Library Of Fixations

Compliments from Leon are rare, because they're always genuine. Arthur feels his heart warm from praise from the first person he was trusted to cross swords with. But because he's the prince, and good is never good enough, he says, "I need to keep training my left arm. I feel it falter when I have to hold a shield for longer than two bouts." Leon hums, neither rebuking nor disagreeing, and Arthur jerks his head to the space beside him. "Come sit, Leon. You've earned the rest."

He's not sure if Leon will accept— he is the picture of propriety, after all, it's how he became First Knight— but to his pleasure Leon does. It's peaceful, and Arthur leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. The rest of his knights are wrapping up training themselves, building camaraderie with friendly slaps on the shoulder.

"If I may, Sire," Leon says, "I'm happy to see that you've made such a good friend. Even princes need those they can rely on, and you deserve support that doesn't come from a pledge of fealty."

Arthur blinks. The statement is so utterly absurd that for a moment Arthur fears that Leon hit his head when Arthur wasn't watching. "What?"

"You didn't be coy, Arthur," Leon says with a crooked grin. "It's obvious how much Merlin means to you."

Arthur nearly laughs out loud. "Merlin?! Oh, gods, Leon, no, it's not like that. The stroppy idiot's furious at me right now, and the feeling is mutual."

"But Sire—"

"Do you know what he did to my gambeson? My favorite gambeson?!" Arthur says. "Burned a hole right through the center! And when I asked him how on earth he managed to accomplish such a thing, even with his blinding incompetence, all he could stammer was that he was trying to clean it. Clean it."

"Arthur—"

"So I told him today, since he had such an interest in cleaning, he could start with the entire armory." He dares to glance over across the way, to where Merlin's been seated on a little bench, furiously scrubbing at a plate with a ragged cloth.

Like he could read Arthur's mind, Merlin's head snaps up. He makes eye contact, and glares at Arthur, the same way he's been doing the entire time they've been out on the training fields. Arthur glares right back.

"That may be true, Sire," Leon says, with the same placating tone that he's used every time he interrupts one of Arthur and Merlin's spats. "But, well. Aneirin and Sylve." His eyes dart over to the side, and Arthur's finally follow.

Aneirin's prancing like a foal, like a far more playful version of the dance he did while sparring. His hooves are light when they strike the ground, always careful not to step on the stoat that deftly weaves in between them. Sylve nips at Aneirin's heels, and then she quickly backs away, but Aneirin catches up quickly and returns the favor with a soft-mouthed bite at Sylve's nape. Aneirin then settles on the ground, bowing his head, and Sylve quickly clambers over his great antlers to rest on his back. They're speaking to each other, but Arthur's far too far away to hear the details of their conversation.

Arthur's eyes shoot over to Merlin. If he's noticed his daemon is currently getting ready to take a nap on Arthur's, he doesn't show it. He's still scrubbing at the plate mail like he'd rather pick it up and bash it over Arthur's head.

Arthur jumped, cursing as Aneirin scrambled to his feet. The voices were distinct, one low pitched and more distant, the other high, female, closer. Arthur's gut twisted with dread.

"I hear her," Aneirin said, and slowed down just enough for Arthur to keep pace as he sprinted through the forest. The shrill shriek increased in pitch as he ran, brambles tearing at his legs and lungs burning for air. It choked, gasped, before cutting off in a pitiful whimper.

Aneirin pushed ahead, thundering hooves leaving Arthur behind. Arthur felt the ache in his chest like he'd taken a staff-blow, and yet could not tell his daemon to stop. The red stag ran as far as he dared, until Arthur could not hear the screams over his own heartbeat pulsing hot in his ears. It was just too far Aneirin come back wait—

Aneirin shouted something, something Arthur couldn't hear over his own labored breath, but he saw the stag come to a stop in the middle of a clearing. The relief gave Arthur the surge of strength he needed to catch up. Arthur had barely come to a stop as well, wheezing for breath, when Aneirin's fear crashed over him.

"Help her!" Aneirin shouted. "We need to get her out, do something—"

It took Arthur a minute to realize what he was looking at, with his breath still heavy from exertion, with the whimpers and gasps still coming from the center of the clearing, with Aneirin's panic rushing through his veins. The circle on the ground had been covered with dirt and moss in the years of disuse, the three pillars that grounded the trap innocuous in the vegetation that swallowed them. But Arthur recognized the center instrument, a hollowed hole in the ground lined with metal and covered by a metal grate. He had seen its design sketched on scrolls in Uther's study, as Uther boasted of the ingenuity of Camelot's purge of magic, how they were even able to trap the bird-daemons of sorcerers that flew monstrously far from their humans.

He had never seen a mage-trap in use before, however.

