title: calm of the storm (this is not a fairytale)

summary: written for Merthur party's Secret Santa; prompts being: angst, character death, and protective Arthur.

warnings: the above, not-quite smut.

author: (straightontillthe-embrace)

with thanks to Imelia for proofread.

for Pin. My manservant. And okay, she might frequent the tavern much-too-much, and only get me meals when she feels like it, but she is my manservant (one who is incredibly sweet and extremely lovely and who gave me such delicious prompts) and to be honest I quite like it that way.

Merry Christmas dear!

calm of the storm (this is not a fairytale)

The sky is scribble-shaded slightly grey, just a tinge of warning that there's a storm brewing, and there are six sorcerers in battle, sparks and swirls of beautiful, dangerous magic flying near the edge of the war-weary forest.

If this were a fair fight, it would be three of them against the other three, evenly matched, each standing a chance. This particular battle is five of the most magic-laden warlocks alive against one stick-skinny, battle-exhausted sorcerer. So fair it is not. But the sorcerer has long stopped complaining about what is just and equitable and what is not, because if you look at it more closely, life isn't, really, not one bit.

There is a cracking overhead, and the sorcerer leaps backwards just in time to avoid a particularly thick-set branch from a nearby tree splitting his head open. But the second it takes for him to avoid a concussion is the second it takes for his opponents to close in around him, forming a circle of deadly magic. A circle of imminent death.

The sorcerer looks from one merciless face to the other as they approach slowly, warily, trapping him in, and he thinks about how all of this could've been different, how none of the bitter, decades-angry magicians before him would think that they had no other choice, if a long-dead king hadn't been such an utterly mindless arse.

And he thinks about how it would be so easy, now, to just close his eyes and let their magic wash over him, lull him into the deepest sleep. If he does not put up a fight, they will make it easy for him, he knows. He is one of them, they owe him that much, and if he surrenders easily, they will press their soft, heavy blanket of magic over him, sweetly suffocate him until it is over.

And he is so, so tired- he does not want to do this anymore, he does not want to see more bright, gushing blood painting the canvas of the battlefield red like the most grotesque work of art. Suffer through another pointless death, because every single one he hears about aches him like a personal affront. Feel yet another slick slice of pain: that useless, crippling, hopeless pain.

The sorcerer is still for a while, because it really would be so easy to just give up. And all around him his enemies advance in their murderous ring, the glint in their eyes not unlike the ones of wild, hungry animals. And the sorcerer feels another sudden dull rush of anger towards the king who caused this, with his ignorance and blind hatred and utter arrogance, so long ago.

But then he thinks- he thinks of another king, the current one. The one who's paying for all the mistakes of the incredibly foolish other one. The one who is at the camp, waiting for his sorcerer to return. The one who is just as drained as him: the one who needs him. The sorcerer's king, who is worth all of this. Who is worth living for.

So the sorcerer sighs regretfully at the peaceful passing he probably will not get. He digs deep, searching, into the depleted resources of his worn, weakened magic, closes his eyes, reaches out a hand. He feels his eyes flare, underneath shuttered lids.

There is an ear-splitting, shattering blast, and the sorcerer does not need to open his eyes to know that his enemies are on the ground, all in various states of unconsciousness which will most likely last for years.

Then the sorcerer staggers back, collapses.

Merlin drifts in and out of sleep for a week.

Or it could be a day, a couple of hours, he can't really tell, time is meaningless, what is time. He wakes the first time, lost and screaming for a few seconds, just enough to register that he's back in his bed, back at camp. Then his body shuts down again, like it cannot restart properly anymore.

He has nightmares sometimes, backdrop painted an inky black. How Morgana looked, towards the end, wild and unnatural and inhuman. Mordred torturing him with visions of Gaius' horrifying death. Knights cut open on the battlefield, limbs twisted in impossible angles, staring up unseeingly with gushing holes in their torsos, and Merlin screams himself to wakefulness. And then there are strong, well-known arms around him, and a "Shh, ssh, it's all right," and his limbs demand that he go back to not-feeling again, and he listens.

