Chapter Text
It came in stages, as Merlin used what little time he had to come up with a solid plan. Even now, he struggles with the notion that it'll be enough. If it fails, Arthur will kill him on the spot.
The King was angry, at first. He moved to reinstate the ban on magic, then immediately sentenced Lancelot and Elyan to the dungeons, as they weren't born of noble blood and were no longer considered Knights of Camelot in his eyes. Percival was too "valuable" in his physical prowess to let him go—and Merlin?
Arthur barely knew who he was, let alone that he had magic.
What's worse—and what ultimately reaffirmed Gaius' assumption about the vision Arthur saw—was the constant threats of war, sent out daily, to the Northern Druids. Specifically, to Lady Venetia. And did they ever arrive? No. Merlin intercepted them well before they could. He only needed to read the first letter to know that he was never enchanted to begin with. He was angry at her for showing him the disgrace that was, quoted, "abhorrent and contemptible, according to the laws and values of Camelot."
Merlin couldn't stomach the rest after that.
Gaius turned out to be right about many things, when it came to Arthur. That, without the love in his heart, he was no better than his father. Even now, he didn't want to believe it—but he had to accept that they were under Uther's reign once more, even if he hated himself for it.
It was two weeks after the start of the second Purge that Merlin stormed into Arthur's bedchambers, his eyes flashing gold, and sent Arthur's body flying across the room.
The original plan was to knock him out with his magic, but Merlin is livid. There's a child shivering in the dungeons, falsely accused of using magic, that's now under the threat of execution because Arthur could no longer distinguish right from wrong.
He has to fix it. For the sake of the Kingdom, for the sake of his friends who are barely getting fed, and for the sake of the man himself, who's using every ounce of strength he has to fight against Merlin's magical restraints. Merlin feels it—the stress weighing down his heart like lead; the anger, the hatred that festers within him like swill.
The doors slam behind them, locking themselves automatically.
It strikes him hard—the realization of how strong Merlin is in comparison. Arthur's face is red and he's looking at Merlin like he won't hesitate to kill him once he's freed. Merlin doesn't care, he will do everything in his power to bring Arthur back.
"Hello, old friend." Merlin seethes, stalking over towards Arthur's body that's currently being held against the wall. Chest-to-chest, he levels him with the sort of judgment akin to an angry god.
"I'm ashamed of you, Arthur." He states with a painful lump in his throat, stepping away to pace in front of him. Arthur's eyes follow him like the tip of a sword and Merlin knows he's trying to speak, but he can't. His lips are held shut.
"The man that I know would rather die than consider sending a helpless child to the pyre. He would rather die than to watch his friends starve to death! His friends—that have pledged their undying loyalty to him, nobility be damned! That love you so much, that even as you continue to hurt them, they would stand there and let you do it—they'd let you kill them. Every last one."
Merlin watches intently for any flicker of emotion other than hatred.
He watches, with a crushing weight in his chest, as his words do absolutely nothing.
"I love you, Arthur Pendragon." His voice is barely above a whisper, but he knows the second that it reaches the other's ears.
Arthur averts his eyes for a split-second, as if he's uncomfortable. It's the first real sign of any progress—but it's a sign, nonetheless, and one that spurs him on further. Desperate for more than that, Merlin bridges the gap between them and searches his face, but Arthur refuses to look at him.
"I love you... I love him and I love you and every other version of you that exists—until the day that I take my last breath, I will always love you." Merlin finally releases the tears that have been threatening to spill, careful not to break his hold on the man in front of him. The reflection in his eyes now burn like melted gold and for a second—brief, but there, Arthur's expression softens.
"I'll get you back, I promise. I'll get you back..." Merlin clings to the front of Arthur's tunic, in a desperate attempt to save himself from drowning in this. His long fingers smooth over the curve of Arthur's neck, cradling the back of his head to press their foreheads together.
With practiced control, Merlin releases the hold he has on Arthur's lips.
He doesn't give Arthur a chance to speak—instead, Merlin dips his head, the touch of his lips featherlight against the King's. Even with just the slightest of contact, Merlin knows that it should be enough to break any spell, and hopefully, reverse whatever he's done to him.
There's no movement under his lips, except for the warm, laboured breaths coming from Arthur's nostrils. Merlin lifts his head a little, their lips separating with a soft smack.
The look on Arthur's face says it all.
He's going to execute him.
"A-arthur..." Merlin lets his hands fall from Arthur's tunic and steps back, shaking his head in disbelief. "Arthur, please..."
Merlin sinks to his knees in desperation, calling upon his ancestors for help. His Dragonlord kin—the very blood that runs through his veins—from which he derives every ounce of his power. He searches through the golden weave that binds him to this Earth and demands their presence, much like the night before.
