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Chapter Text

Arthur clenched his fist. This could not be happening.

Only moments ago, everything had been fine. Normal. He’d taken Merlin on a ride through the woods, nothing dangerous or special. Just something to ease the boredom.

He did not understand how everything could have spiraled so out of control in so little time.

He hadn’t seen the ambush until his horse pranced, throwing him off without warning. For a second, he’d lain on the damp forest floor, waiting for his brain to catch up and his lungs to start working again. A large gash in his left arm bled profusely, his clothing already warm and damp with blood.

He wanted to call out to Merlin, to make sure the boy was okay, but he found himself unable to. His brain caught up with exactly what was happening the moment a disgustingly filthy man pressed his cold sword against his throat. He sneered at the prince, his mouth half-filled with rotting teeth, and yelled something at his comrades.

Arthur’s eyes darted to his own sword. Too far to reach. There was nothing he could do but watch and wait as the man lifted his sword to deal a killing blow.

Which never came.

The man’s panicked eyes widened almost comically as he was yanked back by an unseen force. He didn’t scream when his sword went flying, nor did he make a sound when he collided with a tree. Except for the dry snap of his neck breaking. He didn’t move when he landed in a heap on top of a fallen comrade, both men staring unseeingly at the slaughter that was happening.

At the clumsy servant with his hand raised, his eyes on fire as men went flying around him.

Arthur blinked. Once. Twice. Shook his head.

But Merlin was still standing there, surrounded by fallen men. Slowly, the younger of the two men lowered his arm, his posture tense. Both men held their breath as he turned to face the fallen prince, the fire in his eyes making way for naked fear as they stared at each other.

Arthur clenched his fist. This could not be happening.

His servant was a goddamn sorcerer.

“Arthur…”

The dark haired boy he no long knew unfroze and stumbled to where he lay. He seemed to be at war with himself, both wanting to hurry to help his prince and to run as far away from him as humanly possible. Eventually, the first urge seemed to win and the boy crouched beside him. His hand trembled as he reached out to touch his bleeding arm, his face pale as he refused to make eye-contact.

“Don’t touch me,” he snapped, pulling his arm back with a pained hiss. He pressed his hurting limb against his chest, his good hand trying to stem the blood flow. With his heels pressing in the forest ground, he tried to push himself away from the sorcerer.

“Arthur, please,” the warlock begged, his eyes briefly flickering to the prince’s face, “You’re hurt, let me help you.”

“Do. Not. Touch. Me,” Arthur growled in a threatening voice, “Or I swear to God, I will strike you down where you stand.”

The boy’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click, tears welling in his eyes as he pulled his shaking hand back. He did not move away from him though. Arthur clenched his teeth together, desperate to get away from the evil in front of him. He faltered slightly as he wrestled himself back to his feet. From the corner of his eye he could see the sorcerer move towards him, his movements jerky and hesitant. He bared his teeth and turned away from him, no longer able to face this creature.

“At least let me explain…”

He froze, his eyes narrowing. His blood was boiling. How dare he speak of explanations. He had trusted Merlin, had considered him almost a friend. And all this time, he had been lying to him. Practicing magic, when he knew it was forbidden. To realize that the one person he had thought he could trust had knowingly betrayed him, hurt worse than the sharpest sword. It left him breathless and slightly shaking, his heart hammering against his ribcage, his blood pumping through his veins as if on fire. A growl was growing deep in his chest.

“Arthur…”

The hand that touched him was trembling, and for a fraction of a second he did not know who was most afraid.

“You betrayed me!” his roar echoed against the trees as he spun around. The boy flinched, “And you- you- you’re a sorcerer!”

“I didn’t choose to be!” cried Merlin, tears spilling over his cheeks, “I was born with it. I’m sorry, Arthur. I should have told you. I’m so sorry, I-”

His knuckles bruised as his fist connected with the traitor’s jaw. Stunned, the sorcerer stumbled backwards, losing his balance and landing on the ground with a pained groan. Arthur could see his hand trembling as he touched his bleeding mouth, staring up at Arthur in shock.

“I don’t ever want to see you again,” hissed Arthur, spitting on the pitiable, sobbing figure at his feet. If he did see him again, he would have the sorcerer beheaded.

How could he have been so blind? His father was right. Magic corrupted the soul, making his servant blind to the evil traitor he had willingly become. The liar he had become.

The danger he had become.

He seethed as he raced back to Camelot. If he had hoped his anger would disappear by the time he’d reached his chambers, he was sorely mistaken. His head was filled with an endless mantra of ‘Merlin is a sorcerer, sorcery is evil, Merlin is evil’, making him stamp his feet so hard his knees hurt.

He slammed the doors to his chambers shut with a reverberating bang and paused. Everything was exactly as he had left it. The table was cleared of his lunch, nothing but a silver platter filled with fruit and a goblet waiting to be drank from left behind. There were a couple of scrolls waiting to be read. Probably reports from the knights. His clothes were neatly folded over a chair. His bed was made.

But he hadn’t done any of these things. Merlin had.

The boy should have been nothing but an annoying, disobeying servant. He should have been nothing to him. But he hadn’t realized how deeply his servant had become ingrained in his life. He hadn’t realized what a deep impact the boy had had. Until now. When he looked around him, everything breathed Merlin.

And it hurt.

He screamed in anger and frustration. Everything was wrong! He tossed the silver platter across the room, fruit spilling everywhere as it clanged against the wall. He picked a chair off the ground and slammed it against the table again and again and again until the wood splintered and shattered.

“Fuck!” he roared, drawing his sword and stomping to the perfectly made bed, “Traitor! You betrayed me!”

Sweat ran down his face as he hacked at the bed. The wood splintered. The silk linens ripped. Feathers whirled around him and clung to his sword as he slammed it down until he could no longer feel his shaking arms.

“Milord!”

His head whipped towards the door, where a young guard was staring at him in alarm. Both men stared at each other, one pale, the other red in the face and panting loudly. The man yelled something at his comrades down the hallway, before tentatively stepping over the threshold and into the prince’s chambers. Arthur’s eyes narrowed.

