![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: To Fall and Rise Again
Rating: PG+
Characters: Merlin, Gaius, Arthur, Knights
Warnings: Mentions of torture
Summary: Funny how it's the little things that undo us.
A/N: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sarievenea whose wish is my command when it comes to whump, angst and Merlin.
To Fall and Rise Again
It was tripping over a goblet someone had dropped that undid Merlin, which was rather sad and pathetic. After all, it had only been - what was it, now, nearly two weeks? - That Merlin had been the very picture of mass destruction and cold calculation.
It had been a sorcerer king, of all things – rather than the usual king or sorcerer, or king and sorcerer. No, it had to be two rolled into one – who had been plaguing Camelot with curses and raids. And, of course, Arthur being Arthur, he needed to deal with it himself. But sorcerer kings, it seemed, were smarter than your average king. A trap had been set, sprung, and Arthur and his men spirited away to some evil tower next to impossible to get to unless you were a nomadic magic-wielding mortal with a superiority complex a mile wide.
They had strung Merlin up, being the smallest of the group and, therefore, automatically considered the weakest. They would drag him from the cells, strip him of his shirt, hang him by his wrists from a hook then beat him to their heart's content. Each time Merlin was returned to the cells, he was a little more bloodied, a lot more bruised, and Arthur and the knights would rage with impotent fury.
Merlin would have acted sooner, but if asked about it he would plead the defense of a good sucker punch to the back of the head that had left him dazed during the capture, and then the beatings keeping him dazed during their captivity. It was hard to think what spells to use when you were seeing double and the world refused to stop tilting and whirling. It was during his fifth beating when they cut him down and let him crumple in a heap of broken bones to the floor that he found his magical muse – a piece of root that had squeezed its way through the dungeon floor, a plucky bit of plant struggling against the darkness and all that was impenetrable. Merlin had loved that little bit of plant the moment he saw it. He had reached for it with trembling, bloody hands, touched it with something akin to reverence, mentally praising its fortitude.
Then he gave it his blessing to finish what it had started. A flash of gold in his eyes, the plant writhed and the tower rumbled. Roots, branches and vines ripped through stone and mortar as though it were crumbling clay, tearing the abominable structure from the foundations up. Vines had lifted Merlin to his trembling legs and supported him by passing him along from root to vine to branch until he reached the dungeons.
“The forest outside is enchanted and doesn't like this place, I guess,” was Merlin's easy explanation, since it was mostly the truth. Evil towers did have a way of discouraging plant growth in a given area, and the plants had responded readily to Merlin's magic as though they had been waiting for it.
Merlin had led everyone to safety, lingering long enough to ensure the last man had made it out, and also long enough for him to hear the dying words of the sorcerer king.
Arthur has sown the seeds to his own destruction. It is foretold a Druid will be his undoing. Blah, blah, blah and nothing Merlin hadn't already heard, that didn't already haunt his nightmares and tear at his heart.
“Not while I still have breath,” Merlin had said, and with an outstretched hand and a word brought what remained of the tower down on the sorcerer king.
It had all been quite heroic to the knights (that is, what they knew of it – namely Merlin having escaped and leading them to safety). It had been both satisfying and terrible to Merlin (the king had deserved it, but it made Merlin wonder – as these situations did these days – what it was turning him into). The knights had made a litter for Merlin out of branches when his strength had given out, cared for him as they made the long march to the nearest manor where Lord Gale was able to provide them aid. They had returned to Camelot three days later when Merlin was deemed stable enough. He'd gotten to ride in a carriage – a nice plush thing with padded seats. It had been wonderful.
That should have been their happily ever after for the time being (that is, until the next crisis). They had returned home, Merlin was left in Gaius' care, a sorcerer king was dead and alls well that ends well.
