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If Merlin seems even more clumsy and absent-minded than usual as he dresses Arthur that morning, there’s nothing strange in it. “Carousing all night again?” Arthur asks brightly, a touch accusingly. He doesn’t like all the drinking and socializing Merlin gets up to on his off hours, but he can’t just say that. Merlin offers a wan smile. “Oh, you know me: can’t get enough carousing.”He snorts as Merlin settles his chainmaille over his shoulders, making sure, as always, that the links don’t catch the fine hairs on the back of his neck. “Well, as long as you know to stay out of the way today, you shouldn’t be too much trouble. The sorcerer won’t take much notice of a hungover servant hiding behind a tree when there are a dozen trained knights charging at him.” Merlin seems to clear his throat a little as he tugs Arthur’s tabard straight and makes sure his belt isn’t twisted before buckling it. “Dare I ask if you’ve remembered to sharpen my sword?”“Of course I have,” Merlin grumbles, crossing the room to fetch it. He moves a bit awkwardly, almost limping but not quite. Arthur lets his eyes linger, lets them settle on Merlin’s body with more than concern, for longer than he should. The narrow strength of his wrists, and the dark lustre of his hair, and the unyielding straightness of his spine…. Merlin itches a spot above his hip and Arthur blinks back to himself. He should say something about this, soon. Maybe once they come back from dealing with this sorcerer. Or after the harvest is in. Or maybe once the castle is prepared for winter. Yes, there won’t be anything else to deal with for a good while after that. He’ll say something then.He leads the way down to the courtyard where the knights are gathering, stable boys holding bridles while horses snort and prance in impatience. There’s a celebratory air to the group: it’s been a long while since they rode out to put down a sorcerer. Nearly a year ago, a stranger known only as Emrys started appearing here and there throughout the kingdom and dealing with magical threats. Sometimes that meant killing the creature or sorcerer, but more often they just seemed to vanish. No one knows for certain if Emrys is magical himself (though the folk legends already growing around him and plain simple logic say he must be) or even if he’s human (no two tales agree on this, but Arthur is inclined to think he is for some reason), but Arthur’s primary concern is why anyone would do these things when Arthur and the knights have always dealt with them perfectly well in the past. True, nobody—except the sorcerer, sometimes—dies when Emrys deals with it, but sometimes the kingdom needs to see its King and elite warriors facing down a threat to their livelihoods. It builds loyalty to the crown. Emrys’ vigilantism does the exact opposite.But there have been no reports that Emrys has dealt with this sorcerer. Arthur and the knights will get to do what they’re best at. And Arthur will get a break from the castle for a couple days.“All ready, your Royal Reverence?” Gwaine calls, already ahorse and impatient to go.“You keep a civil tongue, Sir Gwaine, or you’ll join Merlin in the stocks!” Arthur calls, swinging gracefully into the saddle.“What have I done?” Merlin protests, scrambling onto his own mare.“I’ll think of something,” Arthur replies, and Gwaine and several others laugh while Merlin rolls his eyes. He still seems a bit tired… Well, he brought it on himself. Arthur shakes his head and directs them to move out.Arthur is deeply contented as they ride further from the castle. Their destination is not too far off: only a couple of hours at a reasonable pace on horseback. There had been a report from several villages that a sorcerer was threatening the roads and robbing everyone who went past. There didn’t seem to be any other men with him, so the fight should be pretty straightforward. The knights banter and joke as they ride, and he chimes in when he wants to, but no one asks him for more than he wants to give. Merlin rides along slightly behind them all, and is always smiling when Arthur looks back at him, though once or twice he notices him scratching at that spot above his hip again.But not even an hour into the ride, they encounter a man walking from the other direction, who hails them. “My lords, my lords! Are you coming to kill the sorcerer?”“We are,” Arthur calls back, reigning his mount in. “Can you tell me, are we much further from our destination?”“Not far, my lord, but I’ve good news: Emrys has defeated him! Only last night, we heard sounds of a magical battle in the forest, and Emrys himself told us we were safe!”Disappointment coalesces in Arthur’s gut, but he puts it aside for the time being. “You saw Emrys? Could you describe him?” If they can track down the vigilante, then this trip won’t be a complete waste.But the man shakes his head. “Apologies, sir, but what with the darkness and the cloak he wore, I had not a peek of his face or features. A tall man, at least, and pale. But aside from that, sir, I couldn’t say.” The knights stir and murmur amongst themselves. It’s little information, similar to what others have said before, but anything is good.“My thanks, good man. And Emrys claimed to have killed the sorcerer?”“Aye, sir,” he says eagerly. “He told us where we might find the body, but none was brave enough to venture there at night. But we’ve been since dawn, and found all manner of spoils. And his body laid out as well, sir. Very neat, eyes closed and all, though he were a wicked sort and didn’t deserve it. Appeared he were strangled by something. Marks too large for hands though.”Arthur grits his teeth. “Be sure to burn the body,” he commands, rather more harshly than he means. “Percival, Bors, Elyan, you return with him to ensure the stolen goods are redistributed properly.”And with that he brings his horse around and canters back up the road the way they’d come, back towards the castle. The knights and Merlin fall in behind him, still talking to one another. Leon and Merlin are closest to Arthur now, and Leon raises his voice to say, “Sire, if you order it I can take a few men and begin searching the area for Emrys. He can’t have gotten far since last night.”“Search for what, Leon?” Arthur replies, abruptly tired. “A tall, pale man? Hell, Merlin fits that bill.” Merlin chokes on air. “Besides, who knows how quickly a sorcerer may travel? He could make himself light enough to ride the wind like a kite for all we know. He could be halfway to Mercia.”Leon has no response to that, and Arthur’s dour mood expands to cover the rest of the group, who had all been eager for the chance to let loose a little. Even Merlin is quiet rather than nattering on as usual, but somehow that only makes Arthur’s temper worse. The tops of the castle towers have just come into view when Arthur notices Merlin scratching that spot again, and snaps, simply for something to snap at, “Merlin, what the hell do you keep itching? That’s not where venereal diseases generally happen, which I assume you’d know as Gaius’ apprentice.”Merlin gapes at him. “Venereal—!?” His voice is an enraged, choked shriek, and Arthur nearly lets a smile slip through. Gwaine and the others roar with laughter. “I’ve got spider bites or something, you prat, look!” And he hikes the side of his shirt up to show the pale skin of his midriff. And there is something there, but it doesn’t look like spider bites. Or any kind of bites, for that matter. The skin is reddish and irritated in a patch about as large as Arthur’s palm (he shoves the comparison away), almost abraded, like he’d scraped it on rough stone. And right in the middle, there’s something dark just under the skin, like a splinter, but much larger.“Merlin, what is that?” he asks, mockery dissolving into something more serious. He isn’t concerned, not quite, but it does look mightily odd, and from what Merlin said about spider bites, it can’t be what he thinks it is either.Proving Arthur correct, Merlin looks down at it and frowns. “That wasn’t there this morning…” he says, touching the dark thing with uncertain fingers. His face, when he looks back at Arthur, is troubled. “I don’t know what it is. I’ll ask Gaius when we get back.”Arthur nods and faces front again, not allowing the cold finger of fear tracing up his spine to make him shiver. Gaius will know. Merlin will be fine.
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Merlin goes directly to Gaius when they return, while Arthur and the rest of the knights grouchily share the news of yet another Emrys victory. Arthur is divested of armour and chainmaille by obsequious squires and sends them away immediately. He sits at his desk and tells himself he can focus on council reports and grain store logistics now that the harvest is imminent, but he completely fails. That dark smudge under Merlin’s skin haunts him, and the worried frown Merlin wore all the way back after he saw it replicates itself on Arthur’s own face the more time passes.He manages one whole hour before he goes stomping off to Gaius’ rooms to see what the situation is.Approaching down the corridor, the last thing he expects is angrily raised voices, but that’s exactly what he hears.“….even know what it is!” Gaius is shouting. “I’m not going to go digging through your insides until we at least have an idea of what we’re dealing with, Merlin!”“What if it’s anything like the Fomorroh? We need to remove it!” Merlin retorts, sounding both authoritative and rather desperate. “It wasn’t there this morning: what if it grows even more? What if now is our only chance?”“Has it caused you pain? Do you sense any difference in your thinking?” Gaius asks. “Any plans to assassinate any kings?”Arthur rears back from the door. What the hell sort of question is that?“No,” Merlin says testily. Testily, rather than… however a normal person would answer that question. Offended-ly? The conversation is rapidly spiraling out of Arthur’s ken and he isn’t sure if that means he should make it stop, or keep listening, or creep away and pretend he was never there.“I just want to know what this thing is,” Merlin goes on, in more measured tones. “I don’t think I was hurt last night, but I didn’t remember having the Fomorroh put in me either. I need your help, Gaius.”Arthur’s pulse roars in his ears through the silent seconds that follow Merlin’s plea. Furious questions batter the inside of his skull, but as with his untoward observations of Merlin’s physique, he shoves them aside. There will be time later to find out what a Fomorroh is, and why it was in Merlin, and who didn’t hurt him last night, and which kings he ever had designs on assassinating.He hears Gaius sigh heavily. “Get on the table. I’ll fetch the good knives.”Those words jolt Arthur into action, because whatever else is happening, Merlin’s about to get sliced open, and Arthur’s not letting that happen unsupervised.He swings the door open without knocking, and Merlin and Gaius both startle. “Sire!” “Arthur?” they exclaim simultaneously. Gaius has a small roll of white cloth in his hands and Merlin is sitting on the end of the long table where Gaius usually has several dozen books stacked by a bubbling cauldron of something rancid. Now there’s just a folded wad of cloth under where Merlin’s side will be when he lies down. They’re both looking at him like they expect him to say something.“Have you figured out what it is?” he asks, deciding to pretend he hadn’t been eavesdropping. Not only does he not want them to know about that, but if the information they give him is different from what they discussed together, he may glean another clue as to what in the world is going on here.Merlin and Gaius glance at one another for a split second, and Gaius is the one to answer. “We’re not certain, Sire. We have decided to surgically remove the object, if possible, and learn what we can from it.”Arthur nods. No discrepancies so far. “Can I help in any way?”“No, it’s—” Merlin begins, only for Gaius to speak over him. “If you would be so good, Sire, I would like you to help hold Merlin down. I have only a topical painkiller right now and Merlin may do himself serious injury if he starts thrashing around in pain.”“I would not ‘thrash’,” Merlin says witheringly. “I’ve been in a little pain before.”Gaius Eyebrows him and Merlin looks away, scowling. Arthur decides to learn that trick. After they’ve figured out what’s wrong with Merlin. And once the harvest is in. And the castle is prepared for winter. But before he tells Merlin about the other thing.At Gaius’ indication, he goes to the table where Merlin is now lying—with his shirt off, and Arthur only looks a little, so he can remember for later—and stands opposite Gaius. “The incision shall have to be nearly as long as your pinky finger, Merlin, to remove the object wholly.” He opens a stone jar of a pungent paste and smears a thick layer over the irritated area. Once sufficient time has passed for it to take effect, Gaius wipes the anesthetic paste off Merlin’s skin. Then he flicks Merlin quite hard, right over the dark thing. Arthur is the one who jumps. “I felt the impact of that, but not the sting,” Merlin says, unprompted. He’s clearly seen Gaius do this before.Gaius grunts in apparent satisfaction and instructs Arthur to hold Merlin down. “I hope the object is shallow enough that the painkiller will dull all sensation of this, but I want to be safe if not.”The first incision is swift and doesn’t seem very deep, even though indecently red blood wells from the split in the skin. It flows in thin rivulets down over Merlin’s side, except that some pools in the hollow between the bottom of his ribs and the rise of his hips and it’s so red and there’s not a lot but there’s still so much and what if—“Arthur.”He drags his gaze up to Merlin’s face. “Yes?” he croaks.Merlin raises his eyebrows. “You look like you’re about to keel over.”“Stop talking please,” Gaius mumbles, still concentrating on his task.Merlin sticks his tongue out in Gaius’ direction and Arthur’s lips form a smile of their own accord. “I’m hardly about to swoon, Merlin: I’m a hardened warrior who’s been—”“Trained to kill since birth? I vaguely remember hearing that before.” He grins cheekily. But then he winces, and Arthur’s heart leaps into his throat. “Distract me, will you?”“How?” Arthur asks, feeling urgent and stupid.“Do I have to do all the thinking?” Merlin gripes. “What do you think about Emrys?”“Emrys?” Arthur takes a moment to even remember who that is. “I’ve complained to you about him before.”“Well, do it again,” Merlin says, sweat stippling his brow.So Arthur does, complaining that Emrys is getting in the way of duties the knights ought to be performing, that he’s undermining the commoners’ faith in the Crown’s laws against magic, that if he becomes a folk hero, other people may follow his example and pretty soon no one will abide by the ban on magic. “What I don’t understand,” Arthur says, having worn through his usual litany of complaints, “is why he’s doing what he’s doing at all. He’s a sorcerer, he must be, so why is he acting against other sorcerers, ones who are acting against the kingdom? He’s already using magic, which is illegal, so he’ll be executed for that if he’s ever caught, regardless of what he was doing with it…” He’s thinking aloud more than anything now, as he so often does with Merlin. “He must think that whatever he’s doing is worth risking death for. And it’s mostly been protecting villages and farms from magical attacks. So… he thinks the common people of the kingdom are worth potentially dying for?” He frowns, disliking how noble that makes the man sound. “But why would he care?” he demands, becoming frustrated. “No sorcerer has any reason to love Camelot or her people after the last twenty-five years. He’d have to be a lunatic, or an idiot, or…” He finds himself looking down at Merlin’s face. There’s still sweat on his forehead and a distressed pinch around the corners of his mouth, but there’s something in his eyes, something huge and soft and warm and it makes Arthur’s breath catch somewhere in his chest.“Or hopeful that things can change,” Merlin whispers.There are words, words he wants to say next, that might express a small part of his own huge, soft, warm feelings, but just at that moment Merlin goes tense all over and his eyes clench shut and his mouth wrenches open in a scream unlike anything Arthur has heard out of him before. He’s only lucky Merlin doesn’t jerk or writhe because he’s so shocked that he wouldn’t have been able to hold him down. Gaius curses loudly.It scarcely lasts a few seconds, and then Merlin is panting and trembling and Arthur’s heart is the thing that’s thrashing around.“I’m so sorry, my boy,” Gaius says roughly. “It is bonded with the muscle here: I don’t know if I’ll be able to fully remove it.”Merlin releases a shuddering breath and puts his arm over his eyes. “Get as much as you can. Enough to see what it is, at least.”Gaius meets Arthur’s gaze, his expression torn. Arthur swallows hard, and nods. Gaius waits for Arthur to reposition his hands so he can keep Merlin still if he has to, then bends back over Merlin’s bloodied side, doing something with the knife and a pair of pincers that Arthur can’t watch too closely without feeling like he’ll pass out after all. Merlin shouts and jerks, lips pulling back in a grimace of horrific pain, and Arthur presses him down, trying to make the pressure a comfort somehow, as well as a restraint. “Augh—God! Gaius! Aahhh!” Merlin’s arm flails out and his hand latches onto Arthur’s bicep, and his fingers dig painful divots into the muscle in the last moments of the surgery. Gaius throws the knife, the pincers, and something slimy and reddish-black into a bowl near his elbow, and begins cleaning the wound. “Guh,” Merlin chokes. Slowly, his fingers unclench from Arthur’s arm. “Ugh.” His breathing slowly evens out as Gaius finishes what he’s doing (Arthur still can’t watch), and peels his arm off from his eyes. “Told you I wouldn’t thrash,” he says weakly.Gaius laughs shakily. “I’ll believe you next time.”
