Chapter Text
It is, all things considered, a fairly normal morning patrol in Camelot. Arthur and his knights — and Merlin, of course — left from the castle courtyard just before first light, with all the shivering and stamping in the damp chill that entailed. From the graceful way Arthur swung up into the saddle, no one would ever believe that less than an hour earlier, his long-suffering manservant had beaten him relentlessly around the head with a down pillow while Arthur burrowed deeper beneath the covers. Arthur had threatened Merlin with the stocks, triple chores, and any other menial punishments he could think of, in a sleep-rough voice that Merlin should not have found as attractive as he did.
Now, as the blue haze of dawn swims through the streets of the lower town, the four horses — it is a small patrol, with only Gwaine and Lancelot accompanying them — make their clip-clopping way down packed-dirt paths, and eventually out through the city walls and into the wilderness beyond. Merlin breathes in the fresh air, unable to suppress a smile. The hills rise and fall in a steady rhythm, the birds chitter back and forth to each other, and the quiet beauty of the morning wraps him in a gentle, comfortable embrace.
The silence is broken, predictably enough, by Arthur.
"What are you smiling about, Merlin? You look even more half-witted than you usually do."
Arthur's tone is derisive, but when Merlin glances in Arthur's direction, he catches a softness in those angular features — just for a moment, before Arthur huffs in mock-irritation and looks away.
"I’m doing something called thinking. You should try it sometime," Merlin says, with far too much affection in his voice to sound properly annoyed. "Just because you'd rather be whacking things than appreciating nature doesn't mean the rest of us are that narrow-minded."
Gwaine snickers without bothering to stifle the sound.
"Merlin is right," puts in Lancelot, before backtracking hastily, eyes widening. "I only mean, Sire, that it is an especially lovely morning."
Arthur laughs, the sound ringing out in a way that it never does within the walls of Camelot. And that, right there — that makes the hassle of getting him out of bed and all the mockery worth it. Arthur sounds properly happy, as light and free as the wispy edges of the clouds along the mist-touched horizon, and it warms something deep in Merlin's chest to hear it.
Merlin leans forward and pats his horse's neck, to hide another smile.
"So then I say to her, 'I'm sure my gold is around here somewhere, I must have left it in my other pair of pants.' But of course I've only the one, and now they're ripped down the crotch. And I end up running down the hall like that, with all my bits hanging out—"
Merlin chokes on a laugh, heat prickling up his neck and along the top of his ears. Like most of Gwaine's dirtier stories, he finds himself caught halfway between amusement and flushed embarrassment, with a fast-running undercurrent of scandalous fascination.
"I hope everyone enjoyed the view," Lancelot says innocently. He blinks those gigantic brown eyes at Gwaine, a tiny smile playing around the edge of his lips, and Merlin laughs again. How Lancelot can blend such earnest, genuine nobility with his intermittent penchant for total chaos is still a mystery, even after years of knowing the man.
"That's the spirit!" Gwaine says, and shoots Lancelot a wink. He winks at Merlin too for good measure.
Arthur, riding ahead of them, mutters something under his breath about "coarse humor,” and "supposed to be leading by example."
"Ignore him, Gwaine," Merlin says loftily. "He's just cranky that you tell more interesting stories than he does."
Truthfully, Arthur has progressed to sulking because his usual ribbing at Merlin's expense is made more difficult by the current company — Lancelot won't directly contradict him, but only nod somberly and smile encouragingly at Merlin when Arthur looks away, while Gwaine is equally happy to poke fun at either Arthur or Merlin, with blatant disregard for any kind of formal protocol. Half the time, Arthur's attempts to insult Merlin are turned back on him by Merlin's own retorts, or else by Gwaine's cheeky commentary, and it has him in a foul mood. He rides at the front of the patrol now, scowling and uncommunicative, and Merlin's decided to let him have his little tantrum for the time being.
