Chapter Text
My, my, those eyes like fire
I’m a winged insect, you’re a funeral pyre
It was a beautiful day to die.
Sunny, warm, the gentlest breeze coaxing movement from the grass underfoot. Back in Ealdor, this kind of day would send Hunith outside to drink up the sun–a flower tilting toward the light, hair escaping her scarf to dance in the breeze. It was the sort of morning that made you sigh in relief at another winter concluded. Any other time, a day like today would cause Merlin to move a little faster, finish his chores quicker in the hopes of catching a few private moments of daylight.
He didn’t hurry now. Not as the guards dragged him from the cell, not as he tried to catch Gaius’ eyes in passing, not as he was led up to the pyre.
The pyre. Of all horrors.
It had been built with the efficiency of a city that had seen hundreds of executions over the years, popping up overnight like meadow snowdrops on the first spring morn. An altar of uneven logs, sprinkled with still-green kindling, all pointing up to a stage where Merlin was set to play the lead. Sweating in the spring air, tunic stained with dirt and blood thanks to the guard's rough hands, Merlin was sure he looked the picture of a mad sorcerer. The crowd, at least, seemed convinced by the image.
"Monster!" yelled one man, spittle flying from his lips. Merlin swore he felt some of it land on his cheeks.
"Burn him!" cried another, fist shaking in the air. All his life he’d had dreams of fire, of a faceless king in crimson and gold condemning him to the flames. The scene before him was identical to those dreams.
When Merlin first arrived in Camelot, the smell of any bonfire or roasting pit had made him nauseous with anxiety. It had taken him several moons to feel comfortable sleeping in Gaius’ chambers when there was a fire crackling in the hearth. The soft smell of woodsmoke would infiltrate his dreams, launching him from sleep with a scream.
Even now, pyre unlit, Merlin fought to keep his empty stomach under control. He hadn’t eaten the morning he'd been discovered, and no one had seen fit to send bread or water down to the cells in the time following. It was a cruel joke that the last food Merlin would eat was an apple tart he had pilfered from Arthur’s supper.
A liar to the end.
It stung to think of Arthur, of his look of hatred and betrayal, so Merlin pushed him from his mind. He knew he should spend the rest of his life defiant, swearing revenge at Uther or ignoring the jeering masses in favor of the songbird calls overhead. Maybe a bird of his namesake was flying above somewhere, free and unburdened by politick and the crown’s violence.
Goddess, he prayed, if there is more to life than this, let me come back as a songbird.
That was, of course, assuming Magic did not see fit to punish him for failing. How many sorcerers and druids had been killed in vain? How many would be persecuted after this, living a life of fear and secrecy because of his shortcomings? To say nothing of his ruined destiny.
The fear in his stomach was eclipsed by a hollow, numb feeling. He thought of all the people he had let down–the druids, Will, Kilgharrah, Freya, Arthur.
Arthur.
It was no use pretending to ignore him after all. Merlin would die, and he would die with Arthur thinking the worst of him. That Merlin had been plotting his demise from the start. That Merlin was no friend of his. The thought hurt so terribly that Merlin stifled a gasp.
Arthur, I swear I’d never have left your side if I could’ve helped it.
Belatedly, Merlin realized the wetness on his cheeks was not an onlooker's spit but his own tears. He had no memory of crying. Perhaps the tears had begun yesterday and never stopped. It was almost funny. He thought he’d have run out of tears hours ago.
Merlin barely registered the rope encircling him, lashing him to the stake. They’d left the iron manacles on.
Suppose it would’ve been too kind to remove them.
The cold, pulsing burn of trapped magic would follow him to the end, then. It had grown from a mild disturbance when they had first clapped him in them into a wall of pressure, as though his magic was beating against the iron, begging for release. His wrists were red, blistered.
Were I to live these marks would scar, joining the rest of my marred flesh.
He should’ve died drinking poison for Arthur, or in the woods fending off any manner of bandit or magical creature. He could’ve died a hero, a servant, a friend. He could’ve died, deeds unknown, but still beloved by Arthur and his knights.
Arthur, who was stationed next to his father, unmoving.
Merlin chanced a glance at the crown prince. From up on the keep’s balcony, his honey gold hair was shining bright as the plate armor Merlin spent so many evenings polishing. He was staring across the crowd, perfectly regal and stoic in his courtly attire. In short, Arthur was as magnificent now as always. Even in their early days when Arthur was a spoilt and ill-behaved clotpole, he had possessed a presence, a confident stature that drew a crowd’s eye to him without effort.
I wish I’d been given Morgana’s gifts instead of my own powers. If I can’t live to see Arthur’s glorious reign, I might’ve at least caught a glimpse in a dream or vision. To see an aged, beautiful Arthur, king over a peaceful country, satisfied, happy–I would have given much and more for the chance.
What was the point of the prophecy, of having magic coursing through him like blood, if this is where everything led?
What was the point of any of it?
Lost in thought, he realized that Uther was addressing the crowd, and fought to catch the king’s words above the swelling, impatient tide of noise. Where Arthur appeared resplendent and aloof, his father was a simmer of hate and self-satisfaction. Uther was a carrion bird, circling Merlin, waiting for his next meal.
“...sentenced to death by fire.” Merlin had only caught the last of the king’s speech, but he supposed, cynically, that it was the only part that mattered.
A tall man in executioner’s garb came forward, lit torch in hand. Merlin found he could no longer hear the crowd through his heart’s vain attempt to flee his body.
Arthur called me a bad friend. I am a worse son. I should have visited more often, written to tell her of my love. Please, let someone visit my mother so she may find out through words instead of ink. Perhaps Guinevere, or Gwaine. I hope they tell her I was brave to the end.
I hope they lie.
As the green tinder beneath caught aflame, horror seized Merlin like a hand on the throat. He vomited then, sick catching on his chin and clothing as he angled his head as far down as the rope bindings would allow.
All his life he’d had nightmares of fire.
He should have been afraid of the smoke.