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They’re starting to become intolerable, the nightmares.
Merlin isn't entirely sure when they started. Maybe after he witnessed his first sorcerer being burnt at the stake, the flames licking their way up his calves, charring every bit of flesh they came across; the acrid tang of a burning body making its home in Merlin’s lungs, choking him long after the fire went out?
Or perhaps before, when he was but a small child, and his mother told him of what tragedies befell people who revealed their magic—heads removed from bodies, drowning with stones tied to your legs, hanging by your neck from a tree until you finally, inevitably suffocated.
He can’t recall the last time he had a good night's sleep. It’s been so long since he dreamt about warmth and happiness and home, rather than a long, drawn out death, tied to the stake.
They used to be different, the dreams; they've changed over the years. The person condemning him to death used to be nothing more than an expressionless, vacant face attached to a man's body; yet when he moved to Camelot it became Uther: his face red with rage and veins throbbing at his temple and the side of his neck.
Those dreams were fine. Those, Merlin got used to.
Worse are the ones where it’s Arthur ordering his execution instead. Merlin can’t let go of those quite as easily.
It's not that he truly believes that Arthur would ever sentence him to death. If worse comes to worst and Arthur discovers his magic, discovers all the secrets Merlin has been keeping from him… well, Merlin expects to be banished. Hated.
But not killed. Never killed.
Arthur wouldn't do that to him, not after all the years they spent together, every moment they shared. No matter what Merlin did. He knows that.
But knowing that, believing that, no matter how fiercely, doesn't make the dreams stop. If anything, they get worse once Merlin starts spending his nights in Arthur's bed rather than his own. More and more often he wakes up enveloped by Arthur's arms and sweaty sheets, gasping for breath and shaking fit to fly apart.
It's somewhat of a blessing that Arthur never notices, because Merlin doesn’t know how he would even begin to explain it to him. For someone who so often has to be alert, Arthur is a surprisingly heavy sleeper.
Night after night, Merlin lies still in the safety of Arthur's arms, trying to convince his heart to stop racing in his chest, willing his mind to stop bombarding him with images of what can happen, of how quickly—how easily—his life could end.
It wasn’t difficult to ignore the nightmares when it was Uther or the faceless man. They're not so easy to disregard when it's Arthur glaring down at him, face filled with pure unadulterated hatred, fists clenched at his sides, cape billowing in the wind, crown glimmering atop his head.
Seeing Arthur's peaceful expression, one of his arms thrown haphazardly over Merlin's waist; a stark contrast to the version of him Merlin's mind creates. Some nights, when it's particularly bad, Merlin has a hard time discerning fiction from reality. He lies in bed, absolutely still, unsure of whether or not he's dreaming—because what if this Arthur, this warm, loving, caring version of him—what if he's the one that isn't real?
What if Merlin truly is tied to that stake, set to be burnt once the sun rises? What if he’s to be made an example of, to show the people that no one, no matter how close they are to the king and how much they mean to him, is above the law?
On nights like that, Merlin prays to whatever deity is listening that he never wakes up.
He's tried going without sleep, but that ended poorly. Arthur caught him when he tripped over the stairs, his vision having gone fuzzy around the edges. He marched him straight to Gaius, who in turn gave him a draught that only made sleeping that much worse. Sure, he managed to sleep through the night, but all throughout he never once stopped dreaming, never once managed to wake himself.
Instead, Merlin had to watch his own execution replay itself over and over and over again in his head, and he could do nothing to stop it, do nothing but watch as his closest friends, his family, pointed and glared and turned away from him. Ridiculed him.
He never took the sleeping draught again.
Arthur kept a careful eye on him after that, making sure to mention each time he saw Merlin looking too pale for his taste or noticed dark circles appearing under his eyes—and Merlin couldn't exactly tell him that he was out all night trying to hunt down another assassin, now could he?
It was around that time they started sleeping together—innocently at first. They both drank a bit too much wine during dinner, and then Arthur said something about how Merlin should be taking better care of himself because he really hadn't been at his best lately, and that Arthur wasn't above tying him down to the bed to make sure Merlin actually got some sleep for once in his life.
Merlin so rarely got to see Arthur being so caring, especially in regards to him, even if the words were said in that awkward, stilted way of his, because Arthur is horrible with emotions on a good day, and while a goblet or two of wine may have loosened his tongue, it certainly hadn't helped in that aspect.
And, well, Arthur wasn't the only one who was affected by the alcohol—Merlin shut him up with a kiss, feeling as though his heart was about to burst from the love he held for the man sitting in front of him.
They've spent almost every night together ever since.
Merlin has never felt as safe as he does in Arthur's arms, and he fears the day they're taken away from him.
~oOo~
When Merlin goes to bed that night, he doesn't expect anything to be different. Sure, he's noticed Arthur watching him a bit more carefully lately—almost appraisingly, truth be told—but Arthur never once said a word to him about it, so Merlin figured it must not be anything important. And so he lies down, clad in nothing but one of Arthur's tunics and a pair of threadbare trousers and sinks down into the feather mattress and pillows and soft sheets, waiting for Arthur to get in beside him.
Except he doesn't, not right away. Arthur takes his time walking about the chamber, putting the candles out one by one, arranging and rearranging the rolls of parchment he left on his desk, making sure the curtains are drawn so as to let the moonlight in. If he were less tired, Merlin would maybe have assumed Arthur is stalling.
