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1917farmgirl · 7 years

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Lonely

Written for the Tumblr blog – Merlin Memory Month 2018. Day 3: Path III – Emotion/Mood: Lonely

*****

The most terrible poverty is loneliness, and the feeling of being unloved. —Mother Teresa

*****

From the corner of the market place, well hidden behind a stall selling brooms, the little boy watched the hustle and bustle with sad eyes.

His eyes didn’t dwell on the treasures and treats for sale and barter. They didn’t linger on the garish colors and strange designs of the traveling merchants’ clothing and caravans.

No, they sought out and followed the children – ordinary boys and girls, zipping and dodging through the chaos, innocent and laughing and carefree.

AO3 Link (https://archiveofourown.org/works/13924224)

He wanted to join them – to step out from his cover and race after them, crash into a few and fall giggling into the dust, stand up and reach out and exchange names.

Would it really hurt? Just this once? To just play? To make friends?

A boy – perhaps a little younger than him – suddenly spied him. He stopped, letting his friends go on ahead, and cocked his head in a curious way before grinning and waving.

Hesitantly, the hidden boy raised a hand and shyly waved back.

“ARTHUR PENDRAGON!”

He jerked his face up to find Nurse Agatha marching across the square right toward his apparently not-so-well-hidden corner, skirts raised above her ankles in her anger. His momentarily-found, not-yet-a-friend wisely scampered off, eyes huge.

Arthur gulped. There were only two people in his life that could actually inspire fear in him – his father and his nurse.

“You naughty, naughty boy!” she scolded, coming to a stop before him and grabbing his arm tight. Not tight enough to hurt – never that, for he was the prince after all – but tight enough to know his precious moment of freedom was over. “Do you know how long I’ve been searching for you? I was about to raise the alarm! This has gone on long enough! Your father shall hear of this!”

She tugged him forward – his heart sinking as she herded him through the mass of people. She would tell his father – his father would see to it that he never left the castle without permission again. He’d probably be old and gray before he made it outside of the inner courtyard once more.

With a longing so deep he couldn’t really explain it he glanced back one last time. The other boy was watching him from behind the safety of a water-barrel. Arthur almost thought he might look sorry.

*****

The corridors were dark and cold – quiet. Almost too quiet. A year ago, Arthur would have been frightened by that, but now that he’d passed another birthday, he knew better than to be afraid. He was a prince. Princes were always brave.

Besides, he had traveled this path often enough to know there was nothing scary – unless he was stupid enough to get caught.

Three more turns, two doors and one metal grate that seemed entirely dumb and purposeless and Arthur was there.

Without a word, he set his candle down on the chest he’d dragged into position the very first time he’d made this visit and then settled on the floor, gazing up.

The painted blue eyes of a blonde woman on canvas looked back at him.

Heart aching with an emptiness so huge he couldn’t express it, he simply hugged his knees to his chest and stared.

*****

“Very good, Arthur. You are doing it perfectly.”

Arthur beamed up at the physician then went back to the mortar and pestle he was using to crush the pungent, green plant. It was repetitive, and Gaius was so particular about it being done in just the right way, but it was also so very different from the tasks he was usually given. Somehow, he found being here in this room that smelled of smoke and herbs and linen comforting, found helping Gaius…nice.

“Father gave me my first sharpened sword today,” Arthur boasted proudly as he dropped a few more leaves into the bowl.

“Oh, he did?” Gaius said after just a moment, and Arthur couldn’t figure out why his eyes looked almost sad instead of excited like they should be. A real sword was such an honor!

“Arthur!” the voice of the king suddenly pushed through the slightly open door of the tower room. “Where are you?”

“With Gaius, Father,” Arthur called back, knowing better than to make his father keep looking.

The king swept into the room, an annoyed expression on his face that only darkened when he saw his son.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping Gaius…” Arthur mumbled, hands stilling in their work.

“Gaius?” the king question, turning an astonished face toward his physician.

“He seemed to enjoy the learning and the company, so I did not see any harm in it, sire,” the man said softly, bowing slightly.