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Gaius winds a neat stripe of bandage around Merlin’s stomach and helps him sit up on the table. Arthur can still feel his pulse in each of his fingers and toes, and he thinks he’ll have bruises in the shape of Merlin’s fingers before the day is out, but the worst is over. Gaius got the thing out of Merlin. A bit of rest and he’ll be right as rain, back to annoying the life out of Arthur. These are the things Arthur tells himself as he helps Gaius clean up.“Can you tell what it is?” Merlin’s voice is a bit hoarse, but strong and steady. He’s holding a cup of water and looking distrustfully at the bowl that holds the surgery tools and the thing Gaius cut out of him.Gaius takes up the thing with the pincers and pours water over it from a jug. “It… it seems to be wood.”Arthur blinks. “Wood? As in, from a tree?”“That’s generally where wood comes from,” Merlin says, but with none of the usual playfully sarcastic bite. He sounds like he’s concentrating on something, or trying to remember something.“But… Gaius said it was connected to your muscle. And how would you have gotten a piece of wood that large embedded in your side without noticing?”Merlin sets the cup of water down on the table next to his leg. “Can you tell what kind of wood it is?” His voice is so mild and reasonable that Arthur nearly misses the tremor in it. But he doesn’t.“Why does it matter?” he asks sharply.“It might not.” He doesn’t take his eyes off Gaius, who is holding a magnifying glass up to his eye.“I believe this is the grain of an oak,” he says slowly. “Why?”Arthur and Gaius both look at Merlin, who is doing something with his face that somehow makes him look both serene and incredibly tense. “Gaius,” he says in that same mild, even voice that’s making Arthur want to shake him. “Could you please bring down the Myddfai’s Tracts?”Looking perturbed now, Gaius obeys, fetching down a thick tome and helping Merlin lay it open on his lap. Merlin pages through it confidently, and Arthur wonders just how much of the time he accuses Merlin of lazing away he actually spends studying.When he finds the page he wants, Merlin hesitates, brushing his hands over the text. He swallows. Then he turns the book around so Arthur and Gaius can see. The language isn’t anything Arthur knows how to read, the diagrams might as well be random lines, but evidently Gaius understands because he catches his breath sharply.“Last time we talked about this, you said it would be absolutely incontrovertible,” Merlin says. “That a spell fueled by a death would be truly unbreakable. Are you sure of that? Are you sure?”“Merlin,” Gaius whispers. “What happened last night?”And Merlin’s composure cracks apart and shatters, and one hand covers his face as he starts to sob while the other presses against the surgery wound on his side, where blood is starting to show through the bandages. Gaius makes a sound in the back of his throat and moves to enclose Merlin in a fierce embrace. “Oh, my boy.” His words are muffled because his face is pressed into Merlin’s shoulder. “Oh, my stupid, brave, wonderful boy. Oh, God.”Arthur stands frozen because whatever has happened, whatever they seem to understand without speaking aloud, it’s something horrible. Something so horrible he isn’t sure he wants to know. Something so far outside of his understanding that he doesn’t even know what to ask.It takes quite some time for Merlin and Gaius to let go of each other, and they’re both still crying when they do, but there is some calmness back in Merlin’s face too. Merlin looks straight at Arthur, and his desolate expression is like an arrow to the lung. “Arthur,” he says, voice thick and rough. “There’s a lot you need to know. First of all, I was the one who faced that sorcerer last night. And it turns out he put a… a very serious curse on me.”“Wh—?” Arthur can’t find his voice or any air or anything to hold on to and he feels himself sway on his feet. “Emrys was the one who defeated…”“Yes.”Arthur can’t make his mind go down the path that Merlin seems to be guiding it to. “Emrys did this to you?”Merlin huffs a wet sort of laugh. “I am Emrys, you utter…” He trails off before whatever insult he’s thinking of passes his lips, and that more than anything makes Arthur realize that whatever is happening, he can’t escape from it. “I’ve had magic since I was born. This was never how I meant to tell you, please believe that. I thought if I could show people that magic can be used for good, to protect them and help them then things might… you might… I went and faced that sorcerer last night, I wasn’t at the tavern, I’ve never been at the tavern, and I thought I was fine, but that last thing he did… I didn’t recognize it. But that’s sort of the point of the cwealm hogian isn’t it, each one is unique, and it’s hardly like he could turn me into the concept of strangulation so the wood makes sense after all but—”“Merlin!” He interrupts more on long-worn habit than anything. Merlin rambling is practically a natural law, and Arthur making him shut up is another. But he has no idea what to say after that. So he just looks at him, feeling the heat building behind his eyes, the hurl and crash of thoughts too incoherent to pull questions out of, and the fear. Why is Merlin crying? Why is Merlin telling him these things? What does Arthur have to do to make it better?But Merlin seems to calm a bit at the admonishment, as though the dose of normalcy braces him. He takes a ragged breath, and explains. “In some circumstances, when a sorcerer is killed by another magic user, he or she can cast something called a cwealm hogian. The purpose of it is to transform the sorcerer’s killer into the means by which they are causing the sorcerer’s death. In my case…” Another deep, shaky breath. “… after he refused to listen and tried to kill me a couple times, I enchanted a tree branch to strangle him. So his cwealm hogian will turn me into a tree.” He casts a glance at the sliver of bloodstained wood now lying on the table. “An oak tree, apparently. I didn’t really care at the time.”The weight of a mountain is resting on Arthur’s chest. Merlin’s face is drawn, but in the way it is drawn when he is pained or worried, not the way it should be for a man who knows he is going to… Merlin is going to…“You’re…” The word is almost unrecognizable. It scrapes up out of Arthur’s throat like an owl pellet. “Are you saying you’re dying?” Yes, better that it be a question. Questions are uncertain. The answer can be No.Merlin’s cheeks shine with streaming tears, but his lips have a bitter twist. “I’m saying I’m turning into a tree. The tree will be alive. But I don’t care to get philosophical just now over whether that will still count as ‘me’ or not.”
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Arthur has always prided himself on being a man of action. He takes the measure of any situation and discerns what he needs to do to ensure a beneficial outcome. This ability has saved the lives of his men in battle, saved the kingdom from ruin during negotiations, saved his own pride innumerable times in situations both dire and benign. Hell, it’s saved Merlin’s hide a fair few times as well.So here, in the face of the worst thing he has ever heard, he says, “Well, how do we fix it?”Merlin’s expression is simply tired, but Gaius’ is pitying, and it makes Arthur furious.“There must be a way to fix this!” he shouts.“Sire...” Gaius says, and Arthur has never hated a man so much as he does now, because it’s clear what he’s going to say. “The cwealm hogian is irrevocable. There are not even legends of anyone recovering. It is a spell fueled by death, and death cannot be fought, Sire. It is impossible.”“You’ve said that at other times and we’ve found solutions. What about the Dorocha, or the unicorn’s curse, or when I had to get him a Mortaeus flower?” He looks desperately to Merlin. “I brought you back the Mortaeus flower.” It comes out sounding pathetic and small, as though one of the proudest actions of his youth might turn out to mean nothing. Because that’s what he’s afraid of.Merlin looks back levelly. “I know.”That look is nearly enough to undo him, but just at the point of breaking, he steels himself again and redoubles his determination, his fury. It has to be anger he feels, it must be, because if it’s not anger, it’s fear. He grits his teeth and seizes Merlin by the arm, nearly growling, “Come on,” as he pulls him off the table and stomps towards the door.“Arthur!” Merlin yelps, and Arthur can tell from the jerky resistance that Merlin is stumbling.“Sire!” Gaius calls. “He should not be walking!”“He’ll be fine!” Arthur yells back, hurling the door open. “He’s not a bloody tree yet, and he never will be!”They’re halfway to the stairs before Merlin manages to yank his arm free and snaps, “Arthur, I just had surgery, you pillock.”Arthur freezes. Whirls. “Oh my God, Merlin, I—” Merlin is standing a few steps behind him, bent over with one hand on his knee, the other pressed to the bandage, where red is slowly but visibly spreading. He’s still shirtless, dressed only in trousers and boots, there is still a sheen of sweat over his forehead and chest, and his eyes are pained and weary and annoyed. But not accusatory. “Oh my God, Merlin,” Arthur repeats, voice thin. He takes one unsteady step forward, another. “Merlin, I’m sorry, Merlin I’m so sorry, my God…” He closes the last step between them and gingerly puts his arms around Merlin’s bent shoulders, his hunched back. His forehead bumps Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur feels the moment that Merlin relents, and leans on him. His skin is cold under Arthur’s hands, cold and clammy and trembling and Arthur pulls him in tighter.“I’m so sorry, Arthur,” Merlin whispers hoarsely.Arthur doesn’t bother asking for what, because it doesn’t matter. “We’re going to fix it, Merlin.” He means to say it strongly, certainly, but he’s hoarse too. “You’ll be all right.”The trembling of Merlin’s back redoubles for a minute, but then subsides. Arthur decides to take this as acceptance. He begins to make a plan.
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Arthur leaves Merlin to rest for the remainder of the day, in Gaius’ chamber where he can be watched over. He goes about the rest of his duties in a daze. There aren’t many, since he’d planned to be fighting a sorcerer for most of the day, but each of them takes five times as long as it should.When Merlin walks into Arthur’s rooms with a dinner tray, Arthur does a double take. “What the hell are you doing?” he demands, lurching up out of his chair. Merlin is pallid and moves a bit slowly, but otherwise shows no sign of what is going on.“Serving your dinner, my lord,” he replies, with a worthy effort at snark.Arthur gapes at him. “You’re meant to be resting,” he finally snaps.“I have been, all day. I got bored.”“You are hurt.” His voice cracks hard on the last word. “You need—”“Arthur, I’ve served you with injuries far worse than this,” Merlin interrupts, looking Arthur in the eye for the first time since coming into the room. His words knock the air from Arthur’s lungs. “This…” He gestures eloquently to his side, where Arthur can only too well imagine the pale stripe of bandage around his waist. He wonders if the wound it covers ever stopped bleeding. “...is small, and clean, and has been treated. It’s not like a broken rib, or a concussion, or anything serious.”It takes Arthur too long to breathe. He swallows how is you dying not serious— He swallows how did I never know— He swallows I’m so sorry Merlin, I’m so terribly, terribly sorry, please forgive me— “If you’re really so well,” he declares, “we’ll leave first thing in the morning.”That, at least, succeeds in startling Merlin. “Leave? Leave for where?”“To find the Druids. Gaius may be very knowledgeable, but they’ll know better how to solve what’s happening to you.”Merlin stares at him for a long moment before his face crumples into pity and pain. “Arthur…”“You’d better go pack,” Arthur says brusquely. “And tell the kitchen to prepare road food. That’s all for tonight.”“Yes, Sire,” Merlin says quietly, and goes out. Arthur stares at the tray of food, trying to batter back the rising tide of anguished fear. His lip is bleeding where he’s biting it by the time he admits failure and hurls the goblet at the back of the door. It clatters to the floor, badly dented, and the spreading red puddle of wine turns his stomach so badly that he forgoes dinner altogether.
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The day dawns cool and misty, but in this season that means the day to come will be hot. He and Merlin are packed and in the saddle scarcely an hour after sun-up, trotting out the gates of the citadel and through the lower town without saying a word to each other. Merlin looks slightly better than he did last night, which is heartening, but Arthur has hardly slept at all, and knows he must look it. His jaw aches from clenching it all night, and the bruises Merlin left on his bicep during the surgery are points of dull, painful heat.They ride through the morning in silence. Arthur is following information gleaned from patrol reports. Although he has declared a cease to all hostilities against the Druid people, they are still—understandably, he will admit—leery of making their whereabouts too well known. Twenty years of prejudice take more than one royal decree to resolve. But patrols along the northern border brought word of signs that Druids had recently passed through the area, and Arthur trusts his tracking ability to get them the rest of the way.They stop for some food and to let the horses drink from a river at midday, and Arthur watches Merlin clumsily dismount. Arthur’s heart clenches. The surgery wound may not be as bad as some of Merlin’s other injuries, if what he says is to be believed, but it can’t be comfortable to ride all day with it.Unbidden, one of the myriad questions that plagued him all night passes his lips. “How many of the creatures and so on I think I’ve defeated were actually you?”Merlin flashes him a wide-eyed glance, then ducks his head and gives much more attention to unpacking their lunch from the saddlebag than the task deserves. Arthur waits. “Um… not all of them.”Arthur exhales. “Will you tell me what you did?”Merlin takes too long to unwrap the hard cheese and dark brown bread the cooks had packed for them. “What I’ve used magic for, you mean?”“Yes.” The word sounds like it comes out through a hollow reed. He repeats it more strongly. “Yes.”Merlin still isn’t looking at him as he hands Arthur a portion of food. “What do you want to hear about?”Arthur has no idea. Of all the things he’s ever suspected Merlin of, magic was never on the list. Even in all his tossing and turning and not sleeping last night, all he had were vague inferences for what Merlin might have done. “What was the first magic you did in Camelot?”For some reason the question makes Merlin smile a little. “It was, um… the very first time I met Gaius. I went into his chambers and he was up in that terrible rickety loft with the books and he stumbled against the railing when I called to him. It broke and he was falling, and I, um. Sort of slowed time down a bit and made the bed catch him.”“You slowed time?” Arthur repeats incredulously. “A bit?”Merlin blushes right to the tips of his ears. “It was on instinct. I wasn’t very well trained, back then.”“So… you’re… a powerful sorcerer?”He only realizes how patronizing that sounds when Merlin glares from under his fringe. “Emrys isn’t just some name I made up. It’s what the Druids call me. I’m a figure of prophecy for them. We both are. They say I’m the most powerful sorcerer who will ever live, and you’re the Once and Future King.”Arthur’s mouth goes dry. A part of him—a shamefully large part—wants to laugh. Merlin? A legendarily powerful sorcerer? When pigs fly, perhaps. And as for a prophecy, well. Of course Arthur’s destiny is to be King. He was born a Prince, after all, and the one logically follows the other. No magical mysticism required to parse that out. But he quashes his instinct to scoff. This is too important to ruin that way.“And…” He has to clear his throat. “And you never thought I should know any of this?”Merlin flinches, and Arthur regrets how harsh the words sound. But he’s confused, and trying not to be upset, and he has more questions than there are stalks of wheat in a field. “Of course I thought you should know,” Merlin whispers. “It was always too big to do alone. But I didn’t know you well at first, and then after Morgause… And then I wasn’t certain what you would do for a long time, and by the time I was confident, you trusted me, and I… Can you understand that I wanted you to know about the magic, but not that I had lied to you for so long? I couldn’t make you think someone else had betrayed you. I’ve only ever used it for you, Arthur, to keep you safe and help you get closer to your destiny.” Merlin’s eyes shine with devotion and sincerity as he speaks, and Arthur finds he’s forgotten to breathe and that his chest is tight and aching. “I’ve wanted to tell you every single day, but Gaius always said I couldn’t risk it, and the dragon—”“The dragon?” Arthur interrupted. “What dragon? The dragon that attacked us? That we went out to face? That you said I defea…” He narrows his eyes. “What did you do to the dragon, Merlin?”Merlin looks at him helplessly. “Where do you want me to start?”All of Arthur’s affront deserts him. He takes a bite of bread and cheese and chews it to mush. Swallows with difficulty. “And after the time thing, what was the next magic you did?”For some reason, Merlin’s lips twist like they do when he’s embarrassed. “Um. Well. You were a lot better with a mace than me, so, I sort of had to…”Arthur looks at him. “You cheated!” he shouts when the pieces connect.Merlin starts giggling. “It was self-defense!”“No wonder I was so clumsy!” Arthur’s outrage rises with each new realization. “And you provoked me! And now you go ‘oh I only use my magic for you, Arthur, to keep you safe, Arthur, destiny this and that, Arthur,’ and all the while you’ve been making me trip on air and—” But Merlin’s laughing too hard to be listening, such a plain, breathless, happy sound that it makes Arthur’s mouth curl up at the corner no matter how he resists, until a chuckle shakes loose from him too, then another, and then a real laugh. They’re both quickly howling, tears streaming down their faces, uneaten bread and cheese falling from limp fingers. Before long, Arthur is clutching his stomach, struggling to breathe and weakly miming how he’d whacked Merlin with the broom handle that day so long ago when they’d fought in the market. Merlin’s face is contorted with mirth, and even though he has a hand pressed over his bandages and occasionally gasps “ow” he makes no effort to stop laughing either. It makes Arthur remember that despite all that’s happened to both of them, they’re still young, and they’re still friends, and they’re on their way to make everything right. Once they’ve done that, he’ll say something.
+++
Merlin lights the night’s campfire with a quick flick of his fingers and a momentary flicker of gold in his eyes, and Arthur is struck by shock on one side and want on the other. Knowing Merlin is a sorcerer is one thing—one he’s taken rather too easily in stride, part of him thinks uneasily—but seeing him do actual magic is another thing entirely. Even something so simple and innocuous as lighting a little campfire.The want, though, comes from how peaceful and utterly comfortable Merlin looks as he does it. Like he’s finally home after a long journey. It makes Arthur’s heart ache. He wants to make Merlin feel that way. He wants Merlin to look at him with that same ease and happiness.He clenches his teeth together. Merlin’s under a curse right now: once that’s resolved, Arthur can tell him. Until then, he’ll support him as a good King supports a loyal subject, as a worthy master supports a hardworking servant. As a friend supports a friend. He goes to rub the horses down and make sure they’re picketed properly for the night.When he comes back, the little pot is full of warming stew and Merlin is unwinding the bandages from his midriff. He’s shirtless again, and the setting sun on one side and the campfire on the other casts his skin in gentle pastel oranges and pinkish-purple licks of shadow. Arthur swallows and goes to stir the stew. He’s about to make some remark, just to fill the silence, when he hears Merlin draw a sharp breath. He turns quickly to see what the problem is. Merlin is trying to twist sideways on the fallen log where he’s sitting, covering the surgery incision with one hand and fumbling for fresh bandages with the other.“Merlin?” Arthur is kneeling beside him in the space of a breath. “What’s wrong? Has it gotten infected? Did Gaius send herbs for it? What do you need?”“No, no, it’s fine, I just—just touched it wrong, that’s all. Go see about the stew, I’m nearly finished—no, don’t touch it!” Arthur has no intention of touching it, but he does grasp Merlin’s wrist (his strong, narrow wrist) and gently pulls his hand away from his side. There’s a patch of something on the skin where the incision should be, about the size of the base of the goblet he threw at the door last night. At first he takes it as dried blood, since it’s brown. But it’s the wrong shade of brown, and there shouldn’t be a scab like that if it had been covered in bandages all day—“Don’t look at it, Arthur, please.”It’s tree bark.The stupid horrible curse, the cwealm hogian, it’s still manifesting on Merlin’s body, now on the outside. Had they sped the process by pulling that original shard out? Will it work faster now that it can spread unimpeded over his skin? Sickening, unreasoning guilt twists through Arthur’s stomach.“Arthur.” The voice is very soft and seems very far off. “Arthur.” This time the word is accompanied by a light hand on his jaw that tips his face up till he’s looking at Merlin’s face instead. “It’s alright.” His breath brushes by Arthur’s cheeks, making his tears stand out in cold streaks. Oh: he’s crying. “There’s nothing you could have done. It’s not your fault.”“We’re—the Druids, they’ll—you’ll get better, Merlin, I’ll fix it, I swear—”Merlin sweeps his thumb over Arthur’s cheek, making a trail of tingling warmth. “It’s alright,” he repeats quietly. “It’s alright, it’s alright…” He slides his hand around to the back of Arthur’s neck and draws him in until his forehead rests on Merlin’s shoulder. He continues to murmur into Arthur’s hair, “It’s alright, Arthur, it’s alright…” even as his voice shakes, and Arthur has never felt so devastatingly helpless.
