Chapter Text
Arthur urges his horse into a trot, ignoring the questioning looks from his knights until they simply follow his lead. Their patrol has gone well for the most part, but then Leon’s horse lost a shoe and they had to stop at a village, so now they’re going to be back in Camelot a day later than they were planning to.
It’s not the delay in itself that’s bothering him though. There’s something uneasy in the air, a sense of apprehension brimming underneath his skin that he can’t quite place, and he wants to set his mind to rest by reaching the castle as soon as possible.
He turns his head, hoping to distract himself by teasing Merlin and maybe gauge if he can feel it too, but remembers at the last moment that he’s not with them, for once. Gaius had fallen sick, and Merlin had stayed behind to take care of him and his patients.
Arthur would never admit it, but the absence of Merlin’s inane chatter is more unsettling than it has any right to be.
After another hour, they finally reach the castle, only to be stopped by a dozen guards at the gates. “Prince Arthur, your father requests your presence immediately,” one of them says, shifting from foot to foot and avoiding his eyes.
“My father is up?” he asks, unable to hide his surprise, and he exchanges a glance with Leon. It’s been months since Morgana’s betrayal, but his father has only been getting worse.
The guard nods but doesn’t say anything else. They follow the group into the courtyard, and the weird sense of foreboding intensifies when he sees the pyre that’s standing in the middle of it. There are already people gathered around, watching him and his knights in silence but quickly turning away when they notice his attention on them.
Arthur dismounts and hands his reins to Gwaine, who silently inclines his head before he disappears towards the stables, followed by the others.
Turning towards the castle, he startles slightly when a hand on his arm stops him.
“Your father expects you on the balcony,” the guard says, and he’s not sure if he’s more surprised by his father and uncle standing on the balcony, or the fact that none of the guards seems inclined to leave him alone.
He frowns but follows them while trying to spot a familiar face in the crowd—this whole thing is getting more ominous with every second, and a heavy weight settles in his stomach. To raise his father from his apathy, it must be someone fairly important or at least unexpected. For Arthur to be accompanied by several guards, it can only mean that they’re either dangerous or someone he knows.
Scanning the crowd again, he can’t find anyone he knows. Neither Merlin or Gaius, nor Guinevere seem to be there, but he’s stopped from considering it further when they enter the stairway up to the balcony.
“Arthur,” Agravaine greets him, a thin smile twisting his lips. “We had expected you back earlier. No matter, you’re just in time.”
Arthur inclines his head to him and his father, before stepping up to the latter. “Who is it, father? What happened?” he murmurs, dreading the answer but needing to ask anyway.
His father glances at him, but his face gives away nothing. He’s thinner than he used to be, pale skin stretching over his cheekbones, but his eyes are hard, and his jaw is set, and Arthur is certain that nobody but him can see the exhaustion lingering underneath.
“You’ll see. Let this be another lesson to show you that nobody can be trusted and that sorcery hides in many forms,” his father answers and turns away, a clear dismissal. At his nod to some of the guards beneath them, there’s a commotion at the entrance to the dungeons as a person is brought out.
He barely keeps himself from craning his neck to get a better view, his father’s cryptic remark doing nothing to loosen the knot in his chest, and his hands clench tightly at his sides.
When the person is finally led out of the throng of people and his eyes fall onto a familiar mop of black hair, it knocks all the breath out of him. “You can’t be serious!” he hisses, turning to stare at his father. “There must’ve been a mistake! There’s absolutely no way Merlin is a sorcerer.”
Uther glares at him, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “He was seen by your uncle himself. He used magic on one of the horses, the one you usually ride. Obviously, an attempt to tamper with it.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he insists, drawing his shoulders back. “Why would he do that if he had a hundred better chances to kill me for years now?”
“He admitted it, Arthur,” Uther says, and he takes an actual step back at the words. “He admitted that he’s a sorcerer—“
“But not that he tried to harm me?” Arthur interrupts, his thoughts whirring while nausea is welling up within him.
“I’ve told you many times that those who use magic are deceitful, will try to trick you and hit when you least expect it. Admitting that he used magic in the heart of Camelot is more than enough reason!”
His father was getting angry now, impatience obvious in the way he grips Arthur’s arm tightly.