“Come, Arthur,” his father snapped, grabbing his arm and jerking him away, not caring that it caused him to knock the bowl with all of his hard work onto the floor. With sorrow, Arthur eyed it as he was tugged away.

“I trust you will not be coercing my son – your prince – into anymore such learning again, Gaius,” the king growled.

“Of course, sire,” the older man replied, bowing again and giving Arthur a sad, gentle smile when the boy looked back right before he was dragged out of the room.

*****

With a growl of disgust, Arthur slammed the door of his quarters open and stomped to his desk, throwing his gloves down.

How dare he? How dare that mouthy peasant insult him like that, in front of…everyone!

And to think he’d had the nerve to call him friend!

Arthur scoffed, pulling his disgusting, sweaty tunic over his head and tossing it carelessly to the floor.

That was one lesson he’d learned better than all the rest – a prince didn’t have friends! Acquaintances, yes. Followers, subjects, peons… But never friends.

A prince was to be looked at, admired from afar, feared, obeyed, and respected. But never loved.

A ruler was to be on a pinnacle - forever lonely and alone.

Suddenly feeling tired, small, and empty, Arthur crossed his arms and leaned his bare shoulder against the cold, stone wall, gazing out the window.

Sometimes he wished he’d never been born a prince at all.

#merlin #arthur #merlin fanfiction #merlinmemorymonth #pre-canon

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1917farmgirl · 7 years

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Between a Rock and a Hard Place

(I’m only a day late with this...)

Written for Merlin Memory Month 2018.

Day 2:

Path I – “Nobility is defined by what you do, not by who you are.”

Path III – Emotion/Mood: Proud

Summary: Arthur learns the meaning of true friendship when a fun hunting trip takes a deadly turn, and Merlin shows that nobility comes from within. Reveal fic, Arthur & Merlin friendship.

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

“I guess that’s just part of loving people: You have to give things up. Sometimes you even have to give them up.”

- Lauren Oliver

*****

He was packing Arthur’s saddle bag for the return trip home when he found it. Grinning like a banshee and feeling totally wicked and playful, he pulled it out, holding it delicately up between two fingers in the soft, morning sunlight.

“Arthur, is this Gwen’s handkerchief?” he teased, batting his eyes.

(AO3 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/13886331)

The prince, currently occupied with dousing the remains of their breakfast fire, jerked his head up. “No!” he shouted.

Merlin didn’t even try to hide the laughter that bubbled up at the sight of his master’s horrified expression of embarrassment and guilt.

“It is Gwen’s, isn’t it!” he goaded, laughing deeply.

“Merlin, I’m warning you,” Arthur breathed, eyes narrowed as he took a completely nonmenacing step toward his manservant. “If you value your life, you will return that to where you found it and never speak of it again!”

Merlin ignored him. “Does Gwen know you have it? For that matter, how did you even get it?” He struck up a mock appalled posture. “Have you been sneaking out Arthur?”

Arthur gave a growl and lunged at his servant, but Merlin danced out of the way and took off, giggling madly with the handkerchief still held in his hand.

He wasn’t quite sure what made him do it, but they had just finished a blissful two-day “hunt” that consisted of just the two of them, traipsing through the woods in nice weather, blowing off steam and stress, and killing no animals whatsoever. Arthur got to pretend he wasn’t a prince; Merlin got to pretend he wasn’t a warlock (pretending he wasn’t a servant was out of the question with Arthur around – someone had to cook.) It had been perfect.

So, teasing Arthur like they were both village lads didn’t seem that out of the ordinary at the close of such a trip.

Besides, someone needed to do it – keep Arthur’s head from getting any more swollen.

“Merlin! This is treason!” Arthur roared from close behind Merlin, in a voice that was equal parts frustrated and laughing. “You better move those skinny legs fast because when I catch you there will be no mercy!”

Snickering again, Merlin turned on the speed, crashing through the underbrush with determination. He couldn’t win, not against training-is-my-middle-name Arthur, but he could at least make him work to recapture his prize.