+++
Merlin doesn’t bother putting a new bandage on. After all, the wound is technically closed, and risk of infection is no longer the primary concern. The primary concern is finding the Druids.But they do have to sleep, and eat, and let the horses rest, so Arthur can’t follow his first and strongest impulse, which is to pack everything right back up and go forging ahead into the forest, yelling his head off for help. Instead, he takes charge of laying out the bedrolls, and serving stew out into their bowls, and making sure Merlin is warm and comfortable. Merlin makes a few teasing remarks about him being such a mother hen, but falls silent after a little while, poking at his stew more than eating it. His expression is abstract and sober, and Arthur doesn’t want to know what he’s thinking, but at the same time he needs to hear him speak.“So, I suspect you’ve had more to do with me surviving some of the odd encounters we’ve had than I’ve given you credit for.”Merlin looks over at him, and his eyes glimmer in the firelight. “I don’t do it for credit,” he says quietly. Then he ducks his head, flushing. “But there have been a few times.”“Go on then.” Merlin looks at him again, dubiously. “You must have a favorite one.”“I’m usually pretty stressed out when I’m saving your sorry arse,” Merlin replies, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth, Arthur can see it. He reaches over and jabs Merlin’s shoulder. “Oi,” Merlin grumbles, but the smile grows. “Well, the one I sort of can’t believe you believed was after the whole Sophia debacle.”Arthur frowns, the name ringing a bell in a far distant hall of memory. “That girl I randomly wanted to elope with that one time?”“Well, it wasn’t a girl per se, or random, or an elopement.” Merlin ticks the points off his fingers. “It was a Sidhe exile, an enchantment, and a sacrifice of a royal soul to get her back to her own realm. But you were unconscious and half-drowned for most of the excitement, and when you woke up we told you—”“That you’d knocked me out with a block of wood!” Arthur cuts in, outraged all over again. “I believed that because it was so absurd! Who would make up such a daft explanation?”Merlin is full-on grinning now, and Arthur smiles in relieved response. And thinking back that far makes him remember another person he has questions about. “That knight with the snakes in his shield… Valiant? I’m guessing you’re why they came alive in my fight with him?”“Er, yes. That spell took me all night to learn. I was seeing double when I cast it on the shield. I never did figure out why he wanted you dead, but you were such a prat back then, I’m sure you deserved it.”“What’s a Fomorroh?” The question tumbles out before he can second-guess himself. To Merlin’s surprised blinking, he says sheepishly, “You and Gaius were shouting about it when I came to his chambers yesterday.”Merlin grimaces. “It’s a nasty Old Religion creature. It looks like a hand, if all the fingers were snakes. When a sorcerer puts one of the heads in your body, you’re like a puppet: your will becomes theirs.”“And that happened to you?” Arthur asks, horrified.A grim nod. “Morgana used it on me. She ordered me to kill you.”It’s like being slapped in the face. “But you didn’t,” he eventually manages, through a very tight throat.Merlin’s lips do the embarrassed twist again. “Not for lack of trying, I don’t think. I don’t remember those days very well, but Gwen and Gaius say it was really something. Apparently I tried to poison you, and I think I borrowed one of those really powerful new crossbows and tried to rig something with it.”“Wait, the crossbows we just got in a few months ago? When was this?”“Um… six weeks ago. Right after I was captured in the Valley of Fallen Kings.”Arthur gapes while his brain tries to fit all these disparate things together. “You were acting a bit weirder than usual….”“That’s what it looks like when I’m doing my best to kill you and really not wanting to at the same time,” Merlin says, voice wry and warm.Arthur looks at him quizzically. Merlin has his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them, chin propped on one knee. But he’s relaxed, smiling crookedly, and his eyes are all soft and bright and he’s looking right at him— Arthur’s breath catches. He clears his throat and looks back at the fire. “I thought the Fomorroh made Morgana’s goals yours.”“It did. But do you think anything, even magic, could make me want you dead?” It’s asked so gently that it glides right around Arthur’s defenses, right through his determination that now is not the time to talk about anything like feelings, and the confession rises hot and large in his chest, rushes his throat and seizes his tongue and he’s never been good with feelings but this is Merlin for God’s sake, he’s always told Merlin everything— But Merlin is under a curse, it’s getting worse, his very life is on the line, and Arthur can’t make it all about himself. This is very much not the time to make it all about himself.He bites his lip sharply and the confession deflates, sinks back. “We should get some rest,” he says gruffly, moving to bank the fire.“Arthur…”“You shouldn’t wear yourself out. I’ll take first watch.”“Arthur, I am dying.”“No!” Arthur whirls. Merlin still has his arms around his knees, but he’s sitting up straighter. His gaze is level and clear. The sarcastic reticence he’d had back at Gaius’ workshop is gone. Somehow, he’s come to terms with this. And he’s trying to make Arthur do the same. But the very idea makes Arthur’s stomach clench like he’s going to vomit up everything he ever ate. “I’m not giving up, Merlin! We’re going to find the Druids, and they’re going to know how to help you. I don’t care what Gaius says, he doesn’t know everything. There’s got to be a way to fix this. We’ve always fixed everything before.”“I know.” Merlin’s voice is rough, but calm. “We always have. Before.”Arthur clenches his fists to quell the urge to go to Merlin and shake him until he snaps out of this godawful passivity, starts to fight back rather than accepting this stupid curse like it’s a foregone conclusion. What makes this one any different from any of the other curses they’ve beaten? Hell, the curse of the unicorn had been fueled by a death too, and they’d muddled through that one in time to save the kingdom. And Arthur will do anything—drink poison again, drink a thousand poisons—to ensure that this turns out the same way.“Get some sleep, Merlin,” he snaps, turning back to the fire. “We’ll find the Druids in the morning.”There is a pause the length of a long-held breath, then Arthur hears Merlin shuffling into his bedroll and settling for the night. Arthur sits and stares at the fire until Merlin’s breathing evens out. Then he stares at Merlin instead.
+++
He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes with the dawn, and finds Merlin stirring the coals back to life. Merlin’s expression is tired and drawn, and his unoccupied hand flutters against his side. Sleep sloughs away like a dropped cloak, leaving Arthur alert and anxious. “Does it hurt?” he whispers.Merlin startles a bit, apparently not having realized Arthur was awake. Then he glances over and drops his hand, almost guiltily. “No, not… not quite. It’s like… you know when your foot goes to sleep, you can tell that it’s there, you just can’t quite… get to it? It’s like that.” He pokes at the fire again. “The area around it feels kind of warm though. I think my body thinks it’s an infection.”Arthur absorbs this, and forces himself to ask the next logical question. “Is it worse than last night?”Merlin hesitates, then dips his chin. “Yes.”That would only further convince Merlin that the situation was hopeless. So Arthur forces his voice to firmness as he says, “At this rate I’ll have to give you a day off to recover.”That startles a laugh out of Merlin, and even if it’s a short sort of thing, more dutiful than true, Arthur counts it as a success, and hurries them through breakfast and packing up so that they can set off in search of the Druids.But only an hour into their ride, it’s the Druids who find them.They step out of the forest on either side of the path in a silent phalanx of muted blue, green, and grey cloaks, cowls drawn up to conceal their faces. But when the horses snort and bridle, unhappy with being snuck up on, several of the nearest of them pull the cloth back and approach with more care. The foremost of them is a man of middle age with thick grey hair curling around his ears. He bows low, but to Merlin rather than Arthur. “Emrys,” he says gravely.“Iseldir,” Merlin replies, inclining his head, and his words from the previous day echo in Arthur’s memory. Figure of prophecy… We both are…. Yet the fact that the Druids honour Merlin before him doesn’t bother Arthur at all. And Merlin looks the part, despite his shabby clothes and visible discomfort in the saddle. That straight spine Arthur always notices is in evidence, and there is power in his bearing, and the expectation of cooperation, or at least respect. It’s another shock in a string of shocks, but unlike those others, this is… well, it’s a good shock. He can see how Merlin has always had pride, and now he’s allowed to show it. It makes Arthur’s heart throb in his throat. “King Arthur and I come to you in peace, and would be grateful for whatever aid you may render. Is there a more comfortable place we might go to hold a conversation?”Iseldir regards them, one at a time. Merlin doesn’t shift in his usual awkward way when others examine him, and Arthur wonders if it’s because Iseldir knows everything Merlin keeps hidden from everyone else. A petulant part of Arthur hopes not: he wants Merlin to keep some things back from these secretive, worshipful allies. Things that maybe he’d tell Arthur instead. But then Iseldir turns his gaze to Arthur, and he startles despite himself. He hasn’t worn armour or even maille, but he does bear a sword. Is that too much of a reminder of the violence Arthur and Camelot at large have done to these people? Before that fear can root properly, Iseldir nods, dons his hood again, steps off the path, and begins walking right into the forest. Merlin dismounts—with more than his usual clumsiness, Arthur notices with a cold jolt—and waves for Arthur to do the same. “Walking will be easier, knowing them.”Arthur dismounts too, and leads his mare by the reins, following Merlin, who is following Iseldir. When Arthur looks back, the rest of the Druids have vanished like they were never there. He shivers, and hurries his step.In perhaps half an hour of walking along a path which really doesn’t deserve the name, Iseldir brings them to an empty glade. It’s a lovely spot, with a brook burbling along one side of it and wildflowers and brushy grasses covering the ground, and the slant of the morning light makes it bright and colourful and hopeful somehow. And as they tie the horses’ leads to a branch, more Druids step out of the tree-line again in that uncannily silent way of theirs. It’s the sort of thing that feels like it should happen out on a fen on a misty night with a sickle moon in the sky.But Merlin strides forward confidently, greeting some of them, and Arthur realizes that he knows many of these people, and fairly well at that. Arthur hangs back, feeling out of place and somehow lopsided. Despite his declaration that Druids would be free to practice their ways in Camelot, he still has not had much contact with them, and has no idea how to interact with them. All this goodwill, and if they don’t welcome him, what is it worth?Then Merlin turns and waves for Arthur to join him, and it seems so natural and normal that he forgets to feel nervous or uneasy. For their part, the Druids seem mostly leery, but a few of them greet him warmly enough, and he smiles at them. He’s already full of gratitude for the healing they’ll shortly perform on Merlin, but their acceptance, even if it's rather lukewarm, makes him very happy too.The Druids come to stand in a small circle with Arthur and Merlin positioned beside each other, and look expectantly at Merlin. In turn, Merlin looks at Arthur.Quashing a flash of annoyance—Merlin is the one who understands all this magic malarkey—he straightens and speaks as he does to his council. “We come to you for help which I do not believe we could find anywhere else. Merlin has been cursed, and we need you to break it, or at least tell us how it may be broken. I understand that your history with me and my father and the atrocities we have brought on you may make you reluctant, but—”Iseldir lifts a hand to show Arthur his palm. “We serve Emrys, King Arthur. Any grudges we may hold against the Pendragons or Camelot are immaterial if he requires aid. What is the nature of this curse?”The warmth in Arthur’s chest spreads. Everything will really be all right. Gaius is wise and very knowledgeable, but he’s never been a true sorcerer, has never been steeped in the Old Religion the way the Druids are. “It’s a…” Here Arthur looks at Merlin, because he’s forgotten the name of it.Merlin looks resigned. “Three nights ago, a sorcerer put a cwealm hogian on me.”The reaction of the Druids is instantaneous. Horrified gasps, angry shouts, even sobs, rise to a clamour. It punches through Arthur's determination and faith like a dagger through a page of parchment. Merlin just bows his head. Stupefied by cold dread and clinging panic, Arthur can't look away from him.Iseldir comes forward and murmurs something to Merlin, who replies shortly and lifts the side of his shirt. Arthur swallows hard to avoid retching.It's worse. It's much worse. Last night the bark patch was the size of the base of a goblet, and still fairly smooth. Now it's the size of a plate, reaching almost as high as Merlin's ribs and disappearing into the waist of his trousers, and the surface has begun to buckle and split the way oak bark does. The skin at the edges is red and inflamed.No wonder he'd been uncomfortable getting on and off the horse, and riding.Stark refusal to accept, to believe, to lose Merlin forces Arthur to step forward and grasp Iseldir’s wrist. His own hand feels insubstantial, but Iseldir’s seems weak as a twig. “But, you must know,” he says, as steadily as he can. “You’re Druids, and this is a matter of magic, you must know…” Iseldir takes Arthur’s shoulder gently—or maybe Arthur just can’t feel it right now—his eyes full of grief. “Magic obeys the laws of Nature, as all things must,” he says. “All things that live eventually die, King Arthur, and the cwealm hogian twists that law to vengeance’s ends. There is nothing to be done.” Arthur’s hand falls away from Iseldir’s wrist. It’s like being ill, the weakness that floods through him, like his muscles have lost their vitality, his spirit its strength. Iseldir turns back to Merlin and says something, but Arthur's ears are ringing so he can't hear. He does see Iseldir's lips form the shape of his name, and Merlin nods and replies. Arthur still can't hear. He's trying to believe— He's trying to make sense of— The Druids can't just accept this— Merlin can't just die—"Arthur."He looks up and finds Merlin standing in front of him. Arthur can't even look him in the eyes right now. The slope of Merlin’s shoulders and the limp hang of his hands are more than enough. And the vision of the spreading patch of bark on his midsection seems to be branded on the inside of his eyelids.He tries to say, "Yes, Merlin?" but it comes out as a croaking sound, and he swallows the gorge that rises in its wake. The last of the Druids, he notices dimly, are leaving, melting back into the trees the same way they'd arrived. Useless cowards, he thinks viciously."I'd like to go east."Helpless hope springs back to life in his chest. "Is there someone there who can help?""No. I just want to see my mother."
+++
They find their way back to the path, still leading the horses, and Arthur wants to offer Merlin help mounting up, but he’s already halfway into the saddle by the time he starts to speak.He looks away, somehow ashamed to watch Merlin struggle. They ride without stopping for lunch, just pulling strips of dried venison and more cheese and bread out of the saddlebags and eating as they go. Their pace is slow and easy, and Arthur chafes at it. But every time he thinks to urge them faster, he remembers that they’re not riding towards a solution: they’re riding towards a final goodbye between a mother and son, and why in the world would he want to hurry them towards that? They don’t talk. Arthur calls a halt as the eastern horizon darkens simply by reining his horse in. Merlin follows suit a moment later. Arthur wants to say something, but nothing he can think of surpasses platitude. He can no longer say everything will be all right: the Druids put paid to that. He can no longer say he will figure it out: he can’t. Merlin is dying. He’s staring at his horse’s ears, trying to make sense of the thought that in merely… days? weeks? the world will still have sunsets and horses and Arthur and not Merlin. It makes him furious. Rage twists in from his extremities, coiling around his stomach and rushing up through his lungs and making his head pound. But where can it go from there? There’s no one to be angry at. The sorcerer who started all this was dead before they even knew it had begun. The Druids were a false hope. Merlin’s the only one here, but he’s the victim and Arthur can’t pile his wrath at fate on him on top of everything else. A cry of surprise and pain jolts him back to the present, and he looks over just in time to see Merlin topple sideways off the saddle as he tries to swing his leg over to dismount. He lands hard on his back and shoulder, one foot still stuck in its stirrup. “Merlin!” Arthur shouts, vaulting out of his own saddle on the wrong side to get to him faster. Every speck of anger transmutes to fear in the few seconds it takes to kneel at his side. “Merlin! Are you alright?” Merlin’s face is set in a grimace of discomfort, but once Arthur untangles his foot from the stirrup, he sits up easily. “Are you alright?” Arthur demands again, patting his arms and chest and swiping dirt off his back. “Yes, just startled, mostly. My hip is stiff, I wasn’t expecting… I’m fine, really, quit it.” He swats Arthur’s hand away from where he’s picking a bit of grass out of Merlin’s hair. “Your hip,” Arthur repeats, dread clenching his stomach. “The one where the…” He can’t make himself say the words, just aimlessly waves his hand. Merlin’s lips tighten and he turns away. “Yes.” Bile threatens the back of Arthur’s throat, but he forces it down. “How bad?” Quite a long pause follows the question. Merlin is biting his lip and holding himself very still, looking off at the horses rather than at Arthur. At last, he takes a deep, quick breath, and says, “I think it’s working its way deeper, the… the spell. So being in the saddle all day, it sort of… my muscle might stay in the position that my leg was in. Because it’s becoming… It’s just a bit stiff. I know to be more careful now. It’s fine.” “Merlin, it is not—" He can’t even finish the thought before a wrenchingly deep sob interrupts him, and all at once he’s crying as he’s never cried before. Not even as a child was he permitted to cry: not about physical injury, not out of frustration or hurt feelings, and definitely never out of grief. When he was four and his favorite dog went heat-mad and had to be put down, he took the news stoically. When he was nine and the question of his mother was explained to him once and for all, he maintained face until that night, when he let himself shed a few silent tears for the woman who had been the first person to give her life for his. When he was thirteen, and Morgana, in a fit of vexation unmatched ever since, screamed, “At least my father loved me before he died!”, he had turned and walked away. Later, when she apologized, he told her it was fine, and almost believed it. But this. This he could not have held back if God himself had asked it of him. It’s like falling down stairs, with all the disorientation and pain that goes with it. Every heaving sob is like a blow to the back of the head, and for the first time he understands that being ‘blinded by tears’ can literally happen. He’s lightheaded but can’t stop to breathe. He’s barely aware of his hands, one pressed to his mouth, the other gripping one of Merlin’s knees like his life depends on it. He’s barely aware of Merlin himself, but he can feel the warmth of his hand on his shoulder, trembling. The sun is nearly down by the time the weeping tapers off. Arthur is exhausted in every sense: he can barely bring himself to sit up from his slump. When he does, he sees Merlin’s face is blotchy red and wet with tears as well, and guilt swamps any lingering grief. “I’m sorry,” he rasps. “I shouldn’t have— I didn’t mean to—” “It’s fine,” Merlin hiccups. “It’s fine. I’m—I’m scared, alright? I hate this. I don’t know what’s going to happen, or if it’ll hurt, or what’ll happen when I’m—when it’s over.” He takes a deep, shaky breath. A fresh wash of tears makes his cheeks shine in the fading light. “But I’m glad that you’re here. I’m glad you tried so hard to fight it. I’m glad you cried with me.” Arthur feels new tears dripping from his chin, but he doesn’t even spare the effort to wipe them off. “I thought… You seemed so resigned. I thought you had accepted it.” Merlin bows his head, letting out a little huff of breath. “I’ve had… quite a lot of practice accepting things I don’t like since I came to Camelot.” “The ban on magic.” “That, and a lot of things to do with our destiny.” Merlin sees Arthur open his mouth. “Can I explain later? Or, no, I’ll ask someone better to explain, alright? I’m tired.” Arthur nods, even though he has no idea who a better person to explain might be. Merlin’s mother? Then, much to Arthur’s surprise, Merlin reaches out and pulls him into a tight hug. It’s solid and warm and he returns it immediately, wrapping his arms around Merlin’s middle. They stay there for a long while, and Arthur draws comfort from it, even though he knows Merlin is doing it for himself.