But no, because Merlin had to get sick, tripling the potency of his dreams and slowing the healing of his broken arm, ribs and his many cuts and bruises. He would thrash as he dreamed of Arthur impaled over and over again by Mordred's sword; of magic itself taking the form of all those he had lost – Freya, Will, Balinor – and damning him for denying magic's return once again; of what would have happened if Merlin had told Arthur to accept magic, of returning to find Mordred dead and Arthur another Uther ordering another purge.
He dreamed of destiny like a tower crumbling around him, crushing him to nothing.
And it was tripping over a bloody goblet that was the last straw.
He was on the mend; still a bit weak but at least able to get around, even if all he could do was fold a few of Arthur's shirts one-handed. Better than lying about prey to his own thoughts as far as he was concerned, and even Gaius had to admit that moving would do him a world of good.
Then came the goblet. Merlin stepped on it, slipped forward and landed on his good arm. Pain ripped up his good wrist, more pain screaming through his jarred arm and ribs. He toppled onto his side, jarring his ribs a second time and crying out.
No one came running to see what had happened and what the noise was about. The hall was empty, quiet, as though the castle itself had been abandoned and Merlin left behind. Merlin pulled himself over to the wall on his one good arm, his intention to brace himself against it and pull himself up.
He couldn't bring himself to do it. If he got up, it would cause more pain. He would have to go to Gaius, get his wrist checked, and would no doubt get a good scolding for not paying better attention to where he was going. Gaius would force more potions on him and confine him inside his room until he was better. Then Merlin would heal, return to his duties, have to ride with Arthur and face whatever new danger was being thrown at him. There would be more wicked kings, more sorcerers, more ultimatums with no right answer and more reminders of the doom slowly crawling straight toward Arthur.
Merlin wondered what the bloody hell was the point. If this was all so damn inevitable that even the gods decreed it then why create him at all? Why task him with this duty of protecting a man they were just going to kill? Why give their creation a destiny if they did not have the patience to do what they created him for and let him see it through? What was he if not their envoy?
Their toy. Their plaything. Their cosmic joke.
Merlin curled into himself against the wall, knees to his chest and arms tucked tightly behind them. He was shaking, from the pain or the thoughts he had tried so hard not to think finally assaulting his mind, he couldn't tell.
Then he cried – silent tears chasing each other down his face, hanging from his jaw, dropping to his knees.
What was the point of him, if all he had been created to do was to fail?
Merlin sucked in a shuddering, hiccuping breath. He pressed his fist to his mouth, trying so hard to fight the sobs wanting to rip from his chest. He felt sick enough to throw up, cold, and so utterly tired with an exhaustion no sleep would remedy. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead to his knees.
What was the point if he was just going to keep losing those he cared about?
What was the point if all it meant was more pain?
What was the point?
When Merlin next sucked in a breath, the sob escaped, punching from him like a fist.
“Merlin?”
Merlin flinched violently.
No. No, no, no, not him, anyone but him. Merlin glanced up and his heart launched itself into his throat.
It was them, all of them – Arthur, the knights, heading straight toward Merlin with identical looks of urgency and concern. Merlin quickly tried to scrape away the tears with his sleeve but he was shaking so badly, the tears falling as though all the moisture in him could no longer be contained. They were going to see him, see those tears and ask him what was wrong and he was going to have to lie, again and he couldn't, he just...
Lords, he couldn't deal with them right now, he couldn't deal with anyone.
“Merlin, mate, you all right?” Gwaine demanded. He was the first to reach him, crouching next to him and placing a hand on his shoulder.
Merlin shook his head while rubbing frantically at his eyes. “Fine, I'm fine. Just tripped, that's all, I'll be fine.”
“Merlin,” Arthur said sternly. “You're shaking fit to fly apart. You can't tell me that's fine. Did you injure yourself? What am I saying? Of course you did, don't try to deny it. Can you stand?”
Merlin nodded. “Think so.”
All the same, Arthur had Percival help him up, which Merlin made no complaints about and was, in fact, secretly grateful for. The shaking was even worse upright, and had Merlin not had someone holding him up he would have dropped back to the floor like a rock.