Until an overwhelming sense of wrongness smashed into him like a brick wall, just as he fumbled onto the edge of a small clearing. His arms shot out and grabbed a tree trunk, stopping his forward motion in a flail of limbs and leaves. It was a graceless halt, but he didn’t care. All he knew was that he did not want to step one foot into that clearing, no matter what. He’d just discerned a ring of stones laid out around the perimeter when Arthur burst through the trees next to him.

“HAH!” he cried triumphantly, latching onto Merlin’s arm as he skidded to a stop. “Giving up already, Merlin?” he grinned, not even breathless. “Now I guess I’ll just have to exact a little revenge,” he said gleefully, tugging on Merlin as he backed toward the cleaning.

“No, Arthur, wait!” Merlin cried, reaching out in horror to stop the prince as he lifted his foot to step unknowingly inside of the ring, except the moment he let go of the tree, Arthur gave a mighty tug and they both toppled over, landing in the center of the circle with a thud.

Magic, cold and dark and evil, slammed into Merlin with the force of a catapult and he was unconscious before he hit the ground.

*****

Merlin woke to a splitting headache and the sense of evil and wrongness having quadrupled in strength. He also realized it was dark and cold, and whatever he was lying on was extremely uncomfortable. But he felt too ill and weak and exhausted to do anything about it. He planned to just lie there for the moment and concentrate on breathing, but as his senses gradually trickled back to life, he became aware of something else…something even more annoying than the cold or the dark.

“Merlin.”

“Merlin!”

It was Arthur’s voice, calling him back from the blissful land of unconsciousness.

“Merlin, I swear if you’re dead, I’ll kill you!” “That makes absolutely no sense…” Merlin muttered, finally forcing his eyes all the way open and reaching a hand up to massage his throbbing head. Only, when he moved one hand, something tugged at the other, and a harsh jangling sound echoed throughout wherever they were.

That was enough to get his attention properly, and he rolled over with a groan, staring at his hands.

They were connected – bound in manacles held together by a short chain, another chain about five feet in length running from them to a bolt stuck fast in what appeared to be a cavern wall.

And Merlin knew immediately why he felt so weak, so ill, so exhausted. The entire cavern reeked of magic – dark, oppressive, horrible magic – as did the chains binding him, trapping both his physical body and his powers.

“So you aren’t dead, then,” Arthur said, and Merlin thought he almost heard concern and relief in the prince’s voice. He glanced in the direction the voice had come from, trying to move his aching head a little as possible, and was startled by what he saw.

As he’d suspected, they were in a cave – dark and low and sprawling – the edges beyond their little corner lost to the gloom. A trickle of a stream flowed past Merlin’s feet while a slight breeze hinted at a way out, if he’d been free to move around and find it. Still, he had to admit that even chained to a wall, he had more range of motion than Arthur did.

Because, roughly ten feet away from where Merlin lay, the prince was stuck in a metal cage. Horizontal and vertical bars formed a space about three feet square. Arthur could sit cross-legged, as he was now, or stand upright, but that was the limit of his movement. Merlin could read the frustration on his master’s face like an open book – Arthur was like a caged dragon, a caged Pendragon, which was never a pleasant thing.

“You’re in a cage,” Merlin said. “In a cave.” He was aware it was stupid, aware he was stating the obvious, but apparently his brain and his mouth weren’t quite working in tandem yet.

“Are your wits addled?” Arthur replied, eyes narrowed in growing concern.

“No,” Merlin replied softly, forcing himself to sit upright. “Headache. Tired.”

For a small moment, Arthur looked sympathetic, before he snapped back to his princely self.

“Right, well, now you’re looking more alive and actually moving about, can you reach my dagger? I’d like to leave before whoever stuck us here comes back.”

He pointed through the bars of his cage across the cavern floor to where his dagger lay, abandoned in the shadows against the cavern wall.

It took a lot of contorting and turning but finally, after lying down on the floor in an utterly undignified way and stretching to his fullest height, the toe of his boot caught the dagger and he was able to inch it up until he could twist around and grab it with his hands.