Still, it’s Merlin, for god’s sake. Merlin couldn’t harm anyone if he wanted to, and there must still be some mistake, something Arthur doesn’t know yet. Something he won’t find out if his father goes through with this.
He shakes his head, trying to dispel the thoughts and glancing down into the courtyard where they’re just securing Merlin to the pyre, the heavy iron around his neck and wrists gleaming in the light of the setting sun.
“Father, I really don’t think—“
“That’s enough!” Uther hisses, his glare burning into him. “My decision is final and you’d do good to learn something from all this. Otherwise, I may be forced to believe that you knew about his treason.”
“I’d never—“ he chokes, but Uther’s attention is back down in the courtyard now, and he gives a simple nod to the man who’s holding a torch.
Arthur doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to witness his friend—
Well, and that’s the problem, isn’t it? Was Merlin ever really his friend? Does he even know the man? His eyes snap down to him on their own accord, and he finds Merlin already staring at him, gaze intent and unwavering despite the position he’s in.
Next to him, Uther clears his throat. “Once again, magic tried to attack Camelot, and once again, we stopped it before it could succeed. Let this be a warning to our enemies—no matter how hard you try, we will never allow you to spread your wickedness among us!”
Merlin is still staring at him, and when he speaks, his voice carries easily through the courtyard. “I am a warlock, I was born with magic. I never used it to harm Camelot or its people, only to protect.” His gaze shifts to Arthur’s father and his expression hardens in a way Arthur’s not sure he has ever seen on him before. “It is your guilt that is driving your hatred, Uther Pendragon, and I would pity you if you hadn’t slaughtered so many innocents. You have only yourself to blame for what you have lost.”
Uther snarls and brings down his hand, indicating for the guard to light the pyre. Merlin’s eyes are back on Arthur though, calm and collected as he stands tall despite flames already licking at the dry wood at his feet.
Arthur swallows, the ache in his chest growing by the second and it’s like he can’t draw a single breath, can’t tear his eyes away either as the fire grows higher. “I can’t watch this,” he chokes, but the grip his father has on his shoulder keeps him firmly in place.
“You can and you will.”
Resentment starts burning in the back of his throat and he wrenches himself free. “This isn’t right and you know it! Don’t you remember how many times he saved my life?”
Before he can move farther, four guards appear behind him and even though they’re still keeping a distance, the message is more than clear. He considers his chances in a fight, the deep sense of wrongness, of everything in him screaming and begging him to stop this, clashing with his confusion and the burning sense of betrayal.
It’s like he’s getting pulled into two directions. He just wants to know, to understand, to have a way to determine if maybe his father is right, after all, no matter how much it hurts to even consider it.
A gut-wrenching scream makes his blood freeze and he whirls back around, watching as the flames engulf Merlin who’s now merely a writhing shadow in a sea of yellow and red and orange.
It’s joined by another shout, and Arthur’s eyes snap to someone pushing through the crowd, needing only seconds to recognize Gwaine. He’s held back by guards, four of them necessary to keep him away from the pyre, and Arthur doesn’t know if he should be glad or disappointed that they succeed.
This is all just way too much, and when Gwaine meets his eyes, he can do nothing but look away from the accusation and burning anguish he finds there, even over the distance.
Merlin’s screams have stopped, only to be replaced by the acrid smell of burning flesh, and Arthur has to swallow against the bile that’s rising in his throat.
“One day, you will thank me for this,” Uther says lowly, and a part of Arthur wants to rage at him, to hurl into his face that he will never forgive him for this, but another part, the one raised to be king someday, insists that he’s still missing too many pieces.
Betrayal and grief and a weird sense of disconnection from reality are brewing a toxic mixture of confusion within him, and as soon as his father steps away from the balcony, he disappears into the direction of his chambers as fast as his shaky legs carry him.
The moment the door closes behind him, he slumps against it and buries his face in his hands. Merlin is dead. Merlin is—was a sorcerer—or a warlock if Arthur is inclined to believe him.
Merlin’s last words come back to him, the blunt admission of what Arthur still can’t believe. Everything that’s happened since they’ve arrived back at the castle seems like a dream, or maybe a nightmare if he’s honest with himself. He’d prefer it right now, would take a hundred nightmares over what is only slowly sinking in as real.
