why can i write only in the wee hours of the morning, you might ask? why am i obsessed with oneshots about the citizens of camelot, you might also ask? what marvelous questions that i would love to have answered! in the meantime, enjoy!

The morning of the execution was a gray one. The clouds, thin and sick, clung to the sky with a wet, heavy grip, the way soaked clothes paste themselves to shivering bodies. If the sun had even bothered to come out, no one standing in the courtyard could tell.

None of them wanted to look at the too small body shackled to the unlit pyre, so they looked to their king instead. Arthur Pendragon stood alone on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, buckling under the weight of the blood red cloak on his shoulders and the crown on his head while everyone watching pretended not to notice. They also, with great effort, pretended not to notice the conspicuous absences of warm reassurance on his left and bright faith on his right. They watched in silence as King Arthur pulled his duty around him like a shield and finally raised his eyes to the dark-haired figure awaiting his death.

There was no speech, no listing of criminal offenses, no rage filled proclamations of good and evil, as there might have been in the past. There was only a heavy silence that so weighed on the backs of their necks that they couldn't help but bow their heads. Whether in deference, in sorrow, in regret - they could not tell. They could only watch as their sovereign raised a hand (they pretended not to notice that it was shaking) and a single guard carrying a lit torch began to move slowly towards the pyre. They drew quietly out of his way, following the fire with their eyes as it made its solemn trek through their midst, and jerked suddenly to a stop before making it even halfway there.

Merlin stood firmly in the guard's path, shoulders drawn back and chin lifted ever so slightly in a manner that was not unfamiliar to most of the people present. What was unfamiliar was the grave set of his mouth and the steel in his eyes as he stared unflinchingly at his king.

The young druid on the pyre made a noise like a sob and seemed to crumple in on himself, shaking his head wildly back and forth.

"Please, Emrys, you mustn't," he pleaded, his voice too loud in the silence, "not for me, it's not worth it, please-"

(They pretended not to hear the name, not to feel the way it settled into the backs of their minds like a memory they had not realized they had forgotten, not to see the way it settled into the set of Merlin's shoulders like it belonged there.)

Merlin did not move from where he stood, did not look away from Arthur, and only shook his head slowly. Something like grief tried to claw its way through Arthur's mask of iron, but it only showed in the deepening of the lines around his eyes and the tightening of his mouth. After an agonizing moment, he motioned again to the guard, who had been glancing helplessly from the man in his way to his king, and the torch resumed its journey, moving carefully around Merlin without touching him.

Merlin did not move from where he stood. His eyes fell closed and there was an air of such deep disappointment bleeding from him that the people could not look at him without hot pangs of shame burning in their chests and the backs of their throats.

As the the torch finally reached its destination and fire began to lick its way up the platform of wood and straw, a single groan of thunder sounded above them. A quiet rain began to fall, cool and gentle, over the sorry scene. Enough to chill them, they knew, but not enough to stop the slow growth of the deadly fire. Not enough to save the boy.

(They pretended not to feel regret.)

It wasn't until Merlin turned suddenly on his heel and strode toward the burning pyre with solemn purpose that they realized, somehow, the fire had been stopped anyway. It hadn't been put out completely, but its progress had been stalled, and there was a convenient space nearly three feet wide that left the boy entirely untouched. At Merlin's approach, the shackles holding the boy up fell away and he collapsed to his knees, staring at Merlin with wonder and sorrow in his eyes, still shaking his head.

Merlin's face softened into something tender as he stepped through the circle of flame without a care. He held out a hand (they pretended not to notice that it was dry) and helped the druid stand, pulling him gently to his side. If any of the guards had thought to make an attempt to stop him, they would have found themselves unable to move, but the shock was appearing to do that job quite well on its own.

Merlin, with the boy tucked firmly under his arm, turned to look at his king one final time, face carefully blank but eyes full of something unreadable. Arthur, who had been just as frozen in shock as everyone else, tensed when those eyes landed on him, twitched as if to move to some sort of action, and sagged just as quickly, too tired to hold the rage that tried to spark in him. They all just watched, silent, as Merlin turned back, bowed his head, and was gone.

The fire continued its steady burn despite the rain and it was not long before the pyre was consumed. The townspeople stood in silence and watched long enough to pretend with certainty that the flames had been far too high and far too bright for any of them to have seen clearly what had happened. They pretended to regret that they would never know for sure what happened to the plucky manservant with the wide grin and the big heart.

(They did not have to pretend to regret his departure.)

One by one they left the courtyard, none of them sparing a word or even a glance for the king, who had not moved from his place on the balcony. They left him to stare at the burning pyre until all that remained was ashes and they wondered what he might be gathering the strength to pretend.