He was shaky and sweating in his now filthy clothes, his head hammering out a battle rhythm, but he held it up toward Arthur and forced out a smile.

“Good,” the prince said with a nod. “Now, can you pick locks?” he asked, gesturing toward the chains around Merlin’s wrists that had his captured magic wailing in pain after what had to have been only have been a short time of wearing them.

He could, but Merlin was also very aware that one little hunting dagger was unlikely to be any good in opening his particular set of chains and explaining that in detail to Arthur didn’t seem like a very healthy option for him, even with the prince stuck in a cage, so he simply shook his head no.

“Right, then throw it over here,” Arthur ordered. “And don’t be an idiot and miss. I’ll have you in the stocks for a week if you stick me with it, or heave it right past.”

Despite the cave and the cage and the chains, Merlin rolled his eyes. “Prat,” he muttered not quite under his breath as the tossed the dagger, accurately and completely safely, to Arthur.

“Heard that,” Arthur replied, snatching the knife and immediately kneeling up so he could work on the lock of his cage.

Secretly, Merlin thought it highly improbable the dagger would pick that lock either, not with everything else in this cave oozing awful magic, but if it kept Arthur occupied for a while… Besides, it couldn’t hurt to let him try.

As Arthur worked, Merlin scooted around until he could lean back against the cave wall. He studied the chains on his arms, but they bore no markings he could discern. Still, their power was undeniable – he could feel it pulling at him, leeching his strength and his health. Worried and feeling more trapped than he ever had in his entire life, he looked away, gazing out at the rest of their prison.

“Where are we?” he asked. “What happened?”

“Dunno,” Arthur answered distractedly through gritted teeth. “I came to crammed into this cage. Took me fifteen minutes of calling to get your lazy head to wake up.”

“I was unconscious, not asleep, clotpole.”

Arthur’s only answer was a frustrated grunt as his dagger slid from the lock, narrowly missing his own fingers.

“I’m sorry I lost Gwen’s handkerchief,” Merlin muttered after a while, when the silence was starting to get to him.

“Don’t worry,” Arthur replied, sounding even more exasperated than before. “You can procure me another one when we get out of here.”

Merlin opened his mouth to retort, but Arthur suddenly cut him off with a closed fist and a warning glance, demanding silence without a word. The warlock let his mouth snap shut, straining to hear what had caught the prince’s attention while he watched Arthur palm the knife up his sleeve. A small shake of the head told him not to give their only advantage away.

It took a moment, but he heard it – the echo of quiet footsteps approaching from somewhere out in the darkened cavern.

By unspoken consent, both boys pulled themselves to their feet, unwilling to face whatever was coming next sitting down. The sound of walking grew louder until after a few minutes, a man stood before them, wearing a druid cloak. He paused, his face hidden as he swiveled his head back and forth between the two of them. Then he reached up and removed his hood.

“So, you are awake,” he said casually.

“Who are you? Why have you taken us?” Arthur demanded, every inch the furious prince. Merlin kept his mouth shut for now, willing to let Arthur take the lead as he studied the man.

He was tall, with wavy, brown hair and dark eyes. His face and his hands bore the black ink of the druids, but it was weathered, as if it had been applied many years ago and was not much cared for now. He had magic though – Merlin could feel it despite the chains. It was powerful, but worst of all, it was angry.

“Mordecai,” the man answered dismissively, then turned away from the prince to stare at Merlin with a gaze that sent chills down the boy’s spine.

Arthur banged on the bars of his cage, refusing to be ignored. “I asked you why you’ve taken us! What do you want?”

“Shut up, princeling,” the man growled, turning to the prince with a haughty stare. “I care not for your questions and have no desire to speak with you.”

Then he purposefully turned away from Arthur again and advanced on Merlin.

Swallowing nervously, Merlin inched backwards until the cavern wall was pressed against him, reminding him that there was no escape.

“And to think Destiny has been wasted on such a stupid child,” Mordecai spat, shaking his head as his eyes roamed up and down, dark with disgust.