He lifts his head and stares around the chambers that seem unnaturally cold and empty even though nothing has changed. There are still clothes hanging over the changing-screen, a few pieces of armour lying by the fire where Merlin usually sits to polish it, and books and parchment scattered on the desk.
Well—where Merlin used to sit, and that knocks the breath out of him all over again. His head is spinning, and the unanswered questions lingering at the edge of his mind are becoming more and more insistent. He needs to do something if he doesn’t want to go insane, and if that is getting answers, then so be it.
He needs to hear from someone other than his father, who has been drowning more in his grief than anything else for the last few months or, gods help him, Agravaine, what actually happened.
The name of his uncle, who is apparently the one responsible for this whole disaster, sends an unexpected bolt of resentment through him and he frowns. It’s not his uncle’s fault that Merlin broke the law, knowingly, and then went and admitted it. But that knowledge does nothing to ease the twitching of his fingers, the desire for someone to pay for all this.
Shaking his head, he clenches his jaw and leaves the room. Only when he’s already halfway to the physician chambers does he remember that he didn’t see Gaius earlier. Or Guinevere for that matter, and the realisation brings a whole new barrage of questions with it.
Did they know? Did they try to free Merlin? Or are they as shocked and confused and lost as Arthur feels?
His hand instinctively finds the hilt of his sword when he considers it. At least Gaius had to have known, perhaps even taught Merlin. Someone had to after all—or do warlocks not need anyone to teach them?
Arthur knows decidedly too little about the whole matter, and he quickens his steps until he reaches the stairs to the tower. He feels like everything is spiralling out of control and it’s a feeling he loathes with a burning passion. The fact that it’s not something he can tackle with a sword and a few knights only makes it worse.
Holy fuck, but the knights. His mind jumps to Gwaine, anguished and struggling in the courtyard. To Lancelot, who had always had a particularly close relationship with Merlin, so much so that in his less honourable moments, it drove Arthur into hidden fits of jealousy. He doesn’t want to consider how they’re going to react—if they’re even going to stay.
Gwaine, he knows, only came back for Merlin, only stayed for Merlin. He’s probably going to blame Arthur, at least partly—he’s not sure yet if he might not just agree with him.
“Sire.”
It takes him a moment to realise that he has stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and he winces at the flat, tired voice coming from behind him.
Gaius looks like he has aged fifty years within the last week. He doesn’t meet Arthur’s eyes, his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed. “What can I do for you?”
Arthur swallows and hesitates, not knowing where to start, what to ask—if he even should, if he wants to know, after all, but he quickly disregards it. He needs to know, with a primal urge he can’t quite explain. Maybe he just needs to hear something that will allow him to be angry, give that deciding shove to make the betrayal burn hot and bright instead of cold and uncertain, something that’ll make him feel less numb and more righteous.
“Gaius, I’m—“ he bites off the ‘sorry’ that wants to slip out and draws a breath. “Can I talk to you? Please?”
There’s a beat of silence but then Gaius’ shoulders draw back and he meets his eyes. It’s not respect, not really, more silent defiance that at least answers the question if Gaius knew without Arthur needing to ask. It bothers him less than it probably should.
“Follow me. I’ve just been released from the dungeons, so I’d prefer to sit down and have a cup of tea,” Gaius says, brushing past him with more discourtesy than Arthur has ever seen on the man.
It’s not what bothers him right now though. “The dungeons? Why—“
Gaius’ mirthless laugh cuts him off, but he doesn’t offer an answer until the door to his workshop is closed behind them. “There were concerns that we would try to aid Merlin in an attempt to escape, so your uncle proposed it to avoid further trouble. Your father agreed,” Gaius says, his voice still flat as he walks over to the fireplace. “Of course, only because we spoke out—and not like Merlin would’ve let us. Stupid, insolent—“
A rattling breath shakes Gaius’ whole body and his shoulders slump.
Arthur quickly crosses the distance between them, scared that Gaius might just topple over from the sudden grief that seems to overwhelm him, and he carefully manoeuvres him into the chair that’s standing next to the hearth.
“We? And what do you mean, he wouldn’t let you? Gaius please, what happened?”
Gaius sighs and runs a hand over his face, at last meeting Arthur’s eyes. The misery and guilt he finds there are impossible to bear, and he drops into the chair across from Gaius.
