Archive of Our Own ^beta

Merlin wills the tremble in his hands to stop as he fumbles with the buttons on Arthur's shirt, praying that Arthur won't ask what's wrong because if one more person asks him that he might just explode. Or possibly cry.

Firm hands close around his wrists, stilling them, and he looks up. Arthur's peering into his face as if he can discern the meaning of the universe there, eyebrows pinched in concern.

"Merlin. You are not to watch the execution today."

"What? But– won't your father expect–"

"I can deal with my father. You, on the other hand, are not watching someone like you burn." Merlin shudders. "Occupy yourself with something, I don't particularly care what, just don't watch. Alright?"

Merlin nods shakily. "Yes, sire."

"I'll be back as soon as I can."

Merlin polishes Arthur's armour, rubbing the cloth across it, pushing it into all the folds and etchings, trying to scrub hard enough to force the tremor out of his hand. He determinedly doesn't think of what's happening outside. Doesn't think about the young woman being tied to the stake below, burned for stopping a candle falling and setting fire to the lower town (and the irony of that hasn't escaped him). Doesn't think of her two young children, or the fact that the reason she's being burned instead of beheaded is because she was a member of the royal household.

There's a memorial for her by the kitchen door that he took flowers to. He wonders if people will remember him like that if he's ever executed. Maybe. It would be nice to think so. Or maybe people will curse him, like he's heard some people doing to Elaine (and most of them actually liked her to begin with).

No matter how determined he is, it won't stop his thoughts. He moves on from the armour, throwing it down without a care where it lands. Maybe something tedious like making the bed will distract him.

Except that doesn't work, of course it doesn't, because then the screaming starts. It's loud and high and piercing, and the windows are shut but that doesn't help, not much anyway, and he puts his hands over his ears in a futile attempt to block out the sounds. He thinks he can smell the smoke, too, but that could just be his imagination.

He turns around and his gaze catches on Arthur's fireplace. The flames are flickering red and orange, low because he hasn't gone near it since last night. He wanders over to stoke it, and as the flames rise he wonders how it compares to the pyre outside. Do the flames flicker like that? Are they white-hot, or simply yellow? Would they rise quickly, or burn low, gradually increasing until he's engulfed?

What would he be like on a pyre? Would he scream? Cry, beg, like the woman outside isn't doing? Would he writhe? What would the pain be like?

He stares into the hearth, lost in thought. What does burning feel like anyway? He's never actually touched flames before. He's treated burns, and got scalds and hot pan burns, but never been hurt by fire itself.

Maybe he should find out. See what it's like, in preparation for the day he gets caught.

Yes, that's a good idea. He doesn't want it to be a surprise, doesn't want a shock. Doesn't want to embarass himself on the pyre. He should know what it feels like really.

He moves closer to the fire, sticking his trembling arm out. At first he only knows it's in the fire because it's hot, searing hot, he can't really feel any pain. That quickly changes though, and he bites down on his lip.

Suddenly he's yanked backwards, away from the hearth. A strong arm holds him firmly, stopping him from moving, not that he's trying to.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Merlin doesn't answer, dazed. "Never mind. You just stay put." He thinks he nods, watching Arthur as he fetches a bowl of water and the emergency medical kit that's usually used for patrols. "Put your arm in here," he snaps, and Merlin bites back a hiss at the sting from the cool water. As Arthur unrolls bandages, he says sharply, "what the hell were you thinking? Were you thinking? What on earth possessed you to put your arm in a burning fireplace?"

Merlin makes a disconcerted noise and Arthur looks at him intently, frown furrowing his brow. He looks, really looks, and Merlin wonders vaguely what he's seeing. The tiredness, the fear, the shadows. He knows he looked a mess earlier and that was before the execution.

Arthur's tone gentles. "I just– why, Merlin? Why would you do that?"

Merlin drops his gaze, ashamed. "I wanted to know what it would be like," he mutters. Abruptly, there's a warm hand on his chin, tilting it upwards. The look in Arthur's eyes is painfully earnest.

"I will not let that happen. You will not burn, Merlin."

"But you can't stop Uther–"

"I don't care. I'm never letting him burn you. We'll find some way for you to escape, I'll leave Camelot with you if I have to, but I. Will not. Let you burn." He punctuates the last part of his statement with small shakes to Merlin's shoulder. "Alright?"

And Merlin– well. He knows Arthur cares about him, has done since the mortaeus flower, but to hear it said like that, with such fierce protectiveness, steals his breath away.

He nods, and Arthur's mouth curves into a relieved smile.

"Good."