Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to BBC. All lyrics used belong to the respective bands and lyricists.

Notes: First multi-chaptered fic. I'm quite excited and a lot scared. Sorry if I don't do the characters justice. May be a little dark in some parts. May not. I dunno. Unbeta'd.

Sorry it took so long, I was concentrating on other things, but I am now working on this exclusively for the next few days so expect lots of updates. There will be approx. 8 chapters, including the epilogue

Media: TV series obviously.

Spoilers: Quite a few from both seasons.

Characters:Merlin and Arthur Pendragon.

Prologue: Enemy

"I have made you an enemy." – Enemy, Flyfleaf.

He had almost expected the flames to burn black.

That morning the sun had arisen as was perfectly normal, warming the cobblestones of the lower streets and castle alike. It didn't seem to care a damn that shining so brilliantly, in such a pure azure and cloudless sky, was a hideous contradiction to the cruelty about to be scripted by its' subjects below. Larks sang praises in the trees, seeking the shelter and shade they provided from the weak heat of the sun, their wings disturbing the leaves as they flicked off the dust and dirt of sleep. The morning breeze flowed languidly through the twisted lines of the streets, whispering the secrets of summer through curtains and doorways, lulling inhabitants into a false sense of security, leading them to believe that perhaps today would be as perfect as it appeared.

But like many a thing upon Gods good earth, the beauty of the morning was only skin deep. As the molten black of the night past slunk back into the shadows to give way to the more brilliant pinks and oranges of sunrise, Arthur had stood, restless by his window, watching, observing, studying.

In the centre of the main courtyard, an assembly of wood and hay was slowly being erected; a testament of terror to those who dared to disobey the most enforced law of King Uther's Kingdom. A large wooden base had been constructed through the night, sturdy and solid enough to hold both the prisoner and four guards, whom the task of igniting the dry hay would fall to. A large pole had also been put in pride of place in the centre of the block, and Arthur had watched as guards threw bales of hay about the foot of the pole.

That morning had been ever so slow, Arthur reflects, looking down at the crowded courtyard from a new perch, with a better view of the punishment. He is not separated by glass and darkness here. Here he stands out on the balcony of his fathers' great castle, standing straight-backed and expressionless behind his fathers' right shoulder. Here he can observe the crowds gathering, harkening but not understanding the petrified and scandalised whispers of the masses. Here he can spot Gaius and Gwen standing among the front line, a distraught Hunith clutching desperately to Gwen's modest dress, sobbing broken-heartedly into her shoulder. Gwen's expression is surprisingly blank, but even Arthur, from his place high above them, can see the tears trickling down her sun-kissed cheeks. But her head is held high and she holds Hunith, not through duty, but through the same, if quieter, grief. Gaius himself is also been expressionless, a large, aged hand squeezing his old friends' shoulder in a vain attempt at comfort. His wise eyes are dead of spirit and haloed in a heavy black bruise after many a night of begging and pleading with the king to reconsider his options and spare the life that ends today.

But then, he thinks, he hadn't even been safe holed up in his room alone with his conflictions, for Morgana, fuming with a heated, betrayed fury and seemingly inconsolable grief and barged right in, shoving the armed guards aside and slamming the door shut.

She had lingered there for a moment, facing the door with her shaking palms pressed against the cool wood. She was dressed only in her nightly shift, a thin piece of fabric which done little to properly conceal any of her modesty. She was pale beyond recognition, her regal and superior stance diminished to a simpler, more humble shaking stoop of one who has lost something precious.

And Arthur had wanted to comfort her. But Arthur had known better.

"Why, Arthur?" she had managed to force out of quivering lips a moment later, turning from the door but making no move to step forward. "Why? Why did you tell?"

"Magic is evil." The simple answer. It was a statement Arthur had been – still is – clinging to like a lifeline. He has to, to lose that mentality would be to bid farewell to his sanity.

"But... Merlin..." Morgana moved forward then, hands thrust forward as to grab Arthur's and beg, but she dropped them to her side helplessly. She had already done all the begging and grovelling she could, she had used every dirty and underhanded trick to try and get the humble and clumsy servant off the pyre but to no avail. Uther's choice had been made, and no physician or ward was going to change that. Uther's hatred knew no bounds. "Merlin is not evil... not Merlin... never..."

Arthur clenched his jaw. He couldn't deal with this, not with Morgana. "All magic is evil," he reiterated, turning his back to her and gazing once again out of the window. He swallowed something bitterly unpleasant. "No matter who wields it."

Then he felt it: Morgana thrusting herself at him, all fists and nails and sobs of anguish, screaming obscenities and curses. "I hate you Arthur, how could you be so... so disgusting and blind... and cruel?" Arthur didn't remember spinning around nor how he managed to grab and hold Morgana's flailing fists, but he did remember, and suspects he always will, the way Morgana slumped against him, head dropped and body racked with sobs. Usually she had so much composure, but now, now Morgana was just the broken little girl she had always tried to subdue and hide behind an independent exterior. And Arthur couldn't bear to watch someone he had secretly admired for their inner strength break down so completely.