“Get out,” he growled. The guard hesitated and flinched as Arthur moved. Much like Merlin had done after he’d struck him.

Merlin. His liar servant who’d betrayed him.

“Get the hell out of my chambers!” Arthur shouted, stomping towards the terrified guard, ready to shove him out. Perhaps beat some sense into him while he was at it. It was then that Gaius appeared in his line of vision, red in the face from running, a basket filled with medical supplies slung over his shoulder.

Gaius. The physician had shared his chambers with the sorcerer. He must have known.

“You,” he snarled, his sword heavy in his hands as he pressed it against the old man’s chest, “Did you know?”

Gaius blinked, his eyes briefly flickering down to the deadly weapon against his chest, “Know what, sire?”

“Don’t lie to me!”

Because he must have known. You do not share your chambers with someone for years and not know a secret this big.

He had been lying. All these years. They had all been lying to him.

Who else was practicing magic behind his back?

Who else was betraying the kingdom like that?

It was a complot. It was treason.

“Move.”

He shoved the old man out of his way, making him stumble into the guard. When they moved to go after him, he raised his sword threateningly.

“Sire,” Gaius yelled after him, “You’re hurt! At least let me have a look at your wounds first.”

Though he tried to ignore the man, his arm started stinging again as he was reminded of the cut. Adrenaline was a powerful painkiller. Something he’d learned in battle years ago.

His nostrils flared as he marched through the castle. When someone glanced at him, he snapped at them, hoping they would rise to the bait. He needed to punch something. Someone. Preferably Merlin. But if he never saw that traitor again, it would be too soon.

The thought of gutting the traitor brought him great pleasure. And an even stronger urge to swing a few punches.

He roared as he slammed his fist against the rough, stone wall, again and again until he could barely breathe. Blood trickled down his hand, his knuckles bruised and scraped, already swelling. He stared at them. What had he done to deserve this.

“Arthur?”

He slowly raised his head to face the king. His father stood frozen, staring at his son while seemingly trying to figure out what on earth made him behave like a crazed madman in the middle of the hallway. Arthur didn’t know what to say. His entire body was trembling and he took a step back as his father marched towards him. He couldn’t help but flinch as the man gripped his good arm tightly and lead him into the privacy of the throne room.

He had disappointed the king. He had failed him in his war against evil. He had been blind and a fool and by trusting the sorcerer, he had let evil poison the inner kingdom. This was all his fault.

“Compose yourself,” his father hissed, “What are you doing? Where is your manservant? Merlin?”

He froze, hesitated. Hearing that name made his blood boil and his lips curl. It made him want to destroy everything within his reach. It made him want to scream and shout. Perhaps even cry.

“Merlin is a sorcerer,” he breathed, his voice a shaky whisper. There, he’d said it.

“What?”

His father’s grip on his arm tightened as he processed the words neither of them had ever fathomed to hear. The anger that had been burning inside him since the incident evaporated, relief washing over him instead. Followed closely by bone-deep exhaustion and grief.

His only friend had betrayed him.

“Merlin,” he repeated slowly, a sob getting painfully stuck behind a lump in his throat, “Is a sorcerer.”

His head was spinning at the full realization of what this meant. Of what telling this to the king meant. He sank down in a chair and let his face fall in his trembling hands. He shook his head, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, forcing back the tears that were starting to well.

“I trusted him,” he hated how pitiful his voice sounded, “And he betrayed me.”

His words were followed by a moment of silence, as if everyone in the castle was holding their breath. His father was the first to break it, barking an order at the guards just outside the doors; “Find the boy!”

Except they would never find him. He had left him in the woods. Even he wasn’t that stupid that he’d return to Camelot.

“You did the right thing, son,” his father’s voice was soft and praising, and Arthur shuddered as a warm hand rested on his shoulder, “You’re hurt. Did the sorcerer do this to you?”

He wanted to deny it, but the words got stuck in his throat. Possibly trapped behind that sob that was still threatening to escape.

“Gaius needs to have a look at this,” Arthur hissed as his father prodded the cut on his arm, “It’s fairly deep and I’d rather not see this get infected. Ah-”

There was a lot of commotion as the doors to the throne room swung open. His father got back to his feet and stepped away from his son. Arthur lifted his face from his hands.

And choked.

In front of him was Merlin, being dragged in by two guards. He had never seen the boy so pale, his eyes red and swollen. Bruises discolored his face, at least one of them the shape of Arthur’s fist. They threw him on the floor in front of them, where he remained with his head bowed so deeply it nearly touched the tiles. His shoulders were shaking as they waited for the king to speak.

“You are accused of using magic,” he recognized the bitter hatred in his father’s voice, “Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

The boy slowly lifted his head, looking at Arthur with tears in his eyes, “I only ever wanted to protect you. I never meant any harm. I’m so sorry…”

Arthur found himself unable to breathe. His father sighed.

“You leave me no choice,” the king said, “Merlin, you are hereby sentenced to death for practicing magic. You will be burned at the stake tomorrow morning. Guards, escort him to the dungeons where he will await his execution.”

Time slowed down as they dragged the boy from the room. Arthur had half-expected him to make a run for it. Surely, a sorcerer must be able of such an act? But the boy didn’t struggle as the guards lifted him off the floor and manhandled him out of the room. He didn’t cry, or shout or protest.

He looked directly at Arthur, his eyes begging for him to do something.

Perhaps he hoped his friend would save him. Would stand up and run forward to free him, sword drawn, challenging anyone who even dared think of hurting him. But he didn’t, and the doors closed.

The boy was gone.

That night, Arthur hardly closed an eye.

When his father had seen the wreckage in his chambers, he’d been furious. The servants had already started sweeping broken glass and torn silk out of his chambers, but it would take days to have everything back in order. His chairs were beyond repair, as were his bed linens. The silver smith would have an aneurism when he saw the dents in the silverware and they would need an incredibly skilled wood crafter to replace his bedframe.