They brought him to Gaius' in what felt like no time at all, practically bursting through the door as they often did when carrying someone injured. It was such a common enough occurrence that Gaius merely raised his eyebrow, then calmly set aside whatever concoction he'd working on to tend to his ward.
Merlin had been placed upright on the cot. He couldn't stop shaking, and it seemed to have gotten worse. But Gaius wasn't considered Camelot's best physician merely because the king had said so. One look at Merlin, at the desperation Merlin knew was glaringly obvious on his face, and suddenly Gaius was shooing the knights out the door with promises of an update.
Gaius closed the door behind the last knight, then turned to Merlin. “Better?”
“I... I don't...” Merlin's stomach clenched and he swallowed convulsively. “I think I'm going to be sick.”
Gaius could move fast for an old man. He grabbed the chamber pot used for just such occasions, holding it in one hand while forcing Merlin to lie down with the other by pressing it against his shoulder. The sick never came, instead sitting heavy in Merlin's stomach like an empty threat. Gaius put the pot within easy reach on a stool all the same. Only after he wetted a rag and placed it on Merlin's forehead did he begin to check him over.
“You're wrist is bruised but otherwise the rest of your injuries are no worse,” Gaius said with some confusion. He went to check Merlin's pulse at the wrist, and frowned severely. “Goodness, Merlin, your skin is like ice.” He once again moved quickly, grabbing the blanket from his own cot and draping it over Merlin. “Merlin, what happened, and don't tell me all this is because you tripped.”
“I did, Gaius, I swear. I just tripped and then... I started shaking and I can't stop and I...” Merlin sniffed wetly. “Gaius. I don't know if I can do this anymore.”
“Do what?” Gaius asked absently as he searched his collection of remedies on his table.
“This. All of it. Arthur, destiny, having to deny magic again and again. What's the point of it all, Gaius, if I'm just meant to fail? How am I to fulfill destiny if not even the gods are willing to see it through?”
Gaius stopped his searching. He straightened and looked at his ward. But the sadness on his face did only to bury the pain deeper into Merlin's heart.
“Oh, my boy,” Gaius said soothingly. He moved closer to Merlin until he was able to reach over him and rub his back through the blanket. He sighed heavily, wearily. “I know things seem bleak but this would not be the first time we've weathered dark uncertainties.”
“I know,” Merlin said. “I know but... sometimes it doesn't seem to end. Destiny will come just within my grasp only to flee, like it's playing games. Like the gods are laughing at me. Like I exist merely as a joke!”
Suddenly, Gaius was lifting Merlin by his arm. He settled next to him, put his arms around him and held him as his mother used to those times when Merlin wondered if he was a monster. Merlin trembled as he wept silently against Gaius' shoulder.
“Merlin,” Gaius said firmly. “You are no joke. Nor anyone's plaything. I do not - will not – believe for one moment that you are here simply for some... divine being's amusement. Just as I do not believe our futures are set in stone. They are what we make of them.”
But Merlin shook his head. “None can escape their destiny.”
“I suppose not,” Gaius said. “But I do believe it is possible to reject it. I believe, Merlin, that Arthur, Albion and magic are not your destiny simply because the gods willed it so, but because it is just as much your desire as theirs to see it happen. You are more than some random vessel to fulfill a prophecy, Merlin. I honestly believe the gods knew what they were doing when they chose you.”
“Why did they choose me?” Merlin asked wearily.
Gaius tapped Merlin's chest, over his heart. “This,” he said. “There would have been no point to any of it if you did not care for the place and the people you were sent to protect. I know you feel as though the very world itself is against you, but the dark always proceeds the dawn.”
Merlin chuffed without humor. “Wish I at least had a candle until then.”
“Well,” Gaius said with a light chuckle, “I would imagine, hope, even, that that is my purpose. I know you're tired, Merlin, but it is to be expected. You have been through much and no man is above reaching a breaking point or two.”