He stared dumbly down at the center pit. The bird within was small, no longer than the length of Arthur's forearm, with blue-grey wings that trembled and flapped desperately against the grate. The trap was built to hold daemons far larger than this one, swans and eagles and owls, and the daemon had just enough space to fling herself against the grate in a desperate attempt to flee before crashing back down against the pit floor.

"Sorcerers are inhuman in their corruption," Uther had explained. "They sever their daemons from their bodies so they can spy and spread their evil far across the land. This trap makes them suffer for their monstrosity."

"Please," the daemon begged, voice high thin with pain. "I can't— I can't feel—"

His memory resonated like a struck bell. I can't feel him, Arthur had thought, helpless and retching on the floor while panicked shouts rang around him. I can't feel him—

He forced himself to the present. It was wrong, so wrong, to see a daemon without its human nearby, to see a person's soul torn out and discarded from its body. Like a severed head had struck up casual conversation about the weather. Arthur told himself that was the reason for the chill in his bones, and no other.

Aneirin roared, rearing back on his hind legs, before bringing his front hooves down on the metal grate. The bars creaked and groaned, but gave no way. The stag gave a mighty bellow, and tried again, and Arthur stood there frozen with the fear of understanding.

"What are you doing?" Aneirin paid him no mind. "Who is— who is that—?"

The bird cringed, trembled. "Please— please don't hurt us— we'll go, we promise, just—" Her wings fluttered faintly again, but she could not managed to even rise off of the floor. "Merlin—" she choked.

Aneirin made a desperate noise, his anguish rippling through Arthur. "It's hurting them," he cried. "You have to release it—"

"You knew," Arthur breathed.

Aneirin didn't reply, or maybe didn't get a chance to. In the pit Sylve let out a pitiful cry, and then her wings beat frantically no more. She lay there limp, small and trembling.

He did not wait any longer. Arthur's knees throbbed when he threw himself down beside the grate. His hands fumbled for the hidden latch by the pit's edge, the one that Uther had shown him how to release. "With their daemons contained in the mage-trap, sorcerers are unable to use their foul gifts. There's no need to even keep your men watching the trap. Just check on it in the early morning— same as for any other snare." Uther had smiled with self-satisfaction, clapping Arthur on the shoulder. "After a night spent severed from their daemons, they'll be easy enough to then take to face justice."

The latch released, and Arthur threw the grate back so hard it rattled against the hinges. Sylve's little chest rose and fell rapidly, but did not otherwise move. Arthur looked up at Aneirin, both of their eyes large with fear.

"We should—" Arthur said, and "bring her—" Aneirin said, and without further thought Arthur was shucking off his thin hunting jacket. He wrapped it over his hands, moving so carefully as he reached down for Sylve. Even though the jacket, his skin prickled with the sheer proximity of another person's daemon.

But there was no time to consider the searing intimacy of what he was doing, not when Sylve was dull like a common bird and not Merlin's soul. Aneirin knelt down so that Arthur could get on his back without jostling Sylve too much. Arthur learned forward as Aneirin straightened and took back off to their camp, clutching the bundle that held Sylve tight against his chest. He did not dare to think, could not afford to.

He had suspected what he would find back at the campsite. But the reality of it still held fresh horror: Merlin's long body curled up onto its side, the dirt around him disturbed where he had likely kicked and thrashed in agony. But now he was still, eyes open but glassy as Arthur swung off of Aneirin. One hand was extended, reaching out for what had been ripped from him.

Arthur knew what that felt like. He was going to be sick.

"Merlin," Arthur choked, rushing to the other man's side. He took a knee, and carefully tumbled the little bundle in his jacket onto Merlin's outstretched palm. Sylve fell into his hand, light and limp.

Merlin and Sylve gasped in in tandem, and Merlin's eyes flared gold as he sparked back to life. There was a moment where they did nothing but breathe, and then Merlin was scrambling to sit up as Sylve pressed tight into his chest. Arthur watched, frozen, as Sylve's form shifted effortlessly from the small bird to the stoat he knew very well.

"You were gone—"

"I'm here—"

"I couldn't feel you—"

"Never again—"

Arthur forced himself to look away. Aneirin slowly lowered his head, nudging Arthur's shoulder in some form of comfort and apology.

He knew when Merlin processed that Arthur was standing there, because out of the corner of his eye he saw Merlin go very still. Then he released Sylve from his embrace, and she took her usual perch winding around Merlin's shoulders. "Arthur," Merlin said, and Arthur did not think he could stand to hear Merlin beg for his life.

"Did it feel like she was being torn out of you?" he said hoarsely. "Like you were being ripped in two?"