+++
When at last their stomachs start to grumble—almost simultaneously, which makes them both chuckle weakly—and they let each other go, Merlin keeps his grip on Arthur’s shoulder for a moment. “Thank you,” he says. His expression is tired but warm, and a hint of a smile pulls at the corner of his lips even though his eyes are somber.For a long, painful, vertiginous moment, Arthur considers leaning in, considers whispering into Merlin’s ear all the endearments he’s ever restrained, considers pressing his lips to Merlin’s… and pulls away. What good will knowledge of Arthur’s feelings do for Merlin? Who would want to learn of a love just at the moment it becomes doomed? He looks around, registering that it’s well past dusk. “I’ll take care of the horses,” he says, suddenly awkward with their proximity. “Can you light the fire? I’ll bring food.” Merlin makes an affirmative sound, and Arthur clumsily stands—his feet are a bit numb—and goes to chivvy the horses back towards the campsite. A little pile of sticks is blazing merrily when he returns with the pot and ingredients for stew, and they collaborate silently on the cooking. Arthur pretends he doesn’t see that Merlin sits awkwardly on the log they’re using as a bench, almost sidesaddle. When they’ve nearly finished eating, Merlin sighs. “So. Destiny and all that.” Arthur nods cautiously. Merlin seems almost fed up to be talking about it, but so long as he is talking about it, Arthur isn’t going to stop him. “I don’t know how long it’ll take for him to get here: he might be really far away. But his name is Kilgharrah, he’s not dead, just banished from Camelot, and you’re not allowed to get upset.” Arthur nods more cautiously still. Merlin gives him an assessing look, then takes a deep breath, tips his head back, and bellows. Arthur thinks there might be words in there, but he hasn’t a clue what they might be, and really he’s just too shocked at the volume Merlin is capable of to really register anything more. Nothing happens when Merlin falls silent. It feels anticlimactic, Arthur thinks a little guiltily. After a demonstration like that, something impressive should have followed it up. Though Merlin did say it might take this Kilgharrah a while to get here, so Arthur puts those feelings aside and pokes at the fire for a while instead. “You never, um…” Merlin falters and trails off. Arthur looks over at him, but he just chews his lip and absently scratches the back of his hand. Arthur asks, “I never what?” with his heart in his throat, already coming up with apologies for all the ways he knows he must have failed Merlin over the years. But Merlin just dips his head and whispers an unintelligible word. A little storm of sparks rises from the low fire and forms into the shape of a dragon. It flaps its wings slowly a couple times and silently mimes roaring, more sparks spewing from its mouth like the flames of its real-life counterpart. Then it slowly dissolves, its component sparks rising into the air and vanishing. “You never suspected me?” Merlin asks softly. Arthur lets out a breath. “I…” He has to divert his mental energy from all the apologies he was preparing. “Suspect? No. Not in the ‘harbouring a deep and terrible suspicion’ kind of way, at least. There were times I thought of it, but it always ended with ‘but that’s impossible’. At first it was that you were just so… naïve? You were so, ‘oh hello, I’m Merlin, I just came here from the smallest village you ever saw, I’ve never even heard of a crime before, what do you mean people in power sometimes abuse servants, you mustn’t do that,’ and I could never square that with everything my father taught me about the inherent evil of sorcerers. Duplicity seemed completely beyond you.” Merlin’s face is dully red, and he has his best mutinous expression on, but he doesn’t interrupt. “And later…” Arthur is surprised to learn he has room to feel yet another kind of pain. He hasn’t had time to think about it in such terms, but Merlin has been lying to him, constantly, for years. “…later, I trusted you too much to believe it.” He doesn’t want to think of it as a betrayal, because of course Merlin had good reasons, especially while Arthur’s father was still alive. In some ways, he had been saving Arthur a lot of trouble by not telling him, even after Uther’s death. Yet a big part of him stands offended and hurt that Merlin hasn’t trusted him with this. The part of him that loves Merlin—and who is he kidding: that’s all of him—longs to carry Merlin’s pains with him, no matter how much trouble they make for Arthur. He glances over at Merlin and finds he has his arms crossed over one knee—the only knee he can draw up anymore—and rests his chin on his arms. He’s looking at the fire again, as though he’s not listening, but there are tears on his cheeks, and he’s biting the side of his lip as though restraining himself from saying something. “I’m not angry,” Arthur says, and is amazed to find it true. He’s hurt; he’s sad; he’s not at all angry. Merlin lifts his head and looks at him, eyes so wide and hopeful that Arthur’s heart aches. “You’re not?” Arthur smiles lopsidedly. “I figure I’ve already been angry about enough when you didn’t deserve it. Can’t go getting predictable, can I?” Merlin laughs, a choked little sound accompanied by a fresh wash of tears. “No, we can’t have that.” They sit in silence for a time, comfortable silence full of all the things they could say and don’t, as the fire burns down and the night air grows cooler. Arthur forgets they are waiting for anything. Just as the moon begins rising, an enormous gale of wind approaches from the north, bowing trees and tossing their canopies like waves in a tempest. Merlin snaps another of those words and the fire goes out just as the remnant coals begin to scatter, probably saving both of them some serious burns and preventing a forest fire to boot. But it seems to be a very localized storm, and there’s a huge shape in the sky that horrifies Arthur before he recognizes it and understands why. The Great Dragon—Kilgharrah—settles on the other side of the clearing, all inky wings and darkly gleaming eyes and talons like swords digging into the soil. The horses rear against their picket lines, neighing in shrill terror. Arthur thinks he should be used to shocks at this point, considering how the last few days have gone, but he’s not. You’re not allowed to get upset, Merlin had said, as though that was anywhere near sufficient preparation. He’s not dead, Merlin had said, as though that told Arthur whom—or rather what to expect. “Young warlock,” Kilgharrah rumbles. And it talks. Alright. Fine. Alright. Arthur feels the dragon’s voice more through his feet than his ears, it’s so terribly low and powerful. The horses whinny piercing counterpoint, and Merlin calls something to them, his eyes flashing yellow in the moon’s dim light. The horses go quiet, almost eerily so, and despite the bloody dragon looming nearly overhead, Arthur looks askance at Merlin. They’re both on their feet now, though Merlin’s posture is off since he can’t straighten one hip properly. “It’s just a light calming spell,” Merlin says, though he grimaces sort of guiltily. “I’ve done it before, they’ll be fine.” As one, they turn to face Kilgharrah. Kilgharrah the alive, talking dragon. Kilgharrah, in turn, regards them with a haughtiness Arthur hasn’t seen since Morgana left. “So,” he says sardonically. “I see you have decided to share the truth with the young Pendragon.” “Um, yes and no,” Merlin says. If the situation weren’t so serious, Arthur would think he sounds sheepish. “It’s, well… I don’t have good news, I’m afraid.” “Oh?” Kilgharrah arches his neck and peers down at them with his head a-tilt. “What manner of mischief have you worked this time?” “It’s not my mischief,” Merlin retorts hotly. “It’s not ‘mischief’ at all. Have you heard of a cwealm hogian? I caught one.” As though it were a head cold, Arthur thinks bitterly. As though a bowl of hot soup and a day in bed would cure it. If only. It succeeds in shocking Kilgharrah, at least. “Who would dare cast such a thing on you, Emrys?” “I didn’t learn his name.” Merlin sounds honestly regretful. “I’m becoming… well… it’s working, let’s just say that.”“You are certain it is a cwealm hogian?” Kilgharrah presses. “Such spells are rare, and others are easily mistaken for—”“I’m sure,” Merlin interrupts sharply. “Gaius and the Druids concur: there’s nothing to be done.” His voice is rough but steady on the last words. The dragon bows his head. “I am deeply sorry, young warlock. You have been a true friend, even when I have deserved much less. What is it you need of me? You must know I cannot lift such a curse.” “I know,” Merlin agrees. “I want you to… I mean, could you please explain to Arthur about the whole destiny thing? And you and me? And Balinor? And anything else he needs to know?” Kilgharrah stares down at Merlin as though he doesn’t know what to say. Arthur becomes aware that his pulse is still roaring in his ears, like the wind of the dragon’s wingbeats has moved inside him rather than dying down. There is already so much he hasn’t been able to deal with properly: he’s barely wrapped his head around Merlin having magic; has barely even begun to process what it means for Merlin to have the cwealm hogian; now the Great Dragon is alive and about to explain something about Arthur’s destiny and the dead dragon lord and how in the world Merlin fits in to any of it. It’s too much. It’s too much, and Arthur knows there’s no chance of it stopping. All he can do is try to keep his balance and stagger on, and review the course after it’s finished. Except ‘finished’ means… Merlin… He breathes carefully through the clench in his throat. “This is no small matter to explain, Merlin,” Kilgharrah says, and somehow Merlin’s name sounds gentle, even coming from a humongous fire-breathing lizard. “I know,” Merlin says. “But please. I can’t… I can’t.” There is a long silence where Merlin and the dragon look at each other, some kind of communication too deep for words passing between them. “You wish me to tell him of Balinor?” The question is strangely hesitant. "You knew him better than I did.” Kilgharrah nods slowly, and then, for the first time, turns to properly regard Arthur. “So. This is our King.” There is none of the warmth or familiarity he had had when addressing Merlin, and Arthur’s mind is spinning with questions. It had been years since the Great Dragon attacked Camelot, so when and how would Merlin have gotten familiar with him? Why does he call him Emrys as the Druids had? Just how many secrets has Merlin been keeping all this while? “I suppose, if you are to understand everything, I must begin at the beginning.” And he does. He explains Uther’s arrival in the land that became Camelot, how he worked to rein magic in even before the Purge. He explains about Ygraine’s many miscarriages, and Nimueh’s role in Arthur’s birth. He explains Uther’s madness and the dragon lord Balinor who had been his friend and tried and tried and tried to make him see reason. Uther’s deception of Balinor, and Balinor’s convincing of Kilgharrah to return to Camelot. Kilgharrah’s imprisonment beneath the citadel, Balinor’s flight to a tiny village called Ealdor. Merlin’s birth and magic and travel to Camelot, and how he’d met Kilgharrah. Kilgharrah breaking his oath when he attacked Camelot after being freed, Balinor’s death, and Merlin taking the mantle of dragon lord and forbidding Kilgharrah from ever returning. And all the while the followers of the Old Religion spoke of the coming of the time of prophecy, of Albion united in a golden age, helmed by the Once and Future King who would be aided and guided by Emrys. “You, Arthur Pendragon, are that fated King. And Merlin: the legendary Emrys, born to support you.” Arthur and Merlin are seated again, and Kilgharrah has crouched down like a cat on his haunches, front feet crossed at what would be wrists on a human. The moon is high and its gentle light, intermittent between slow-moving clouds, feels like a mockery of the gravity of their talk. The horses, still calmed by Merlin’s spell, huff and snort quietly to each other, and night birds and insects call every so often. It’s all too normal, too peaceful, for the kind of heartbreak Arthur is experiencing. “How cruel is destiny, to allow this ugly curse just as Albion begins to form.” “This isn’t destiny,” Arthur snarls, speaking for the first time since Kilgharrah began. Merlin and the dragon both look at him in surprise, but he can’t help the words that pour out of him. All the fury from before Merlin fell from his horse has come thundering back, obliterating his self-control. “This is—this is the result of cruelty and fear and a legacy of hatred that I should have known better than to perpetuate. If I had been—been better, if I had been a more trustworthy person, if you had felt safe enough to tell me rather than protecting the realm as Emrys to try and show me the good magic is capable of, none of this would ever have happened. This is my fault. What kind of fated king would fail his friend so badly? What kind of fated king is so blind to the pain and fear of the man he—” He catches himself, barely. He realizes he is on his feet, shouting at Kilgharrah, as though the dragon has any power to change things. His fists are clenched and trembling, sending pulses of pain throbbing through the bruises on his bicep, from Merlin’s surgery. He turns away from the dragon to look at Merlin, and finds him staring up at Arthur with his mouth a bit open and his eyes very wide. They’re so bright in the starlight. Arthur is so afraid of what the curse is going to do to him. Of what it’s already doing to him. Don’t be selfish, he reminds himself savagely. But in the end he can’t help himself, not completely. “…the man he values above anyone else,” he says in a low voice. “The one person he can’t bear to lose.” He moves unsteadily to where Merlin sits and sinks to his knees in front of him. “Please stay with me,” he whispers miserably, taking Merlin’s shock-limp hand in both of his. “Please…” But as he runs his thumb over the back of it, he feels not skin, but fresh, smooth bark: a new patch has appeared. They both look at it in shock. And then, for the second time that day, Merlin pulls Arthur into a hug. Arthur barely manages to put his arms around Merlin, and even when he does, he can feel the larger, thicker area of bark on Merlin’s waist. All of Arthur’s pleading is useless: it’s already too late. It has always been too late.
+++
Kilgharrah leaves not long before dawn, exchanging farewells with Merlin and telling Arthur how he may summon him in the future if he ever needs, something about a bonfire on a particular mountain that Arthur barely hears.The horses are skittish as Arthur helps Merlin mount, and remain so for the duration of the ride, probably due to Kilgharrah’s lingering scent, but the rest of the journey to Ealdor only lasts until midmorning. It’s impossible not to think of the last time they were there, all those years ago. Kanen’s raiders, poor Matthew killed on the scouting mission Arthur sent him on, Merlin’s friend Will taking the arrow for Arthur, and then the blame for the magic that had saved them. So much has changed since then, and so little. Arthur hadn’t been able to help enough then. He can do even less now. The little houses still huddle along the road, the crops growing in the fields look bedraggled despite the lateness of the season, and the people who watch them come in are curious but wary. At least someone calls, “Fetch Hunith! Her boy’s back, and he’s got that prince of his again.” Arthur can’t even summon the requisite energy to correct the man. They have just gotten to Hunith’s house when she comes hurrying up the lane, in time to see Arthur help Merlin out of the saddle and gracelessly set him on his feet. “Merlin!” she calls gladly, and the sound stabs at Arthur’s heart. “Mother.” Merlin’s voice is rough and he manages one lurching step towards her—Arthur reaches to steady him, but it’s not needed—before breaking into sobs. “Merlin?” Hunith drops the bundle of firewood she’s carrying and rushes towards him, hands reaching to soothe and console. Merlin shakes his head at her murmured questions, and the only words Arthur can make out of his answer are, “Can we go in?” Hunith agrees at once and they disappear into the house, arms still around each other. A rather awkward sort of silence falls on Arthur and everyone else left standing about in the street. The curiosity and alarm of the other villagers is palpable, but Arthur isn’t about to share anything about the cwealm hogian, especially not without Merlin’s permission. Instead, he catches the bridles of the horses and asks no one in particular, “Would it be alright if we stabled the mounts in the same place as last time?” No one says yes, but no one says no, and as Hunith’s voice begins to rise, audible through the curtained windows of her house, full of desperation and denial, Arthur makes the executive decision that it’s permitted, and leads both horses down the lane to the shed he remembers from before. He spends a long while grooming them. He brushes them both down thoroughly, combs their manes, examines each hoof for stones and each leg for hot spots. After all that, he still feels an imperative need to keep moving, keep doing, to not be still, and so he cleans both saddles and bridles. He does the saddlebags too, and even begins to unpack and rearrange their contents. He only stops when he pulls out a balled-up pair of his own spare socks and has the gutting realization that Merlin will never again mock him for how bad they smell. That’s how Merlin finds him a little later: sitting against the wall with his knees drawn up, clutching his stupid socks in one hand, staring at the dozing horses. “Dinner’s nearly ready.” Arthur rouses and finds the shadows are long and gentle. He can’t quite feel surprised that he’s spent the majority of the day in a sort of stupor: after all, what else is there to do? It’s not like he can be of any use. Any good. “Alright.” He stands, and finds Merlin staring at the ground with a rather puzzled expression. “What?” “You do know you’re staying at the house, don’t you?” Arthur looks down too and realizes he never repacked the saddlebag. “Oh. Um. Right. I was… looking for something.” “Ah, of course. And then you found your socks and the smell knocked you senseless. I keep telling Gaius we should use them instead of herbal soporifics.” Arthur stares at him. Merlin’s voice is a bit thick, and his nose and eyes are rather puffy and red, but he’s got a sort of sad, hopeful half-smile on, like he’s asking if for just this little while, they can have something normal and good. Arthur barely—barely—restrains his tears, but he does. “Which just goes to show you’re as bad a physician as you are a servant.” He holds his breath after he says it, hoping he hasn’t gone too far, but no. Merlin’s smile grows to wholeness, and he waves at everything on the floor. “Just bad enough that I’m not going to pack all that up for you. I already did it once, and you’re the one who’s made a rotten mess of it.”