Gaius heaved himself up off the cot, but kept hold of Merlin as he gently lowered him back to the pillow. He removed Merlin's boots, then had him swallow several tonics, all of which he warned would make him drowsy. It was as Merlin was starting to drift off that Gaius opened the door and called the knights back in, happy that they had at least opted to wait at the bottom of the stairs rather than by the door this time.
“How is he?” Arthur asked.
“Fine, fine. Just a... little overwhelmed I suppose you could say.”
“Everything that happened finally caught up to him,” Gwaine stated. “We were wondering if it might. Those bastards did a bloody number on him but the way he's been acting you'd think it never happened.”
“He's...” Arthur cleared his throat. “Certainly far more resilient than I sometimes give him credit for.” Silence, then. “We'd be dead if he hadn't led us out.”
“Maybe it's just me but he seems to do that a lot,” Percival said. “Save our necks.”
There were murmurs of agreement.
“Well, you can pay him back by letting him have the peace and quiet he needs,” Gaius said. “In fact I think the lot of you could do with some peace and quiet. No hunts, no tournaments, and no getting into trouble if it can be helped.”
“Ah, Gaius, do you honestly think us the types to invite trouble,” Gwaine said with a smile in his voice.
“Yes,” Gaius said easily. “Now off. I have a patient who needs to sleep.”
Merlin managed to crack one eye open enough to see the knights linger a little, watching Merlin with what seemed to be a mixture of fondness and concern. Even Arthur.
Especially Arthur.
Then they left.
Merlin closed his eye. He thought, to hell with destiny. This wasn't about destiny. It had never been about destiny. It had been about friends, family, freedom and peace, and a king who was like a brother. Merlin wasn't fulfilling destiny because it was what destiny demanded. Gaius was right – he was fulfilling it because he wanted to.
And he would fulfill it.
The End
Rating: PG+
Characters: Merlin, Gaius, Arthur, Knights
Warnings: Mentions of torture
Summary: Funny how it's the little things that undo us.
A/N: Written for
sarievenea whose wish is my command when it comes to whump, angst and Merlin.It was tripping over a goblet someone had dropped that undid Merlin, which was rather sad and pathetic. After all, it had only been - what was it, now, nearly two weeks? - That Merlin had been the very picture of mass destruction and cold calculation.
It had been a sorcerer king, of all things – rather than the usual king or sorcerer, or king and sorcerer. No, it had to be two rolled into one – who had been plaguing Camelot with curses and raids. And, of course, Arthur being Arthur, he needed to deal with it himself. But sorcerer kings, it seemed, were smarter than your average king. A trap had been set, sprung, and Arthur and his men spirited away to some evil tower next to impossible to get to unless you were a nomadic magic-wielding mortal with a superiority complex a mile wide.
They had strung Merlin up, being the smallest of the group and, therefore, automatically considered the weakest. They would drag him from the cells, strip him of his shirt, hang him by his wrists from a hook then beat him to their heart's content. Each time Merlin was returned to the cells, he was a little more bloodied, a lot more bruised, and Arthur and the knights would rage with impotent fury.
Merlin would have acted sooner, but if asked about it he would plead the defense of a good sucker punch to the back of the head that had left him dazed during the capture, and then the beatings keeping him dazed during their captivity. It was hard to think what spells to use when you were seeing double and the world refused to stop tilting and whirling. It was during his fifth beating when they cut him down and let him crumple in a heap of broken bones to the floor that he found his magical muse – a piece of root that had squeezed its way through the dungeon floor, a plucky bit of plant struggling against the darkness and all that was impenetrable. Merlin had loved that little bit of plant the moment he saw it. He had reached for it with trembling, bloody hands, touched it with something akin to reverence, mentally praising its fortitude.
Then he gave it his blessing to finish what it had started. A flash of gold in his eyes, the plant writhed and the tower rumbled. Roots, branches and vines ripped through stone and mortar as though it were crumbling clay, tearing the abominable structure from the foundations up. Vines had lifted Merlin to his trembling legs and supported him by passing him along from root to vine to branch until he reached the dungeons.
