Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
“Will you give yourself to the spirits to save your prince?”
Merlin takes a good look around the ruins of the once-great hall, his gaze lingering on each one of his friends, strewn unconscious on the stone floor. He allows himself to feel a twinge of regret at the thought of never having the chance to say goodbye properly. But if Merlin knows one thing, it is this: it was always going to end like this. He was always going to die saving Arthur’s life.
There is a sense of relief too, though he would never admit it out loud. Because never revealing his magic also means that he wouldn’t be around for the inevitable fallout: he wouldn’t be around to see Arthur accusing him of treason, of deceiving him since the day they met. He wouldn’t be there for Arthur to send away.
(If Arthur thinks it makes him a coward—well, he’s been brave for so long. Surely he’s allowed this one concession? Let his confession also be the final act of his devotion.)
Merlin swallows. His voice doesn’t waver when he says to the Cailleach, “it is my destiny.”
Except—
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
Merlin freezes, Arthur’s voice shocking him like a bucket of cold water. Perhaps Arthur isn’t as unconscious as he thought.
He whirls around to see Arthur standing on his feet, his eyes blazing, his hand gripped tightly around the hilt of his sword.
Arthur takes a cautious step forward. “Merlin—”
Their eyes meet for what seems like an eternity, and Merlin thinks, what the hell. He’s on the verge of sacrificing his life in Arthur’s place anyway. He might as well go all the way.
Before Arthur has the opportunity to say anything else, Merlin raises a hand in his direction and murmurs, “Oþstandan.”
Arthur stops dead in his place. “Merlin?” he whispers, uncertain, looking down to where his feet are suddenly leaden and rooted to the ground. He looks up slowly and looks at Merlin as though he wasn’t sure if he knew Merlin at all.
Merlin thinks, so this is what heartbreak feels like. He never wants to hear Arthur say his name like that, full of doubt and thick with disbelief.
Above everything, this is exactly what he wanted to avoid.
“I’m sorry,” Merlin chokes out, none-too-steady now. He turns around to face the Cailleach again, and Arthur springs into action.
“Merlin!” Arthur shouts, no doubt realising what Merlin is intending to do, and Merlin can feel him wrenching forcefully at the enchantment keeping him still, can feel Arthur’s panic and desperation rippling through.
Merlin knows he shouldn’t look. Looking wouldn’t do anything but damage his resolve, but he can’t not. Not when he can feel every slight twitch and every frantic tug. And Merlin wants to look at his king one last time, and let him know that all of Merlin was only ever for him.
“I’m sorry,” he calls out again. “Arthur—there’s no other way.”
“Don’t you dare!” Arthur shouts back. His eyes are wild, his muscles jerking where he continues to fight the hold Merlin’s enchantment has on him.
It cuts Merlin to see Arthur like this. This isn’t how he wants to remember Arthur, though he knows it’s a stupid thing to think, considering that he’s not going to remember anything soon enough. His eyes prick when he says, “I hope that one day, you’ll understand.” He smiles, weak and watery, before continuing, “I hope that when you do, you’ll be able to forgive me.”
Merlin turns around to stare at the deep, endless dark of the torn veil and feels fear trickling down his spine. The shrill screams of the undead ring loud and piercing in his ears. He’s terrified, suddenly. It’s one thing to vow that he will sacrifice his life to save Arthur’s, to swear that he will be Arthur’s servant until the day he dies, but it’s another thing entirely to face death in the eye. There was always a way out, before. There’s no way out now.
As soon as the thought forms in his head, he feels Arthur breaking free of his spell. Merlin looks in surprise as Arthur breaks into a run, his footsteps loud where his boots strike the ground. He’s racing towards Merlin with an arm outstretched, a last-ditch attempt to reach Merlin and yank him back to safety. “Don’t—“
But it’s too late. They both know it’s too late.
Merlin may not want to fall in, but he’ll be damned if he lets Arthur do it. “I’m sorry,” he mouths at Arthur again, a farewell and an apology all at once.
The last thing he sees is Arthur’s stricken face. He wishes he didn’t hear Arthur’s shout echoing as he falls.
CHAPTER 1
Arthur’s mind is reeling. Where does he even begin? Merlin had magic, Merlin used his magic on Arthur, Merlin is gone. He lied to Arthur from the very beginning and he sacrificed himself in Arthur’s place, the way he always said he would.
Hell, he should be furious.
He knows now, with startling clarity, what Merlin’s magic felt like. It felt like regret, like an apology. Arthur should find it repulsive. It should’ve made his skin crawl but it didn’t—how can it, when it felt so recognisably Merlin in ways he cannot pinpoint? Merlin’s magic was warm where it enveloped him, brimming full of fondness and fervent devotion, even if it paralysed him.
