Keep Going

by cretia_dar

Summary:

Gaius finally looks at his ward. This boy. The ridiculous, reckless, heartache of a man miserably sitting before him wrapped in bandages.

“Merlin, I never want to do that again.” Gaius’ own voice shakes.

Notes:

[ TW description of graphic violence/invasive medical treatment, mentions of suicidal ideation and tendencies, discussion of recklessness ]

Merlin gets hurt again. Gaius patches him up again. It takes its toll.

Chapter 1: Prelude

Gaius’ hands were shaking as he reached for his cup. A pervasive tremble at once slight and deafening. Gaius had been a healer almost his whole life, he performed feats of life saving action and stitched wounds and ground mortar and pestle to medicine. He was an old man, but he had strong hands. Capable hands. Hands that didn’t shake. Had never shook when he was functioning within his occupation-his calling, mind focused and reactions quick.

Merlin eyed his guardian-uncle-mentor with quiet unease. He reached gently across the table between them, slender fingertips gently pressing on the back of Gaius’ other hand. He and Gaius both seemed to hold their breath for a moment as they both considered his trembling. Gaius pulled away with a great sigh, dragging his shaking hands down his face in pure weariness. He shook his head, still covering his face with his hands and took another staggering breath.

“Gaius..?” Merlin asked gently, his voice gravelly from desperately yelling spells earlier. His face is covered in small cuts, his eyebrow, his lip, his chin and jaw all with tiny slices from broken glass. He’s worried about Gaius.

Gaius finally looks at his ward. This boy. The ridiculous, reckless, heartache of a man miserably sitting before him wrapped in bandages.

“Merlin, I never want to do that again.” Gaius’ own voice shakes.

“I’m sorry Gaius, I-“ Merlin starts

“I don’t want you to be sorry, my boy.” Gaius cuts him off, but not unkindly. “I know you did the best you could..” Gaius gazes off into the middle distance.

“I simply-. I cannot cut into you again. It was what was necessary in order to save your life. But I have never been less sure of myself.” Gaius had healed vindictive kings and delivered hundreds of squalling children. He’d operated on knights and maidens and peasant children and though it wasn’t ever easy, he’d always been able to put aside his emotions. He’d done what needed to be done no matter that it felt wrong to enact bodily harm on others, even if his mind knew it was for their own good.

The log in their fireplace cracked and Merlin flinched.

Gaius’ tired eyes look to the fire. “You take on so much my boy, and I know why you feel you must.. I am with you, Merlin. But it does affect me, not just seeing your wounds but holding your life in my hands so often.”

Merlin’s eyes shine wetly, emotion rises in his throat at these words. He knows the cloying fear of a loved one’s life slipping away.

“It has been too often, of late, too many close encounters. I am not such a young man anymore. I do not know how you take it, and I desperately wish it weren’t so that you had to. I thought I had killed you tonight Merlin. That, of all of these curses and assassination attempts and terrible battles and it was I, who cares for you as my own, who took your life.” Gaius shakes his head.

Merlin’s face falls in sorrow for his mentor. He knows that what he does isn’t easy on Gaius. They always joke about him giving the old man a heart attack. But the truth is that Merlin’s life is pure destructive chaos and high stakes intrigue and Gaius is the only person in Camelot who knows the truth of it. The only one who can help him in times of need. Even then, Merlin tries to shield the healer from becoming collateral damage in his skirmishes. The last thing he wants is to put Gaius well being on the line. He tries to keep the worst of it from him, and keep him from knowing the burdens Merlin feels are too heavy for a man already weighed down by the horrors of the years past.

“Merlin, as healers we sometimes have to harm in order to heal. I had to cut you open to remove the glass shards embedded your flesh. I had to suture your insides and dig around your wounds. This is expected of a healer. And it’s important I am able to remain.. impartial. To not let my feelings cloud my judgement, to not doubt my own actions or hesitate. The risks are heightened otherwise. It’s dangerous.”

Here Gaius’ gaze falls to his trembling fingers, clasping them tightly.

“But I did doubt, I did hesitate. I almost couldn’t do it.”

“But you did”, Merlin says softly.

“Barely.” Gaius says firmly. Merlin doesn’t bring up the toll he sees plain as day in Gaius’ once steady hands.

“I don’t know what to say, Gaius.”

“I wish you could say it won’t happen again, but we both know there’s no promising that.” The older man furrows his eyebrow.

“I do try my best not to get hurt,” Merlin averts his eyes.

“Mmhm,” Gaius hums noncommittally, “if only I truly believed that.”

“I was caught off guard. I didn’t know the assassin had magic and I had to protect Gwaine.”

“Sir Gwaine who was wearing metal armor that protects his vital organs from say, cannonballs of shattered glass.” Gaius’ eyes are stern and exhausted.

