WilsonWrites

Arthur threw his shoulder into one of the men holding him and snarled, “Kidnapping the personal servants of the crown is a crime, Morgana.” 

“Oh, did Uther die without me? What a shame.” Morgana was a vision of lovely madness, wrapped in black lace and wild-haired on her throne. It was a bit absurd, having a throne in a crumbling fortress hideout with barely three functional rooms and the pervasive smell of mold, but there was no mistaking the large, elaborate chair for anything else.

Thoughtlessly, Merlin answered the question, “No, Uther is alive. He’s important to Arthur, so he’s alive. Technically, Arthur is the crown prince, so I’m probably still a servant of 'the crown'. Not that the crown matters a whit to me. I serve Arthur because I love him, not because he's a prince.” He tilted his head, thinking. Arthur's breath came out in a huff, pained, like someone had hit him. A small part of Merlin's brain was screaming, begging him to shut up, but there was no stopping the relentless gush of words; “Who really cares who I’m employed by? I don’t. I mean, to be honest, I don’t really understand how it all works, but I think if I did, I would just realize all that nobility stuff was even more stupid than I expected.” 

Morgana’s grin was positively wicked. Arthur’s expression was murderous; “What have you done to him?” Merlin replied immediately, “She knocked me out with a stunning spell, had a few guards beat me, and they gave me a potion. The potion was a few hours ago, I think; they usually take some time to take effect. I’m pretty sure it was a truth potion.” 

Complicated emotions flashed across Arthur’s face, but Merlin was certain he saw curiosity, right before the prince settled on livid. “Would you prefer I torture information out of him, brother?” Morgana purred. She leaned her chin on one pale hand, like a child watching a play. 

“No, he wouldn’t,” Merlin said helplessly. Arthur snapped, “Merlin, would you shut up!"

"I would if I could, sire," Merlin said, and it was the absolute truth. He wished more than anything that he could pass out again. Or that the earth would just rise up and swallow him. Anything was better than this. 

Morgana laughed again. “Oh, oh, this is going to be so fun! Do you know how long it took me to work it all out? To get to this moment? I spent so much time looking for Emrys, lost so much,  and it turns out he's right there, and none of you fools even noticed! It’s too delicious.” 

Confused edged into Arthur’s expression, and Morgana sighed in bliss, "And you really don't know, do you? Do you even suspect?"

The small part of Merlin that wasn’t temporarily insane was frozen in terror, but the words came out calmly, easily, "No, I don't think he suspects anything."

The big, crumbling hall was silent as a tomb. Arthur sagged in the grip of his captors like a man facing the pyre; "Merlin. Merlin, please."

Morgana watched Arthur sink like a falcon waiting to strike. "Oh, brother," she cooed the words, almost sounding like her old self. "Oh, it's much too late for that. You must know that, don't you? You can't hide forever."

“You’ve gone mad,” Arthur said, desperately. Morgana’s smile widened, and Merlin idly debated whether an uncertain tone was enough to make something a question, while inside his heart crumbled into pieces. 

“Go on,” Morgana whispered, leaning forward, “Ask him.” She could barely breathe through the excitement. “You know he’s keeping secrets. He can’t lie to you now, not even a little. Ask him.” 

Arthur looked up at Merlin, shook his head, “You’ve put a spell on him,” he said, face set, eyes hopeless. “Anything he said in this state would be a trick. You’re... you're manipulating everything.” 

Just like that, the old Morgana vanished, and the mad witch was back. Leaning back in her chair, Morgana tisked impatiently. “As usual, you lack imagination and are a coward. Fine. I’ll do it for you.” Her intense gaze fixed on Merlin, “Merlin, servant of Arthur, tell the truth. Who is the most dangerous magic user in Camelot? Is it me?” 

“No,” Merlin said, at once. The small part of his brain not ruled by the potion thrashed, called his magic, searched for a way to escape the truth that must be coming next; Don’t say it! Don’t say it, Arthur will never forgive you! He will never recover from this betrayal! You’ll burn, and everything will be ruined!  There was a dark knot in his chest, and Merlin struggled to breathe around it. Every lie, every failure, every death, every uncertainty... the shadows that Merlin had lived in until they'd seeped into his skin, become a part of his soul, choked him now. They rose up like black sludge, strangling his power and smothering him with the sure knowledge of his own wickedness.

