Chapter Text
It’s ironic.
In some broken, terrible way, it’s ironic that after everything - after years of swords and chores and bandits and dragons, after fate and sorcerers and druids and secrets , the one thing to do him in would be his own power. The power he never wanted or asked for; the power fate cursed him with.
His magic was thrumming in his veins. He could feel it like the heat of fire too strong and too close, or the burning heat of tears on your cheeks after losing someone you love. It’s golden, liquid pain, dancing under his skin to the beat of his heart. He feels it singing along, swirling through his stomach and filling his lungs.
The forest is nothing but a smudged oil painting around him. Serenity envelopes him despite the panic clawing up his throat, fighting it’s way to his tongue. His mouth is dry, his blood rushing in his ears, and yet he feels at peace. His magic soothes him.
Lancelot is speaking. With concern washing his eyes with tears, he stands from his seat by a tree and rushes forward, reaching his hand out to grasp at him. Merlin jerks back instinctively, stumbling over his feet as the world comes back into focus.
Lancelot is saying his name. Merlin can’t hear him over the blood rushing in his ears, but he can read his lips well enough. The man is more cautious now, reaching for him tentatively. Carefully. Like he is a wild animal ready to run at any moment.
Indeed, he is ready to dart at any second. His magic is thumping at his ribcage at the beat of his heart, singing to be let out. It’s crying to be set free, seeping out at the cracks in his walls like liquid fire. His mind is alight, an inferno in his skull so hot he can feel himself melting from it.
“I need-” He rasps out, panic beginning to fill his eyes with tears, “I need to leave. I need to leave, I need to go, I’m sorry, please let me leave-”
“Merlin, what the hell is going on?” Lancelot cries, stepping forward. He watches with apt attention as Merlin trembles where he stands. The man staggers back, his fingers itching at his sides, his shoulders shaking with the force of his silent sobs.
“I have to go,” He croaks, avoiding Lancelot’s worried eyes and instead desperately searching his surroundings for his bag. When he can’t seem to find it, a sob of frustration rips through his vocal cords. He gives up in seconds and instead turns on his heel and darts away, Lancelot calling his name lost to the silence of the woods.
He doesn’t know how long he runs. He doesn’t know where he’s going or how he’s going to get back. All he can think is ‘ I need to get far away, I need to leave, I need to be alone’ and the moment he realizes he is in an unfamiliar place, he lets go.
His scream is raw. It claws up his throat and surrounds him, rough and broken. The forest seems to bend away from him as he finally, finally allows his magic to explode. The birds sang along to the wretched song, and the trees seemed to sway as though it was music.
The release hurts more than anything he’s felt before. His body is burning up in his own inferno, his bones turning to ash, his veins molten lava. The world is gold around him, so bright, so blinding, so painful he fears that Camelot can see it from so far away.
He’s not sure why it’s happening. He doesn’t understand why, why, why, why, why it hurts so much, why is this happening to me, why is it so strong? It was a normal day, he was just picking herbs, spending time with Lancelot in the woods. He awoke to the smell of porridge, he woke up Arthur, he dressed him, bathed him, did his laundry, made his breakfast. He was tasked with collecting herbs for Gaius.
And then there was a spark. Something deep in his chest, so far back he didn’t know if it was even his at all. And then, suddenly, so suddenly, it was burning him. His magic caught the sparks like oil to a match, spreading through his body so quickly he didn’t have a chance to warn Lancelot.
The pain subsides in time. The sun lowers below the horizon, shrouding him in what would be darkness if not for the golden glow of his magic. His screams stopped minutes after they began, and he instead found himself dry heaving, gasping for breaths in between his cries. He curls into himself when the numbness replaces the pain, holding himself close in hopes of feeling something. Anything.
When he feels his strength return to him enough to pull himself from the ground, he sways on his feet. Dirt cakes his body, tears streaks over his cheeks the only sense of cleanliness about him. There are angry red lines raking up and down his arms and neck where he scratched at himself, looking for some sort of relief from the burning pain.
He walks through the night, traveling through the woods until he comes to more familiar surroundings. He walks until the sun begins to rise and he finds himself at the place it began. Lancelot is gone, taking his bag and leaving the herbs. He must’ve rushed to Camelot when he realized something he couldn’t find Merlin.