It was the strangest thing on earth to be kept forcibly still by something invisible. To try and move a muscle, knowing that it should move, exerting the effort to move, and seeing that it doesn’t. His legs felt as though they were made of stone; immobile, rooted to the ground itself. It didn’t stop him from trying to reach Merlin.
Arthur fought like hell against Merlin’s enchantment, desperation rendering each attempted movement frantic. There would be rage later, he knew, but there was no time for that now because he’d lose Merlin if he stopped, and to lose Merlin would simply be beyond imagining.
Of course, he ended up losing Merlin anyway. When he finally broke free, he was too late and too far away. He didn’t stop running and watched Merlin as he fell, his outstretched fingers grasping empty air. The Cailleach smiled at him sadly as he bellowed at her, demanding her to open the veil again and let Arthur take Merlin’s place. She dissipated, leaving Arthur alone at the altar, wondering how the hell it had come to this.
There will be anguish later, he knows, and it would shatter him in ways he can’t bear to think about. But for now, everything seems distant.
The ride back to Camelot is quiet. The Dorocha is gone, the veil closed and the kingdom saved once more, but there is no sense of jubilation amongst Camelot’s returning knights.
Later, Arthur takes Lancelot aside. He refuses to meet Arthur’s eyes.
“You knew about Merlin’s plan,” Arthur accuses. “Didn’t you.”
The flash of pain in Lancelot’s eyes is enough of an admission.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wasn’t going to let him go through with it,” admits Lancelot, looking wretched, “I had planned to take his place, but—” he trails off. They both knew what happened next—Merlin had knocked them all unconscious, not willing to chance anybody walking through the veil before he did. “He must have anticipated it,” he finishes lamely.
Arthur thinks of all the times he saw Merlin speaking with Lancelot, heads bowed together, talking in a voice so low Arthur never managed to catch a word. He thinks of their camaraderie, a friendship bound by mutual trust and mutual respect, the glint in their eyes when they seek the other out. As if they knew something the rest of the world didn’t.
The silence that follows Lancelot’s response is fraught with tension, but Arthur has had enough of keeping his questions to himself. “Did you know about the magic too?”
Lancelot flinches at the harshness in Arthur’s voice, but to his credit, he looks up and meets Arthur’s eyes when he replies, “yes, I did.”
Arthur wants to ask how Lancelot knows. Did Merlin tell him? The thought that Merlin would trust Lancelot with the truth stings more than Arthur cares to admit. What is it that Merlin saw in Lancelot that inspired him to trust Lancelot, when he couldn’t trust Arthur?
The sheer ferocity of his fury takes him by surprise. He could charge Lancelot with treason, he realises, trembling. He could sentence Lancelot to death for harbouring a sorcerer.
“I found out by accident,” says Lancelot quietly, resignedly, no doubt reading the unspoken question in Arthur’s expression. Arthur wonders when he became so transparent. “It wasn’t my secret to share. I swore to him that I would tell no soul.”
“How long?”
Lancelot averts his eyes. “Since we killed the griffin.”
Arthur looks away, unable to look at Lancelot. The griffin was years ago. Merlin hadn’t even been in Camelot that long by then. Arthur remembers, then, what came after— “Is that why you left?”
“Yes.”
Arthur’s rage evaporates at once, only for it to be replaced by shame, curling sharp and acrid in his stomach for wanting to get rid of Lancelot. It’s not his fault that he knew. He had only done right by Merlin ever since.
“He cares—cared—about you, Arthur,” Lancelot tells him, compassionate in a way that Arthur isn’t sure he deserves at that moment. Lancelot’s use of past tense makes something catch in Arthur’s throat, but Lancelot isn’t finished. “You’re more important to him than anything.”
Arthur nods tersely, accepting Lancelot’s words for the consolation they are, then turns to leave.
It’s a small funeral pyre that they built for Merlin, a symbolic gesture for his friends than anything else. There was no body, no sword to burn. No evidence that the pyre is for Merlin at all. For all they know, Merlin could well be in the tavern. He could be in the woods gathering herbs for Gaius, ready to amble back at any moment, crashing and stomping and generally being a nuisance.
It strikes Arthur, then, that Merlin wouldn’t. Arthur would retire to his chambers later, and Merlin wouldn’t be in the corner, polishing Arthur’s sword in the corner, contentedly humming an off-key melody. He would go to Gaius’ quarters, and Merlin wouldn’t be preparing whatever grim ingredient Gaius requires for his next brew, cringing as it accidentally touches his skin. Arthur would spar with his knights and land a particularly good blow, and Merlin wouldn’t be standing by the edge of the ground, pretending not to look Arthur and pretending even harder not to look impressed.
Merlin wouldn’t be there at all. He wouldn’t be there again.
Arthur swallows against the burning in his throat, then steps forward. He wouldn’t remember doing this later: taking off his cape, folding it deftly and placing it on the stacked wood before setting the pyre aflame. Merlin might not have been a knight, but it doesn’t mean that they can’t honour him like one.