“That spell was new to me, I made a mistake. I thought he was summoning fireballs which you know I can shield against.” Merlin can’t help but defend himself, he’d truly acted to the best of his knowledge. He rubs the old fireball scar on his chest absentmindedly.

Gaius seems to cave in on himself slightly. “I know. But, a fortnight ago it was the broken ribs from being thrown from that cliff. Before that, the stab wound from that damnned assassin. The Fomorroh. Morgana’s torture.”

Merlin’s form gets smaller with every word, compounding his misery. He’d prefer not to think of these things. He’d prefer to not be having this conversation. Of course, he’d prefer that magic were free and no one ever tried to hurt his King.

“Please, Merlin, try to consider yourself in all of this. I will do all I can to help you, no matter how it pains me, but I need to trust that you are doing all you can to prevent your own pain. Sometimes it feels as though you have no regard for your own safety at all. And if you won’t do it for yourself, do it for your mother. Do it for me. For Arthur and for Gwaine and for everybody else who cares for you. We both know what you’re fighting for, but I’m afraid you don’t see yourself in that future.” Gaius finally puts words to a fear that has festered in his heart since the losses began piling up years ago and he saw the light dim in Merlin’s eyes.

Stinging tears roll down Merlin’s face as he heaves a ragged breath. His mentors words cut deep. He forces himself to consider them, honest as they are. How long had he been running headlong into trouble because taking action felt more tangible than feigning hope? Assuming that he’d be fine, of course he’d be fine, it was everyone else that died. And if he wasn’t fine…well, that was fine too. He could take it. He might as well. He didn’t want anyone else to suffer when he felt he deserved to. Couldn’t be the one left behind, again, anymore.

Besides, his magic helped to heal him and protect him. He was better suited to take on this role of protector than anyone else. He instinctively knew how to magically fight, mostly without spells and a lot of the time, his magic reacted before he could.

And wasn’t that part of the problem? That he was constantly reacting, forced to make split second decisions, scrambling for answers to situations he was ill equipped to solve. He had to use his magic with brute force or clumsy subterfuge, relying on and yet not able to trust its depth and his own power. He incapacitated his enemies in the heat of the moment. If there was a trap, he sprung it. If there was a threat, he’d draw it out. He manipulated and researched but when it came to action he didn’t hold back when it came to the threats to his person.

Just like Gaius had said, he couldn’t hesitate. Gaius was right, but the difference between them was he could be impartial towards his own well being. Was it so wrong that he cared for others more than he cared for himself?

Gaius seemed to read the thoughts on his face. “What you do makes a difference, Merlin. But your value goes beyond that. You are a good man. Not because of what you do for others. But because of who you are. I don’t wish to see you suffer from this recklessness with your own life because you measure your worth against others and find yourself somehow lacking. I am afraid of the disregard with which you view your own death.” Gaius’ mind travels back to the days of the Purge, the sorcerers who’d taken their own lives rather than face the pyre.

“Gaius, please,” Merlin doesn’t know what he’s asking exactly, just that he can’t hear any more of this. “I understand. I won’t put you through that. I am sorry, uncle.”

Gaius’ eyes soften as he takes in his ward. There was nothing more to say, really. They’re both wrung clean out. He can only hope that Merlin takes his words to heart and pray to the goddess for a time of rest and healing for them both. He shudders to think of his hands covered in Merlin’s blood again, so soon.

“I know, my boy, I know.”

With that, the older man gets up achingly from the wooden bench and shuffles towards Merlin, who allows himself to be gently guided towards the patients cot. Gaius pats the top of Merlin’s head after he settles the young man’s bandaged form. Merlin smiles tiredly, pulling at the fresh scabs on his cut face.

“I’ll try to do better, Gaius.” Merlin’s voice is quiet and oh so young. “For my sake as well as yours.”

Gaius lets out a long breath, he pats Merlin’s head softly a last time, nodding once in agreement before making his way to his own bed.

He wants to believe Merlin, he trusts him with the fate of this kingdom and the people of magic. But he searches his heart and finds that he feels only bone deep exhaustion. Time will tell, he tells himself.

Time will tell.

Notes:

I wrote this at 1 am and it kind of got away from me. I intend to write more and have a few ideas so I’ll mostly update tags as I go.

But! The main premise of this story is summed up in this chapter. This is about Merlin’s battle within himself

I hope yall like it even though I mostly wrote this for me, it’s still scary hitting publish

Chapter 2

Summary:

The fight

Notes:

Thanks to everyone who commented and left kudos <3!
If there's anything specific you guys want me to incorporate, please let me know. I'm kind of new to this whole thing so

Merlin awoke unwillingly in the early hours, aching and uncomfortable. He lay there in quiet gray misery, thinking of his talk with Gaius and his fight the night before. Turning it over in his mind, picking apart what he could’ve done differently.

