touch and Merlin’s fingers tremble and before they know it they’re both on the bed.
There’s so much left unsaid, and there’s still so many secrets between them, but Merlin feels alive in a way he never has before, with lightning buzzing beneath his skin, high on the knowledge that Arthur will still love him tomorrow. He had offered his life, his soul to Arthur, and Arthur in return offered something much better - his trust.
In the morning, Arthur will be angry again. Merlin will bear the brunt of the rage, withstanding each harsh remark until his body aches. He knows it’s not easy for Arthur to throw away twenty odd years of hatred and fear, but Merlin has all the time in the world, and he’ll love him through every tirade if it means seeing acceptance on the other side.
There’s trust there that has been broken, but new walls are being built quicker than the old ones were torn down, so Merlin thinks they’ll be okay
Yes, they save the talking for tomorrow. Everything else can wait until then.