However, their judgment is instant—offended and loathesome—and the sheer force of it knocks him off his feet, sending his body flying across the room. The back of his head hits the wall with a sickening crack and Merlin wheezes in pain as the world drifts in and out of focus.
Suddenly released from Merlin's magic, Arthur's body falls to the floor in an ungraceful heap, before he's on his feet again and taking cautious steps towards Merlin.
Before he loses consciousness, he feels the iron shackles locking into place around his wrists and binding them together. He doesn't have the energy to cry out in pain anymore, but his magic is doing everything in it's power to fight back. Only, it's severely hindered by the metal and he can feel his body quickly giving up on him.
He knows exactly where Arthur will dump him, next—
The dungeons.
The pain is what wakes him up; crushing him like lead in his veins. His limbs are too heavy, but too thin and weak at the same time—this is what it must be like to dangle from the precipice of death. A mortal death—only, Merlin's heart would never stop beating.
With every ounce of strength he has, Merlin forces his eyes open to take in his surroundings. Unable to move or speak, he can only stare at the crumpled body lying next to him.
Gwaine.
Merlin's breath hitches at the sordid state of his friend—exhausted and filthy, barely able to take a proper breath anymore. Tears are dripping down Merlin's cheeks as his eyes flicker to the wall behind him.
"Nnn..." Merlin pants desperately, his fingers twitching under him, begging to do something.
They're all going to die here because of Merlin.
Sir Leon and Percival are out cold—bodies slumped against the wall, held up by the shackles and chains dangling from the ceiling and wrapped around their wrists. He can't turn around, but he's fairly certain that the rest of his friends are on the other side—Lancelot, maybe Gwen.
Merlin knows what they must've done to wound up here with the rest. They fought back for the release of their friends, they went against Arthur's new reign.
A feeling of sudden pride for their bravery forces his limbs to finally obey him. He releases a guttural cry of pain for the pressure behind his skull, then the burning sensation around his wrists. Despite his efforts to command his magic, it can't hear him over the steady vibrations radiating from the iron and pouring into his veins.
"G-gwaine, you have to... Have to wake up, yeah? Please wake up..." A sob wracks his shoulders as he falls on top of his friend, his forehead pressed to his chest.
Gwaine stirs a little, but his breathing stays just as it was—barely-there, nothing more than a gentle breeze in Merlin's hair.
Merlin loses consciousness for the second time, to the sound of chains being dragged across the floor.
The next time he wakes, it's not from the agony or the sound of his friends begging for death. It's from the pressure in his wrists, as he's forcefully dragged from their cell and into the tunnels.
"No..." Merlin growls and struggles pathetically against the person dragging him through the dirt. He needs to be with his friends—they're his home, his heart, everything he knows.
"Please!" He screams at Arthur, nearly ripping his throat open. "No, let me die here! Let me die with our friends!"
Merlin's shoulder pops out of it's socket as Arthur yanks him up to his knees, motioning for another guard to flank his other side. With two, strong hands tugging on his shoulders, Merlin's head hangs forward and he cies out in pain from his knees scraping against the jagged stone.
"I'm sorry..." He repeats this for the entire duration, until they drag him outside into the heart of the city. He's not apologizing to Arthur, or the men that follow close behind—nameless, with no redeeming qualities about them. He's apologizing for the young girl, captured from her parents. He's apologizing for his friends that will die because of what he's done—he's apologizing for the future of Camelot, now crumbling to dust at his feet.
"You're destroying everything your mother worked so hard to build, Arthur. It was her, it was never Uther—"
Arthur ignores him, hauling him up by his shoulders and leaning his body back against the pyre. His face is devoid of any and all emotion, as he wraps Merlin's torso in many layers of rope, making it hard for him to breathe.
Merlin spots Morgana in the crowd, hurling insults at Arthur and struggling to break free of the two guards holding her back. With a wave of his hand, Arthur gestures for another guard to silence her.
One of the faceless men approaches Morgana and covers her mouth with his hand, shouting at her to show some respect.
Upon closer inspection, her arms and legs are both in iron shackles. Whether or not Arthur had known about her magic, it didn't make a difference now, as the only two known sorcerers in Camelot were now powerless to stop the King.
This is it, this is the end of Albion as they know it. Everything they've worked so hard to build together will be lost to future generations, to a version of Albion that was never meant to be.
Merlin stays silent as Arthur turns his back on him to address the crowd—which had grown fifty times it's size within the past five minutes. Despite the sudden volume, Merlin knows them all by name, can feel how helpless they are to stop this. He would risk his own life to keep any one of them safe.
Just as Arthur has done many times in the past.