The incident was a familiar one: assassins sent by Morgana and intercepted by Merlin, innocents caught in the crossfire. Never mind that Gwaine would scoff at being called innocent. Merlin had tracked the man he’d marked as a threat to the crown to the corridors leading to the armory, and had snuck in after him. It was just bad luck that Gwaine had left his favorite cloak there after a hard day of training, and he’d deemed it too cold a night for his trek to the tavern without its comforting warmth.

Gwaine had pushed open the door to the armory at the exact moment when Merlin was dodging the assassin’s first slash of his knife. Merlin was just as surprised as his aggressor when Gwaine tackled the man from behind with a yell, furniture and weapons racks crashing with them. They both hit the stone wall hard. The assassin twisted and flipped their position with quick movements, shoving Gwaine higher against the wall with almost superhuman strength. The assassin reared back his knife hand, stabbing towards the knight with a yell. Gwaine writhed in his grasp, fists barraging the assassin's torso. The knife came down, stabbing through leather into the mortar to pin Gwaine hanging on the wall, feet dangling.

Merlin had recovered to wield a quarterstaff he’d grabbed from the back wall, slinging it like a battering ram with his full body weight at the assassin. The man scrambled backwards, twisting his body to avoid the full blow, but still hissing at the bite of a slice that would have otherwise gutted him. Merlin pressed forward, coming between the assassin and Gwaine with a deadly glower. The assassin eyed them both, then the open door between them. Merlin shook his head threateningly. The assassin made his move, darting towards the door. “No!” Gwaine yelled from his place on the wall. Merlin lunged forward at the same time, his sharp staff moving to block him from the door. The assassin dodged the hit desperately, driven to the other side of the room, cornered. The man straightened, breathing heavily.

The assassin’s eyes flashed acrid yellow, his hands clasped together and forcefully pulled apart as he muttered his spell. A large molten ball of fire was summoned before him, dripping flames and casting violent yellow light over everything. The sorcerer threw the attack.

Not at Merlin, who was guarding the exit, but at Gwaine, pinned helplessly. Merlin leaped desperately, hands outstretched as if to catch the ball of fire. But as it flew towards its target, it solidified, the flames cooling to reveal glowing molten hot glass.

The fraction of a second before it made contact, the glass exploded.

The force of its shattering ripped through everything in the room. Weapons racks were obliterated, swords flung into every corner, sharp angles bouncing off the rock walls. Gwaine was struck headlong by a ricocheting shield. Shards embedded in the wood floor, particles of spun glass shining in the air.

Merlin had taken the brunt, shards longer than knives driven into his torso, smaller fragments stuck in his arms and legs. Blood ran freely from the wounds, dripping down his face in rivulets.

The assassin wasn’t unaffected by his own spell; he’d thrown himself behind a flipped table to avoid as much of the shrapnel as possible. He emerged, now, stumbling over debris to get to the exit.

Only to find glowing golden eyes framed by a bloody face glaring him down.

The assassin was flung backwards like a rag doll. Normally, he would have hit the wall and been knocked unconscious by the unyielding stone. But, because of his own spell, he was instead flung backwards towards the mess of what was once a spear rack. He was impaled deeply, gasping, on one of the spears. The man reached down to see the spear protruding from his chest and went to grasp it, blood gurgling in his throat as he tried in vain to pull it out, before he fell limp.

The guards, late as always, had found them all like that. Gwaine, unconscious and hanging from the wall, Merlin in a bloody heap at his feet, and the unknown man speared unnaturally deep.

It had taken Gaius hours to pick every piece of glass from his body, opening up new wounds to extract shards that had twisted through muscle, stitching him with shaking hands. Merlin had awoken halfway through, screaming and writhing in pain as Gaius tried to hold him down. He’d had to be strapped down. Gaius suspected it was only the force of Merlin’s magic that kept him alive, so that he didn’t die on their table with Gaius’ hands bloody to the elbow from stitching him up from the inside.

Arthur had been furious. Ignorant of the plot against his life and incensed that his manservant and one of his knights had been so brutally attacked in his own home. Gaius had been the one who had to explain, to make up explanations plausible for Merlin, and lies to fill in the gaps with Gwaine.

If only Arthur knew how often Merlin took care of things such as this for him. It was only because Gwaine had witnessed it that this one was known to him. Not that Merlin was usually more successful, necessarily, in escaping unscathed. But he was normally much better at hiding the collateral damage. Merlin can’t help but wish Gwaine had never walked in. There’s no telling how the fight would have gone differently if Merlin hadn’t had to protect Gwaine and hide his magical abilities from him simultaneously. It wasn’t Gwaine’s fault, of course.

Although the secrecy chafed at him, an old ache of regret and unfairness. In a way, it was easier to do these things alone. If he hadn’t had to hide his magic, he could’ve won the scrap from the beginning. Then again, if he hadn’t had to hide his magic, then magic would be legal, and all his friends would know and accept him, and maybe the assassin wouldn’t have existed in the first place. There’s no use dwelling on what-ifs.