“The forest outside is enchanted and doesn't like this place, I guess,” was Merlin's easy explanation, since it was mostly the truth. Evil towers did have a way of discouraging plant growth in a given area, and the plants had responded readily to Merlin's magic as though they had been waiting for it.
Merlin had led everyone to safety, lingering long enough to ensure the last man had made it out, and also long enough for him to hear the dying words of the sorcerer king.
Arthur has sown the seeds to his own destruction. It is foretold a Druid will be his undoing. Blah, blah, blah and nothing Merlin hadn't already heard, that didn't already haunt his nightmares and tear at his heart.
“Not while I still have breath,” Merlin had said, and with an outstretched hand and a word brought what remained of the tower down on the sorcerer king.
It had all been quite heroic to the knights (that is, what they knew of it – namely Merlin having escaped and leading them to safety). It had been both satisfying and terrible to Merlin (the king had deserved it, but it made Merlin wonder – as these situations did these days – what it was turning him into). The knights had made a litter for Merlin out of branches when his strength had given out, cared for him as they made the long march to the nearest manor where Lord Gale was able to provide them aid. They had returned to Camelot three days later when Merlin was deemed stable enough. He'd gotten to ride in a carriage – a nice plush thing with padded seats. It had been wonderful.
That should have been their happily ever after for the time being (that is, until the next crisis). They had returned home, Merlin was left in Gaius' care, a sorcerer king was dead and alls well that ends well.
But no, because Merlin had to get sick, tripling the potency of his dreams and slowing the healing of his broken arm, ribs and his many cuts and bruises. He would thrash as he dreamed of Arthur impaled over and over again by Mordred's sword; of magic itself taking the form of all those he had lost – Freya, Will, Balinor – and damning him for denying magic's return once again; of what would have happened if Merlin had told Arthur to accept magic, of returning to find Mordred dead and Arthur another Uther ordering another purge.
He dreamed of destiny like a tower crumbling around him, crushing him to nothing.
And it was tripping over a bloody goblet that was the last straw.
He was on the mend; still a bit weak but at least able to get around, even if all he could do was fold a few of Arthur's shirts one-handed. Better than lying about prey to his own thoughts as far as he was concerned, and even Gaius had to admit that moving would do him a world of good.
Then came the goblet. Merlin stepped on it, slipped forward and landed on his good arm. Pain ripped up his good wrist, more pain screaming through his jarred arm and ribs. He toppled onto his side, jarring his ribs a second time and crying out.
No one came running to see what had happened and what the noise was about. The hall was empty, quiet, as though the castle itself had been abandoned and Merlin left behind. Merlin pulled himself over to the wall on his one good arm, his intention to brace himself against it and pull himself up.
He couldn't bring himself to do it. If he got up, it would cause more pain. He would have to go to Gaius, get his wrist checked, and would no doubt get a good scolding for not paying better attention to where he was going. Gaius would force more potions on him and confine him inside his room until he was better. Then Merlin would heal, return to his duties, have to ride with Arthur and face whatever new danger was being thrown at him. There would be more wicked kings, more sorcerers, more ultimatums with no right answer and more reminders of the doom slowly crawling straight toward Arthur.
Merlin wondered what the bloody hell was the point. If this was all so damn inevitable that even the gods decreed it then why create him at all? Why task him with this duty of protecting a man they were just going to kill? Why give their creation a destiny if they did not have the patience to do what they created him for and let him see it through? What was he if not their envoy?
Their toy. Their plaything. Their cosmic joke.
Merlin curled into himself against the wall, knees to his chest and arms tucked tightly behind them. He was shaking, from the pain or the thoughts he had tried so hard not to think finally assaulting his mind, he couldn't tell.
Then he cried – silent tears chasing each other down his face, hanging from his jaw, dropping to his knees.