But mostly he has dreams.

Dreams that aren't dreams, more like dream-like memories: Hunith, murmuring a lullaby in his ear back in Ealdor, rough-and-tumbling with Will on some grass. A quiet conversation in a hut with Lancelot; Gaius, lecturing him on some sort of misdeed; an open wound being tended to by Gwen.

And Arthur, of course, always Arthur: sweet and strong, beside him, above him, filling him, all that Merlin knows.

He wakes once, longer than the other times, to see a beloved figure sitting at the flap of the tent, framed by the rays of the slowly-setting sun, staring out into the world.

"How's-" he tries, and realizes nothing comes out. Then again, harder.

"How's the weather?" he asks, croaky and painful, but needing to reassure Arthur, and Arthur turns and smiles at him. It's a sleepless smile, a broken-down smile, exhausted but relieved.

"It's been murky for a while now, extremely cloudy and overcast, but it still hasn't rained."

"Ahh," says Merlin, and sinks back to sleep again, body unable to take even that slightest strain.

As he's carried back into unknowing, there's a vision- more dream-like than the ones he's had so far, flickering blurred-sharp and not quite real behind his eyelids. The blazing sun is beating down hard on weather-beaten skin, and he's lying on his back on a field, with Arthur, who's strangely enough, collecting crops. In worn, work-weary peasant wear.

("You lazy bastard, Merlin, get up andhelp me."

"You didn't want me to use magic."

"You know what I feel about using magic in the field."

"Yes, but. Imagine the time we could spend doing... other things."

A stare at the crops, seemingly unendless. An absent-minded swipe at the sweat pouring down a neck. Then a glare at Merlin, concupiscent and inviting, delectable and tempting on the ground, all lickable skin and suggestive motion.

"You really are the devil, aren't you."

A hand, reaching slowly down to palm a warm erection. A lascivious smile.

"God, God, okay. Just this once."

"Just this once."

"Don't let anyone see."

"No-one about, Arthur, quit worrying."

A sudden gleam, a swift surge and the stalks are neatly arranged in bundles beside them.

A pause.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What?"

"You're amazing."

"And don't you forget it. Come here."

Two boys, tumbling in the golden spread-out field, hands and tongues and impatient caresses, mindless and lustful and happy, there is nothing else in the world.

Arthur doesn't always let Merlin use magic in the field, his conscience gets the better of him and he does it manually, ordering Merlin to get his lazy arse up and help him.

"You're not my king," Merlin will say, sticking out his tongue at him before getting to his feet and accepting a sickle, because in this inexplicable alternate universe where all destiny means to them is how well the crops will grow next harvest, he isn't, and the world is wide-open and easy and just that simple.)

And Merlin is drifted off into a dreamless sleep, long and calm and healing.

When he wakes up: it is slow, unwilling, but for real this time. His mouth feels like a parched desert and his limbs are still as heavy as lead, but he can open his eyes without immediately needing them to be shut again.

He blinks- judging from the half-melted candles on the table and the shadows caressing the ground, it seems to be late at night. And there is a warm body pressed up against him; an arm flung over his torso as if to shield him, the other arm splayed on the pillow above his head. Legs draped over his in a possessive, protective embrace, a face nuzzled deep into his hair.

There is a slow burst of affection and comfort and safety, welling up somewhere deep inside Merlin, almost overwhelming: the soothing illusion that nothing can go wrong as long as he's wrapped in Arthur's embrace.

(There are terrifying monsters out there, and Arthur can save him from them all.)

He tries to turn, so he can stare at the face he loves, but it's proving a bit difficult, because they're locked that tightly together, and Arthur stirs. His eyes open hurriedly, blue and anxious, and the hand not wrapped around Merlin's waist feels Merlin's forehead as if on reflex, as if he's done it that many times before to check for any slight improvement, any tinge of deterioration.