A myriad of emotions flickered over Merlin's face before he settled on pale endurance. "Yes. Like I—" Merlin flinched from the fresh memory. "Like I was being unmade."

Arthur had felt the arrow as cleanly as if it had been shot into his own ribs. But that pain had been nothing compared to the agony that followed: Aneirin, tumbling down a gorge, off-balance as he reeled from the strike of a hunter thinking he'd found the most glorious prize. Arthur was already at the edge of where their bond allowed, but the feeling of his connection to his soul straining— of it ready to snap—

He'd thought he'd already died until he felt Aneirin's fur under his hand. Only then could he take his first breath that was not filled with broken glass. He'd wrapped his arms around Aneirin, weeping helplessly, unable to move until he had the confidence his heart was in his chest once more.

"We are going to talk," Arthur said, swallowing his fears. "If I leave you here, you won't run, will you?"

Merlin was still pale, but had the wherewithal to look as if he were seriously considering the answer to Arthur's question. But then Aneirin murmured "please, don't," and in response Sylve slunk off of Merlin's shoulders. She jumped, and a heartbeat later she was a bird, fluttering over to Aneirin to land on one of his antlers.

Arthur glanced back over at Merlin, who refused to meet Arthur's eyes. "Where are you going?" he asked quietly.

"Lancelot is a very good tracker," Arthur says, in the tone of voice that indicates it explains everything Merlin needs to know. "Although he got a little too close following that business with the Sluagh. I told him to make sure you were well, not press his face into the windows."

"The wards," Merlin says faintly. He felt them thrum a couple weeks prior, indicating that someone had approached his cottage, although Merlin was unable to discover who.

His magic gave him no such warning for Arthur's arrival, the bastard.

"You've known where I've been ever since you sent me away," Merlin says slowly, trying to make his mind understand. Arthur is still looking at him with the expression he has whenever he thinks Merlin is being particularly slow about something. "And you didn't… mind? Say something?" Scream at me to leave? Show up with a company of Camelot's knights to dole out the law?

Arthur looks cross. "Well, you could have chosen someplace further than a day's ride out from Camelot," he says, and Merlin winces. Arthur then suddenly looks apologetic, and Merlin doesn't know why. "But it's for the best that you didn't. It would have been too hard for me to reach you had I need of you."

"Need of me," Merlin echoes faintly.

Arthur's apologetic expression melts into one of guilt. "I— I made sure I wasn't followed," Arthur says, and it is as he is instinctively flexing his hand that Merlin notices the bruises on his knuckles. "But I should have been more careful. My father, well—" A pained expression crosses his face. "Out of the two options, I was betting that he wouldn't choose exile. The other, I could handle."

Oh. So that's what this is about. Arthur has done something to irritate Uther, and he has turned to Merlin to fix it. He is desperate enough to decide he has need of Merlin again to seek him out. Merlin supposes it shouldn't be surprising that Arthur knows where he is, since it doesn't matter where he lives, as long as it is away from Arthur. Or maybe Arthur just wants the security of knowing Merlin can't run if Arthur decides to renege on his mercy.

If Merlin were his own friend, he would advise himself to have more self-respect. As it stands, at least there is no one else in the cottage to witness how pathetic he is. "What do you need?" Merlin says quietly.

Arthur shoots him a look. "Well, a fire would be nice, for starters. And I wasn't kidding about needing a meal—"

"With Uther," Merlin says exasperatedly. "Surely you must have some idea of how to calm his anger. I could conjure a kelpie and make sure there are witnesses to you heroically slaying it—"

"I've got my father under control," Arthur says. "Sure, it does make things a bit harder having to conduct a base of operations from this…." He looks around, and decides on a word that won't spark Merlin's ire, "abode, but my knights and I have been using coded communication for months now. The council was losing faith in him even before he chose to exile the crown prince. I give it less than a month before he brings Camelot to the brink of crisis, and then I'm sure the guards will be more than happy to allow me to return."

Merlin blinks. Perhaps this really is an imposter that has entered his home wearing Arthur's skin, or maybe he has finally gone utterly mad. He would have thought it would take more than half a year of broken-hearted solitude to get to that point. "Arthur, what are you talking about—"

"Oh, right. I'm sorry, I considered sending Lancelot with a message, but I didn't want him to be caught with anything on him were he found. I couldn't—" His thumb brushes over his lip, and Merlin sees a scab there. "I couldn't risk anything pointing to your location. Hence why I told my father I wouldn't give up that information, even under torture."

"What?!"

"Don't ruffle your petticoat, I'm fine," Arthur says quickly, as if Merlin had not just felt his magic jumping under his skin with all the fury of a dragon guarding its treasure. "I was expecting him to take me up on the offer, and then I wouldn't have to bother you. But it seems my father decided it more appropriate to strip me of my rank and title until I told him where you've been hiding."