Unfortunately, this meant Arthur wouldn’t be able to sleep in his own chambers for at least a few nights. He probably should have thought about that before he let his rage consume him. The beds in the knight’s chambers were nowhere near as comfortable as his own. His back ached and his arm itched underneath the bandages. He wondered if Gaius had put some sort of itching herb among the healing ones. To punish him.

(He probably deserved it.)

But worse than the itch and the burning of his back was the stabbing pain in his gut every time he let his mind wander to his servant. It left him breathless, squirming in an effort to shake of the nagging doubt.

He tried to convince himself he had done the right thing. That it was for the best. After all, magic was evil and dangerous. It corrupted the soul and poisoned the mind, consuming the sorcerer from the inside out until he could no longer tell the difference between right or wrong.

And yet, he couldn’t help but prick up his ears, hoping he’d hear the alarm bells chime. Whenever he heard something that sounded remotely like them, he bolted upright, his heart hammering in his chest, only to be disappointed when he’d realize it had been only the wind or a guard.

Long before sunrise, he gave up on trying to sleep. Instead, he sat by the window and watched the guards build the pyre. He wondered if his servant could see them as well. It would have been unnecessarily cruel to put the boy in one of the cells looking over the courtyard. Unnecessarily cruel, and something his father enjoyed doing to imprisoned sorcerers.

Once or twice, Arthur stood up from his seat by the window and found himself standing at his door, his hand on the knob. But he couldn’t. Visiting his servant in the dungeons would only make him angry and upset. Or it might give the boy false hope. Gaius was probably with him anyway; the boy was like a son to him.

A son Arthur had condemned to death.

“It’s for the best,” he whispered to himself, but even to his own ears his words sounded hollow.

Not long after sunrise, a guard knocked on his door, ready to escort him to the execution site. Never before had he been so anxious about an execution. He dragged his feet as they moved through the castle, dreading the inevitable. From the balcony, he could see that many villagers had already assembled around the pyre, whispering nervously among each other. A lot of them had known Merlin, or knew at least who he was. Near the front stood Gaius, looking pale and desperate, probably still hoping for a miracle.

Next to the prince, Morgana was gripping the balustrade so tightly her knuckles had turned white. She had a grim look on her face as she stared at the crowd. His father leaned forward to get a better view as they brought Merlin into the courtyard, nodding to himself, muttering something.

Arthur held his breath as they strapped the boy to the stake. Never before had he seen him look so pasty white. He half hoped his servant would look up to him, that they would catch each other’s eye. A last sign of respect. Perhaps an unspoken goodbye. But he didn’t. Instead, his head hung low as the guards checked to make sure the ropes were sufficiently tight.

He wondered if someone had sent word to the boy’s mother.

Arthur started trembling as the executioner lit his torch, looking up at the king for that speech that warned the people about what would happen if they ever even considered resorting to something as horrible as magic.

He drew in a sharp breath as the executioner brought his burning torch. He bit the inside of his mouth and clenched his fists until he could feel the scrapes on his knuckles pop back open, blood welling from them. He’d seen the executioner do this a hundred times before; he knew what was coming. The kindling was already smoking, small flames dancing over the twigs and branches. Consuming them. The fire spreading and growing until it veiled the bounded figure in thick black smoke.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

Merlin was supposed to escape from the dungeons, as so man had done before. He should have stolen a horse and be halfway across Camelot by now, far away from the deadly grasp of the kingdom. He had magic, for crying out loud, surely he should have been capable of escaping?!

It wasn’t until the flames licked at his servant’s clothes that he boy started struggling, desperate to get away from the all-devouring heat. The smoke was thick and sharp as it danced all the way up to the prince, smothering him as it curled into his nose and poked at his brain. He coughed, his eyes and throat burning, his lungs craving fresh air. He choked on his cough when the most terrifying sound he’d ever heard reached his ears.

It started softly at first; quiet yelps of discomfort and fear. As if he didn’t want to draw attention to himself, but couldn’t stop himself from crying out. However, it didn’t take long for them to morph into shouting, and then full-blown screaming. The fire had reached the boy, the flames wrapping their burning tongues around his skinny legs, setting him ablaze like a star. Melting away the magic and his skin.

He couldn’t breathe.

Merlin’s screams filled his ears and his heart, echoing, bouncing, multiplying until they consumed his entire being and he couldn’t breathe. His heart was hammering against his chest. Too fast. Too hard. Trying to break his ribs. Trying to get away. Stabbing him from inside-out like a well-trained knight going rogue.

His entire body was on fire. Screaming at him. Like Merlin was. Merlin. Merlin was on fire.

Merlin was on fire and screaming and it hurt.

The smoke was thick and cruel, wrapping its blistering hands around his chest, squeezing, squeezing, until he choked, sweat dripping from his skin like ice-cold rain. Smothering him. Thick with the smell of burning flesh.

Time seemed to slow down, the world spinning around him, making him want to vomit. His ears were filled with Merlin’s frayed howls and his own rasping gasps, breathing in nothing but smoke, ripping through him like daggers, leaving him dizzy and wheezing.

“Stop,” he choked out, the world spinning so madly that he lost track of which way was up and which way was down. He stumbled forward, gagging, tears streaming down his face. Someone caught his injured arm to pull him back before he could tumble down the balustrade, and everything went white for a second, “Make it stop. Please.”

His friend was burning because he had been foolish and scared and hurt. This was entirely his fault. He had done this.

“Make it stop…” he begged, his body trying to sink to its knees. He cried out in pain as the grip on his bad arm tightened, hauling him back into a somewhat standing position.

“Calm down, Arthur,” his father hissed, shaking him roughly, not caring that he was hurting his son, “You’re in public. You’re the crown prince and supposed to set an example. Stop making such a show of yourself.”

Laughter bubbled from deep within him, high-pitched and hysterical. He was making a show of himself? His best friend – his only friend – was being burned alive because of him. Right in front of him. The one person that would always be there for him was dying a slow, painful death, because of his actions. But he was making a show of himself?