Merlin trembled. From helplessness, from fear of the man in front of him, but more importantly from fear of what this man might ultimately reveal to Arthur.

“What do you want?” he echoed Arthur’s question, pretending to be brave. From the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur inching the dagger out of his sleeve, readying for a killing throw – what might be their only chance to get out of this situation alive. “I’m just a servant!” Merlin babbled on, desperate to hold the sorcerer’s attention and buy Arthur the time he needed.

“Oh, we both know you are so much more than that,” the evil man said with a sneer. And without warning, he whirled around and spat a spell at Arthur, hand out-stretched and eyes glowing almost red.

“NO!” Merlin shouted, lurching toward his friend as Arthur’s body froze, eyes and mouth open wide in surprise and arm still raised, dagger clutched for the throw. “What have you done!” Merlin cried.

“What must be done. To fix Destiny. To fix magic. To punish the two of you for doing nothing.”

A crackling noise abruptly filled the dark space, and Merlin looked in abject horror toward Arthur’s boots, which were rapidly changing from the brown of leather to the solid, cold grey of stone, the curse creeping upward at a terrifying rate.

“STOP!” Merlin shouted, tugging at his chains until blood soaked through his sleeves. “You can’t do this!”

But Mordecai said nothing, just watched the progress of his spell with silent detachment.

The spell had reached Arthur’s thighs and Merlin knew he had no choice.

“I’m sorry, Arthur! So, so very sorry! Please forgive me!” he cried, then reached deep inside of himself and shoved with all of his magical might.

He came to a few minutes later, lying once more on the cold stone floor and feeling as if he’d been shredded from the inside out, a shadowy man standing over him.

“You are weak and pathetic and a fool,” the evil man said. “You have squandered your gifts and your Destiny and for that you must suffer.”

Memories rushed back to him and Merlin jerked his head to the side in a panic.

The metal cage was there and still locked inside of it was Arthur, forever frozen in his last pose, the look of shock chiseled on a face completely turned to stone.

“No…” Merlin whispered, the pain in his heart now greater than the pain in his head and body.

“No mere child can restore our magical heritage, and no Pendragon can ever rule Albion – that line will die with Uther. There will be a new Emrys and a new king of Camelot and Destiny will be righted.” A satchel was suddenly tossed on his stomach, startling him back to Mordecai who was still looming over his prone form. “There’s water in the stream and the bag will never run out of bread. Enjoy eternity together – the perfect Pendragon prince and his pet warlock.”

And then he turned and simply walked away, leaving Merlin still gasping in misery on the floor, staring at his friend turned to stone.

*****

Being frozen and then turned to rock was an interesting experience, Arthur decided with a detached sort of awareness. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He couldn’t feel anything – not his body, not the room around him. He wasn’t hungry, he wasn’t thirsty. But he could still hear perfectly fine, could still see everything happening within his rage of vision.

And what he saw was Merlin.

A Merlin who was straining against the horrible set of chains, to the point it was drawing blood.

A Merlin who was crying and apologizing and looking as though he was about to do something incredibly stupid.

A Merlin who was suddenly spewing foreign words with desperation, and whose eyes were glowing an unexpected and condemning gold.

And then a Merlin who was so still and silent, limp on the floor, while Arthur’s insides churned with shock and hurt and betrayal – metaphorically speaking of course since insides that had been turned to stone couldn’t actually move.

Arthur didn’t notice when the evil man who had done this to them left. He didn’t really notice anything for a long while. His brain was too caught up in one thought and one thought only.

Merlin was a sorcerer.

Merlin – his clumsy, loyal, annoying, and once-in-a-while brilliant manservant was a sorcerer. Used magic, the most vile of all evils. The thing his father and his kingdom fought against with all their might.

Merlin had magic.

Merlin was also lying on the ground in obvious pain after having tried to save Arthur – again.

And it was all too confusing and raw and messed up for him to handle, and Arthur knew his head would have been aching if it hadn’t been made out of granite now, and he just didn’t know what to think or feel or…

After a while – he wasn’t sure how long – movement drew him back out of his mind and he watched as Merlin shakily rolled to his knees, then forced himself stubbornly back to his feet, chains clanking.