What was the point of him, if all he had been created to do was to fail?
Merlin sucked in a shuddering, hiccuping breath. He pressed his fist to his mouth, trying so hard to fight the sobs wanting to rip from his chest. He felt sick enough to throw up, cold, and so utterly tired with an exhaustion no sleep would remedy. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead to his knees.
What was the point if he was just going to keep losing those he cared about?
What was the point if all it meant was more pain?
What was the point?
When Merlin next sucked in a breath, the sob escaped, punching from him like a fist.
“Merlin?”
Merlin flinched violently.
No. No, no, no, not him, anyone but him. Merlin glanced up and his heart launched itself into his throat.
It was them, all of them – Arthur, the knights, heading straight toward Merlin with identical looks of urgency and concern. Merlin quickly tried to scrape away the tears with his sleeve but he was shaking so badly, the tears falling as though all the moisture in him could no longer be contained. They were going to see him, see those tears and ask him what was wrong and he was going to have to lie, again and he couldn't, he just...
Lords, he couldn't deal with them right now, he couldn't deal with anyone.
“Merlin, mate, you all right?” Gwaine demanded. He was the first to reach him, crouching next to him and placing a hand on his shoulder.
Merlin shook his head while rubbing frantically at his eyes. “Fine, I'm fine. Just tripped, that's all, I'll be fine.”
“Merlin,” Arthur said sternly. “You're shaking fit to fly apart. You can't tell me that's fine. Did you injure yourself? What am I saying? Of course you did, don't try to deny it. Can you stand?”
Merlin nodded. “Think so.”
All the same, Arthur had Percival help him up, which Merlin made no complaints about and was, in fact, secretly grateful for. The shaking was even worse upright, and had Merlin not had someone holding him up he would have dropped back to the floor like a rock.
They brought him to Gaius' in what felt like no time at all, practically bursting through the door as they often did when carrying someone injured. It was such a common enough occurrence that Gaius merely raised his eyebrow, then calmly set aside whatever concoction he'd working on to tend to his ward.
Merlin had been placed upright on the cot. He couldn't stop shaking, and it seemed to have gotten worse. But Gaius wasn't considered Camelot's best physician merely because the king had said so. One look at Merlin, at the desperation Merlin knew was glaringly obvious on his face, and suddenly Gaius was shooing the knights out the door with promises of an update.
Gaius closed the door behind the last knight, then turned to Merlin. “Better?”
“I... I don't...” Merlin's stomach clenched and he swallowed convulsively. “I think I'm going to be sick.”
Gaius could move fast for an old man. He grabbed the chamber pot used for just such occasions, holding it in one hand while forcing Merlin to lie down with the other by pressing it against his shoulder. The sick never came, instead sitting heavy in Merlin's stomach like an empty threat. Gaius put the pot within easy reach on a stool all the same. Only after he wetted a rag and placed it on Merlin's forehead did he begin to check him over.
“You're wrist is bruised but otherwise the rest of your injuries are no worse,” Gaius said with some confusion. He went to check Merlin's pulse at the wrist, and frowned severely. “Goodness, Merlin, your skin is like ice.” He once again moved quickly, grabbing the blanket from his own cot and draping it over Merlin. “Merlin, what happened, and don't tell me all this is because you tripped.”
“I did, Gaius, I swear. I just tripped and then... I started shaking and I can't stop and I...” Merlin sniffed wetly. “Gaius. I don't know if I can do this anymore.”
“Do what?” Gaius asked absently as he searched his collection of remedies on his table.
“This. All of it. Arthur, destiny, having to deny magic again and again. What's the point of it all, Gaius, if I'm just meant to fail? How am I to fulfill destiny if not even the gods are willing to see it through?”
Gaius stopped his searching. He straightened and looked at his ward. But the sadness on his face did only to bury the pain deeper into Merlin's heart.