A sharp slap to his face left his ears ringing. He stared up at his father, shocked that he would lay a hand on him in public. And then he realized something.

He could no longer hear Merlin screaming.

Everything around him slowed down to a full stop as the realization of what that meant slammed into him with the force of a lance.

No. No. No, no, no, no, no, no. No.

It was as if someone had paused the world, while the weight of his guilt crushed him. Punched him in the face and in the gut. All color blinked out of the world as someone stuffed his ears and head with cotton, the frantic beating of his own heart the only thing he could hear. He swayed.

His father’s hands slid from his shoulders and the king’s mouth sagged open. It was as if he were about to say something, but had forgotten what. His eyes were wide as saucers as he turned away from his son. Someone was screaming. Not Merlin. A woman.

The world shifted as his father was no longer holding him upright. He was falling, the stone floor rushing up to meet him.

And then everything faded to black as his head slammed against the tiles.

“This is completely unacceptable. How is this possible?!”

Arthur found himself waking up somewhere warm and relatively comfortable. His body felt heavy and weak, a dull beat throbbing in his head. Someone had tied something rough and itchy around his head. Bandages. He could hear someone pacing over the crackling of a fire. For a moment, he did not understand how he had gotten here, or why his body felt so uncomfortable. Then he remembered, and he shot up with a strangled gasp.

His stomach churned threateningly and his whole body was wrecked with violent shivers as he remembered the silence after the screams. All those times he had wished for his friend to just shut up and be silent for a while, this was not what he had meant. His eyes burned.

His friend was dead.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Gaius was suddenly at his side, fussing over him. The man was pale, but a small smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth. Arthur didn’t understand. How could the man be smiling after what had happened. After what he had done, “You gave us quite a scare, sire.”

“What– ?”

But before he could translate his confusion into a sentence, his father was standing next to him, clearly not pleased. He glared at his son, his mouth pressed in a thin line as he impatiently tapped his foot.

“You swore, Arthur,” he snapped, “You told me you’d killed it.”

He shook his head in bewilderment. He didn’t understand. Killed what? Killed Merlin? Killed his best friend? His only friend? He’d done that. His father had been there, he’d seen it. So what was he talking about?

“Sire, he must rest now,” Gaius insisted, resting his hand on the prince’s shoulder in an attempt to ground him as he grew clearly distressed, “His body and mind are recovering. A panic such as the one he experienced is not to be taken lightly. With all due respect, Sire, I must insist you question him later.”

“Fine,” his father glared at him, “We’ll talk later.”

Arthur’s body sagged as his father slammed the door behind him, and he did not protest as Gaius gently pushed him back down. His mind was hazy, and he felt as if he was missing several pieces of a very important puzzle. But when he tried to find those pieces inside himself, he drew a blank. It scared him.

“Gaius,” he was embarrassed to hear his voice crack. He reached out to the older man, weakly grabbing his sleeve as he moved to get away from him, “What happened?”

“A panic, sire,” the physician said in a soft voice, sitting down on a chair next to, “Hysteria. You passed out.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, hiding his face in his hands. He tugged at the bandage wrapped around his head, “Gaius, it’s all my fault. I’ve made a terrible mistake. I– ”

“Deep breaths, Arthur,” the man berated him, gently pulling his hands from his face, “There’s no use getting yourself so worked up again.”

“But– I– Merlin– ” he shuddered, bile rising in his throat at the memory of the smell of burning flesh. He gagged, trembling.

He expected – hoped, even – that Gaius would yell at him. To tell him what a despicable being he was. That he did not deserve to be a prince. That he was a disappointment and he despised him. That it should have been him burning at that stake. But Gaius did none of those things. Instead, the man smiled.

Arthur had never felt more confused and desperate in his life. He had killed his friend. Murdered him In cold blood. Because he had been angry and foolish and scared. Less than 24 hours ago, everything had been perfectly fine. And now everything lay in ruins. Because of him.

And Gaius was smiling about it.

“Your father is very angry with you,” Gaius said, “Seconds before you collapsed, the great dragon rescued Merlin from the pyre. The king was under the impression you’d killed the beast.”

The old man’s words echoed in his head and it took a while for him to understand what he had just said.

“He’s– He’s alright?” he finally choked out, tears welling in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” a cloud of worry passed over the physician’s face, “He was in very bad shape when the dragon came. But at least there’s hope.”

He nodded, unable to find the words to express his relief.

Merlin was hurt, badly so, but at least he wasn’t dead yet. He didn’t understand how the dragon could have saved him – he had killed it, hadn’t he? – or why, but right now he couldn’t care less. The beast had protected him when he couldn’t. Didn’t. He owed it a deep debt.

“Gaius,” he whispered, “If you see him… would you tell him I’m sorry?”

Gaius hesitated and Arthur’s heart sank. The man didn’t trust him anymore. He probably feared he would hurt his friend again. Arthur didn’t blame him, but Merlin had to know. He had to know that he wanted to take it all back. That he understood why he had kept his abilities a secret. That he forgave him, and he didn’t think any less of him. That he was the bravest man and most valuable friend he had ever known. And that he was sorry for ever doubting him. For making him suffer the way he had done.

“Please…”

Gaius looked at the prince and sighed. He nodded; “I promise.”

Arthur breathed in deeply and sunk back into the mattress, closing his eyes. He hadn’t killed his friend. There was still hope. Merlin would be okay.

Everything was going to be just fine.

Chapter Text

He probably shouldn’t have returned to Camelot.

His jaw was throbbing, one of his teeth wobbling like it was still deciding whether or not it was going to fall out. He rubbed his eyes, sore and swollen from crying, and swallowed thickly. He hadn’t meant to use his magic in front of Arthur. Not so openly, at least. Magic was something that had to be hidden and concealed, or at least until Arthur would be ready to lift the ban on it. But he had been surprised by the ambush, hadn’t seen the mercenaries until it was too late to be discreet. He should have been more careful, but his instinct to protect the Once and Future King – his best friend – had taken over. And it had punched him in the face for his trouble.