“No,” he heard the boy mutter, bracing himself for a moment against the wall of the cave. “No, Arthur. I refuse to believe that you’re gone – that you’re dead. You’re noble and good and will be a great king, and I won’t let evil magic be the last magic you see!”

With curiosity and apprehension and more than a little gut-clenching – again metaphorical – worry, Arthur watched. There wasn’t anything else he could do. “Don’t move, Sorcerer!” one part of Arthur’s brain – the part that sounded too much like his father – wanted to spit, while the other part desperately wanted to shout, “Sit down you clumsy idiot before you hurt yourself even more!”

But he couldn’t say anything and so with grim determination, the servant pushed away from the wall and shuffled to the end of his tether, facing Arthur.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, cabbage head,” he said softly, tears forming in the corners of his eyes, “but I need you to know it was all for you. Well…mostly for you. I suppose nicking Cook’s dumplings might have been for me as well. But…” He smiled shakily through his tears and shrugged in a sort of helpless way as his fingers played with the links of chain keeping him a prisoner in the cave beside Arthur. “What I’m trying to say, Arthur, is I believe in you, and I trust you, and I’m still happy to be your servant until the day I die, even if it’s by your hand. And…just thank you.” Then he gave a wobbly little bow in Arthur’s direction – the prince would have dropped his jaw had he been able – before closing his eyes and stretching his bound hands outward, fingers splayed.

*****

The next few hours (or days, because Arthur really had no way to follow the passage of time) were pure torture. Merlin hurled spell after spell – shouts and whispers, commands and raw begging – into the dark air. He spat them first at the chains that bound him, digging at the links and the bolt in the wall until his nails tore away and the blood streamed down his arms. Arthur knew without being told that these chains were magical – that they were restraining Merlin’s magic as well as keeping his body trapped – that they were hurting him and he need them gone. But when that failed – the magical restraints holding fast – he turned back toward Arthur.

The look in his eyes was fatalistic, and Arthur wanted to scream. Wanted to tell his servant not to do whatever it was he was planning next. Wanted to shout that being stuck as an unmoving slab of bedrock did wonders for fathoming things out, and Arthur knew Merlin was loyal and good and he didn’t care about the magic, but please to not do anything stupid.

But he couldn’t. He could just watch as Merlin, exhausted and already half-dead on his feet, wearily raised his now bloody hands and started over, this time aiming at Arthur.

Over and over again, Merlin tried. Spells with words and spells without. Sometimes he fell to his knees and got right back up. Sometimes he toppled to the ground and didn’t move again for long enough that Arthur was sick with dread. Because somehow, Arthur knew what he was doing. Knew that for every tiny spell or bit of magic, the chains and the cave were causing his servant anguish, but the stubborn boy was still trying. That – unable to break the chains themselves – he was reaching and digging and clawing away at his bound power right through them, forcing himself to face the pain head on in an attempt to rescue a prince he wasn’t even sure was still alive.

If rocks could weep, Arthur would have, without shame.

When Merlin’s nose and ears began to bleed, Arthur knew he was witnessing his friend’s death. That Merlin wouldn’t give up until it was too late, and Arthur would remain trapped forever in stone beside the bones of the best man he ever knew.

A sudden silence filled the cave as Merlin’s voice and movements stilled. The ragged, filthy boy knelt before his frozen form at the end of his chain, head and shoulders bowed in abject exhaustion. His breath came in quiet, uneven gasps and his eyes were bright, tears tracking down his cheeks through the grime.

For a long while, he just knelt there, as if gathering what little remained of his strength and his…his soul. Then, as a dread greater than anything Arthur had ever experienced before filled his stone body, Merlin raised his trembling hands once more and faced his master.

“For Camelot,” he whispered in his raw, tortured voice. “For a worthy prince. For magic and destiny and Albion. But mostly, for Arthur, my master and my…friend.” Then he squeezed his eyes shut, and shaking so hard Arthur was sure he would fly apart, brought his now cupped hands toward his face and blew on them.

