Between Battles

By daroh

"It's not my fault you were using magic," Arthur said.

 

"To save you, though! I was using it to save you, like I always did!"

 

"Well, it was to kill my uncle, right then, wasn't it?"

 

Merlin's face red with frustration and anger, his breathing more ragged. He was seething. "Yes, to kill your uncle. Think about him for a minute, Arthur, and then tell me why it's me that you hate."

 

Merlin's words were daggers deep in Arthur's gut, and his eyes were delivering the same cruel accusations. There was no escape from Merlin's reckoning, and Arthur hadn't even known one was due. Whether he was more baffled or hurt, it didn't matter. His answer was the same. "I don't hate you, Merlin. I could never—"

 

"We hate each other, Arthur. You just—as usual—would rather pretend everything is fine and honorable."

 

Arthur sat as still as he could, trying to maintain at least that vestige of dignity, even while Merlin pointed it out it was his crutch in hard times. He needed it. He needed it or he might be sick, too sick to recover any time soon.

 

He felt his jaw clench against the pain he was in, now as physical as it was emotional, even though there were no blades slicing him open, just Merlin in his chambers, telling him he hated Arthur.

 

Just Merlin, hating him for finding him out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: thewaysinwhich
• Release date: Feb 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224451371

Book preview

Between Battles

Copyright © 2015 by daroh

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or nonprofit publication.

This edition may be distributed for non-commercial purposes only and provided the book remain in its complete original form.

This work is in no way meant to infringe on any other copyrights and/or trademarks. Any rights to non-original characters and/or scenarios described herein are yielded to previous copyright holders.

Posted at Archive of Our Own: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5588854

Inside art by Nicci

"merlin’s coronation" Copyright © 2012 by Nicci

Design by thewaysinwhich

Copyright © 2018 by thewaysinwhich

Cover art taken from Pierrefonds, château, élévation extérieure sur la ligne C.D. du fossé by Eugène-Emmanuel Viollet-Le-Duc (1858) 

The title is taken from The Darkest Hour, Merlin (Series 4, episode 1)

Part One

Arthur had seen Merlin in the caves. He’d followed him, worried about his scrawny (but brave) manservant facing off against Agravaine and all of Morgana’s forces. And he’d heard his voice sounding calm and sober, no idle threat in the simple, low tones of No, I don’t think so.

There had been enough power in Merlin’s voice to make Arthur still, postponing his ambush to come to Merlin’s aid. He didn’t know how his servant could combat Agravaine and his men, but Merlin had always had an uncanny knack for survival. Arthur trusted him, against logic, up until he saw the men advance towards the alcove where Merlin was hidden from his view.

And then—it happened. A familiar sight, but eerily different. He saw a score of men go flying backwards into the damp stone walls of the cave, collapsing unconscious or possibly dead.

Magic, Arthur thought, and his throat seemed to close around the unspoken word. He heard Agravaine—still alive, then—in hopeful amazement:You have magic!

I was born with it, Merlin had said, quietly, but with pride. Arthur hadn’t understood what that meant, but he knew it sounded important, unimpeachable.

Lethal.

He still didn’t really know what it meant, other than that Merlin’s magic was his own, not someone else’s that had been taught to him, like Morgana’s learned from Morgause, or Gaius’s from books and the mentors of his youth.

Merlin’s magic was Merlin’s, and Arthur’d had to accept that then and there, in those caves, or turn himself against the one man who’d been his ally—his greatest friend—all along. The latter had been unthinkable.

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Four months later

MERLIN, ARTHUR YELLED, once the council room was otherwise cleared of its members. Making you the Court Sorcerer was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Why did I think you were capable of anything like being responsible and showing up to council meetings on time?

Oh, I don’t know, Merlin snapped. Maybe because I’d been showing up on time as your servant for six years before this?

On time? Arthur mocked. Maybe once or twice when you weren’t at the tavern instead of–

Arthur cut himself off, shaking his head in disgust. He still hadn’t convinced his brain to revise everything he’d ever known about Merlin.

For now he knew, after all, that Merlin had almost never been in the tavern. He’d been busy sorcelling, and Arthur should be grateful for every time Merlin had been late or a no-show.