That means he’s only minutes away from the gates. He walks faster this time, ignoring the stinging pain of the scratches on his arms. He stumbles over roots and trips over stray branches, distracted by the numbness.
The pain is still there; a dull ache beneath the feeling of nothingness. It worries him more than he wishes it did.
When he arrives at the gates, Gwaine is waiting for him. His face lights up at the sight of him before he takes in Merlin’s appearance and pulls him into a desperate hug. Merlin stays silent to all of his questions, only speaking up to demand he be taken to Arthur.
People stare as they walk by. Guards pause to watch, villagers gasping at the sight of his withered body. Gwaine keeps a firm hand on his back as he leads him through the castle, murmuring pleasantries to him as though he’s in shock. Merlin supposes, belatedly, that perhaps he is.
Gwaine doesn’t let go, even when they arrive at the courtroom doors. He presses him close, running a thumb over the scratches on his arms absentmindedly as he presses the doors open. The hall abruptly falls into silence, each pair of eyes turning to him. Arthur stands from his throne the moment he realizes they’re there, and Lancelot stumbles from his place at the side to rush towards him.
“Merlin! Oh god, Merlin what happened-” He cries out, yanking him into his arms and holding him close, “God, you’re hurt! Are you okay? Merlin?”
The rest of the knights step closer, and Arthur appears at Lancelot’s side. Gwaine removes his hand reluctantly and steps forward.
“He arrived at the gates only minutes ago. He hasn’t said anything other than telling me he needed to see Arthur. I don’t know what happened,” He explains, his tone deadly serious for Gwaine. Lancelot runs his hands over Merlin’s arms, searching his face for something, anything. Merlin blinks slowly, turning to Arthur.
“Arthur?” He mutters. The man steps forward dutifully, concern etching his features. The pain seems to ebb away at the realization that he’s alright, that Arthur is okay, that everything is fine. He steps forward quickly, pressing himself into the King’s chest. The man lets out a worried hum, wrapping his arms around Merlin.
“Are you okay?” He murmurs lowly, and Merlin lets out a sob despite himself. The arms tighten around him, and Arthur tucks his head into his neck. If not for the circumstances, Merlin would have been surprised at the tenderness. However, his mind is still reeling at the memory of the golden flames licking at his body and the terror he felt.
“I’ll get Gaius, he needs those scratches checked out,” Gwaine announces, and Percival and Elyan hurry after him. Lancelot steps out silently, the rest of the servants and knights disappearing through the door.
They slowly sink down, Merlin collapsing into Arthur’s weight with a shaky breath.
“Merlin,” Arthur whispers, “I need you to tell me what happened.”
A silence stretches on for a moment before Merlin shifts, pressing his check onto Arthur’s neck. “I don’t know.”
“C’mon, Merlin, I need more than that,” Arthur urges gently when Merlin doesn’t continue.
“I was picking herbs for Gaius. And then… and then it was like my magic was painful.”
“What does that mean?”
“My magic normally feels like- like warm. Like the sun on your face or when you drink too much mead. B-But then it was suddenly so hot and it was burning me from the inside, Arthur-”
Merlin lets out a hysterical cry, “It felt like it was clawing at my body trying to get out, and I didn’t know how big it would be or what would happen so I ran. I didn’t want to h-hurt Lance.”
“I understand.”
“God, Arthur,” Merlin sobs brokenly into his shoulder, spurred on by his soothing tone, “It hurt so much, like nothing I’ve ever felt before, and it was like fire around me, burning me from the inside out and I didn’t know why it was happening!”
He takes a deep breath, pulling back slightly to look at Arthur. His eyes are soft, softer than they’ve ever been, and the King reaches forward to run a gentle hand over his arms.
“You hurt yourself,” He says quietly.
“I didn’t mean to. It just- I needed to make it stop. I didn’t even realize I was doing it until the pain stopped.”
“I didn’t know where you were. You were gone all night, and Lancelot came back just before dark screaming about you being hurt. He kept saying that you were fine one second and looked like you were being tortured the next. I wanted to go out and find you, but Gaius said that if you left willingly I should give you a moment to breathe, in case you were just sick or something.”