Merlin smiles at him. "Good morning, sire," he whispers, throat aching too much to even try to speak, a combination of torturing dehydration and a sudden lump he gets from seeing Arthur's face.

(Lines of pain and love and loss, lines not supposed to be there this early, and real, and drawn, and haggard, and still all that Merlin would die for (all that Merlin would live for)).

Arthur stares at him, hand still on his forehead, eyes upset and relieved and almost angrily accusing, a whirl of pent-up emotion (and dangerous lack of sleep, Merlin thinks, judging from the smudges of dark under his eyes).

"You- I thought you-" he starts, and then stops, and buries his face in Merlin's neck, and Merlin can feel a shuddering breath and a choked sob.

"Hey there," Merlin whispers, "I would never leave you." He threads his fingers through Arthur's soft, golden hair (so many times before, just a little new each time): "Shh, Arthur, you know I wouldn't leave you."

"I told you not to go," Arthur says into his neck, choked and breaking. "I told you."

"They were going to destroy the camp," Merlin scrapes out. "You couldn't have stopped them."

"You bloody idiot," Arthur deplores, damp and despairing against Merlin's skin, and Merlin says, again, "Sssh," kisses the crown of his head. Arthur smells of worry and wind and weary relief.

They stay like that, for a long, shuddering, comforting moment, until Arthur regains his calm. He lifts his head and looks at Merlin, eyes bright and wet.

"Thirsty?" he asks, voice steadier, and as much as Merlin doesn't want him to go, wants to stay wrapped up in Arthur because it's safe here and here no monsters can hurt him, he nods. Arthur disentangles himself gently from Merlin, kissing his forehead as an apology, and Merlin experiences a sudden unreasonable shock of loss and fear which makes him curl up foetally and want to weep.

But the next thing he knows is strong, able hands guiding him into a sitting position, and a flask of water being raised to his dry lips. Merlin gulps down the wonderfully miraculous healing liquid in seconds.

"More?" Arthur asks.

"Please," Merlin says, and soon he's downing a second flask.

Arthur sits on the bed beside him, rubs comforting circles on his back. "There won't be enough for the troops, Merlin," he says, condescendingly amused, but it's a joke that- isn't, really, and Merlin knows that water is limited but that Arthur will never stop bringing it to him if only he asks.

So he finishes the flask regretfully, and answers, "No, I'm all bloated," to Arthur's question, although he could drink that life-giving potion forever and a day if he had the chance.

He sets it down on the floor and says, "So- what's wrong?"

Arthur starts, and Merlin can see the beginnings of a denial, but then he looks over at Merlin, and Merlin just looks back at him, and Arthur sighs, says-

"You know me much too well," and isn't that the understatement of the century and don't they both know it, because hasn't Merlin been at his side through seasons and battles and heartbreak and triumph, the vanquishing of troops, the taking of a kingdom, don't people add, when they mention King Arthur, the inevitable, in hushed, revering tones, "and his sorcerer, Merlin," isn't it obvious that Merlin knows Arthur as well as Arthur knows himself (and then just that infinitesimal little bit more?)

But all Merlin says is, "I do. Well?"

Arthur says, "You're still weak." He compromises, "I'll tell you tomorrow." He orders Merlin to, "Go to sleep," and Merlin answers simply,

"No."

(He has Arthur's face memorized better than his own, knows when to keep silent, shut up; knows when never to stop for the world.)

Arthur snaps, "You're a stubborn arse, Merlin, d'you know that?"

"I've been told," Merlin replies, then, quietly, "why won't you tell me?"

The candles set a flickering, dreamy kind of incandescence over the tent walls, and Arthur answers, just as soft, "because you'd come. And- you can't, this time. You can't."

"It's Mordred, isn't it," Merlin states, not a question.

Arthur draws his knees up to his chest, wraps his arms around them: a child, huddling in the corner of an abusive home. "He wants one-to-one combat," he says, simply. "Tomorrow. If I beat him, he'll withdraw all his men. If I lose, this relentless attacking will continue. He gave me his word."