Don't say it!

Without his secrets, Merlin had nothing. His heart was galloping in his chest, his bound hands shook, his head throbbed, hot tears slid down his cheeks. He fought the magic compelling him with everything he had, but in the end, there was nothing he could do. The truth that came from cold, hard reality, no matter what he feared, no matter what anyone else thought, tumbled from his lips. 

“The most dangerous magic user in Camelot is the dragon trapped under the castle.”

Everyone froze.

The Pendragon siblings stared at him blankly, and Merlin felt their confusion reflected on his own face. Morgana exploded in rage, "What!?"

Merlin had eyes only for Arthur. He was standing again, clearly confused, but the light in his eyes was all Merlin needed. It was as though Arthur's faith poured through him, healing something impossible to describe. The black sludge of a thousand lies vanished like smoke on the wind. He felt something he never knew existed unfurl in his chest, and a weight he'd grown so accustomed to it was like a part of himself fall away. "It's the truth," Merlin whispered. "It's the whole truth."

“D’you suppose it’s anything like a woman?” Someone asked, a too-loud hiss of laughter, “fucking a fairy? Think that little ass is—“ 

It’s one of the knights, a tawny-haired youth Arthur knows mostly by reputation— Sir Owen’s second son? Or perhaps his third— he’s standing with his red-cloaked back to the Prince, sniggering with a couple of the other, newer knights. 

Arthur is on him before the sentence ends, his blade in his hand. Crown princes have little need for insinuation; a thin red line of blood slides along the live edge of the steel where it presses to the traitorous throat. 

“Why, Sir Lars,” Arthur says. His tone is pleasant, but his eyes are glacial. Lars is no longer laughing, nor are his fellows, who are staring at Arthur with a mix of guilt and horror on their thin faces, “I wasn’t aware you were a traitor.” 

“I—my lord Arthur—“ the knife presses closer, draws another wave of red, and the man finds the good sense to finally shut his mouth. 

It’s the work of a moment to turn the other knight onto his backside on the cobblestones. The commotion has begun to draw attention, and Lars’ co-conspirators start to scramble back into the crowd. Leon, bless him, is there before Arthur needs to decide what to do about them, catching them each by their collars and hauling them back to the middle, where onlookers have wisely moved out of Arthur’s range. Lars scrambles against the stones, as if searching for an escape. 

Not one moves. Arthur imagines there is a flash of white at his window, but does not have the luxury of checking. “Sir Lars,” Arthur says, voice ringing with authority, “since you are so concerned with the presence of the fae folk in our lands, you shall be assigned the great favor of joining the next three patrols of our borders.” Lars blinks, “three– my lord–” “starting now.” Arthur says, cutting him off. “Sir Lars requires a fresh horse–ah, yes,” Arthur says, when one of the two Leon is still holding sags in relief. “Make that three horses. We have three more for the patrol. Where is Sir Ulfric?”

–

When he finally, finally makes it up to his rooms, Arthur is sweating all over, and his whole body is beginning to tremble. Merlin is sitting in his chair by the fire, pretending to read a book of maps. 

“That’s upside down,” Arthur grunts by way of greeting. The fae jumps a little but doesn’t bother to look shame-faced at the pitiful lie. “Are you planning to banish any human who talks about me? You’ll have an empty kingdom before the end of the week.” 

“Arrogant,” Arthur grumbles, fumbling with the buckles at his shoulder. His pauldron feels like it weighs a thousand pounds; the aching in his ribs is growing more pronounced with each passing witicism. “I didn’t banish anybody. Lars is a shithead who deserves much worse than he got.” 

“Let me help you,” Merlin is at his side in a blink, long pale hands making quick work of the buckles and hooks that hold Arthur together. For a moment, neither of them speaks; Arthur closes his eyes and relishes the feeling of weightlessness that always comes after removing armor worn for too long, and Merlin focuses intently on unraveling the incomprehensible web of straps and buckles. 