Merlin stares at Arthur dumbly. There's no doubt about it, he has gone mad.

At least one of them, anyway.

"Why wouldn't you just tell your father where I am?"

"Very funny. Should I have offered to lead the knights to capture you myself, then?"

Merlin keeps his face blank to conceal the pain. "I suppose."

Arthur gives him a queer look. "You're acting odd. Did your brain wither away from having a forest respite for a few months?"

"Forest respite," Merlin sputters, and he may be pathetic but he still has enough dignity to grow angry. "I don't know what you want, and I'll help you with whatever you need, but might I remind you that you were the one that exiled me!"

Arthur rolls his eyes, and Merlin's hands curl into fists. "You're being dramatic."

It's so casual, so thoughtlessly cruel, that Merlin's magic lashes out before he can stop it. It doesn't hurt Arthur—he never would, never could—but Arthur's mouth falls open as he is shoved into a chair and held in place with invisible hands. For a second, fear flashes across his face, but even that is not enough to quell the anger inside Merlin. Like the first crack of ice across a frozen lake, it only splinters under further pressure.

"I did everything for you," Merlin rasps. "I bled, I killed, I would do it again without hesitation, and I know I lied to you, I know I hurt you, but— but you can't just turn up again like nothing has happened, when you sent me away—"

"—Merlin—"

"It's not fair, it's not fair to take me up one day and cast me away the next, so after this," Merlin's voice trembles, but he juts his chin upwards, he is stronger than this, damn it, "if you no longer wish to see me, then respect your own wishes and leave me be—"

"Merlin!" Arthur is still straining against the weight of the magic holding him in place. But he doesn't look angry, more confused and irritated. And sweaty. "When did I exile you?"

"Oh, I don't know," Merlin snaps. "Maybe this will refresh your recollection: 'Leave here now and don't come back.'"

He knows his voice is a harsh imitation of Arthur's exact words, as they have been ringing in his head since the moment he first heard them. They had barely sunk in, leaving their impression in the grove of his mind—a permanent scar that would never fade—when Arthur barked, "Now," his expression utterly furious. And Merlin had listened.

He breathes out harshly, trying to get a rein on his anger. And Arthur looks—

—well. He doesn't have a word to describe how Arthur looks, exactly.

"Merlin. You did magic in front of my father and his entire court." Arthur is speaking very clearly and slowly. "It was all I could do to buy you enough time so you wouldn't be caught while you fled."

Merlin blinks. He hasn't focused on that part of the situation, truly. He has been more concerned with the hurt in Arthur's eyes, the way his expression turned cold and commanding within a second. All of it, targeted at Merlin. "You were angry."

"I was frightened." Something shudders across Arthur's face before he can conceal its honesty. "I always knew you were a reckless idiot, with how little you cared for doing magic in plain sight, but I knew even I couldn't save you from that display—"

"You." Merlin feels dizzy. He sinks heavily into one of his chairs, and he hears Arthur take a deep breath as his magic releases his hold on him. "You knew. About my magic."

"Of course I knew; I'm not blind," Arthur says, aghast. "I just figured you were pretending otherwise so we wouldn't have to talk about it. Did you really not—" And then his mouth closes. He blinks. Merlin can almost see the coals inside of Arthur's head producing steam. When he speaks again, his voice is small. "I see now. How things might have occurred differently to you."

Part of Merlin wants to cry, part of him wants to scream, part of him wants to laugh hysterically, and he very bravely and wisely does not do any of that. "So you weren't sending me away. Forever, that is."

"No." There is a similar edge of hysteria to Arthur's voice. "Just until I could make it safe for you again. Until I could bring you back to Camelot."

"You kept track of where I was," Merlin says distantly. "You—" He shakes his head quickly. "Arthur, you didn't— please tell me you didn't tell Uther to torture you rather than reveal where I was— I'm not worth it, why did you, why—"

He stops when he finally catches Arthur's eye. Arthur is looking at him in a way Merlin had only caught in glimpses before, like a beam piercing through the clouds, but now the full force of the sun is shining upon him. "How is it obvious to everyone other than you?" Arthur asks.

Merlin's face shatters, and Arthur is out of his chair, making his way over with apologies, and Merlin hears him saying something about how he assumed, he was wrong, he didn't mean to, and that nothing needs to change. He puts his hand on Merlin's shoulder, and Merlin realizes they are both great idiots, and it is probably better to speak with their actions, rather than words. So he does exactly that.

It is only when Arthur has his breeches half undone that he pauses to speak, as he hikes Arthur's tunic up for better access to his chest. "I do love you too, by the way."