Well, Arthur had.

He sighed, lowering himself on the hay next to Arthur’s unkempt horse. He leaned back his neck. Over the years, he had imagined telling Arthur about his magic more times than he could count. He’d thought of every possible situation, from sitting the prince down and just telling him, to being forced to tell him, to an accidental reveal. Then he’d carefully considered every reaction Arthur could possibly have.

On good days, he’d imagine Arthur to be understanding. He would be surprised, sure, but he would listen to Merlin’s story and nod. He would understand that he had only ever used his magic to protect him, and he would be grateful. Perhaps not throw-a-feast-grateful but definitely firm-handshake-grateful. On other days, he would imagine Arthur to stare at him unseeingly, before drawing his sword and chopping his head off with one swift move.

Apparently, the truth lay somewhere in the middle.

He closed his eyes and rested his head on his knees with a soft groan. A punch to the face wasn’t so bad, he tried to tell himself. Arthur riding off and leaving him in the forest wasn’t so bad. He was still alive. Arthur was just processing. In a few day, everything would go back to normal. He just had to make sure Arthur knew nothing had changed for him. He would still serve the prince. He didn’t want any power or money.

He pushed himself to his feet and stared at the horse, gently brushing his hand over her snout, before briefly resting his head against hers. No, he would prove to Arthur that nothing had to change if he didn’t want it to. He would go back to his duties and serve him to the best of his abilities. Showing him that he was trustworthy and good.

He wasn’t an idiot, though, despite what many people might think of him. It was going to take time. He had seen the rage in Arthur’s eyes. The way he’d no longer seemed to recognize the man in front of him. The man he’d been calling a friend for years. Gone was the ease and the trust, replaced with anger and the burden of knowledge. And all because he now knew something which had been there all along. For nothing had actually changed.

He cried out in pain as someone grabbed his arm and twisted it roughly behind his back until he bent at the waist. His eyes shot open in fear, and for a moment all he could see was the dusty stable floor and his own stumbling feet. The horse bristled at the sudden commotion and pranced, her hooves dangerously close to Merlin’s head. He groaned as they grabbed his hair, yanking his head back until tears sprung to his eyes.

“What are you doing?” he choked out, his voice slightly hysterical, still rough from all the crying he’d been doing. They twisted his arm higher, and he cried out again. The same person manhandling his wrist, wrapped his thick and hairy arm around Merlin’s skinny neck, pulling him in a chokehold. His eyes bulged as his oxygen flow was cut off and he gawked at the Camelot guard stepping in his line of vision with stamping feet while glaring at the distressed boy. The guard choking him was much stronger than the scrawny warlock, struggling in an attempt to break free. To breathe. A strangled whimper escaped his lips as the other guard’s fist connected painfully with his already bruised jaw. His head snapped to the side as the hold on his neck loosened. He gasped, coughing as his lungs sucked in as much air as they could.

“Don’t make a scene,” Chokey hissed in his ear, his breath unpleasantly warm against his skin, “We won’t hesitate to use violence… King’s orders, for you are under arrest for crimes against the kingdom.”

Merlin froze, breathing heavily. He heart was suddenly hammering in his chest. He was under arrest. Had Arthur-?

They pushed him forward and he stumbled, nearly falling flat on his face as his feet didn’t cooperate. Pain shot up through his arm as Chokey’s grip on his wrist was the only thing that kept him standing.

“God damn it,” cursed the guard that wasn’t trying to break his wrist, as he slammed his fist in Merlin’s stomach, “We said no funny business.”

Merlin doubled over, gasping and choking as bright colors flashed in front of his watering eyes.

“Please…” he begged and cried out as the guard once again punched his mouth, the coppery taste of blood filling his mouth as the wobbly tooth decided it had had enough. He spat it out.

“Not a damn word, sorcerer,” the guard lifted his fist again as he narrowed his eyes, “Now move.”

1. They knew. Arthur had told them. Arthur had told the king. His breathing sped up as he trembled, his eyes filling with fresh tears. Arthur had told the king. He had known Arthur’s fear of magic was deep-rooted. He just hadn’t realized exactly how deep. The prince wasn’t just afraid of magic. He hated it. He hated everyone that practiced it.

He hated Merlin.

The young warlock hung his head as they dragged him out of the stables. He had ruined everything: their friendship, their destiny… He should have listened when Arthur told him to stay away and never come back. He should have taken that horse and ran. Perhaps return home. In Ealdor, it wouldn’t matter that Arthur had told the king. That he had given the order to arrest him. They could give all the orders they wanted. Ealdor didn’t fall under Camelot’s jurisdiction.

Was he ever going to see his mother again?

He choked back a sob as he was pushed through the doors and into the cool castle corridors. The other servants stared at them as they marched through the castle. Some of them pointed. Confused murmuring filled his ears. They didn’t understand what was happening. They didn’t know yet.

Merlin shuddered as they pushed open the doors to the throne room. He held his breath, scared to look up and meet Arthur’s eye. He swallowed. No one said a word as he was pushed forward. One of the guards escorting him dug his fingers painfully in his shoulder as he forced him on his knees. He swallowed again and bit the inside of his mouth. Waiting.

Was he going to die?

He breathed in shakily, tears burning behind his eyes. Did he deserve to die? Was his magic the source of all evil? Had it corrupted him so that he could no longer tell the difference between good and bad? He’d never hurt Arthur. But he’d hurt others to keep Arthur safe. Did that make him evil?

“Merlin,” he flinched as Uther called his name, his voice carrying through the room and burying itself in Merlin’s ears, “You are accused of using magic.”

His lips trembled and his vision blurred as he stared at the floor. He wished that he could wish that he hadn’t used his magic to save Arthur. That he had just let things play out, so the prince would have never found out. But he knew that had never been an option. Even thinking it felt wrong. If faced with the same choice, he would make the same mistake over and over again. Because if he had to choose between saving his own life and saving Arthur’s, he would always pick Arthur’s.

“Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

Did he? What was there left to be said?

His eyes flickered up from the uneven floor, glancing at the prince. The blond was staring at him with an unreadable look on his pasty white face. He was waiting for an explanation, Merlin suddenly realized. He was waiting to hear why his friend had betrayed him. Shame left a bitter taste in his mouth. Arthur had trusted him, and in return, he had lied to him.

Yes. Perhaps he did have something to say in his defense.

“I only ever wanted to protect you,” he whispered and he could see Arthur flinch as he spoke, like he’d already forgotten the sound of his voice, “I never meant any harm. I’m so sorry…”

He choked, his throat swelling until he could barely breathe. There was so much more he wanted to say. But he couldn’t. Not when the prince was staring at him with that dead, unrecognizing look in his eyes.

“You leave me no choice,” Uther’s voice was grave, “Merlin, you are hereby sentenced to death for practicing magic. You will burn at the stake tomorrow morning. Guards, escort him to the dungeons where he will await his execution.”

Execution. In the morning. His heart hammered painfully in his chest as it constricted. He was going to be executed. For trying to help. For saving the prince and the kingdom over and over again. For something he didn’t even choose.

He had been born with it. And now he was going to die for it.

Arthur didn’t move as he was dragged to his feet and out of the room. Instead, he averted his eyes and somewhere deep inside of Merlin something died. Arthur thought him to be a monster.

Stupid goddamn magic! Why couldn’t he have been born without? Why couldn’t he have been normal, like everyone else? Then he wouldn’t ruin everything he touched. Then he could have stayed with his mother, where he belonged. Become a farmer, live in the rhythm of nature. A simple life, no prophecies or destinies. Just him, his mother and Will.

Burning tears rolled down his face as they threw him onto the rotting straw scattered across the floor of his cell, before locking the barred door with a click that reverberated through his chest. He didn’t belong here. He shouldn’t even have to be here! Why couldn’t he just be home. All he wanted, was to crawl into his mother’s lap and for her to stroke his hair and to tell him everything was going to be okay. Go back to sleep, Merlin. It’s just a nightmare. Everything will be better in the morning.

Except it wasn’t going to be better in the morning. It wasn’t just a nightmare. He was never going home. He was never going to see his mother again.

He cried out in despair, sobbing, yanking at his hair while slamming his head against the wall until he was certain he was bleeding. He didn’t want to die! Not like this. Not alone, while his friend hated him and his mother didn’t even know what was happening. If he had to die, he wanted to do so surrounded by friends and family. Slipping away peacefully after a full and lengthy life, while someone held his hand and told him they would stay with him. Until the end.

“What do you mean, you won’t let me see him?!”

Merlin’s eyes flew open as the familiar voice cut through his misery. He hiccupped, breathing shakily, wishing it wasn’t just a dream. He crawled onto his knees, hastily wiping his heated face with his neckerchief, before pressing it against the metal bars, wrapping his hands around them.

“I’m sorry,” the guard didn’t sound sorry at all, “No one is to see the sorcerer. King’s orders.”

“That’s my ward,” Gaius snapped, “The king is having him executed in the morning. Are you really telling me I cannot keep him company during his last night on earth? That I cannot give my boy the comfort he needs? The comfort every human being deserves?”

“King’s orders,” the guard repeated. Merlin jumped as someone slammed their fist down on a hard surface. Probably a table.

“For goodness’ sake, boy,” Gaius’ patience had clearly run out, “Do you have any children? Imagine that’s your kid in there, and you are not allowed to see him. To say goodbye.”

There was a second of silence before the guard quietly answered: “My boy knows better than to practice illegal witchcraft.”

Merlin held his breath as everything went unnaturally quiet. He pressed his face harder against the bars, slightly turning his head, but no sound reached his ears. What was going on there? For a brief moment, he thought the entire world had ceased to exist and he was the last person left on earth. Or perhaps he had already died. Then, he heard Gaius call out his name.

“Hang in there, Merlin,” he shouted, “I’ll get you out of there, I promise.”

“Gaius!” he yelled back, suddenly realized this might be their last chance to talk. To see each other. He didn’t want to be alone, “Don’t leave me! Please, Gaius! Don’t leave me!”

He could barely hear the older man’s answering words of comfort as his mentor was escorted off the premises. He was leaving. He cried out the man’s name over and over again until Gaius was long gone.

He was alone.

He rattled the bars of his cell and slammed his fist against the rough stone wall with enough force to crack his skin.

Everyone had left him.

His back slid down the wall until his bottom connected with the ground. He drew his knees up to his face and rested his chin on them, his arms wrapped over his head. His eyes were dark as he stared at the door, waiting.

No one came.

Slowly, his surroundings grew darker as the sun started to set. When it was almost too dark to see, someone lit the torches in the courtyard. No one lit the ones in the dungeons, though. There were people moving around in the courtyard, their shadows flickering projections on the wall across from him as they passed in front of a lit torch. He could hear them bark orders at each other, but couldn’t understand the words.

His muscles protested and his back popped as he pushed himself to a standing position. He rolled his neck and stretched, glancing at the tiny window above his head. Deep down, he knew what they were doing out there, but at the same time he was still in denial. Wishing it would all go away if he closed his eyes. Perhaps if he could see what was going on out there, it wouldn’t scare him anymore. Perhaps it might even bring him some peace of mind.

Or not.

His breath shuddered as he leaned against the wall, his eyes coming just over the ledge of the window as he stood on his toes and craned his neck. Servants in the Camelot uniform were carrying heavy bundles of wood and kindling to a stake in the middle of the courtyard. He held his breath and swallowed heavily. The were building a pyre. His pyre.

Perhaps now was a good time to escape.

He shook his head. No. He couldn’t. If he’d run, he’d leave Arthur behind and that was simply no option. Arthur needed him; their destinies were intertwined. He would give everything he owned to just go home and forget about this place, and it still wouldn’t be enough. The universe wanted him to guide the Once and Future King on the path to the Promised Land.