"No," Merlin says, without thinking about it, "no, Arthur."

Arthur's expression is something that much deeper than fond as he looks at Merlin. "But I have to," he explains, simple, resolute. "I can't keep sending my men to their death, I can't keep letting you go out fighting for me when there's a chance I can end this myself."

The wax of the candle falls slow, a lingering dripping placidity on the table. Merlin says, "What you can't do," and he's suddenly desperate, angry, "is this. Arthur, you know he's a sorcerer, you know you aren't, just let me, I'll-"

"Mmm, no," Arthur cuts in, "that's not happening. He gave me his word, Merlin, that it would be fair combat, and if nothing else, Mordred's always kept his word before."

He's made up his mind, Merlin can tell, somewhere while watching Merlin sleep the restless, fevered sick of the dangerously sick. He can see from the glint in his eyes, familiar to him from a hundred battles, that he's doing this, because he thinks it's the right thing, needs to do the right thing, and this is what Merlin hates most about him, loves most about him, and right now utterly loathes.

"You can't," he pleads, "Arthur, Arthur, please. He knows I'm weak, he knows if he defeats you it'll be his best chance of taking over Albion. You can't, Arthur, don't."

He is starting to shake, shiver dangerously on the edge of the bed, and Arthur catches him up, kisses his neck.

"Don't go, Arthur," he begs, something dangerously close to breaking inside him, because if Arthur can just stay with him, curl up into the bed with a blanket drawn up over them, everything will be alright. "Don't leave me. Please. Arthur, oh Arthur, please."

Arthur is pressing his lips to Merlin's ear, cheekbone, jawline; he catches Merlin's lips in a hungry kiss and Merlin says into his mouth, "don't go."

"Yes," says Arthur, soothing, muffled as he licks his tongue over Merlin's teeth, and this frightens Merlin most because it's the first time Arthur's ever lied to him.

But Arthur's pushing him gently back into the bed, climbing with care on top of him, and- and. And if Arthur continues nipping at Merlin's neck like that, gentler than usual, achingly affectionate, maybe Arthur will never leave.

And if Arthur undresses them both, hands slow and careful with him (as if Merlin is fragile, insubstantial, shatterable), and leaves a trail of kisses down his chest, licks a nipple, tongue travelling, dipping into his bellybutton, lower down still, mouth closing over Merlin, and Merlin lets out a low cry of want: maybe he'll see that he needs to stay.

And then later, if Merlin is shaking, shuddering, an earthquake of need, and Arthur fists him and mouths filthy, low, almost-incomprehensible words in his ear as he enters him, Merlin, Merlin, God, and Open, open for me, only for me, Merlin, and Merlin goes dizzy with that fiery burning brand of pleasure, perhaps he will understand that Merlin can't let him go.

And if they move together like pieces of a (well-oiled) perfect piece of machinery, but slow and desperate and aching with it, this isn't goodbye, because Merlin won't let it be.

And if. And if Merlin cries out Arthur's name as he comes, clamping down on Arthur, pushing him over the edge- making him come too, just a few seconds later, filling Merlin with Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, until it overflows, lewd and messy out of Merlin, it does not come out broken and sob-like.

Then Merlin is shocky and trembling, letting the waves of the aftermath sweep him to the shore of sanity, and he says: "Don't," one final time.

And Arthur lies again, promises: "Yes."

They both lie there, quiet, limbs still locked into the other's, and Arthur draws up the blanket over them as if to protect them from his deception.

And just as Merlin is drifting off (after Arthur has wiped him clean, forced upon him another drink and lay back down next to him, silent with all the words unspoken, or perhaps already said), but trying not, to, trying to stay awake, stay with Arthur till morning so he can stop him leaving, but failing, failing miserably, eyes sliding shut, heavy and too-comfortable against his will, Arthur whispers:

"I love you, my magical idiot," lingers his lips on Merlin's shoulder in a slow, sad apology, and when he turns away Merlin's shoulder is wet with salt and regret-

-and Merlin doesn't answer, doesn't turn, because he won't let this be goodbye, can't let this be goodbye-

-if he manages just that little bit more, it can't be swooping, sleepy night that much longer, surely-

-and then morning dawns, and Arthur is gone.