+++
Hunith tries to make Merlin sleep in the bed that night after dinner, but he turns her down. “The floor was always fine before, and it’s fine now, Mother. I just want to be home.” That, of course, settles it, and Arthur joins him by the hearth. They’re top-to-tail like before, only the leg that Merlin can’t straighten properly is supported with a pack under his knee, and Arthur is next to the fire this time. Merlin had requested that arrangement, and it doesn’t occur to Arthur until later that he might have done it out of a fear of flying sparks setting him alight. The thought causes a surge of horrible, hysterical laughter to rise inside Arthur, but he forces it down.It’s impossible to sleep. He stays silent and still though, hearing Hunith’s slow, sort-of snores from the bed, and Merlin’s soft breathing from near Arthur’s feet. He wants to think, wants to try and sort anything out from the last few days, but it’s like standing in dense fog. He can sense the shapes of all the things he should be thinking—things about the kingdom, and kingship, and magic, and how those things ought to fit together, and destiny and dragons and prophecy and what the hell it all means—but the density of Merlin’s impending… It blinds him. The grim and awful reality of that absence is smothering, numbing, debilitating. He passes into slumber so gradually it feels like it didn’t even happen when he opens his eyes the next morning. The east window is a faint pearly shape, the birds sound like they’re miles away, and Merlin’s fingers are twined with Arthur’s. Arthur tightens his fingers reflexively, adjusting his grip so that he holds Merlin’s hand a little better, and goes utterly still when he realizes it’s the hand with the bark patch on it. And it’s spread. Arthur traces the edges of it with trembling fingers: it reaches midway down to the first joints of Merlin’s fingers, covering his knuckles and half of his thumb. It’s still shaped like Merlin’s hand, is the worst thing. The tapered grace of his fingers, the breadth of the back of his hand, the narrow strength of his wrist, it’s all there, just… it’s not. It’s not Merlin’s hand anymore. Even if the ends of his fingers, his palm, the arm above his wrist, are still flesh, it doesn’t matter. The curse has taken it from him. It’s whittling him down a bit at a time and there’s nothing Arthur can do. It’s not the first time he’s had to admit it, but it hurts just the same as if it were. Hunith and Arthur are fixing breakfast when Merlin wakes up. He has to roll onto his side and stand from a clumsy tripod position. Arthur’s heart clenches as Merlin keeps his gaze averted, like he’s embarrassed to know if he’s been seen so incapacitated. His gait is worse too, his knee on the same side not bending as freely as it had just the previous day. Arthur’s gut churns sickly. The meal is subdued. Merlin doesn’t acknowledge the bark on his hand, but after he swallows his last bite, he says, “I want to visit Will’s grave.” There is a short bout of silence. “Alright,” Hunith says, piling the bowls together and taking them to the bench where the bucket of clean water rests. She keeps her back to them and doesn’t say anything else. “Um,” Arthur hazards. “Do you want me to com—” “I can still walk on my own,” Merlin interrupts, and even though his tone is not especially sharp, Arthur still flinches. Merlin presses his lips together. “Sorry. I just… want to go by myself.” “Of course,” Arthur says. There’s no more ceremony to stand on: Merlin struggles into his boots and jacket and goes out through the back door, letting it thud shut behind him. Hunith releases a harsh breath at the sound, and Arthur wonders uneasily if he should leave too or try to comfort her somehow. He’s not sure which would be worse. But she solves his problem by exhaling again, more smoothly, and beginning to scrub the bowls. He admires her restraint, but pities it too, somehow. He feels that saying anything at all would be an overstep, an invasion, but there are things he has to tell her, things she ought to hear. “I—” His throat is dry. He tries again. “I found out about Merlin’s father two nights ago.” The scrubbing stops. “Oh.” The scrubbing resumes. “It all felt quite romantic at the time. The renegade dragon lord hiding out in Ealdor of all places, with me of all people. A month was all we had before he went on the run again, and that’s all it would have been if I hadn’t had…” That awful, familiar clutch at Arthur’s throat is back. “Hunith, I… I can never apologize sufficiently for what my family has done to yours. I can never make up for it. Balinor died saving Merlin, I don’t know if you know, and if I could do the same now, I would.” He looks up, and finds her looking back at him, cloth dripping, forgotten, in one hand and a half-clean bowl in the other. “Without a second thought, I would, if he could be saved.” Hunith’s expression is infinitely soft. “You should tell him how you feel.” Arthur rears back a bit. “I can’t,” he says. “Your Majesty.” She’s almost chiding him, in a way few have ever done before. It’s strange. It’s nice. But then she turns serious again. “Arthur. Doesn’t he deserve to know how loved he is?” It’s a low blow, and he can tell she knows it. But she doesn’t retract the question. “But, what would be the point?” he asks haltingly. “If he feels the same, isn’t it just another thing he’ll never have now? Another thing to mourn? And if he doesn’t, I can’t complicate his, his final days like that. He shouldn’t have to deal with my feelings along with everything else. He doesn’t deserve that.” “No, you darling boy,” Hunith replies softly. “But neither do you.” The cloth drips faster as the hand holding it forms a trembling fist. “None of us do.”
+++
The next day, Merlin’s hand is completely encased in bark. His third and fourth fingers are melded together. There’s only a little pinkish-white ring of skin on his palm, and every time Arthur catches a glimpse of it through the course of the day, it’s smaller.When Merlin returned from Will’s grave the day before, the bark on his knuckles was split like he’d been clenching his fist, and blood oozed from the cracks. Arthur had the irrational hope then that if they could break it all apart and peel it off, Merlin might be saved. But no, Gaius’ surgery had demonstrated the futility of that sort of intervention. And today, the bark has healed up, as though it had never been broken at all. Arthur doesn’t know how the larger patch of Merlin’s side and leg is doing. He assumes it has grown, and the stiffness with which Merlin moves testifies to that, but he doesn’t ask for details, and Merlin doesn’t offer any. Arthur spends the day doing chores, so that Merlin and his mother might spend their time together. He chops wood for hours, trying to drown out his thoughts with the burn in his muscles, as he has so often before. It doesn’t work: his ease of movement is like a mockery of the mobility Merlin is losing; the wood he splits will warm Hunith’s cottage long after Merlin is gone; the five fading bruises on Arthur’s arm are a reminder of the pain Merlin endured during the surgery, the pain he is likely still to undergo as the transformation progresses. Hunith’s words are still resounding in his head. Doesn’t he deserve to know how loved he is? Of course he does. Merlin deserves all the love in the world, and more. Arthur remembers just a week ago, before the world turned upside down, how he’d been planning on telling Merlin of his feelings, just as soon as the harvest was in and the castle was hunkered down for winter. There would be nothing else to deal with for a good while after that, he remembers thinking. He hoped he would get to give Merlin all the attention and devotion he could take. Now, of course… if he is going to say anything at all, he has a timeframe of days, perhaps a week, if the cwealm hogian carries on at the rate it has. The starkness of that length of time staggers him, and the buckets of water he’s carrying from the river slosh as he stumbles. It’s worse, somehow, now that he knows that they were supposed to have more: more time, more truth, more accomplishments, a whole destiny together. That everything Arthur ever privately dreamed of was supposed to be real. And God knows Merlin deserves it. He deserves it far more than Arthur does, and if the dragon spoke truth, Arthur was supposed to get all the glory—the throne and crown, the sword and legacy, while Merlin was relegated to ‘advisor’ and ‘guide’. That never would have done, of course. Merlin was the one who had had to hide all these years, whose life had been on the line every day he stayed in Camelot just to keep Arthur safe. He deserved more than anyone could ever give, even Arthur. Especially Arthur. The very least he can do is make sure Merlin’s sole concern is himself, for once.
+++
Merlin barely eats supper that evening. Despite Hunith’s increasingly pleading looks, he only manages a few mouthfuls before frowning in apparent confusion and claiming to be full.“You need your strength, Merlin,” Hunith implores. “For what, Mother?” Hunith’s face goes stiff and stricken. Mother and son stare at each other for interminable, intolerable moments. Then Hunith rises sharply and goes behind the curtain that separates her bed nook from the rest of the cottage. Her sobs sound more like coughing than crying. Merlin’s façade crumbles and he slumps over his bowl. “God damn you, Merlin,” he whispers, not knowing he tears Arthur’s heart in half with the words. Then, “Can we go outside?” Arthur blinks, unsure if he’s the one being addressed, then hurries to say, “Of course, come on.” Merlin can still walk unaided, though his leg does not bend at the hip or the knee anymore, and his gait is rolling and uneven. Arthur watches him carefully to see if he slips and needs catching, but he doesn’t. The air outside is cool and soft, the dusk gentling Ealdor to something nearly beautiful. They stand and look at it together. “I don’t think I have time to starve anyway,” Merlin murmurs. Arthur endures the horror of that statement stoically. Merlin lifts his transformed hand so that they can both see it. He had been keeping it hidden under the table during dinner, and now Arthur sees the bark has darkened, deepened, buckled. But at the tips of what used to be his fingers, green nubs are pushing out of what used to be his nail beds. Leaves? New twigs? It’s impossible to tell."Does it hurt?" Arthur whispers."Yes," Merlin says dully, not looking away from it. “And I think it’s going to get worse. I think I’m not hungry because my organs are… Arthur, I can’t make my mother watch this. Can we leave? Tomorrow?” “Of course. Of course we can.” Merlin releases a delicate breath. “Thank you.”
+++
Arthur doesn’t know what Merlin says to Hunith—he can’t imagine her taking kindly to the idea of Merlin leaving, but he also knows how stubborn Merlin can be—but they pack their belongings before lying down to sleep. Merlin shifts uncomfortably throughout the night while Arthur focuses fiercely on logistics, practicalities, real solid things he can do to make sure Merlin is comfortable for the trip. His sleep is fitful, and the dawn comes too early.Breakfast is eaten quietly, though Merlin still doesn’t have much, and afterwards Arthur goes to fetch the horses while Merlin and his mother speak alone, for what, he struggles not to realize, will be the last time. The horses seem glad to have their saddles and packs on again—the little shed doesn’t measure up to the lavish stables attached to the citadel, apparently—and they prance a little as Arthur leads them outside and down the lane. Arthur wishes he shared their verve: the journey is going to be challenging. Even helping Merlin mount and dismount will be difficult, and what will happen when he becomes even further incapacitated? What happens when he can’t walk unaided, or at all? Or when his other hand transforms? He said he wasn’t hungry because his organs are changing, but does that mean that he eventually won’t be able to eat at all? If the bark covers his chest, will he still be able to breathe? Questions batter at Arthur’s determination, and he shoves them blindly away. He and Merlin shall handle each new problem as it arises, as they always have, and not consider what happens next because at the end of that line lies Merlin’s death, and Arthur cannot—truly cannot—fathom what he will do then. Hunith and Merlin stand together outside of the house, arms linked as they speak quietly to one another. Hunith’s face is etched with a grief it didn’t have three days ago, and Merlin simply appears exhausted. Arthur brings the horses to a stop a respectful distance away, not wanting to rush their farewells… or goodbyes, more properly. He pets Merlin’s horse’s nose, over and over, a mindless, soothing motion. The horse doesn’t mind, though she certainly doesn’t need it. Arthur does it for himself. The sound of Merlin’s uneven footsteps makes Arthur lift his head, but just at that moment, both horses whinny and stamp and try to jerk their reins out of Arthur’s hand. “Woah, woah, what—?” In his peripheral vision, he sees the few villagers who have come to see Merlin and Arthur depart back away nervously, but Merlin hurries forward as well as he can to help, as he’s always been good with horses. But for some reason his proximity seems to alarm them further. Merlin’s horse, one of the most docile beasts ever seen in the royal stables, screams and rears, her hoof flashing out at Merlin. The blow lands on his thigh—he staggers back with a cry of shock and pain, loses his balance, and falls backwards into the dirt. “Merlin!” Arthur shouts, still trying to control the horses. In the end, he has to let them back up almost halfway down the lane before they calm down, where he ties them to a stout wooden post and hurries back to Merlin. Merlin has gotten back to his feet in the intervening time, and stands with Hunith, who is crying. “Are you alright?” Arthur demands. “Your leg, are you hurt?” Merlin smiles, but it’s twisted. “I’m a bit chipped, that’s all.” Arthur’s wide-eyed gaze drops to where Merlin’s fingers ghost over the place he’d been hit, and he realizes it’s Merlin’s transformed leg, the one that’s mostly wood now. “Don’t touch me: you’ll get splinters.” Hunith turns away, pressing a hand against her mouth. Arthur clenches his jaw and forces his mind, again, to practicalities. “I don’t know what got into the horses. I’ve never seen them like that before, particularly yours. We’ll have to wait before we can ride them.” But Merlin shakes his head. “They were reacting to me, couldn’t you tell? It must be because of me being… like this.” He lifts both of his hands, the flesh one pale and slim, the transformed one knobby and sprouting green twigs. “I must smell… inhuman.” “Don’t be stupid.” The words are out before he can stop them, but Merlin just shrugs.“Watch.” And he sets off up the lane towards the horses. When he’s halved the distance, they begin to wicker and snort uncertainly, and a few steps later they’re stamping at him, clearly alarmed. Another step and they’re yanking at their reins, making the post they’re tied to shudder. Merlin stops and backs off, his point made. Arthur feels hollowed out and defeated as Merlin trudges back to him. Everything he does is useless, and now he can’t even complete Merlin’s wish to go back to Camelot. The cwealm hogian has stymied even that. Merlin will never get to say goodbye to Gaius, or Guinevere, or any of the knights who had always been his friends before anything—“We’ll have to walk,” he declares when Merlin reaches him. Merlin blinks, some of the blank resignation leaving his face. “It’s a long way.” “Do you think you can do it?” A moment of hesitation, then a nod. Arthur nods back. “I’ll get our things off the horses. Hunith, may we leave them in your care? I’ll give you coin for their fodder and keeping.” Hunith, tears coursing down over a stoic expression, nods. He does exactly that, and after Hunith hugs them both again, twice—then Merlin a third time, desperately hard—they walk out of Ealdor together.
+++
They walk in silence. It is not quick going, not that Arthur had expected it to be. The road is narrow and not maintained very well, the terrain is steep and rocky as they are passing over the Ridge of Ascetir, and of course, Merlin is… struggling. The leg on his bad side only bends at the ankle now, and even his other leg can’t make up the difference for speed. Arthur does everything possible to make sure Merlin doesn’t feel hurried: he keeps his own steps slow and measured, and doesn’t say a thing as the morning rises to midday and their progress remains pitifully little.Arthur calls a stop a bit after noon so they can rest and eat, even though he’s not tired himself, and Merlin seems to cooperate more out of duty than relief. He drinks the water Arthur hands him, but barely nibbles at the bread and apple. Arthur’s own stomach lurches threateningly when he thinks of why, and he packs their uneaten food away. But something good comes of the break, because as soon as they start walking again, Merlin begins speaking. Arthur is dizzyingly glad of it, of this bit of normalcy, until he catches up with what Merlin is actually saying. “…should be able to still do it, I think. You’ve always had strong morals, and now that you know more about magic and that it’s not inherently evil and all that, you’ll be able to legalise it again pretty easily. I mean, there will be protest, of course, but I bet there are lots of people even I don’t know about who have had to hide, and they’ll be glad. You won’t need me for that part of destiny to come true.” Arthur stares at him, aghast. “Merlin, how can you talk about that right now?” Merlin looks at him blankly. “What else should I talk about?” “Something that matters?” Arthur says helplessly. Merlin is slow to respond, but his tone of voice says he’s stating something very obvious to someone very dense. “Our destiny matters very much, Arthur.” “Not as much as—” Don’t be selfish. He’s left gaping, gasping like a fish out of water. How could he say ‘Don’t make me think about a future without you’? How can he say ‘I love you and I can’t be anything but terrified’? How can he say ‘You deserve to be your own most important thing for once’? But Merlin seems to think Arthur’s silence means they’ve come to some kind of understanding, because he nods and begins walking again. Arthur hadn’t noticed they’d stopped. “Gaius will be able to help you do it safely and sensibly, and the Druids as well, but you must let your instincts guide you. As for Albion, well…” He frowns at his feet for a few steps. “Kilgharrah always talked about it like returning magic to the land and the golden age bit were kind of synonymous. Or maybe that one followed the other. I never could get him to give me a straight answer on anything. But… I think you’ll do well.” He aims a slightly shaky smile at Arthur, who can only stare back, appalled that Merlin can take himself out of his own future with such apparent ease. Merlin’s smile fades. “Please don’t look so sad,” he whispers. “Please. I need to imagine you succeeding after… all this.” The breath Arthur takes then shudders through him like a storm. He understands, at last, what he can do. He cannot save Merlin: he never could. But he can be strong for him. He can reassure him that everything will be all right once he is gone. Basically, he can lie. With a tremendous bout of effort, he puts himself into the mindset of the strategist he is so well trained to be. He has drawn up battle plans with the knowledge that some of his men would die as a result of his decisions, and been able to see through to the victory on the other side. He must do the same here. Even though Merlin is not a sacrifice he would ever knowingly make. Even though his death is not a necessity for victory. Even though it makes Arthur heartsick. “What must I do?” he asks. Merlin relaxes, and tells him.