This indebtedness and Arthur’s knowledge of his own prior ignorance was made all the more difficult to deal with because the two could never let off steam in the way they used to, and they’d been at each other’s throats for months. All of Arthur’s sparring with Merlin, the teasing and the petty arguments that somehow cleared the air, they’d been based on lies. Merlin wasn’t an idiot; he wasn’t bumbling or incompetent. He was powerful—more powerful than anyone, probably—and clever to the point of duplicitousness.

Arthur didn’t like it, didn’t like any of it, but he didn’t doubt Merlin’s loyalty either. Merlin could be at court, could even serve the court officially with matters of magic, but he couldn’t be Arthur’s idiot servant anymore, and he never had been, it turned out. Nor had he really been Arthur’s friend, and the loss of that bond—even a false one—left Arthur in a permanent state of agitation, as if his clothing were now being overly starched (which, knowing George, was not out of the question). Merlin didn’t seem to be faring well either with the new arrangement, but Arthur couldn’t fathom his problem with it. After all, he seemed to have gotten everything he ever wanted: magic made legal, no need to lie, and no longer the idiot serving boy to a prat king.

Merlin was still standing opposite Arthur in the council room, glaring. They were the only two left in attendance, Arthur having asked Merlin to stay after the meeting in the hopes that one more try at a tête-à-tête could alleviate some of the tension between them. If nothing else, Arthur had to voice his discontent at Merlin’s lack of respect for the council in showing up late and not adhering to a nobleman’s dress code. He couldn’t be granted special privileges, no matter what his special status was, personally for Arthur or to the court as a whole.

Right, Merlin finally said, relieving Arthur of some of his awkwardness. May I go now, Sire?

Arthur was answering Merlin’s stare with the coldest one he could conjure. He contemplated his possible responses: He could dismiss Merlin, as was his instinct, just to be free of the argument they were well on their way to having. He could deny him his request, make him sit at the council table and write a list of reasons why council protocols were vital to follow. He could tell him to go forever from the room, if he wanted to leave it so badly.

The thought of Merlin gladly taking Arthur up on the last offer made Arthur think twice about threatening him with it. He wasn’t about to give in to Merlin’s request, though, either.

No, he said finally, his voice laden with the weight of his crown. He pressed his lips together to emphasize the denial and the fact that a king need not explain himself. It was his prerogative to keep Merlin there or dismiss him, and he wanted Merlin to bow to his will in some small way. He kept his gaze locked on the man who had been his servant, wishing that alone could shackle Merlin to the spot.

Judging by the rise of Merlin’s eyebrows and the perfect O of his open mouth, Merlin was surprised by Arthur’s exercise of power, indicating just how long Arthur had been indulging his insolence. No? Merlin asked, his pitch rising with incredulity.

Nnh, Arthur hummed, his mouth fixed in a scowl.

Merlin crossed his arms and shifted his weight over one hip, exhaling deeply. The air in the room felt thick and stifling, and Arthur wished he had drunk the water offered him earlier.

Tell me, Merlin, he began, schooling his voice into lighter but still commanding tones. What have you managed to accomplish thus far as Court Sorcerer?

Merlin’s brows pinched together, his neck crooking slightly. Clearly this wasn’t the question he’d been expecting, and his annoyance at either the query or his not having predicted it was evident. Arthur felt wrong-footed but had already chosen his path.

What have I managed to accomplish? Merlin repeated. Is this some kind of review of my service?

Perhaps, Arthur said. Answer the question.

Have you not been here the whole time? Merlin leaned forward with real agitation, freeing his arms to gesture his annoyance, prepared to count off his accomplishments on his digits. "I’ve advised you, your council, and your knights on how to protect the kingdom from all kinds of magical threats—curses, enchantments, beasts and creatures, potions. I’ve scouted the borders for hidden sorcerers and rerouted your patrols for better coverage. I’ve written a ledger of spells for novice users, and helped Gaius rebuild his library of books about magic in healing. I’ve been working for hours every day with Geoffrey, of all people, writing the tenets of civil magic law into Camelot’s books. And in my spare time—whatever little of that there is—I’ve personally visited dozens of families who lost loved ones to Uther’s bloody persecution, or been tortured at his hands! Gods know it will take me centuries to visit every person whose life was