They are almost back to Camelot, after all — their circuit has taken them past a few of the outlying towns, and then through the Darkling Woods, criss-crossing its narrow evergreen trails as the sun climbs towards its zenith and burns away the morning mist. It is almost midday, a thin film of sweat varnishing Merlin's skin beneath his clothes, and the muscles in his thighs and buttocks are aching fiercely. He knows better than to say anything aloud, however, so he settles for shifting his weight in the saddle every few minutes and wincing when he thinks Arthur isn't looking.
In retrospect, Merlin wonders if he let his guard down because they were so close to the castle. Not that dangers have not slithered in among Camelot's stone walls dozens of times before, because the gods know they have, but the general bandits-and-swords-and-screaming kind of mayhem is usually reserved for their travel through the kingdom's forests.
It takes Merlin by surprise, then, when a cloaked figure materializes halfway across the field they are riding through, a dark shadow blooming in the long yellow grass. It appears with all the suddenness of a snake striking, casting its wrist out in one quick flick of motion and chanting in garbled, guttural syllables. In that fraction of a second, Merlin can taste the vile taint of dark magic in the back of his throat, thick and oily.
Gwaine shouts inarticulately, going for his sword. Arthur's horse rears, spinning in place as Arthur controls it with only his knees, fingers going to the scarlet cloak clasped at his throat. More damningly, Lancelot looks to Merlin, even as he braces his shoulders for the impact.
The spell rolls across the field, flattening the grass with all the howling power of a gale-force wind. As the wave of magic crashes against them, Merlin has no time to gasp out a spell. He only throws up his arms to cover his face, his own sorcery flaring around him in the same defensive instinct — twin reflexes, beyond conscious thought.
As ever, his heart betrays him — because as his magic seethes in his veins, raging against the other sorcerer's power, his first thought is of Arthur. Everything else blows away, insubstantial, like separating the wheat from the chaff, until only Arthur remains.
When Merlin opens his eyes again, it is to a world snatched out of time. The knights, the horses, and even the long blades of grass are totally and completely still. The silence is absolute, and it is deafening. It reminds him of a curiosity that Gaius once showed him — an beetle encased in a nugget of amber. Immobilized, but preserved in perfect detail for centuries to come.
Merlin looks to Arthur. Arthur's horse is arched midway through its rearing motion, its hooves lashing the air, and Arthur's cape billows backward behind him, each ripple as still as if it is carved in stone. Arthur's face is contorted in a yell, an expression too intense and unsettling for Merlin to look at for long.
Instead, he turns his attention back to the source of this bizarre tableau — the enemy sorcerer. Still cloaked and cowled, they are approaching with a long, even stride. Their hands rise into the air again, crooked and ominous.
Merlin can feel the distance between the two of them as a tangible force, a supple branch bent to the point of breaking. The pressure of the other sorcerer's magic almost pushes Merlin backwards, but he holds his ground. He slides down from his horse and extends his own hand, letting some of his power resonate in his voice.
"That's far enough," he says into the silence.
The enemy sorcerer stops walking. Their head tilts sideways, a movement that is as graceful as it is unnatural. Merlin cannot see their face, but he has the sense they are surprised.
Good. He really hopes that he can take care of this before time re-starts, because Arthur is most likely going to do something stupid like charge the sorcerer while armed with nothing but a mundane sword — Merlin thinks for a fleeting second of Excalibur, sealed away in stone for some nebulous future moment — and get himself killed.
The pathetic excuses, the manipulation, the dream and the nightmare of confessing his truth to Arthur — they can all wait. For now, it is just Merlin and the dark figure standing across from him, and the shimmer of their magic in the afternoon heat.
The sorcerer, when they speak, has a voice as shadowy as themself, smudged at the edges like a charcoal drawing. They could be any gender, or none at all.
"I had heard the rumors that there was magic protecting the Pendragon line," they say. "I had not thought it was so literal."