“Oh, my boy,” Gaius said soothingly. He moved closer to Merlin until he was able to reach over him and rub his back through the blanket. He sighed heavily, wearily. “I know things seem bleak but this would not be the first time we've weathered dark uncertainties.”
“I know,” Merlin said. “I know but... sometimes it doesn't seem to end. Destiny will come just within my grasp only to flee, like it's playing games. Like the gods are laughing at me. Like I exist merely as a joke!”
Suddenly, Gaius was lifting Merlin by his arm. He settled next to him, put his arms around him and held him as his mother used to those times when Merlin wondered if he was a monster. Merlin trembled as he wept silently against Gaius' shoulder.
“Merlin,” Gaius said firmly. “You are no joke. Nor anyone's plaything. I do not - will not – believe for one moment that you are here simply for some... divine being's amusement. Just as I do not believe our futures are set in stone. They are what we make of them.”
But Merlin shook his head. “None can escape their destiny.”
“I suppose not,” Gaius said. “But I do believe it is possible to reject it. I believe, Merlin, that Arthur, Albion and magic are not your destiny simply because the gods willed it so, but because it is just as much your desire as theirs to see it happen. You are more than some random vessel to fulfill a prophecy, Merlin. I honestly believe the gods knew what they were doing when they chose you.”
“Why did they choose me?” Merlin asked wearily.
Gaius tapped Merlin's chest, over his heart. “This,” he said. “There would have been no point to any of it if you did not care for the place and the people you were sent to protect. I know you feel as though the very world itself is against you, but the dark always proceeds the dawn.”
Merlin chuffed without humor. “Wish I at least had a candle until then.”
“Well,” Gaius said with a light chuckle, “I would imagine, hope, even, that that is my purpose. I know you're tired, Merlin, but it is to be expected. You have been through much and no man is above reaching a breaking point or two.”
Gaius heaved himself up off the cot, but kept hold of Merlin as he gently lowered him back to the pillow. He removed Merlin's boots, then had him swallow several tonics, all of which he warned would make him drowsy. It was as Merlin was starting to drift off that Gaius opened the door and called the knights back in, happy that they had at least opted to wait at the bottom of the stairs rather than by the door this time.
“How is he?” Arthur asked.
“Fine, fine. Just a... little overwhelmed I suppose you could say.”
“Everything that happened finally caught up to him,” Gwaine stated. “We were wondering if it might. Those bastards did a bloody number on him but the way he's been acting you'd think it never happened.”
“He's...” Arthur cleared his throat. “Certainly far more resilient than I sometimes give him credit for.” Silence, then. “We'd be dead if he hadn't led us out.”
“Maybe it's just me but he seems to do that a lot,” Percival said. “Save our necks.”
There were murmurs of agreement.
“Well, you can pay him back by letting him have the peace and quiet he needs,” Gaius said. “In fact I think the lot of you could do with some peace and quiet. No hunts, no tournaments, and no getting into trouble if it can be helped.”
“Ah, Gaius, do you honestly think us the types to invite trouble,” Gwaine said with a smile in his voice.
“Yes,” Gaius said easily. “Now off. I have a patient who needs to sleep.”
Merlin managed to crack one eye open enough to see the knights linger a little, watching Merlin with what seemed to be a mixture of fondness and concern. Even Arthur.
Especially Arthur.
Then they left.
Merlin closed his eye. He thought, to hell with destiny. This wasn't about destiny. It had never been about destiny. It had been about friends, family, freedom and peace, and a king who was like a brother. Merlin wasn't fulfilling destiny because it was what destiny demanded. Gaius was right – he was fulfilling it because he wanted to.
And he would fulfill it.
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no subject
Date: 2012-11-16 06:04 pm (UTC)From:You cheered me up immensely. Thank you super much!
Love, Sarie
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Date: 2012-11-18 08:17 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-11-25 06:06 am (UTC)From:I loved that exchange. Yes, he is Merlin's candle in the dark.
And Merlin privately reaffirming his acceptance of his destiny was lovely.