For a moment, nothing happened, though the very cave itself seemed to be holding its breath. Then, the tiniest and faintest of blue butterflies abruptly fluttered up from Merlin’s hands. It hung there, flapping gently in the air, its glow so foreign in their prison…

And then the world exploded with light and a monstrous cracking noise and Arthur knew no more.

*****

The prince rejoined the land of the living as a painfully-crumpled heap on the floor of his cage. He was covered in dust and pieces of destroyed rock, and he ached from head to toe, but he was flesh and blood once more so he wasn’t going to complain. He took a moment to just brush the dirt from his face and gulp in blessed lungsful of air before he remembered.

“Merlin!” he cried, shoving to his knees and gazing outwards into the cave.

His servant lay on the ground, back to him, unmoving.

“Merlin!” he yelled again, his voice breaking as he scrambled for the door on his blasted cage.

It didn’t open.

“GAH!” he screamed in desperation, shoving the rubble on the floor aside until he found the dagger he’d been clutching before. “Don’t you dare be dead, don’t you dare be dead!” he chanted under his breath as he jammed the knife in the lock. Still, try as he might to rein it in, fear and anger and terrible dread made him clumsy and precious minutes ticked by as he worked to pick the lock. Just when he was starting to think Merlin’s horrendous sacrifice had all been in vain and he would die anyway, stuck in a stupid, metal box, he heard it click.

He flung the door open and rushed to the younger boy’s side, rolling him carefully onto his back so he could see him better in the gloom, chains still clanking as if to mock them.

“Oh, Merlin,” he sobbed, sinking to his knees.

There was dried blood staining his ashen skin – too much of it – running from his nose and ears, trickling from his mouth. His hands and fingers were a shredded mess, and the sleeves of his tunic and jacket were soaked through with more blood from his ruined wrists. But the worst – what made Arthur want to heave and curse and smash things – were his eyes. They were open and small tears still drying on his face, but they were also dull and glassy and vacant.

Broken, Arthur laid his head down on his friend’s chest. He was rewarded with the sound of a quiet heartbeat, the feeling of the thin torso barely rising and falling in feathery breaths.

Merlin was alive – but only just.

And he was…damaged.

Perhaps beyond hope.

Perhaps he wasn’t…Merlin anymore…

“You shouldn’t have done this, you idiot,” Arthur whispered, swiping at his face before attacking the manacles with his dagger – for while Merlin’s sacrifice had broken their magic, the metal still held just fine. “I’m not worth it. I’m not noble or good or any of those things you said.”

He finally managed to release one cuff, gently lowering the abused limb to Merlin’s side, before turning to work on the other, tears streaming freely now but found he didn’t care.

“You are, though. You are more noble and more good than anyone, Merlin. Just…please stay alive. Please be okay! Please…let me have the chance to tell you that I’m…proud of you – so very proud – and that you’re my…my friend.”

The last lock gave way and Arthur threw his now ruined dagger to the side. Then oh so carefully he gathered up the gangly limbs and broken body of his servant – his best friend – and climbed gently to his feet. Merlin’s head lolled onto his shoulder, eyes still open and unseeing, but Arthur felt a tiny measure of hope flood through him as he noticed two new, tiny tears tracking down the boy’s cheeks.

“Come on, Merlin,” he said softly, following the direction of the slight breeze and trickling stream to where he hoped there was an exit from this evil cavern. “Let’s go home.”

Author’s Note: Please don’t hate me! I know, it’s horrible to leave you hanging there. But, the honest truth is that’s where I always planned to stop at, and the ending of the story came to me before the beginning ever did.

Someday, if I’m stuck with the desire to do it and the plot to make it happen, I might continue this. But for now it is complete, and I’ll leave it up to you readers to imagine out the “after they return to Camelot” ending that you want.

Special shout out to muse and beta helpers, Missy and Pix!

#merlin #arthur #merlin fanfiction #merlinmemorymonth

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