The sky is painted heavily dark, strokes of caliginosity; there's an impatient crowd of cloud hanging close overhead, a long-threatened storm just waiting for a sign, and the sorcerer is running.

Fast, and desperate, and stumbling, and ready to jump in front of his king if need be, only he knows, somehow, he knows- but he keeps on running, because everything will be all right if he manages to keep one foot in front of the other in this frantic, fragmented pace.

And- he sees the two figures engaged in combat on the battlefield, and he wants to run right past them- to somehow race himself right to an alternate universe where they're on a field with the sun pouring down on them, filling them with summer.

And he watches, helpless, still just that little bit too far away to do anything, still just that little bit too weak to stop time, as the smaller one of the two lifts up his dagger in a curved, calculated arc. And he knows what will happen before it does.

And the sorcerer stops, just a few feet away from saving distance, and watches as his king falls to the ground before him, broken, open, fingers clutching at the fatal wound in his side then going limp, yielding. He does not see his sorcerer that one last time.

The sorcerer does not roar a long drawn-out cry of inarticulate rage and hatred. He does not charge blindly at the triumphant figure. Or shake the body vehemently, weeping tears of blood. He stands, observing the victor, then begins to walk slowly over.

"You killed my king," he states, calmly, almost pleasant, as if to ascertain himself of the facts.

He sees the exultance on the face of the vanquisher. "I did," the voice inside his head agrees. "Now join me, Emrys."

The sorcerer says nothing, just looks up at the sky, from which are falling the first few drops of a tempest.

"Your king is dead. It was his choice to fight me. It was his destiny to die at my hand." The voice is coaxing, assured. "You have nothing to gain by defying me anymore. I know you're tired. Join me, and we'll make this land a land for our people. People who should reign."

The eyes, as blue and guileless as an infant's, stare earnestly, convincingly into the sorcerer's.

"We'll rule over this land," he says, "like you were never able to with a king. Our magic will be immortal, the stuff of legends. Join me, Emrys." And he extends his hand, over the body of the king, an expectant invitation.

The sorcerer smiles, and reaches out his hand to grasp the other's, who looks wary, then slightly surprised, then triumphant.

There is a smell of rain in the air, and it mingles with the stench of blood.

And the sorcerer says: "That's all very well and good, Mordred. But you killed my king."

He feels the slow burning build-up of magic as it travels from within him, from the essence of who, of what he is. The strands of sorcery fill him with warmth as they make their way through him, glow his eyes a fiery gold, flood him with memories of countless nights and sleepy mornings, of warm embraces and slow kisses, of sweet strength and trembling vulnerability, of the sort of love legends are made of.

Except that this is one love legend will never know.

And as the rain beats down in a steady patter, the tendrils of the most powerful magic in creation travel through his arm, flow into the hand he's gripping, which tenses, stiffens, tries to jerk away. But he is no real match for some of the most terrible, wonderful magic that ever existed, and the sorcerer holds on, lets the deadly tendrils curl around the king's murderer, allows them to smother, suffocate him, slowly and surely. He draws it out a bit. Just a bit.

Until finally the other man unwinds. His grips grows slack, his magic scatters, and the sorcerer lets go, eyes fading back to blue, allowing him to fall to the ground.

The rain has stopped.

What promised to be a thunderstorm of epic proportions turned out to be an anti-climatic slight downpour, and the clouds are moving away, as if they've seen enough here; a watery, weeping sunlight is starting to shine as the most powerful sorcerer that ever lived drops to his knees beside the greatest king Albion will ever know.

He gently shuts the eyelids closed, touches his lips to the corner of the mouth. He is so, so tired, the magic is gone, and there is nothing else to say. The sorcerer lies down beside his king, his destiny, his love, and it ends thus.

fin