“Gwen and me. And he wouldn’t let us help him because he didn’t want to see us burn as well. He made us promise—said someone needed to look after you,” Gaius says, a sad smile tugging at his lips.
Arthur wants to argue that he doesn’t need looking after but stops himself. He’s just considered asking again for what happened, he’ll plead and beg if he has to, when the door flies open and Lancelot comes rushing inside, Guinevere directly behind him.
Both were obviously crying, and Arthur thinks that he usually would be more bothered to see the two of them together like this, but he can’t find it in himself to care right now. They stop short when they spot him next to Gaius, and he desperately searches for something to say, but he’s never had any less of an idea of what could possibly be the right words.
Guinevere gets over her shock the fastest and hurries over to Gaius, kneeling next to his chair. “Gaius,” is all she says, gripping one of his hands between hers, and Gaius offers her another weak smile.
“Can—what happened?” Lancelot says after a moment, his voice hoarse and tired like Arthur has never heard him before.
Gaius gives another deep sigh and Gwen gets up to prepare tea.
“Is it true?” Arthur asks before he can stop himself. “Is he—was he really a—“
“Yes,” Gaius says, and there’s no apology in his words, only pride. “He was born with magic, and was one of the strongest, if not the strongest warlock I’ve ever seen. Some even say he was the greatest warlock to ever walk the earth.”
Arthur stares at him, disbelief mixing with a sliver of irrational fear. “Merlin,” he says, not sure if Gaius is trying to pull his leg as he tries to align his clumsy manservant with ‘powerful’ in his mind. He’s not successful.
“Yes,” Gaius says with a nod. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. He didn’t know a single spell when he arrived here and could do things others don’t achieve in a lifetime.”
“So, Agravaine really did see him,” he murmurs more to himself, only now realising that he has been doubting that part of the story.
A shadow passes over Gaius’ face, but it’s Guinevere who answers, her voice low but steady. “He was healing Hengroen. We tried to convince Agravaine to wait with the verdict until your return, but he went to your father.”
“He was—what? But why would he risk…” Arthur stammers, too hung up on the first part to consider anything else right now.
Guinevere is pouring the boiling water into four goblets and hands one to each of them before she looks at him with a small, sad smile. “Because it’s your favourite horse.”
It’s true enough, and he remembers complaining to Merlin about the leg injury that would’ve most likely been too severe for recovery. He shakes the thought and tries to focus on more important questions, but it’s hard. Healing Arthur’s favourite horse doesn’t sound particularly evil; it sounds exactly like something Merlin would do. “So you knew?” he asks, looking between Gaius and Guinevere. He completely fails at keeping the accusation out of his tone.
“I did,” Gaius says. “Gwen didn’t, until yesterday.”
“I knew as well,” Lancelot speaks up, his voice soft as he leans against the table, and he has a faraway look in his eyes. “He didn’t tell me, mind you. I heard him chanting a spell when I tried to kill the Griffin.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” It’s out before Arthur can stop himself, but it’s all getting a bit much. His mind is whirring and there’s still this indescribable ache in his chest that flares and burns with every beat of his heart, and he’s not sure how many more betrayals he can take in one day.
“He saved my life, Arthur,” Lancelot says, his voice still soft but firm, and he meets Arthur’s eyes calmly. “And yours as well, more times than you’ll ever know.”
He glances at Gaius, who inclines his head. “I think not even Merlin knows exactly how many times, but it’s true, sire. He never meant you or Camelot any harm.”
It’s weirdly reminiscence of Merlin’s own words just before—
Arthur cuts the thought off, too painful and too fresh, still. He can feel a headache coming and rubs his temples. “Why would he—what was he even doing here? If he was really born with it, why not go to a kingdom where he’s not in so much danger?”
He’s still not sure if he can believe any of this but he wants to. Gods, how he wants to. At the same time, a part of him wishes that there were more reasons for anger, something to hate and resent Merlin for, to lessen the pressure of guilt and grief that’s gnawing at him.
“It was his destiny. His and yours. And well, the more practical reason was that his mother was concerned; he had difficulties controlling his magic when he came here and she hoped I could help him,” Gaius explains, his hands clenching around his goblet.