“You don’t need to protect me.” He says it quietly, not lifting his eyes from the knot of leather at the top of Arthur’s left vambrace. The prince snorts, “I didn’t do it for you,” he says, closing his eyes and letting his head loll back. Merlin moves on to his chest, nimbly unlacing his riding tunic. Arthur imagines the cool breath at his neck, faintly, oddly sweet. “Speculating about– making lewd innuendos about a Crown Prince is treason, or damn close. He’s lucky my father didn’t hear him, or he’d be much worse off right now.” 

“He’s going to be so saddle-worn by the time he gets back, he’ll be unable to sit properly for a month,” Merlin does not sound sad about that fact. Arthur shrugs, then hisses when the motion pulls at his rib. 

The hands at his throat still. “What was that?” The musical voice is sharp now, accusatory. Arthur sighs. “Nothing, jus–” 

He is flat on his back on the coverlet of his bed before he can finish the lie. It was oddly painless, the falling, and he wonders what magic Merlin used to ease his fall. Merlin looms over him, looking every inch a fae, despite his borrowed tunic; his eyes glow blue and gold, fangs flash when he speaks, “Do not lie to me, human!” 

Arthur should take up his knife again and run him through. He should call for his guards, sound the alarm, and summon his road-weary men to his defense. 

Arthur had been cheerfully oblivious to his own blood, apparently not noticing the torn shirt that flapped away at the collar, revealing the delicate curve of the wound at his neck with each step, but the underpaid, sleepy-eyed uni student working at the counter had gaped at the bloody blonde Adonis for a full minute before putting in their order. ‘Tell me about it,’ Merlin had thought miserably, as Pendragon manhandled him into the order pick-up line. 

He’d somehow convinced Merlin to stand shoulder to shoulder with him at a long silver bar and swallow down awkward bites of greasy pizza that had smelled like death and tasted like wet paper made of death. Merlin had hated every second of it. Arthur had been warm beside him, it had been like standing next to a small sun– if the sun smelled like ambrosia and occasionally bumped its strong shoulder into yours, making lame jokes and never seeming to mind the bony, chilly body it stood beside. 

When they’d finally parted, Arthur apparently deeming one extra-large slice of supreme pizza sufficient repayment for Merlin helping to save his life, Merlin had felt nothing but relief. Nothing. 

He’d made it home perilously close to dawn. The pizza had tasted more like wet, mouldy paper coming back up when he’d discreetly vomited into the dumpster behind his building, but it was better than having the oily lump in his stomach for however long it took for his body to dissolve it. He’d slunk up the long flights of stairs, avoiding the slowly-pinkening windows and reminding himself he never had to see Arthur Pendragon ever again. Uther Pendragon’s son hadn’t figured him out. He was safe. 

He didn’t feel safe. Arthur had spent the whole meal looking at him with those eyes– it was like he saw something in Merlin that everyone else couldn't see… something other than the blood-sucking undead, of course, because Merlin remained semi-alive. 

The thought made his stomach churn and his skin prickle– he couldn’t afford to be seen by the most successful vampire hunter in the UK. 

So, it was all for the best that Arthur Pendragon was gone from his not-life. Forever. 

He couldn’t see a clock from inside his light-tight cocoon, but the pull of the sun was strong enough that he was sure it was still at least a few hours before sunset. Resigning himself to yet another afternoon of marinating in (possibly) milk smell, the young vampire crossed his arms across his chest and closed his eyes, willing himself to think of anything but he stupid blonde hunter who was haunting his every waking moment. 

“You saved me, back there,” Arthur whispered in his mind. Merlin shut his eyes harder, “Good for me.” He muttered to no one, “Now go away.” 

“You’ll feel much better after a bite.”  The voice was low, close, just a little raspy– and Pendragon hadn’t sounded anything like that when he’d actually said it, just five days ago (not that he was counting). The sun pulled on him with what felt like gravity, trying to draw him back into the darkness, where he belonged, but Arthur Pendragon’s voice was like the light; it made him burn, refused to let him rest. “I insist…”

Merlin nearly jumped out of his undead skin when his phone, which he’d plugged in and pulled through the opening of the sleeping bag with him, buzzed against his forehead. 

Panting, he pawed at it and hissed when the too-bright screen burned his tired eyes. 

The text was from Will. It read: “SOS. Cent Lib. Vamps. Srsly fucked. Come ASAP.”