So he couldn’t escape. Even if Arthur hated him right now, he couldn’t leave and wait for it to all blow over. He hung his head. It would just make things worse. Arthur would forever see him as a traitor if he did. He would never be able to return. It was a rotten choice he was left with: save himself and betray Arthur even more, or show Arthur he would always be loyal to him and probably die in the process.

He pulled his hair with one hand as he closed his eyes, willing his teeth to stop chattering. Who was he kidding? He wasn’t faced with a choice at all.

When the guards fetched him, his knees trembled. He didn’t look at them as they hauled him to his feet, binding his hands together tightly. One of them spoke to him, threatening to hurt him if he ran. What could he possibly do to him that was worse than burning alive?

Tears burned in his eyes as he stopped his trail of thought. How could this possibly be happening? How could everything have spiraled so out of control in so little time? He felt disconnected from his body as he stumbled into the courtyard, squinting at the bright glare of the sun. He briefly thought that it would have been more fitting if it had been raining. But then the execution would have to be postponed.

The rope bit sharply into his wrists as they were bound behind the stake. He blinked slowly, momentarily forgetting what he was doing here and why so many people were staring at him. Then the executioner lit his torch and Merlin had to physically remind himself how to breathe. They made eye contact for a second or two, and Merlin was grateful the man didn’t grin. He found comfort in the man’s grave look, as if his acknowledgment that everything would most definitely not be alright made everything better again.

“May the fire burn away your sins, son,” the man said with sorrow-filled eyes as he held the burning torch near the kindling until it started smoking, “May the Gods grant you peace and a place in heaven.”

Merlin choked, and not just because the smoke was starting to fill his nose. He wanted to say something, but before he could decide what was the proper reaction – Thank you? Amen? – the man was already gone and the smoke was properly filling his nose and mouth. He coughed, his eyes stinging. Somewhere deep inside of him his magic bubbled and crawled, urging him to release it and stop this nonsense. But he couldn’t.

The fire was hot, even though it wasn’t touching him yet. Sweat rolled down the side of his face as he craned his neck, his wheezing lungs desperate for clean air to breathe. His head pounded and his stomach churned as he stared at the dancing flames. When the fire licked at his trousers, he whimpered and something inside of him snapped. Alarm bells started chiming inside his head, drowning out all rational thought.

He was on fire!

A scream was ripped from his throat as the flames singed the hairs on his legs, before biting into the skin. He struggled against his ties and choked as another scream was cut short by the suffocating smoke filling his lungs and making him cough. The fire didn’t care about his screams, nibbled happily on his body. Bit its filthy jaws into his flesh and ripped him apart. It was agony. It didn’t stop. Why didn’t it stop?

He sobbed breathlessly, but his tears evaporated before they could leave his burning eyes. He choked and screamed, his eyes like razors as they rolled in their sockets and he jerked forward, vomiting bile down his smoldering shirt. His body was convulsing and he slammed repeatedly against the stake he was tied to. His legs had to be gone by now. Reduced to ashes, and pain, and oh God, he was going to die.

He cried out for Gaius, Arthur, his mother, someone, please, to save him from this hell. Someone, please, just kill him already. But no one was listening but the flames, biting his legs and his torso and his arms and his face and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream, couldn’t do anything but choke and retch and convulse.

He was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to die.

He couldn’t feel his body as he floated weightlessly away from it, watching himself sag through drooping eyes. He never should have returned to Camelot. He should have escaped when he still had the chance. Now it was too late. He was so tired. His sound and vision dimmed. So tired.

He closed his eyes and welcomed the painless heaven that was awaiting.

Darkness, heavy, suffocating.

“-Lin… With me? … Merl-”

Burning, burning as he clawed at the darkness. Can’t breathe! Choking, screaming, whimpering.

“No… No… No…”

Words in his ears, unintelligible sounds. Ragged breathing, wet gasps. His lungs burning.

“… don’t die… destiny…”

Panting. His body on fire as he writhed, fighting against the flames biting his skin.

“… will choke… roll him on his side… if he vomits agai-”

He wanted to claw at his skin, remove it from his bones. If only then the pain would go away.

“I am a trained physician… I do know how to take care of a patient…”

He screamed and screamed. Or perhaps he didn’t make any sound at all as the darkness wrapped its hands around his neck, squeezing.

“… crashing! Do something! For goodness’ sake, do something!”

When Merlin finally woke up, he screamed. He tried to scramble away from the fire and the pain, but the more he moved, the more it hurt. Tears spilled over his cheeks as he cried for someone, anyone, to please help him. But no one came. He was going to die alone. Alone and in pain as the flames would feast on his flesh and his bones, until there would be nothing left of him. He screamed until his voice gave out and all he could do was sob, because he was burning and no one wanted to help him.

Except, he wasn’t burning. Not anymore. The flames that were dancing in front of him were not trying to devour him. Someone had built a camp fire, fire enough from him so he wouldn’t be able to accidentally hurt himself.

And yet, his body still felt like it was being ripped apart. As if some monster with long claws and sharp teeth was eating his flesh. He whimpered, begging for the monster to stop. To leave him alone so he could die in peace. He tried to kick at the monster, but the movement ripped through his body like a sword. He whimpered loudly as white stars danced in front of his eyes. He breathed hard, his nostrils flaring as he fought back the nausea that was swirling in his stomach.

He tried to force himself to lie perfectly still, but couldn’t stop his body from trembling, even when he counted his breaths in an attempt to calm down. What the hell was happening?

You’re not burning at the stake anymore, he repeated in his head until he finally realized that he really wasn’t. He breathed out shakily. How was that possible? He had been surrounded by the flames. He had seen them, felt them. He couldn’t possibly have escaped.

And yet, he was lying here, positively not burning. Where ‘here’ was, he didn’t know. A cave, cool and dark, filled with the sound of ragged breathing and the constant pitter-patter of dripping water. He was alone. Abandoned.

Except he wasn’t.

He flinched and froze at the sound of a snapping twig.