+++
As the afternoon wears on, and they walk so slowly, and speak of such terrible things, Merlin glances more and more often at his foot, frowning. Arthur ignores it at first, locking himself behind the strategist’s mask, but at last gives in to concern. “What’s wrong?”“I don’t know,” Merlin says, distracted. “It feels like there are things inside my boot, poking me.” “You should take it off and see.” Merlin hesitates. “I can’t reach.” “I’ll help. Here, hold my shoulder.” He kneels at Merlin’s side, the side of his transformed leg, and carefully loosens the buckle on Merlin’s boot. Merlin’s hand is tight on his shoulder as Arthur eases the boot off, and he castigates the part of his mind that still dares whisper of other reasons he could take Merlin’s clothing off, other reasons Merlin might hold him so tight. He clears his throat harshly, not looking up. “Is that better?” “A bit,” Merlin says. He flexes and curls his toes a few times. “But it’s still… Could you get the sock too?” Arthur obeys, and reveals Merlin’s long, pale foot, thankfully still bare of bark. Though there are strange little bumps dotting his skin, with short pale hairs extending out of them like the thread-like roots on carrots or— “Oh,” Merlin says, sounding very far away. “So that’s why I haven’t been thirsty.” Arthur can’t breathe. Merlin is growing roots. The cold strategist bulls over the keening of his heart. “Are you able to keep going? Should we put your boot back on?” “No, my boot hurt. I think if we just wrap it, I should be alright. Here.” The edge of a tattered cloth enters Arthur’s field of vision and he takes it instinctively. Only when he’s shaking it out does he realize it’s Merlin’s neckerchief. It makes a jagged stab of grief choke his throat. He wants to protest, say he shouldn’t use this, that one of Arthur’s spare shirts will do just as well, but he knows what Merlin will say to that. ‘And who’s going to have to wash and mend it, hmm?’ Only, what has for so long been a simple rhetorical exercise to make Arthur aware of the work he makes for other people will now be a real question: who will be washing and mending what Arthur soils and tears? He can’t bear to hear Merlin ask, let alone propose candidates. So he wraps the neckerchief around Merlin’s foot and doesn’t say anything at all. At least Merlin doesn’t say anything more about destiny as they continue. In fact, he goes taciturn again. Arthur doesn’t try to bring him out. There is so much he wants to ask, so much he wants to talk about and say, but none of it feels right. He’s been wrong about so much, he’s been so wrong about Merlin, how can he trust himself about this most vital thing? He keeps his silence, and lets Merlin keep his, until dusk. Then, “We should rest,” Arthur says. “Camp.” Merlin lifts his head as though noticing his surroundings for the first time in a while. Arthur yearns to ask what he’d been thinking of. Doesn’t. Merlin shakes his head. “We’ve made such poor time—we should keep going for a few hours yet. Unless you’re tired? I’m not.” Arthur shakes his head too. “I’m not, but we should stop and make a torch. It’ll be dark before long.” Merlin’s lips quirk, and it’s so close to a smile, that patronizing little face he makes right before he tells Arthur exactly how Arthur is being an idiot, and Arthur wants to stop time and save the moment forever.Merlin lifts the hand that’s still flesh and bone, and a small, wavering orb of blue-white light appears between his fingers. Arthur gapes. “It was you,” he breathes after a long moment. Merlin looks at him. “What was me?” “An orb of light guided me when I was searching for the Mortaeus flower for you,” he murmurs, still staring. He turns his gaze to Merlin, confused and awed. “But you were unconscious when I left… You didn’t wake up somehow, did you? Gaius said the poison… And you were so far away… how did you even know…?” “I was unconscious,” Merlin says. He seems dazed, but he manages to look at Arthur when he says, “But I remember dreaming of you. You were lost in the darkness, and I wanted so badly to help you. The light came, but I didn’t feel like I was casting it. Gaius told me later that I was incanting in my sleep, and I’d made an orb like this under the blankets, but I didn’t think what I had dreamed had actually happened.” “It did,” Arthur says, thoughtlessly stepping closer to Merlin, and the light. Following it, trusting it, just as he had then, before he knew why he should. He cups his hand under Merlin’s, feels the warmth of it. Loves the warmth of it. Grieves the warmth of it. “It did. You saved my life.”The attempt at a smile is not at all patronizing this time. “That’s what I’m for.” “No!” Arthur retorts, fingers tightening around Merlin’s. The orb flickers, casting strange, awful shadows over Merlin’s startled face, before stabilizing. “You don’t just exist to keep my idiotic impulses from having fair consequences. You exist— You exist—” Arthur knows he’s no orator—hell, he’s talking to the man who writes his speeches—but desperation wrenches words from somewhere deep and hidden. “You exist to torture Cook.” Merlin laughs, surprised. “And you exist to make Guinevere smile, even when she’s thinking of her father or Lancelot or Morgana. And you exist to help Gaius, and to exasperate him too. And to sabotage my hunting trips. And to take such excellent care of my armour and no care at all of my breakfast. And to get that gormless look on your face when you see a cloud you like, or a flower or whatever. To tell me when I’m being a fool. To be my friend, Merlin. You do know you were my first true friend, don’t you?” Merlin takes a trembling breath before rasping softly, “All that?” There are tears shining on his lower lids, but they don’t fall.“And infinitely more.” They stand looking at each other for too long. Merlin’s expression is raw and bare of any pretence, and Arthur can’t look away. They’re on a precipice, and one unthinking word, one accidental move, will push them over, and Arthur will say everything he’s been pushing down all this while. He’s gathering the strength to haul himself back from the edge when Merlin speaks. “I really was trying to save him.” Unbalanced, Arthur traces their conversation back, trying to see who he might mean, and fails. “Who?”“Your father.”Another piece of the world falls into place. “I did know your eyes.” Eyes that are not just teary now, but weeping freely, as though the loss were Merlin’s, the pain were Merlin’s. “I’m sorry,” Merlin gasps through his sobs. “I really did try, in spite of all he’d done, because I wanted to show you, Arthur, that magic could—but Morgana—the amulet—and then—I’m so sorry.” Arthur remembers how Merlin had come to his rooms that night. Remembers his haunted eyes, his hollow voice as he said, “I wish that there was something I could have done.” Arthur’s brokenhearted renunciation of magic and the resurgence of all his self-doubt just on the eve of his reign. How had things been so wrong, for so long, that a sorcerer would try to save a king infamous for slaughtering his kind, all so that the king’s son might see that the magic he’d been raised to hate was not as wicked as he thought. And what suffering might have been avoided if Merlin had felt safe to tell the truth rather than manipulating him… if Arthur had been worthy. Merlin is still stammering apologies, tears gleaming in the light of the orb. “…should have seen it, it would have worked then, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—"That sick knot in Arthur’s throat is back. “Don’t be.” Merlin falls silent, trembling, eyes wide enough to swallow the world. Confusion and hope crumple his brows and part his lips, and in another world, God, in another world Arthur would… But he mustn’t. “None of it was your fault. None of it. My father…” He manages half a breath. “If he hadn’t died then, it would have been soon after. I know you tried. I know it wasn’t your fault.” Merlin makes a strange little hiccoughing sound, and dissolves, stepping forward to let his forehead fall to Arthur’s shoulder. His whole body shakes with the force of it. Arthur gingerly puts his arms around him, and lets him cry.
+++
They walk until the moon is high and Arthur is nearly cross-eyed with exhaustion. The exertion hasn’t been unbearable, but his emotions have been in an uproar, and controlling them has left him unbelievably drained.They find a campsite beside a stream that burbles into a small pond about ten metres away from the road. A dilapidated fire pit makes it clear that no one has used this spot in a long while, and Arthur sets about fixing it up and lighting a fire. The spark doesn’t catch the first couple of times, and he thinks of their first night camping as they looked for the Druids, when Merlin lit the fire with a careless flick of his fingers. But Merlin’s strength… The orb had wavered more and more as they walked, and hangs faint and weak in the air now, halfway between Arthur and Merlin, who has gone to stand by the stream. He might not be strong enough to light a fire with magic, and Arthur doesn’t want to ask. When the flame finally catches, he digs some bread and dried meat out of the saddlebag and approaches Merlin, who doesn’t turn around even once he must hear Arthur coming. And as he grows near, he sees that Merlin isn’t standing at the edge of the water, but rather in it, soaking his booted foot and kerchief-wrapped one alike. “Want any food?” Merlin shakes his head slowly, still looking at his feet. “No thanks. Not hungry.” Despite feeling ill from the implications of that answer, Arthur makes himself take a few bites. He can’t let himself grow too weak. He can’t let himself be the reason Merlin doesn’t make it home. At length, Merlin tips his head back and stares at the canopy of branches and leaves above them, which shift in the wind and allow inconstant shapes of moonlight to paint Merlin’s face. He looks unreal like that, otherworldly, and it makes Arthur cold. He wants to reach out and touch him, but is suddenly afraid that if he does, he’ll find an insubstantial shape that will dissolve and leave him alone. But then Merlin turns and looks at him, and there’s a sort of calm hope on his face that scares Arthur worse than anything else has. “Maybe it won’t be so bad,” he says softly. “They all feel so calm here.” Arthur casts a glance at all the trees around them, wary. But everything is too peaceful to maintain the feeling. And Merlin seems to need some kind of assurance. So he says, “They seem so, yes.” Merlin smiles, almost properly. “We should get some sleep,” Arthur says after a little while. “We’ll have an early start.” Merlin sighs. “Right.” He sloshes out of the stream and back towards the little campfire, each step a labour, and Arthur doesn’t offer to help. Despite the roil of his heart and mind, sleep claims Arthur immediately when he lies down. His dreams are disordered, full of malignant shadows and fluid, moonlit silhouettes he can’t catch, regardless of how hard he tries. It’s nowhere near dawn yet when he wakes suddenly, heart pounding. But it’s not the dreams that woke him, or not them alone. Across the fire, Merlin is whimpering, like he’s trying to be silent but can’t restrain all the noise. “M’lin?” Arthur slurs, tongue sleep-thick and clumsy. “Hurts,” Merlin groans. Arthur is wide awake and at Merlin’s side in the space of a heartbeat. “What hurts?” He kneels over him, afraid to touch in case he makes something worse, but wanting more than anything to help. “Here.” Merlin is pressing both hands, flesh and wood alike, to the place above his hip where the first patch of bark appeared, where the cwealm hogian originally struck. “Let me see,” Arthur says, nearly faint with how badly he doesn’t want to look. Merlin lets Arthur draw his hands away and pull his tunic up. In the moonlight, Arthur sees that the bark on Merlin’s midsection is thick and cracked now, like a mature oak’s, but seems whole and healthy. “There’s nothing—Merlin, where does it hurt? What is the pain like?” As though he’ll be able to do anything to help. He’s always been completely useless when it really matters. “It’s inside,” Merlin pants. “Like being stabbed, but bigger, it’s—ugh! Aah!” He tries to curl onto his side, but the weight of his transformed leg keeps him on his back. He sobs, once, face twisted with pain. “It hurts, it hurts, make it stop Arthur, God please—aah! AAH!” He covers the spot again, pressing Arthur’s hand against the bark too since it was already resting there, and his screams rise in pitch and volume. Terrified both of Merlin’s pain and of the thought that this might be it, this might be the end, Arthur presses hard to the spot as well, praying for whatever is happening to stop because there is truly nothing else he is able to do. That’s when he feels it: like something strikes the interior side of the bark, reverberating into Arthur and Merlin’s tangled hands. Merlin screams roughly. And then, just under Arthur’s palm, the bark cracks outwards and splinters apart and something forces its way through. Merlin is howling and writhing in pain, making sounds even Arthur’s worst nightmares never conjured, and Arthur’s mind is a blank page of panic and horror. The something erupts out, splitting the bark further and pushing sharply at Arthur’s palm. He yanks his hand back, disgusted and terrified. The smell of freshly cut wood assails him, too wholesome for any of this, too normal to be in any way associated with the way Merlin is screaming. Whatever the thing is, it extends further upwards, diagonally towards the sky and towards Merlin’s head, splitting apart like a hydra growing new heads. Arthur is only dimly aware of his hands gripping the front of Merlin’s tunic, as though to drag him away from the danger, even though Merlin’s body is the danger. He’s only dimly aware of his heart pounding painfully hard and his stomach churning like it’s turning inside out. At length, the thing stops growing, and Merlin’s screams subside to heartbreaking, terrified sobs. Arthur’s heart is still thundering, but since Merlin doesn’t seem to be actively dying after all, he beats his mind into focus. He looks at the thing, the new manifestation of the cwealm hogian, and though he still shudders at the horror of what’s just happened, can see it’s a simple branch. It would be indistinguishable from any other in the forest around them, if it weren’t sticking grotesquely out of Merlin’s body, if it didn’t still smell of sap and new growth, if he hadn’t just seen what he’d seen. “Don’t look,” Merlin whispers. Arthur pulls his eyes away and finds Merlin’s are huge, and tears are coursing unchecked down his face. “Please Arthur, don’t look at it.” His misery shines so plainly that Arthur’s heart breaks all over again, hurting just as much as the first time. “Please… Just hold me,” he begs. Arthur obeys: he pulls Merlin into a tight embrace, shifting them both so he can wrap his arms around Merlin’s shoulders and cradle his head. The motion brings Merlin up on his side, and his newly grown leaves brush Arthur’s head and shoulder. He shudders despite the gentleness of it, and holds Merlin closer.
+++
It’s full morning when Arthur wakes again. His whole body is stiff, his neck and shoulders especially, because he’s still clutching Merlin, hunched over him as though to shield him from a blow. He straightens with effort, grimacing as all his joints protest.The sky is a bright, clear blue, the birds are singing, the brook is babbling off through the trees, and Arthur feels only dull loathing for all of it. How dare the day be beautiful? How dare the world just keep going like last night never happened? He wishes he could muster some real anger, but it’s like that part of him has gone dormant. He can hardly even remember what it’s like to feel angry. He looks down at Merlin: he’s gaunt and exhausted, even in repose. The hand that’s still flesh is nestled under his chin, fingers curled in like they’re holding something precious and fragile. His pulse flutters in the hollow of his throat, and the back of his strong, narrow wrist presses into Arthur’s stomach. His hair, in all its dark lustre, falls in disordered, sweat-curly locks over his ear and forehead. He looks young, meek. Which is laughable, of course. They’re both well into manhood, and ‘meek’ could as well be applied to Merlin as ‘dim’ to the sun. Arthur’s gaze travels down, then, unwillingly, to where the branch rucks Merlin’s shirt up, baring an expanse of crumpled bark. The branch looks less horrific but more strange in the cool light of day. It grows from just above where Merlin’s hipbone used to poke out to the level of Merlin’s chin, its leaves that brilliant, new-leaf green, incongruous with the season, and its thin twigs wave in the wind just like all the other twigs in all the trees around them. No sign of the agony their growth put Merlin through the night before. No sign of their cursed origins. Again, he wishes for anger, but knows the ache in his throat to be grief. And all at once, he can’t help it. He leans in very close to Merlin’s ear and breathes, “I love you. I love you, Merlin. I love you, I love you, I love you…” Merlin sleeps on, all unaware.
+++
An hour later, Merlin wakes. He’s subdued, and refuses food again, though Arthur hadn’t expected anything different. Arthur has to help him stand, taking the brunt of his weight and then holding him steady while he finds his new centre of balance. The branch likely won’t impede Merlin’s movement—more than it already has been impeded—but it makes it awkward for him to position his arm: letting it hang means the branch blocks it from swinging naturally, but the alternative is to rest his hand on it like some parody of the grip of a sword. Arthur couldn’t begin to count the number of times he’s stood with his hand resting casually on the pommel of a sword. But with Merlin, with the branch, it’s wrong, it’s awful.They don’t mention the night before. Arthur doesn’t speak a word about his confession, now that Merlin’s awake. They walk towards Camelot, slowly. When Merlin speaks, later in the morning, it’s of simple things, little memories of growing up in Ealdor, and things he’s done since coming to Camelot. They aren’t always about magic, though some are. Mostly they’re about people he loves: his mother, Will, Guinevere, Gaius, Lancelot, Gwaine, even Morgana. Arthur. They’re not all happy stories. Merlin has done things in defense of Arthur and Camelot that Arthur would never in a thousand years have guessed him capable of. Things with poison and curses and heartbroken duplicity. Merlin’s actions have hurt others far more than his lies ever hurt Arthur, he learns. Arthur can’t always tell what the connection between any two tales is, but maybe there isn’t one at all. He’s humbled to be given them anyway. As the morning goes on to afternoon, he notices the rhythm of Merlin’s voice change: he’s breathing more often, more shallowly, breaking up sentences to get a snatch of air. At first Arthur thinks it’s because they’re walking too fast, and adjusts their pace, but it doesn’t help. Merlin is still struggling for breath. “Merlin?” Arthur asks nervously. “Do you want to stop?” Merlin lifts his flesh-and-blood hand to his chest, seeming to feel for something under his shirt. His expression is closed and troubled when he lets it fall again. “No, it wouldn’t help.” Arthur goes cold at the realization that his fearful thoughts from only a couple of days ago must be coming true: the bark has risen so high that it’s impeding the expansion of Merlin’s chest, his lungs. “Are you going to asphyxiate?” The question itself is strangled, and he desperately wishes he could take it back. But just like with everything else, it’s too late. Worse though, is how Merlin looks away for a moment, as though steeling himself. “I don’t know,” he says wretchedly. “I don’t feel any weaker after—” (he takes a short breath) “—not eating or drinking much for almost three days. So maybe my need to breathe—” (again) “—will go away too, as the—the curse progresses? I don’t know. But I’m alright—” (again) “—to keep going.”Arthur swallows. He’s still alright. For now, he’s still here with me. The thought is bitter comfort. They don’t talk much for the rest of the day. Merlin’s breathing stays short and their pace stays slow. They make camp late again, and Arthur doesn’t sleep until well into the night.