“So she sent him to Camelot? When he had problems controlling his magic?” Arthur asks, having difficulties wrapping his mind around that.
Gaius shrugs. “Hunith is my sister, and she trusted me to keep him safe. Mind you, his abilities went far beyond my knowledge, but he found a purpose, a reason for the powers he had, and eventually learnt to control them. Not that it made him any more careful.”
The last part is murmured with fond exasperation, and then Gaius seems to realise his own words and his lips press into a thin line. Silence settles over them, heavy and sombre.
Arthur wants to ask why Merlin never told him, but he probably knows the answer to that and isn’t sure if he wants to hear someone say it. Neither does he want to think about Hunith, about what she’s going to think about him when she learns that his father killed her son. Instead, he focuses on something else Gaius said. “What did you mean, his destiny? And mine?”
Gaius shifts in his chair and seems to ponder what to say, but when he meets Arthur’s eyes, there’s once more only pride. “There is—was a prophecy, said to be older than mankind, of the Once and Future King who would unite the land of Albion and bring magic back to the land. But to achieve that, he’d need a powerful warlock at his side, to guide and protect him, and to build the kingdom with.”
Arthur is gaping, he knows he is, but—“And that’s supposed to be… Merlin and me?”
“Indeed,” Gaius answers calmly like that isn’t the wildest thing anyone has ever told Arthur. “You are but two sides of the same coin, your destinies entwined since long before you were born.” Here, he hesitates, and another bone-rattling sigh escapes him. “I do not know how his—how this recent development influences any of it. He was not supposed to—“
Gaius chokes on his words and Guinevere steps closer to him, squeezing his shoulder, but there are tears in her eyes as well.
Arthur doesn’t know what to think; his chest feels tight and he has difficulties in holding on to a single thought but for the question, was that the only reason Merlin stayed? He remembers more than one occasion where Merlin mentioned destiny; remembers how he was always a bit taken aback by the unwavering faith and belief Merlin seemed to have in him.
It’s much less surprising if it stemmed from some prophecy about destinies and Albion—about bringing magic back. And to some degree, it makes sense, doesn’t it? That Merlin would stick around to see it come to pass, to see his people no longer persecuted and burnt.
The more he hears, the less he feels like he knew the man who he considered his closest friend at all. It hurts so much more than he wants to admit.
“I—I think I need to go,” he presses out, suddenly desperate to be alone, to try and make sense of everything that happened over the last few hours, or maybe just drink himself into oblivion. He also doesn’t want anyone to see how his walls are crumbling one by one.
“Arthur—“ Guinevere calls, but he’s already halfway to the door and shakes his head without turning around.
“I just—I need time.”
“You were very dear to him,” Gaius says. “Never forget that.”
Arthur is not sure if he can believe that either.
The next weeks are some of the worst Arthur has ever had to live through. He still has to manage the kingdom as his father has returned to his previous, unresponsive state, and he throws himself into the work. He barely sleeps, and when he does his dreams are plagued with pictures of burning pyres and various other scenarios of Merlin dying. Only interrupted by scenes where Merlin reveals that he has never been his friend but an obligation, forced by the hand of destiny or whatever else nonsense.
Arthur tries not to think about it. Tries not to think about Merlin at all because it just leads to his throat closing up and his heart racing, makes his hands shake and causes him to lose focus he can’t afford to lose. He brushes off whoever tries to talk to him about him, only to catch himself looking over his shoulder to make a comment, throw an insult or a joke, and every single time it knocks all the breath out of him.
He can’t look at his uncle without feeling a surge of anger, and the only time he allows himself any display of emotion is on the training field when he runs his knights through an even harsher regime than usual.
It’s the only thing that offers some twisted sense of relief; turning off his brain and simply letting the anger and betrayal lead his sword, going through the knights until none of them can stand any longer.
The only one still keen on fighting him is Gwaine, who meets him with a ferocious intensity that easily rivals Arthur’s own. It could be satisfying, to have someone who deals—or not deals—with his grief the same way Arthur does, but whenever he looks at Gwaine, he can see the accusation and anger burning in his eyes.
He knows he should probably address it, but he’s still not sure what he’s supposed to think about Merlin, and would really rather not think of him at all. So he avoids meeting Gwaine’s eyes and takes the occasional defeat in training with as much grace as he can muster.