Arthur pauses, raking his eyes over Merlin’s disheveled features, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
“I didn’t want you to be there,” Merlin says hurriedly, “I didn’t want anyone to be there. I knew it would be bad, and I didn’t want Lance to get hurt, even less you.”
“I don’t know why it happened, Merlin, but Gaius might. We’ll figure this out. But in the meantime, you need to shower, wrap those wounds, and take a damn nap. You look like you’ve been to Hell and back.”
“I know,” Merlin sniffs, but doesn’t make a move to stand. Instead, he leans forward and presses his forehead to Arthur’s. The King pauses, his eyes widening in shock and confusion at the gesture. Merlin wraps his arms around his neck and sighs deeply.
They stay there for a moment, still and silent, before Arthur moves his hands from the other’s arms and presses them to his cheeks. Merlin opens his eyes blearily, subconsciously leaning into the touch.
“I-” Arthur stutters quietly, and Merlin nods slightly, “You- just… I can’t do this without you, Merlin. I can’t be a King without you by my side. Not just because of your magic, but because of you. I wouldn’t have made it this far without you.”
Merlin smiles brokenly, nodding along.
“I can’t…. I can’t lose you , Merlin. I can’t. So please, if you ever feel like that again, if you’re in pain, if you’re hurt, anything, you have to tell me. Tell Lancelot, or Gwaine, or Gaius, or anyone. I can’t stand seeing you in pain like this.”
“I’m sorry,” Merlin whispers, and Arthur brushes his thumb over his cheekbones with such tenderness he can’t help but sigh into the touch.
“I-I love you, Merlin, so please-”
Merlin leans forward and presses their lips together, cutting him off. Arthur blinks into the kiss, surprise evident on his face even when Merlin pulls away. The King stares in silence, and the other man gasps quietly.
“I-I’m sorry, was that- did you mean like a brother or something? A friend? Oh, god, I’m sorry, that was so inappropriate-” Arthur stares, “I’m sorry, maybe it’s just the nerves of the day catching up to me-”
“Merlin,” Arthur mutters, “Shut up.”
Merlin pauses, realizing belatedly that Arthur is staring at his lips. He cracks a slow smile, biting his bottom lip.
“Yes, Sire,” He whispers and presses forward once again. Arthur reaches up to brush through the sorcerer’s hair, tucking his behind his ear whilst his other hand rests on his jaw. Their lips move in tandem, the kiss compassionate in every way. Warmth spreads through their bodies, Merlin’s magic surrounding them in a far more loving way than before.
They pull back reluctantly, resting their foreheads together once more. Their lips tickle against each other, their labored breaths shared.
“That,” Merlin hums, “Is what magic feels like.”
“It feels like gold,” Arthur whispers against his lips.
“Only the best for my King,” Merlin teases.
“Gaius is most likely preparing many potions for you if he’s taking this long. I reckon we should make our way over so that you can be taken care of.”
“I am being taken care of,” Merlin whines quietly, tucking his face into Arthur’s shoulder once more, “I’m in your arms, aren’t I? You said yourself that you can’t stand seeing me in pain-”
“Merlin.”
“And that you could never stand to lose me-”
“ Mer lin.”
“And that you love me -”
“Merlin, shut up or I’m going to send you to the stocks, I don’t care how injured you are.”
The man breaks into a fit of giggles, and Arthur huffs along. Merlin places a line of soft kisses to his King’s throat, leading up to the corner of his mouth. Arthur drags his hands through his sorcerer’s hair meaningfully.
“I love you, too,” Merlin breathes into his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to them, before leaning back entirely.
“And you’re right, if Gaius isn’t here yet it means he’s going over every symptom I showed and fretting over what must have happened. I ought to calm him down. Plus, my arms hurt.”
“Rest up, Merlin, and don’t even think about coming back to do your chores until Gaius says you can,” Arthur helps him up and leads him to the door.
“Of course, Sire,” Merlin replies cheekily, stepping into the corridor.
“Not to say you can slack off!” The King calls out after him, laughter in his tone. He hopes it’ll be alright.