"On this day, let it be known that we are at war with a greater evil—an evil that can only be fought with evil. It has taken me many years to come to terms with my father's beliefs and to embrace them as my own. Let this be a warning to all that practice magic within these walls..." Arthur trails off and dips his oil-soaked torch in the flames of a tall brazier, positioned right next to Merlin's head.
Arthur turns to face the crowd once more, his shoulders squared in determination.
"There can be no place for magic in Camelot."
What?
Merlin furrows his brows in confusion.
He's said those very words to Arthur before, verbatum, back when Mordred was banished from the city. Back when Merlin thought that the only way to keep Arthur alive was by lying to him.
Back then, it was the threat of a prophecy that nearly killed his friend.
Merlin doesn't have to cherry-pick through years of conversation, because there's one moment between them that'll forever be branded into his heart—and it should be enough to keep him alive for another day or so. His dry, cracked lips stretch painfully into the first genuine smile he's had in months.
Merlin waits for Arthur to step up to the pyre.
"Sometimes I think I know you, Merlin..." Merlin starts, breathless and quickly losing the strength to stay conscious. "Other times..."
Arthur's foot stalls on the second-to-last step, his other knee bent as if he were kneeling. Gradually, he lifts his head and locks eyes with Merlin.
Arthur looks confused, at first; waging a bitter war against himself—internally wading through the emotions that he currently has, versus the ones that were stolen from him.
The torch suddenly falls from his grip and tumbles unceremoniously towards the ground beneath them. Merlin watches as it sizzles out in the mud—then, Merlin's sobbing in utter relief and pride for the man in front of him. Around them, the crowd is dead-silent in anticipation for what the King will do next.
Arthur kneels fully on the top step, staring up at Merlin in a trance. He's not completely aware of what he's doing yet, but Merlin can tell that he's fighting it with everything he has.
"Well, I know you..." Arthur quotes Merlin's words from that night, his eyes beginning to well up with tears. "You’re a great warrior—and one day, you’ll be a great king."
Merlin's breath gets caught in his throat and he bursts out laughing as he remembers what Arthur said next, quoting it in a mocking tone that could only befit the arrogance of the man kneeling in front of him.
"That's very kind of you." Merlin puts on his serious face, narrowing his eyes in mock-suspicion.
Arthur's lips twitch in amusement. "But you must learn to listen as well as you fight."
"Any other pointers?"
Arthur shakes his head. "No, that's it. Just..."
"Don't be a prat." Merlin finishes for him.
Arthur blinks several times, then it all seems to hit him at once.
He clutches the front of his chainmail and chokes on a sharp inhale, clawing at his armour—thrusted into a full-blown panic in front of every man, woman and child in the whole of Camelot.
Merlin knows that it's because his heart has returned to him.
Tears streak the layers of dirt and grime covering Merlin's cheeks, as Arthur suddenly gets to his feet and rushes to remove the layers of rope covering Merlin's torso. He shouts in desperation,
"Guards! Someone please, anyone!"
Bedivere is all-too eager to help him, as he dashes up the steps and slices through the rope with his sword. Then, Merlin feels his magic flood his veins again, as the shackles fall from his wrists.
"Arthur!" Merlin yelps in alarm, as his body suddenly falls forward without warning. Arthur catches him easily and picks him up at the waist, cradling his head to his chest.
Then, Arthur's jogging across the courtyard—his voice cracks as he shouts orders left and right, pushing people out of the way, for the release of Camelot's knights and every other prisoner falsely accused of a crime they haven't committed. Merlin's clinging to Arthur with everything he has, digging his nails in, finally regaining his strength as his magic begins to heal the wound on the back of his head.
Arthur doesn't speak to him, but his grip is strong and protective, so Merlin relaxes into it and tries not to move too much. He takes the spiral staircase two at a time, warning everyone to stay back. Merlin watches all of the servants and midwives clinging to the walls out of fear—he figures that Arthur's unpredictable behavior has warranted those reactions.
"Gaius?!" Arthur barges through the open doorway of the infirmary.
Merlin spots several servants rushing around with buckets and fresh water, now tending to the knights retrieved from the dungeon. Some of them are still unconscious—others, barely able to hold themselves up. Merlin feels Arthur's shoulders shaking in remorse for what he's done.
"Arthur, put me down—I need to help them." Merlin grunts, trying to squirm out of his hold. Arthur helps him to his feet, but he's still gripping his left hip in hesitation, seemingly unwilling to let him leave. Merlin looks up at him through his lashes and cups Arthur's face with both hands.
"I'm fine, I promise... It's not your fault, okay?"
Tears start to well in the King's eyes, as Merlin's are already stained with the evidence of all that has happened to him. With one, unsure nod, Arthur backs away and lets him go.