+++
He feels leaden and numb when he wakes the next morning, just after dawn. They’ll reach Camelot today, if they maintain the rate they’ve been keeping since leaving Ealdor. And unless the cwealm hogian has another nasty trick to spring, Merlin should still be able to speak to his friends and loved ones before… before.Arthur’s jaw is clenched so tightly it feels like his teeth have melded together. He understands, intellectually, that the threads of responsibility for Merlin’s condition lead only very tenuously back to himself. But he has been raised to feel responsible for pretty much everything he encounters, and Merlin being in such a situation sends him into a depth of self-loathing he has never experienced before. He turns on his side and looks at Merlin, still sleeping in the dawn’s waxing light. His legs are propped on one of the packs so that the roots on his foot couldn’t burrow into the soil during the night. His transformed hand rests on his bark-covered stomach, and the branch… All that remains of how Merlin looked a week ago is his face, and the flesh-and-blood hand that pillows his head. Unreasoning guilt and immovable shame take hold of Arthur, and he holds his breath and prays, prays with a fervency he hasn’t felt since he was a child and still hoped his father might love him one day. Please, he begs God, please, if Merlin gets well, I swear, I swear I’ll be a king worthy of ruling this land, I’ll be a man worthy of Merlin’s loyalty, I’ll be… I’ll be better, I swear it on my parents’ graves, and my love for Merlin, and my own life, I swear, just please, please… Just make Merlin well. The sun rises, and his plea goes the way of all his prayers: unanswered. No miraculous reversion of Merlin’s condition occurs. Arthur should be more accustomed to disappointment by this point in his life, but he’s not. It twines darkly around his heart and wrings vicious, stinging tears from his eyes.
+++
He has wrested his composure back when Merlin stirs a little while later. Arthur is packing up his bedroll and chewing the last of the dried meat, but he’s being careful to never turn his back on Merlin, so he can always see if he needs something, and he sees the wince Merlin tries to hide when he takes his hand from behind his head and makes to lower his arm.“What is it?” Arthur asks sharply. “I think…” Merlin grimaces. “Help me take my shirt off, would you?” Arthur’s brain stumbles, but he recovers quickly, sternly telling himself off as he skirts the ashes of the campfire to kneel by Merlin’s side. Getting the shirt off turns out to be a tricky, not-at-all-erotic maneuver: Merlin can’t sit up anymore, nor use one of his hands, so he has to wriggle-roll back and forth while Arthur shimmies the shirt up one side at a time, trying to avoid getting whapped by the branch all the while. What is revealed hits him like a blow to the gut. He had inferred that the bark had extended up Merlin’s chest, high enough to inhibit his breathing, but it’s another thing to see it. When last Arthur had seen him shirtless, Merlin had been under Gaius’ knives. He’d been pale, and his skin had been cool and soft, if a bit clammy, and dusted with black hair with a denser patch over his sternum. Arthur had felt him trembling and heard him screaming with the pain of surgery, and thought that there could be nothing worse. He wishes he had been right. Now, Merlin’s chest is an expanse of mottled, fractured brown bark, roughly following the contours of his body like a warped sculpture. It extends from beneath his trousers up to his neck and all around his sides and ribs, encasing his torso completely. On the side with the branch, the side of the arm he’d been trying to lower, it has climbed up over his armpit, leaving only a few curly black hairs poking randomly out. Merlin, who has had to crane his head to see, lets his head thump back. “Great.” A snarled whisper of such ferocity that Arthur startles away, almost cringing. “Great. Wonderful. All this, and now I’m stuck—” (a short breath) “—waving my arm in the air like I’ve lost my sweetheart at the bloody market. Perfect.” He squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his jaw, muscles working in his cheeks and neck. After an agonizingly long moment, he releases a hissing breath through his teeth. “Fine,” he says grimly. He opens his eyes and meets Arthur’s gaze. “Help me stand.” Arthur scrambles to crouch above Merlin’s head and slide his hands under his shoulders to lift him upright. Merlin’s not able to help much, and Arthur knows he hates it, feels ashamed of his incapacity, but Arthur is humbled and glad to be entrusted with helping him. Even if the trust is resentful and only given out of necessity. The other times Arthur has helped him, Merlin has been fine once he’s on his feet, but today, as soon as Arthur moves away and Merlin tries to take a step, he gasps in pained surprise and starts to fall sideways. Arthur darts in to catch him, hands on rough bark. “Merlin?”Merlin is making a low, rough noise, deep in his throat. It’s not crying, it’s not groaning. It terrifies Arthur.“Merlin?” he repeats tentatively. It’s growling. The sound he’s making, it’s growling. “Did we bring a hatchet?”“A hatchet? No, we’ve just got my sword, and the knife for chores.” “Reckon you could cut wood with the sword, if you swung it hard enough?” “Merlin…” “Let’s chop it off, Arthur. Let’s chop my leg off and make it into a crutch so I can keep going. This is stupid. This is all so bloody stupid. I’m sorry, alright!” he suddenly shouts, not at Arthur, but out at the world, at the sorcerer he’d killed and was being killed by in turn. “I’m sorry, is that what you want? I’m sorry I killed you! I didn’t want to do it! So all this is really—” His voice breaks, and returns in thready gasps. “All this is really unfair.” His face contorts with mingled rage and misery. “I didn’t want to do it,” he sobs. “I never wanted to hurt anyone, or keep secrets, or lie, or kill, or anything. I just wanted you to know about me, Arthur, and for that to be alright. And now my stupid legs… I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” “Your legs?” Arthur barely manages to get out. “Like my fingers.” Presumably not the ones on the hand that’s stuck in the air, which are fine. No, the ones that had transformed in Ealdor, the ones that were… “My other leg is… changing, and my thighs are, are stuck. The bark is... You know how trees start fusing when they grow too close—” “Yes,” Arthur interrupts. He has noticed trees that do that without ever particularly caring, but now he needs Merlin to stop making him think about those warped shapes in relation to Merlin’s body before his stomach rebels. “Yes,” Merlin says. “I think it’s like that.” Arthur swallows the taste of bile. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s a failure, as a leader, as a friend, as a man. Merlin should have stayed with his mother, who at least would know how to comfort her son, but no, instead he’s lumbered with Arthur, the worthless king who makes empty promises and prays for the impossible. Merlin hasn’t said anything recriminating, but he’s too good a person to blame Arthur as he ought. There is nothing Arthur can do to help. There never was. Merlin will die and Arthur will live and there’s nothing he can do. “Arthur?” Merlin’s voice is soft and conciliatory. His bleak anger has passed, gone like smoke on the wind. “Arthur, I’m sorry I said that. I wouldn’t really ask you to do that. I just… I want to keep going, I want to see Gaius and everyone one last time, but my body… the curse… I can’t ask you to give me the help I’ll need. It’s too much. You’ve done enough already.” Arthur looks at Merlin’s lowered head and downcast face, baffled and stunned. How is it possible they’ve come to such different conclusions? “Merlin, I will never have done enough. Of course you’re going to see them again. Of course I’m going to help.” Merlin lifts his head and looks at him, and the mix of grief-relief-gratitude in his eyes is beyond bearing. If Arthur were still as selfish as he’d been a few years ago, he would lean in and kiss Merlin and that would be it, his last secret gone. But he doesn’t: specifically because he’s known Merlin so well for so long, he doesn’t. “I’ll help you,” he repeats, hollow ghosts of the words he’d spoken in the light of yesterday’s dawn. All they have in common is devotion. But Merlin bows his head as though this paltry promise is more than he ever hoped for. “Thank you,” he whispers. “But… when we’re close… I can’t go into the city like this, Arthur, I mean… imagine. I don’t want to be gawped at, or, or frighten anyone.” His voice fades as he speaks, and at first Arthur is afraid that he’s losing this last, most vital capacity, but no: he’s ashamed. But he’s presenting a problem Arthur can solve. “You can stay out of the city,” he says. “I’ll go find Gaius and the others and bring them to you. No one will see you if you don’t want them to.” It’s lucky, now that he thinks of it, that the road has been so empty these last few days. Though, it’s not a common season for travel: most people would be preparing for the coming harvest, and inevitable winter. They’re unlikely to meet anyone until they’re much closer to Camelot. Merlin nods, biting his lip. "Thank you," he says again. And then, "Um." And then, "Would you take my trousers off for me?” Arthur freezes. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of how his arm is looped around Merlin’s waist, how he’s leaning in to support Merlin’s unsteady weight, the soft gusts of Merlin’s breath. It’s not his fault: Merlin saying those words has reignited Arthur’s poor foolish longing like touching a flame to kindling, and freezing is the only recourse against acting on it.Merlin sees his reaction, but, thankfully, misinterprets it. He rolls his eyes, seeming glad to be back on more stable emotional footing, even though his ears and cheeks go pink. “I haven’t any modesty left to protect, so lose the chivalry.” “Right.” Arthur swallows. “Of course. I’ll… Are you able to stand alone?” “I think so.” Cautiously, Arthur lets go of him, hands hovering until he’s sure Merlin’s not about to topple. Stalling, also. There had been nothing pleasant or even very intimate about removing Merlin’s shirt, but… trousers are different. Battering down his inappropriate feelings with reminders of the situation they’re in, he quickly unties the laces on the trousers and tugs them down. Merlin’s smalls are askew, pushed awkwardly far down by the bark’s encroaching melding, so they ride low around what used to be his hips. Half of a knobbly, indistinct lump is visible over the top of them, surrounded by a stubbly halo of coarse hair sticking out of the bark, the same as his armpit. Arthur averts his eyes, sliding the smalls and trousers alike down Merlin’s thighs and over his knees. One leg, he had already known, is completely gone: tree enough for roots to grow from the foot. The gouge from where the horse kicked him is a splintery gash that catches the material of the trousers. The other leg is still flesh, from the knee down at least. Pale, thin, with wiry black hairs. Arthur touches the skin there, briefly, with just the tips of his fingers.
+++
Their progress is extremely slow now. They limp along the road together, their sides pressed close, Arthur’s arm around Merlin’s unyielding waist, and Merlin’s arm—the one that he can’t lower, the one that is still flesh and bone—over Arthur’s shoulders along with the straps of the saddlebags. Those five little bruises Merlin gave Arthur those ages ago in the worst throes of surgery hardly even twinge now, and Arthur resents them for healing, for proving that he will continue on after all this, and live to grieve. He grips Merlin’s hand in his own with unrepentant strength, as though by holding so tightly he can prevent the transformation from taking that part of his friend. The bare bark on Merlin’s side mocks the hope, but it persists, as stupid and stubborn as the man whose heart it rests in.It’s difficult going, and Arthur is winded when they reach the top of one of the final hills before Camelot. And that makes him realize something. “Merlin.” “Mm?” “You’re not breathing.” A brief silence, where a sigh might have gone. “I know.” Arthur feels the world fall down around him. “For how long?” “A few hours now, I reckon.” Arthur can’t look at Merlin, can’t look because he knows he’ll find an unnatural stillness in Merlin’s nostrils, his throat, what is left of his chest. “But you’re still—” His throat seems full of sand, the words barely intelligible. Merlin understands anyway. “Yes. I don’t have a pulse anymore either. I think the cwealm hogian is going to… maintain me. Until the change is… total.” The blinding cruelty of the curse hits Arthur all over again. It’s not enough for the cwealm hogian for Merlin to know he will die and be unable to change it. It’s not enough for everyone who loves him to watch him change beyond all possible recognition. Only totally stripping his humanity, only total despair for his friends and family, only the worst of all possible options would do. This isn’t a death, it’s torture. “We should leave the road soon.” Arthur nods. They had decided that they would find a clearing some distance from the road where Merlin would wait while Arthur collected their friends from the castle. And the longer they put off leaving the road, the more likely it becomes that they’ll run into someone. But Arthur resists because he doesn’t want to leave Merlin alone, even temporarily—especially now that he isn’t breathing—even to go and get everyone else who has a right to say goodbye. “After the next hill.” Merlin nods back, just a shift of black hair and pale cheek in Arthur’s peripheral vision. They trudge on. After two more hills, Merlin says, “Arthur…” with such dear, familiar, tired exasperation that Arthur stops in his tracks. “Come on. There’s a glen not far off the road from here. It has a view of the city and the top of the road, so I’ll be able to see when you return.” Arthur still doesn’t want to. Arthur wants to split himself in half so that he can stay with Merlin and his other self can go bring Gaius and the others. But other people love Merlin too, and Merlin loves them, and wants to say goodbye. And so, all reluctance, he follows Merlin’s pointing hand—the transformed one, and the leaves at the ends of what used to be fingers flutter so innocently—and turns them into the forest. There is a thin path, barely even a hunting trail, and they follow it for ten minutes until it ends at a wide, slanted field, covered in knee-high grasses and wildflowers. “Up there,” Merlin says, gesturing clumsily at the uphill side. “The view of the castle.” They stumble their way on, and when Arthur sees the view, the castle is tiny, much smaller than it had seemed from the crest of the hill on the road so recently. And he must get there faster than a deer runs or a falcon flies, for more relies on him now than ever before, and he cannot fail, not this time. “You’ll be alright while you wait?” Merlin doesn’t take his eyes off the horizon, the castle. “Yes, I’ll be fine. Just take my other boot off, before you go?” Arthur doesn’t know why it’s a question: doesn’t Merlin know he’d do anything for him, anything at all? Doesn’t he know Arthur would catch a falling star, dig to the heart of a mountain, fly, fly for God’s sake, if only Merlin said he should? But he just kneels and removes the boot, fumbling with the buckles, easing it off Merlin’s foot as gently as may be. Bare of bark still, but it’s nearly covering Merlin’s knee on that side, so it won’t stay that way for long. “Arthur?” He looks up. “I told Gwen and the knights. You know, our bunch. About the magic, the night before we left. About being Emrys, and… and the curse. But… I let them think there was a cure. I know it wasn’t right, and I’m sorry you have to tell them the truth now, but I couldn’t stand to—” Merlin closes his eyes and bows his head, and tears drip down his cheeks and off his chin, pattering onto his wooden chest. “But they’re the ones I want you to bring.” “I’ll—” he croaks as he stands again. The bark has crept higher as well, nearly touching Merlin’s collarbones. But his face is still clear, his mouth, his eyes, as well as much of the arm he can’t lower. Arthur will just have to be quick. “I’ll be back soon.” Merlin nods, his eyes wide and bright. “I know.” Arthur shakes his head, mouth crowding with too many words, too much love and pain, too much everything and it hurts that nothing comes out because he would say it now, but that would be wasting time they don’t have. “I’ll be back,” he repeats desperately, and turns, and runs.
+++
The guards must think him mad for the way he sprints pell-mell through the gates, bellowing and howling for them to find Gaius, find Leon, find Guinevere, find Gwaine and Percival and Elyan and get their horses saddled now for God’s sake, NOW.Leon meets him halfway through the upper town, full of alarm and concern. “Sire?” “Collect the others,” he commands, shortness of breath turning it into a snarl. “Those of you Merlin told before we left.” Leon’s eyes widen, but he nods, and races off towards the practice fields. Guinevere is helping Gaius down the front stairs of the castle when Arthur makes it to the courtyard, and several stableboys are leading hastily-saddled horses around. “My Lord—?” Guinevere calls. “Help Gaius mount,” he shouts. “Start with him down the east road and I’ll follow with the knights. If you see a saddlebag hanging from a tree, wait for us there.” “Is this about Merlin?” she insists. “Is he alright?” “Please,” he says, raggedly. “Just help Gaius.” Worried now, she does as he says, but Gaius looks at him for another moment, and Arthur can see that he knows. He looks away first, searching the courtyard impatiently for the knights. They arrive scarcely a minute after Guinevere and Gaius depart, but Arthur is already ahorse and has his mount trotting in nervous circles to warm up. He’s getting curious and concerned looks from the stableboys and passing townspeople and nobles, but there is nothing he cares about less. “Arthur!” Gwaine shouts. “What’s going on? Where’s Merlin?” Arthur doesn’t wait or answer. “Leave your swords and maille and anything heavy that could slow your horse!” He kicks his mare toward the gate. “Follow me to the east road!” Gwaine swears a blue streak as Arthur leaves them behind, but the rush of wind in Arthur’s ears steals the specifics of which body parts and family members should interact in which ways. He can’t feel bad for his behavior: he can’t feel anything but the imperative drubbing of his heart in his chest, demanding he get back to Merlin, demanding he hurry, demanding he—for once in his useless life—succeed at something. He catches up with Guinevere and Gaius not too far outside of the city gates, and it’s clear Gaius has let her know the truth of Merlin’s situation. Her hands tremble on the reins and tears streak her face despite how hard she’s biting her lip. “How far has it progressed?” Gaius asks grimly once Arthur pulls abreast of them. Arthur tells him, and Gaius closes his eyes and nods. “We had best hurry then.” The knights catch them up not long after, full of anxiety disguised behind rancor at Arthur’s conduct. Elyan and Leon notice Guinevere’s distress and aim their questions at her, but Percival has to restrain Gwaine from bodily hauling Arthur over as he shouts, “I swear on my own benighted honour, if you’ve hurt him—” Arthur lunges and seizes Gwaine’s collar, nearly unseating them both. “Of course I’ve hurt him!” he roars. “He has magic, and I’ve spent my life hunting and killing sorcerers! Of course I’ve fucking hurt him. Every one of us has.” The tide of fury ebbs as quickly as it rose, and his fingers fall slack in the cloth. Gwaine is staring at him, mouth open. They’re all staring. “And he sent me to bring all of you because you’re still his friends, and he still loves you, and he wants to say goodbye.” The last word is a dry sob, an artifact of a grief he doesn’t deserve. “He said…” Gwaine says unsteadily. His eyes are unfocused, like he’s taken a blow to the head. “He said you and he were going to look for a solution. A cure. To the curse thing.” “There never was a cure,” Arthur grates out. It costs him more than it should to admit. He had been disabused of the notion after meeting the Druids, yet still, it hurts to say. “He knew that. He just wanted to let you hope.” The knights look at each other, horrified. Guinevere stifles a sob with her hand. Gaius keeps his head lowered. Of course: he was complicit in Merlin’s well-meaning lie. “Come on,” Arthur rasps. “Let’s be quick.”