Notes:

I actually wasn't going to write the fight scene, I was gonna just refer to it and let y'all fill in the gaps. Buuuuut I started imagining it and had a little fun with it. This is all still set up, but we're getting there.

Chapter 3

Notes:

Cut to Morgana, getting stood up by her very expensive assassin in the forest

When the hired assassin didn’t return to their agreed-upon meeting place in a forested glen that night, Morgana knew she had been foiled once again. A pale indigo glow suffused the shadowed surface of every leaf and branch, as the first peaceful rays of dawn rose on the deep horizon. Morgana watches a teardrop of dew trace down a trailing willow branch and wrenches her head away sharply before it hits the ground. She screeches furiously, suddenly overcome with fury. Her eyes glow pale gold as she hurls a spell to set the willow tree aflame. The earth is charred and smoldering, and she glares into the blackened scar. It seems to glare back.

Morgana hears the haunted creaking of heartwood as a sudden wind tears through the glade, ghostly whispers and the almost-not-quite-echoes of screams fill the air. The black scar begins to look larger and wider, like a hallucination or a dream. The shadows twist and tear until she realises there are dark, sclera-less eyes looking back at Morgana. The darkness connects the eyes to the gnarled form of an old woman hunched and misformed.

“High Priestess, your offering is accepted. I will grant you arbitration, state your wish.” The spirit’s voice is wind rattling a house in a storm.

Morgana was unaware of having made an offering. But she was a High Priestess of the Old Religion, chosen to enact the goddess’s wrath. She would accept all aid already owed to her in her mission of justice.

“I wish to destroy all those who persecute magic. I wish to destroy Camelot and all Uther held dear. I wish to end the Pendragon line.” Morgana’s words brook no hesitation or doubt.

“The same wish. The same resolution.” The spirit flares darkness like a candle flickering.

Morgana inclines her head in acknowledgement.

“Yet your attacks are defended against. You expend yourself on attempts to execute your will in full. High Priestess, you are no match for the dragon within its lair.”

“Speak plainly, spectre.” Morgana’s glare could cut glass.

“I know what you must do. Listen, I will tell you of the Wyrm of Gris.”

“The Wyrm of Gris was an evil dragon many eons ago. Its appetite was insatiable; it had developed a taste for magic. It hunted other creatures of magic and the priestesses of Olde, even powerful sorcerer-knights. Its powers of regeneration had grown with every source of magic it consumed. Cut off its head, and two more grew in its place. None could defeat it, its mouths were too many; it gorged itself on whole armies and vanished from the battlefield.”

Morgana stilled in her pacing. This story struck a familiarity in her.

“But an unlikely enemy rose from those battlefields. A young girl had survived the bloodbath. She’d witnessed her powerful seer sister hack at the Wyrm for hours before being caught between its jaws, and she swore her revenge. What was left of the world cowered and abandoned her on her quest, unwilling to risk meeting the beast head-on. Death was inevitable, they told her.”

“She attacked while it slept. She battled it with flames and her sister’s axe. For every head she cut off, she burned the neck so no more could grow. When the Wyrm of Gris lay dead at her feet, she ate its heart and the world bowed to her in gratitude.”

“You must burn the neck, High Priestess, you must cauterize your obstacle’s ability to resist you.” The spirit hissed.

Morgana’s mind spun. Emrys. He has resisted her at every turn, always two steps ahead of her strategies. He dogged at her heels, omnipresent. Emrys, who defended Camelot from within like a dragon atop its horde. Emrys, who murdered her sister. Emrys, who murdered hundreds of magical beings.

Emrys, her destiny and her doom.

She’d been looking at it all wrong, she realises. Morgana’s wide green eyes stare into the depthless black eyes of the spirit, unseeing. She’d been attacking Camelot and trying to remove Arthur, trying to out-magic and outmaneuver Emrys secondary to her vengeful goals. He was the greatest threat to what she hoped to accomplish. Emrys needed to be dealt with by any means, cauterized, before she could achieve her ends. Or else she would expend herself hacking away at Camelot.

The spirit dissipated like fog as the sun's rays cracked through the canopy.

A plan began to unfurl in her mind. The reallocation of her resources. Ravens to her allies. She would put everything into uncovering Emrys’ identity. She would double her spies in Camelot, track every damned mention of the name. She would torture, blackmail, or bribe for any information on his life or appearance. She would learn his fears and invade his dreams. She’d set his world on fire and wait for him to stick his neck out to snuff it out. And when she finally bled the life from his eyes, she would eat his fucking heart.

She would become his destiny. His doom.

Only then would Camelot fall to her.

Notes:

Oops, the next chapter is going to be more of a continuation, I promise!