He had called for the guards then, and requested that they returned her to her room. During breakfast, Uther had commanded that she be kept there, not because witnessing the execution of the sorcerer would distress her but because she would only be a horrific nuisance to the proceedings.

And that brings them to this present moment. The sun continues to smile naively, oblivious to that fact that it, along with the hordes of townspeople, is to play audience to the theatrics of Uther's merciless loathing. The crowds, most of whom has had some kind of contact with the warlock, look upon the stake with dreaded horror and disbelief. It is something Arthur can relate to; who could've guessed that innocent, bumbling Merlin was really a powerful enemy under a very clever and well manipulated disguise? A part of Arthur, a small insignificant part, laughs at the thought of Merlin being intelligent to pull off something as huge and complex as this mass manipulation, but he silences it hastily. Doubt is a weakness.

The drums rumble in sombre rhythm to the left, and Arthur resists the urge to crane his neck to catch sight of Merlin as he is, Arthur worriedly – rather stupidly, he thinks – assumes, dragged along by the heavyset guards. But he is wrong in that assumption, for, when Merlin does come into view, the guards are loosely holding onto a skinny arm each, reluctant to mottle the pale skin with bruises, despite the knowledge that bruises are most inconsequential.

Merlin ambles along and Arthur feels a small swelling of pride in that fact he is facing death with a certain dignity. Arthur has bore witness to so many witches and warlocks heading to the execution block or the stake, most of whom were either hysterical with terror, sobbing and screaming for mercy – pleas that fell of hate-deafened ears – or struggling desperately against the guards, roaring obscenities to the sky. But Merlin does none of this; he simply walks up to his death and shakes it kindly by the hand.

He is escorted up the wooden steps and quietly stands where he is told, tripping over a bale of hay and grasping onto wooden pole for support. What a twisted irony, that Merlin should snatch safety from the thing that will secure his death. Arthur watches as Merlin's hands are tied and more dried hay is added to his feet.

Hunith lets out a wail that cuts through the gossip and chatter of the townsfolk and Gwen rubs a hand up and down her arm. Arthur keeps his eyes on Merlin however, noticing the wince of pain and the flicker of remorse that flashes in his eyes as the sound continues, a nightmarish lullaby of agony.

Then Uther steps forward. The crowds silence and turn to face him, expressions varying from shock to hatred to disbelief.

"Warlock, you have been accused and found guilty of practicing sorcery with Camelot's walls. Do you deny it?"

Merlin turns his head to the side, to where Gaius, Gwen and his mother watch him through tear-blurred eyes. And he smiles a small half smile that whispers untold regrets and secret goodbyes.

"I'm waiting warlock..."

Merlin's eyes collide with Uther's, and Arthurs little swelling of pride grows when he sees that even now, Merlin hasn't lost his impetuous nature. "No." There is a slight tremble in his voice, a natural quiver borne of an innate fear of dying a painful death, but Merlin straightens his back and holds his chin up. Arthur studies that face one last time, feeling something within him break at the sight of those blue eyes welling up with tears of anxiety, regret, fear and sorrow.

"Then you are hereby sentenced to death by fire, and may you serve as an example to others that magic is not tolerated here in my kingdom." Uther then motions to the guards who move forward, torches illuminated with fire. Arthur had missed those being lighted, his attention so utterly consumed by the pale, sharp figure tied to the post.

The four guards stepped forward in unison, bending at the waist and touching the flame to the hay. It crackles and pops, smouldering amber, glowing before catching. The thin tendrils of smoke begin to waft in the air, experimentally reaching out towards the sky like a child, hesitant and uncertain. Merlin's jaw clenches as the guards back away, retreating down the wooden steps to dispose of the torches.

Soon those fingers of smoke are joined by their parents, thick bellowed plumes of anguish as the flames grow as air fills their bellies and makes them roar in all-encompassing hunger. Merlin starts to cough from where he bound, his eyes squinting against the heat. He splutters, gagging on the thickness of the smoke. He refuses to scream, and yet Arthur can tell that between coughs, Merlin's facade of bravery has cracked and whimpers are spilling uncontrollably from those lips.

Arthur can't help but wish that the smoke poisons Merlin before the flames feast on his flesh.

The stench of the flames makes Arthur lightheaded, yet he forces himself to watch. It doesn't take long until Merlin is all but consumed by fire and smoke, his eyes hazy and breathing laboured and shallow. His head lolls to the side and forward, his knees sag and he slumps against his binds. Arthur cannot stop himself from inching closer, and, as if sensing his gaze, Merlin for the first time that morning and the last time of his life, forces his eyes to focus upwards, meeting Arthur's gaze before his body slumps forward and the ever-hungry fire destroys him.

Arthur had expected the flames to burn an ugly black, but instead they just burn beautiful dancing amber.