Merlin glances again at his prince, affection and melancholy tumbling over each other in his throat. "If you're here to hurt him," he says after a moment, "you'll have to go through me."
The sorcerer doesn't move an inch, but Merlin senses that the magic that thickens the air is shifting — slowly and carefully, with a curl of curiosity to it. The other sorcerer is feeding more power into their spell. Testing the boundaries and the strength of Merlin's magic, he thinks, in the same way Arthur would circle another swordsman to watch how they move.
But Merlin has dueled Nimueh, and Cornelius Sigan, and Morgause. Compared to them, this sorcerer is as clumsy as a lamed deer and fragile as ashes. Merlin could reach out and stop their heart in their chest, or immolate them where they stand. If he wanted to.
Merlin says, quiet and firm, "I won't let you hurt him. But I'm offering you a chance to walk away."
The sorcerer gives a distorted laugh. The sound is arrhythmic, and gurgles like water at the bottom of a well.
"Walk away?" they say, the sneer audible in their voice. "You're powerful, boy, but I have two decades of hatred on my side."
"Arthur is not his father," Merlin says. "I understand your pain. Your fear. I've..." He swallows. "I've lost people to Uther's cruelty as well."
"There is nothing you can put forth that could triumph against my vengeance. I cannot — I will not be stopped.”
The sorcerer’s magic thickens and re-doubles, pulsing against the time stop with increasing urgency. The violence in it hisses and sizzles, desperate to be released. If given an inch, it will streak towards Arthur like a bolt from a crossbow and obliterate him.
Merlin closes his eyes very briefly, but there is no question about what happens next. The words are heavy as stones on Merlin’s tongue as he says, “I did warn you.”
Cupping his hands together, Merlin calls on his magic. It trickles into the space in front of him, pooling across his palms like warm honey. He holds it like the precious thing it is, and begins weaving together his purpose and his power — his heart and his soul.
He will need one word, he decides, to properly shape the spell. It is all imagination and intention, after all, not one of the long incantations he has dutifully memorized from his spellbook. Gaius has told him many times that the ability to cast like this is unusual, but to him it comes as naturally as breathing. More, perhaps — on some level, Merlin is convinced that his magic will whisper in his lungs long after even his breathing has ceased.
"What do I have?" Merlin wonders aloud, still watching the spell gathering in his hands. "Friendship. Hope for the future. And..."
He hesitates, afraid that speaking the word out loud will give too much away. But who is here to hear it, except the sorcerer?
"And... love." Merlin spreads his hands. "Aliese."
There is a golden flash of light, brilliant and blinding. Merlin's magic blasts outward, tearing like shrapnel through the fabric of the enemy sorcerer's spell. It is a spell of releasing, of un-binding, of un-making, and it scours the very essence of the other sorcerer from this place. Each motionless blade of grass is stripped bare, each stone scrubbed clean.
Merlin blinks the spots from his eyes, but before his vision clears fully he can already feel the breeze on his face. The sweltering heat eases, a little, and he smiles — not without grief, for what he's just done. But his decision was made a long time ago — he will always, always do whatever it takes to keep Arthur safe.
He turns, expecting to find the knights in chaos and confusion. Preparing to submerge himself in yet another lie.
It only takes one look at Arthur's expression for Merlin to know something is terribly wrong. That single glimpse undoes him, as easily as he banished the dark magic from this sun-struck field.
The disbelief in the cant of Arthur's eyebrows, the shock in the arch of his lips. The betrayal in his eyes, cracking their blue enamel into tiny pieces.
"Arthur," Merlin breathes.
He watches as Arthur's horse finishes rearing, its front hooves crashing back to earth, and Arthur completes the drawing of his sword that he began half a lifetime ago. The blade comes around like an extension of Arthur's arm, the tip of it unwavering.
Merlin finds himself at the point of Arthur's sword, facing his own execution, and realizes he has nothing left to say.