Of course, it has to come to a head eventually. It’s only a month after Merlin—disappeared, and Arthur is in his chambers, going over plans for the upcoming patrols while George is cleaning up.
It’s still uncomfortable and feels downright wrong, to have someone else in his room, but there’s no good explanation he could offer to not have a servant. And unlike the other four servants he has hired and fired within the last few weeks, George at least doesn’t speak unless ordered to and leaves as soon as he’s done.
A knock on the door pulls him out of his thoughts and it takes him a moment to remember that he requested a knight come and pick up the new schedules.
Gwaine doesn’t wait for an invitation and steps into the room, staying by the door as soon as it closes and crossing his arms over his chest. His glare is ill-disguised, and it earns him a quiet huff from George.
It instantly catches Gwaine’s attention, gaze snapping to the servant, and his lips curl into a sneer. “Already replaced him, did you?”
“Gwaine—“
“No, I get it. After all, when it’s easy for you to condemn someone to death, why should it be any more complicated to give their job to someone else. What does it matter if they would’ve died for you? Did die—not for you, mind, but at least because of you.”
Arthur’s on his feet so quickly that his chair clatters to the floor, the sound too loud in the tense silence that follows. “Leave us,” he snarls at George, who doesn’t waste a second to do just that, slipping around Gwaine who merely scoffs.
“Gwaine, I didn’t—“ he stops and clenches his jaw at his inability to even say, much less believe what he wants to.
“You didn’t kill him?” Gwaine finishes mercilessly, his eyes boring into Arthur’s. “True, but you didn’t stop them either. You probably didn’t even know more than what your father and uncle accused him of, and that was all you needed to know to throw away years of friendship.”
“I tried!” he finally explodes, his hands clenching around the edge of the table to keep himself from reaching for his sword. “Don’t you think I tried? It’s not as if my father ever considered my opinion in these matters, and he made it very clear that not only would the guards stop me, but that he would consider me an accomplice if I did anything. He forced me to watch, for fuck’s sake!”
“He was your friend, and you let him die!” Gwaine hurls back at him. “You didn’t even try!”
He draws a deep breath to keep himself from saying or doing things he would regret and meets Gwaine’s eyes coolly. “Careful, Gwaine. You’ve sworn your allegiance to me, to this kingdom, and that includes its laws.”
It’s the wrong thing to say, obvious in the way Gwaine’s eyes flash. He takes several steps forward until he can lean his hands on the table, close to invading Arthur’s personal space. “Yes, and I did it for Merlin. He was the only friend I had, Arthur, and it’s yours and your father’s fault he’s gone,” he says, his voice suddenly quiet and cold. The pure contempt that’s radiating off of him seems out of place on the cheery knight he used to know, and Arthur struggles to not flinch away from it all.
“He was my only friend as well,” he says before he can stop himself, the words catching in his throat, and he has to look away.
Gwaine’s answering laugh is mirthless and hoarse. “If that’s how you treat your friends, I’m sure I don’t want to count myself amongst them.”
His head snaps up and he stares at him, his heart racing in his chest. “What are you saying?”
But Gwaine doesn’t answer, just turns on his heel and walks out, the door clicking shut behind him with a silent finality.
He considers going after him, but he doesn’t know what he could possibly say. The problem is that a part of him doesn’t even disagree with everything Gwaine is accusing him of, he just hopes that he’ll cool down eventually.
When he arrives at training the next morning, Gwaine’s nowhere to be seen. He frowns, not only because he had hoped that another round of sparring might just ease some of the tension between them. He dismisses the thought and puts Gwaine’s absence down to another too-long night in the tavern when Leon approaches him with a sombre expression, Lancelot only a step behind him.
“Sir Leon, Sir Lancelot,” he greets, trying to gauge what the issue is, but they both look uncomfortable and maybe even apologetic, so it’s unlikely to be a matter of court or state.
“Sire,” Leon starts, and exchanges another glance with Lancelot before he sighs and straightens his shoulders. “Sir Gwaine left. We found his cloak and armour in his room, but all his personal belongings are gone.”
Arthur wants to feel relief, regardless of the guilt that accompanies that wish, but all he can feel is cold dread settling in his stomach.
Merlin is gone, and it seems that it is only getting worse from there.