+++
For the whole of the way from the road to the clearing, his heart pounds like it’s going to push itself out of his chest and hurl its way down the path to reach Merlin faster. Arthur warns the others what to expect, explains in no uncertain terms that Merlin is more tree than man now, and that any sign of disgust or animosity will result in the perpetrator’s immediate removal. But he doesn’t share the deepest fear in his heart: that no matter how hard he tries, no matter how fast he runs or rides, they will reach the clearing too late, and there will be nothing of Merlin left but a strangely shaped oak tree.They all still gasp when they enter the clearing and realize what the dryadic figure further up the incline is. Arthur doesn’t blame them: he has the advantage of having seen the transformation in all its creeping horror, and it’s still a shock after only an hour’s absence. And worse, it’s progressed in that time as well: the arm that began changing in Ealdor, the one not stuck over his head, has sprouted several new branches. Long, graceful, slender branches that mirror and mock the former narrow strength of his wrist.Arthur’s blood curdles at the thought that Merlin had to endure another painful change all alone, and he breaks from the group and rushes forward. “Merlin,” he gasps. “Merlin, are you alright? Your arm—” He pats over Merlin over as though checking for a wound, and ends up resting his hands on his shoulders. “I shouldn’t have left, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Was it… was it bad?” Merlin half-smiles, a small, tired, fond thing. “Nah. Had worse.” But there are fresh tear-tracks on his cheeks, and heavy pain haunting his eyes. “I can tell when you’re lying now, you know.”The little smile wavers, and fails, and Arthur silently rebukes himself. “It did hurt,” Merlin admits. “I wished it would just fall off instead. I wished you were here.” Arthur’s breath catches, and he notices all over again how Merlin’s not breathing. “But the other one was worse. I’m fine now.” Arthur doesn’t have it in him to point out how monumental of a lie that is. “I brought the others,” he says, in absence of anything better. And there is relief in that: to have done as Merlin asked. To have succeeded. No comfort, no pride. But relief, yes, he feels some small measure of that. Merlin smiles again, a bit wider. “So I see. My knight in sweat-stained hunting gear. Thank you.” Arthur plays off the spasm in his throat as a weird laugh. “Want to go down to them?” “Oh, uhm. They’ll have to come here, actually.” He nods downwards, and Arthur drops his gaze to Merlin’s feet. One is bare of boot and bark alike, narrow and pale against the grass stems and soil. The other is the one wrapped in the neckerchief they’d put on to restrain the roots. But the restraint has failed, and thin roots have pierced the cloth and plunged into the earth. “Oh.” Merlin will never leave the spot where he stands now. “That’s…” The cwealm hogian will finish its foul work and the oak tree that used to be Merlin will stand in this field for all the ages to come, growing leaves in spring and losing them in winter. Children might climb its branches and sweethearts might carve love hearts into its bark. “Did it—?” Someone might cut it down for firewood someday. “It didn’t hurt,” Merlin says quietly. “I haven’t had any feeling in that leg for days.” How broken is the world, for that to be good news. He can’t take his eyes off of Merlin’s feet.“Hey.” Not quite a whisper, but low, spoken just into the space between them. Merlin leans forward as well as he can and bumps his forehead to Arthur’s. “Come on, dollophead. You brought them all this way.” Arthur knows what he means: the others deserve to talk to Merlin too, and Merlin wants to see them. Arthur mustn’t be selfish. Yet still, he can’t help but slide his hands up to the sides of Merlin’s neck, to where there isn’t any bark, his fingers brushing the short hair at his nape. Merlin has no pulse, but his skin is still warm. Still alive. Still here. Arthur bumps his forehead back. Then he takes a shaky breath, and turns to call, “He’s not emitting poisonous spores or anything! Get up here!”
+++
Arthur keeps himself apart as the others gather around Merlin. He sits some distance downhill from them, so that the trees block his view of Camelot, not caring that it is beautiful in the slanted afternoon sunlight. He can’t think about Camelot now. He can’t think about anything.He’s purposefully put enough distance between them that he can’t hear what anyone says, but spikes of noise still reach him: a sudden, sharp sob from Guinevere; Gwaine’s voice raised in indignant, desperate inquiry; Gaius’ remorseful rumble; Merlin underneath it all, somehow managing to laugh. Or maybe he’s crying too. Arthur sits with his knees pulled up and his arms crossed over them, resting the ridge of his brow on his forearms. He hears the wind gusting through the leaves and grass, feels it rush across his shoulders and through his hair. Perhaps this is what a stone feels like, sitting in the middle of a river as the water courses over it, inexorable as fate. As stupid, stupid destiny. Perhaps if he sits here long enough, he can turn into a stone, and be saved from ever having to stand back up and face a world without Merlin. Maybe he should go ‘catch’ a cwealm hogian of his own, and come back here and sit down at the oak tree’s base and wait through the change, and they could weather the innumerable seasons of the world together. They wouldn’t be sorcerer and king, bumpkin and prat, hero and failure, they’d just be a tree and a stone, forever. Emotion shudders through him in massive waves: thrashing rage fades to emptiness… incandescent anguish fills the void, and subsides in turn… the rage returns for a time, fades again. He thinks his body might shake apart under the stress of containing all of it. He hopes it will. It doesn’t. The afternoon follows its inevitable course into evening, the sun sinking behind the trees in an underwhelming mix of noxious, bruisy pink and dry, pale orange. The gibbous moon seems half-hearted when it rises a short while later. The stars don’t even twinkle. Arthur can’t tell if there’s a thin skein of cloud in the sky, or if he’s lost the ability to see beauty, or if some part of the universe has finally realized the significance of what's happening and is reacting accordingly. The moon is nearly to its zenith when footsteps approach him from behind. “Hey.” Gwaine squats at his side. His voice is rough. “What if you kissed him?” “What.” The passing hours have put Arthur in such a stupor that he can’t give that the reaction it should get, and the word comes out completely flat. “In case it’s a true love’s kiss thing. Like in the stories where the maiden is cursed.” Something huge and spiky turns over in Arthur’s chest. He can’t even question Gwaine’s knowledge of his feelings. “It wouldn’t work. Gaius, the Druids, even the dragon, they all said there’s no cure.” Gwaine picks a tall blade of grass and rolls it between his palms. “Aye. That’s what he said too.” Bits and scraps of thoughts tumble through Arthur’s mind, none of them helpful, all of them painful. Had Merlin said that because he really knew it wouldn’t work? Or because he didn’t think anyone loved him enough to fix it and he didn’t want to find out for sure? Or because he didn’t want Arthur specifically to kiss him? The thought hurts a lot more than it has any right to. “And he says he wants to talk to you.” The words are like a hook in a fish’s mouth, and Arthur follows the imperative tugging to Merlin without hesitation, confusion and pain and demands of Why didn’t you lead with that abandoned, leaving Gwaine to whatever sort of vigil he’s going to keep. The others have dispersed a bit, but no one has gone far. Guinevere sits with Leon’s arm around her a little distance away, and Elyan collects deadfall from the forest edges while Percival lights a small fire. Gaius remains closest to Merlin, standing perhaps three meters to the side, also facing towards the city. Like the city is what is dying, and they are standing its wake. For one shameful instant, Arthur’s battered heart whispers if only. The bark has spread. Even in moonlight, Arthur can see that. Thin root tendrils are emerging from Merlin’s other foot as well now. Both of his shoulders are covered, and his upraised arm is gone nearly to the elbow. Worse, it has grown up the side of his neck and taken one of his ears. Worst of all is Merlin’s expression. Because Arthur knows what the pinched corners of his mouth mean, and the crimp between his brows, and the frightened wideness of his eyes: he’s in pain. The cwealm hogian has more suffering to impart.Arthur runs the last few steps, hands out as though he expects to have to catch him from a fall. “Merlin?”“My back.” It’s a plea as much as anything: Arthur knows what happens during these episodes, and knows how to help, insofar as there is any help to give. “Right in the middle of my back, it hurts—” “What can I do?” Such a selfish question, ultimately. It seeks to resolve Arthur’s desire to help rather than anything Merlin might actually need. “Do you want me to send the others away?”“No,” Merlin says through a grimace. “Unless they want to go, if they can’t watch… I mean, I’ll try not to scream, but… they should, you know, know what’s happening.” Arthur allows himself a small weakness then: he calls Gaius over and asks him to pass the explanation of what’s about to happen on to Guinevere and the knights. He doesn’t think he could drag himself away from Merlin at this point, not for anything. “Distract me?” Merlin whispers when Gaius has gone to talk to the others. Arthur wets his lips, feeling dull and helpless. Memories of the first branch’s growth are crowding everything else out, and he wants to help Merlin, more than anything he wants to help Merlin, but he can’t even distract himself right now. “Don’t tell me I still have to do all the thinking,” Merlin says, smiling shakily. A wet sort of laugh dies in Arthur’s throat. “Merlin, if there were any way to fix—” “I know,” Merlin says. “You got me the Mortaeus flower against your father’s explicit orders, and we hardly knew each other then. You think I don’t know?” Arthur’s breath catches. “Gwaine thinks I should kiss you,” he hears himself say. “I told him not to mention that to you,” Merlin says, expression shuttering. “Gwaine’s a romantic, and all he knows of magic is fairy tale and rumor.” “So… there is no chance at all it could work?” It’s better that it be a question. Questions are uncertain. The answer can be There is, actually.“No.” A spasm of pain crosses Merlin’s features, mirroring the one in Arthur’s chest. “A spell fueled by death cannot be countermanded. Nothing stops death: not magic, not prayer, not love—” A stronger spasm makes him bite his lip, and blood trickles down his chin, black in the moonlight. Arthur tries to wipe it with his thumb, but just smears it over Merlin’s jaw. “Sorry,” he whispers. Merlin shakes his head as well as he can, though what he means by it is opaque to Arthur. That the apology is unnecessary? Arthur dabs at the blood anyway, needing to show somehow that he cares. He may be a useless failure, and caring will never be enough—love is not enough to stop death—but it’s all he has to offer. Sweat makes Merlin’s skin shine like moonlight itself. It’s still so strange that he’s not breathing. It doesn’t take very much longer before the pain truly sets in. Merlin fights it silently at first, as he said he would try to do, but he can’t keep the cries back forever. When the first ugly sound has ripped free, he gasps, “Let me put my face on your shoulder. To muffle myself, for the others.” Arthur, who can hardly think over the thunder of his pulse in his ears, marvels that Merlin has the capacity to be concerned for the rest of their friends. But he does as Merlin asks, stepping closer than he already is and guiding Merlin’s head down until his nose and mouth rest against his shoulder. The bark makes it difficult for Merlin to bend his neck that far, but it is not so stiff yet to actually stop him, and he presses his face into Arthur’s shirt. The cartilage in Merlin’s nose shifts unpleasantly against the top of Arthur’s clavicle. He nearly asks if Merlin can breathe alright, but stops himself in time. The next scream vibrates through Arthur’s bones, his heart, his soul. He clutches Merlin tighter, pulling himself closer, one hand buried in Merlin’s hair, the other arm around his back, where that precursive thudding and cracking has begun. Arthur can feel it under his palm, and hear the splintering of wood as Merlin’s transformed body is broken yet again. The new branch tears its way out and up, right in front of Arthur’s face, splitting quickly and growing even faster than the first one had. Merlin’s scream is continuous because he doesn’t have to draw breath for it, though he’s still trying to stifle himself on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur can feel Merlin’s teeth, not biting him, but pressing, pressing, pressing, so hard and so deeply that there is sure to be a mark. Leaving a wound that will outlast him. And all the while, the best Arthur can do is whisper over and over, “I’m here, I’m here, Merlin, I’m here,” and, when the insufficiency of that at last overwhelms him, tries, “It’s almost over, it’s almost done.” As though reminding Merlin of the shortness of his remaining life could possibly comfort him. When it finally ends, the screaming and the growing branch and the hopeless whispering, Arthur realizes that Merlin has twisted his remaining hand down and gripped a fistful of Arthur’s hair with painful strength. They’re both shaking. Merlin is making a low kind of keening sound, which slowly resolves into, “Why, why, why, why? I’m fine with dying, but why does it have to hurt like this?” Arthur’s whole body goes numb. Carefully, he disentangles himself, pulls his hair out of Merlin’s grip, and puts his hands on either side of Merlin’s head to make him raise it so he can look him in the eyes. Merlin’s lip is still bleeding, his cheeks are blotched moon-pale and russet-dark, and tears and snot smear indistinguishably across his skin. His hair is sticking up where Arthur was gripping it, as Arthur’s surely is as well. Bark is beginning to encroach up one side of his jaw. The new branch rises a meter higher than Merlin’s head, in full, luscious summer leaf. “Never say that,” Arthur begs. “Never say you’re fine with it, please, Merlin. You’re the best person I’ll ever know, and this is the farthest thing from fine there is, Merlin, you deserve so much more than this, please don’t, you deserve to know how— Please don’t say you’re fine with—” He takes a shuddering breath, and is ashamed to do it in front of Merlin, who can’t breathe at all anymore. I’m still here, his lungs seem to brag. I’ll still be here tomorrow. Even if the thing that makes living worth it is gone. “I’m sorry,” Merlin says, instead of taking it back. Arthur takes another shaky breath, feels guilty again, and says haltingly, “You deserve—”“I don’t want to think about might-have-beens. Please.” He looks so tired and discouraged that Arthur doesn’t dispel the misconception. After all, what would a love confession be at this stage but a whole ledger of might-have-beens? Arthur had been right each time he chose not to tell Merlin about his feelings. That’s almost a comfort. So instead he pulls the cuff of his sleeve down over his hand and gently cleans Merlin’s face of tears and mucus and blood alike. The bark on his jaw has crept higher. “So much for that shirt,” Merlin mumbles. “I’ll wash it myself,” Arthur says, hoping to forestall any talk of who might take Merlin’s duties as manservant after… after. “Hmm.” A little smile flickers over Merlin’s lips. “I’ll believe that when I see it.” Stricken, Arthur is about to go find a waterskin, when Merlin seems to realize what he’s said, and grimaces. “No, I… no. I do believe you. I didn’t… I mean… Just stay with me.” Arthur nods, relaxing slightly even as grief swamps him anew. He can do that. He can stay. So he does. He stays as the bark creeps higher over Merlin’s jaw, up his cheeks, the back of his head. He stays through another bout of pain and screaming as Merlin’s remaining arm transforms all at once into another branch. He stays as Merlin suddenly begins talking of everything he had hoped to see and do in his life, apparently eschewing his own commandment against might-have-beens. Stays as the bark immobilizes Merlin’s lower lip, covers one of his eyes. Stays as fright takes hold of Merlin, Merlin, the bravest man Arthur has ever known, as he calls plaintively, “Arthur? Arthur?” “I’m here! I’m still here, Merlin!” he cries, laying his hands to what is left of Merlin’s face, hoping it helps Merlin know he’s not alone. He can see the moon through the leaves above Merlin’s head, and hopes its light illuminates his face so that Merlin can see him as well as hear and feel that he’s still there. “I’m not going anywhere, I’m right here, I lo—I love you Merlin, I’m so so sorry, but I’m here, I won’t leave—” Merlin’s nose, half of his forehead, Arthur can see the bark moving, feel it spreading under his fingers, it’s so fast now, like the curse is growing impatient with the end so close, Arthur can’t breathe, Merlin’s eye is wide and afraid and locked on Arthur. “I’m here! Merlin, I’m here!” “Arthur, Ar—” Tongue and teeth and upper lip, cheekbone, eye. Gone, gone, gone, gone. Last to vanish is the spot between his temple and his ear. Arthur’s third finger is resting there as the bark covers it. He feels the skin go rough and inflexible. Gone. “Merlin.” It might as well be a birdcall. “M-Merlin.” Nothing under his fingers but tree bark. Branches waving in the moonlight. Leaves shivering in the wind. No Merlin. No Merlin. Arthur’s knees give out and he crumples. Shouts from behind him. Some remote part of his mind registers Gaius, Guinevere, the knights. They loved Merlin too. They’ll grieve too. They’ll all have to go back to the castle at some point, organize the funeral, a pension for Hunith, the repeal of the magic ban. The harvest will come in, and the castle will prepare for winter. Arthur will have to lead. But for now, he kneels at the foot of an oak tree, and weeps.