An animal? He held his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. The shaking of his hands worsened as he tried to listen. Were those footsteps? No, just the dripping water. There, another snapped twig! Except no, it was just the fire crackling.

“Gaius?” he choked out, his voice barely louder than a whisper, “M-mum?”

He waited for an answer that never came. Did that mean there was no one here, or no one good? His breathing sped up as fear pumped through his veins like poison. There was someone here. He knew there was. They were going to hurt him. Finish the job that Arthur and Uther had started. Who was there? He had to know who was there!

“No-” he gasped as a man stepped out of the shadows. He could feel the blood drain from his face as he stared up at the man staring down at him, “No. No. No, no, no, no, no, no. No.”

He tried to push himself into an upright position, but his body screamed at him like his was being torn in two. His legs – Oh, good Gods, his legs! - scrambled as he tried to put as much distance between himself and the cloaked man staring at him as possible. He cried out in pain and flopped down onto his side, his quivering arms refusing to support him any longer. His fingers scratched at the dusty ground, trying to pull his body forwards. A fingernail was ripped in two, but he had to move. He had to move right now.

“Merlin-” the painfully familiar voice choked out and he could feel the echoes of the man’s steps vibrate through the floor as he ran to the hurting boy. He grabbed his wrists, trying to turn him to face him. Merlin screamed, wrestling against the prince’s firm grip.

“No!” he screamed, struggling, “No! No! N-”

“Merlin, calm down!” the grip on his wrists was so painful, he feared his hands were going to fall off. Arthur’s weight on top of him as he pinned him to the ground made his eyes roll in their sockets as he sobbed and whimpered in pain and fear, “Merlin, please. You’ll hurt yourself. Please, you have to calm down.”

But Merlin couldn’t calm down. He fought the prince with all he had, screaming and crying as he tried to break free from his grasp. He could barely breathe as his heart was racing and all he could think was that Arthur was here to finish the job.

He tried to punch him, but the prince was much stronger than he was. He sobbed as he found himself completely unable to move, pain flaring through his body as if he was back on the pyre. His body was beyond exhausted, the will to fight seeping out of him with every trembling gasp. He gave up. He’d had enough.

“Please…” he begged, closing his eyes, “No more.”

Arthur let go of him the moment he stopped struggling, but he had no energy left to run. Tears rolled down the sides of his face and into his ears and hair. What was Arthur waiting for?

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he had never heard the prince sound like this before, his voice so raw and pained. Tiredly, he fought his burning eyes open. Arthur was sitting next to him, his knees drawn to his ghostly pale face. There were dark circles around his eyes, like he hadn’t slept in days.

“God, Merlin,” he choked out, his hand reaching forward but stopping in mid-air as the dark-haired boy flinched, “It thought- I thought-”

Arthur wrapped both his hands into his hair and yanked. Merlin didn’t understand. He stared.

“I didn’t see you getting rescued,” Arthur whispered, clenching his eyes shut, “Gaius told me… he told me a dragon rescued you. He said you were going to be okay, but-”

A dragon? Kilgarrah?

“I watched him, sneaking out every night. I knew he was visiting you. He said you were going to be fine, but his eyes told a different story,” Arthur swallowed audibly, “His mood grew worse with every visit. He was worried. Terrified. I knew you weren’t getting better. I thought…” Arthur’s hands were shaking as he rubbed them over his face, “I thought you were dead, Merlin! I thought I- I thought I-”

Arthur couldn’t finish his sentence shaking his head desperately. His breath hitched and his face went so pale Merlin feared the prince would faint. Honestly, he hoped he would pass out. Perhaps that would give him the time and strength to escape from here. From him.

“I’m sorry,” the prince whispered, and Merlin felt as if he was thrown in an ice bath, “I am so, so sorry.”

He didn’t know what to say. Was he supposed to forgive him? Was he supposed to comfort him and tell him everything was going to be alright? He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t play this game.

“Please,” Merlin breathed, averting his gaze, “Go away.”

Arthur flinched, his eyes growing big. He opened his mouth, perhaps to tell him that ‘that is not how it works, Merlin. I say ‘sorry’, you say ‘I forgive you’ and we both move on’. But Merlin wasn’t certain he’d ever be able to forgive his so-called friend. He closed his eyes. Why couldn’t he just leave him alone?

“I’m sorry,” Arthur repeated. Merlin ignored him. Arthur sighed, “Merlin-”

“I know,” he snapped, opening his eyes to glare at the prince, “You’re sorry. Is that supposed to make everything magically better? Because I can assure you, it didn’t.”

“I was foolish,” Arthur admitted in a half-whisper, “I should have trusted you. I never should have told my father. I made a mistake and you paid the price. I wish I could take it all back, but I can’t. But Merlin, you have to understand… I was scared.”

Merlin snorted angrily, “Well, that makes two of us.”

Arthur flinched again and pushed himself to his feet, pacing restlessly, “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make this better.”

“You can’t.”

“Merlin…”

“You had me sentenced to death,” Merlin snapped, his voice high-pitched with barely suppressed hysteria, “You were my friend and I trusted you. All I ever wanted was to see you safe and happy. But you wanted to see me dead. You can’t make this better.”

Arthur closed his eyes in resignation, “I understand.”

Oh, how Merlin wished his friend wouldn’t say that. How he wished there was something to be done to fix this situation. That Arthur would fight tooth and nail to find a way to make amends. But they both knew there was no quick fix. There were no magic words that could erase all the pain and the betrayal.

“You need to rest,” Arthur stopped pacing and stared at Merlin as he pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, “I’ll come back.”

“Don’t.”

“I will,” Arthur insisted, “Maybe not tomorrow, but I will. I will find a way to fix this.”

“You can’t.”

Arthur didn’t answer. Instead, he stared at the man on the ground, opening and closing his mouth a few times, as if he wanted to say something, but was afraid of the reaction.

“Do you hate me?”

Merlin thought very carefully about his answer. Yes he did. But then again, he didn’t.

“I don’t know.”

Arthur nodded, “Good. Now I really am sure we can find a way to fix this.”