A Different Destiny / Merthur

Butterflies

Arthur woke to an empty bed.

It was still dark outside. The first rays of sun hadn't yet fought their way above the horizon, and the birds were sound asleep.

But he knew he was alone.

He could feel the cold breeze in the space beside him and, in the flickering light of half-spent candles, he could see his own empty hand, still outstretched across the douvet. It was as if, even in sleep, he'd been searching for something — for someone — to hold on to.

Arthur sighed, retracted his arm, and rolled over so he could no longer see the empty space beside him.  He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting.  Of course Merlin hadn't stayed.  Why would he?  He had his own bed, he didn't need Arthur's.  He'd probably fallen asleep by accident and left as soon as he woke.  If anything, Merlin's absence was a relief.  It had saved them the embarrassment of waking up together.

Arthur closed his eyes and tried to ignore the strange knot that seemed to tug at his chest.

Last night hadn't meant anything.  It was a mistake.  That was all there was to it.  It was just a mistake. 

It hadn't meant anything at all.

~~~

Merlin stared blankly at the ceiling.  It was the same ceiling he saw every night he went to sleep, and every morning he woke up.  It was bare and dirtied and slightly burnt in the far corner from a spell that had gone wrong.  It was not remotely interesting.  And yet, Merlin had been staring at it for hours: watching as it gradually brightened with the first weak rays of the rising sun.

He hadn't slept much.

Every time he closed his eyes, all he could think about was the way Arthur had fallen asleep, holding his hand, his soft snores accompanied by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.  He'd looked almost ethereal in the candle light.  He'd looked peaceful.  Merlin had never seen Arthur look so vulnerable in such an utter surrender to sleep.

It was a shame he'd had to leave.

Merlin wasn't sure when he'd left.  He only knew that he had.  He'd been too comfortable, too close to falling asleep — the very thing Arthur had specifically told him not to do — and too close, had he waited for the morning, to being caught by the guards on his way out.  Or worse.  To being caught by the guards still in Arthur's chambers: Prince and servant, sleeping side by side.  There would've been no way to explain that.

So, slowly, Merlin had slipped his hand from Arthur's grip and crept out of the room and into the dark, empty hallway.  It had been a lonely affair.  His footsteps had echoed at each pace, down each corridor and around each turn.  The sound had mocked him.  Its low, soft echo had become the beat of an inescapable drum, and Merlin had walked round and round, trapped in a solitary dance.

Somehow, he'd found himself in a familiar hidden passage.  And then, without really thinking, he'd lit a torch and descended the steps into the great cavern that lay beneath the castle.

Kilgarrah seemed to have been expecting him.

"You seem restless, young Warlock."  That's what he'd said.  And then, without giving Merlin a chance to reply, he'd said something else: "it wouldn't be anything to do with Morgana, would it?"

Merlin had simply started at him.  It was unlike him to be so far off the mark.  In fact, the Great Dragon had always taken great pride in two things: being cryptic and being right.

"Regretting your decision to tell her of your magic? I warned you that she could be dangerous."

"Well, you were wrong," Merlin had gathered himself enough to reply, "she's not dangerous, she's lonely. She needs someone to guide her."