But he is tired. Exhausted, even, because the nightmares kept him wide awake throughout most of the previous night. He barely registers how Arthur's lips are turned the slightest bit downward, doesn't notice the distant, almost glazed-over look in his eyes. Never realises that Arthur's fingers shake when he lifts the covers and slides in underneath them, hurriedly turning onto his side and raising one arm so that Merlin can move closer, stroking his fingers up and down Merlin's back once he does.
Merlin falls asleep in seconds.
It's not a dreamless sleep, but then again he didn’t expect it to be. The nightmare is the same as it ever is: Arthur and the stake and the smell of charred flesh. What is different, however, is the scene he wakes up to.
When Merlin opens his eyes, he sees Arthur kneeling at his side, hands on Merlin's shoulders and eyes frantic. Merlin almost knocks their foreheads together when he sits up, heaving for breath.
"You've been having nightmares," Arthur says once Merlin has managed to calm down some. Arthur’s hands massage Merlin's shoulders, trying to ease the tension from his muscles. Merlin isn't entirely sure it's working, but it feels so nice that he doesn't tell Arthur to stop.
"Sometimes," Merlin admits. There's no use in lying now, is there? Not when Arthur so clearly saw the truth for himself, not now that he's gone out of his way to wake Merlin from one. Merlin leans forwards and puts his head in the crook of Arthur's neck, breathing in the scent of him.
"Is that why you haven't been sleeping? You've been looking tired for days, but I never thought…"
Merlin manages a small smile. "Never though it could be nightmares preventing me from getting any rest?"
"No," Arthur admits with a soft sigh. Removing his hands from Merlin's shoulders, Arthur enfolds him in an embrace.
The trembling has almost entirely ceased. Hesitantly, Merlin puts his own hands on Arthur's waist. He startles when Arthur speaks again, his voice a soft, soothing rumble.
"Have you asked Gaius for a sleeping draught?" he asks, moving one hand up to run it over the back of Merlin's head and through his hair. When Merlin shakes his head, he huffs. "Why not?"
"Because they don't stop the dreams," Merlin explains, taking a deep, calming breath. "And I'd prefer to be able to wake from them."
"You could ask him for a different one. There has to be a solution, something that would help." And that's just like Arthur, isn't it? Skipping straight to the part where he tries to solve whatever problem is plaguing his loved ones. He's always been a man of action; Merlin loves that about him.
"I'll ask him tomorrow," Merlin says, though it's more for Arthur's peace of mind than anything else. He's Gaius's apprentice; if there were a potion to be found that would cure him of this unfortunate predicament, he would know about it. Contrary to popular belief, he hasn’t spent the last few years sitting around doing nothing. There isn’t a single tome in Gaius’s collection that he hasn’t read.
Arthur leans down and presses a kiss to the top of his head—Merlin's eyes tear up at the gesture, and he can't quite stop the sniffle.
"Are you—" Arthur clears his throat, reverting back to his emotionally stunted ways "—do you want to talk about it?"
And that's the thing, isn't it? Because Merlin does want to talk about it. He would tell Arthur in a heartbeat if the nightmares were about anything else, filled with certainty that whatever he said, Arthur would never use against him.
But the magic… How is he supposed to tell Arthur about that? After so many years of friendship, and all the more so now that they're involved… He can't. As much as Merlin might like to, some things are best kept to himself, at least for the time being.
"It's always the same thing." He licks his lips nervously, trying to choose the right words. Arthur is like a dog with a bone; Merlin has to give him something, or else he'll just keep asking and asking, right up until Merlin gets so annoyed with him that he explodes and tells him everything—and that’s at once the first and last thing he wants to do.
"The same thing?" Arthur prompts, burying his face in Merlin's hair.
"I… it's a fear I've had since I was a child, I suppose."
"And here I thought you weren’t afraid of anything," Arthur teases, pulling Merlin closer to him, then manoeuvring the both of them so that Arthur is propped up against the headboard, Merlin bracketed between his thighs.
"If only," Merlin says quietly. He continues before Arthur can say anything else, because there is no doubt that Arthur will want to say something. "I'm. I'm scared of being burnt at the stake.
His heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest again and his lungs must have gotten smaller, because suddenly, it's so much harder to breathe properly. What if it's too much, what he said? Arthur isn't stupid—surely he understands the implications of the words. There's only so many crimes that guarantee such a punishment.
"The stake?"
Merlin can tell from the tone of his voice that he's confused. It won't last long, and Merlin doesn't want to wait for it to transform into fury, into hatred. He doesn't want to have to face that.
"If. If anything ever happens, and you need. You need to do away with me." He swallows loudly, mouth having gone unbearably dry. His voice is smaller than he'd like it to be and his speech just as stilted as Arthur's was mere moments ago.
"Merlin," Arthur says, sounding almost as though he's warning Merlin to stop that train of thought, except Merlin can't, not now that he's started.
"If anything happens. Just. Please. Not the stake." He tries blinking back the tears that have risen to his eyes, but they spill down his cheeks nonetheless "Don't let me burn."
"Merlin, I wouldn't!"
Arthur is horrified, that much is clear. He places one hand on Merlin's jaw, tilts his face up so that they can look each other in the eyes.
And they're not full of hatred, which is perhaps the biggest surprise of the night, because Merlin always assumed…
"I'd never!" Arthur repeats, making sure that Merlin can't look away from him. "I would never, do you hear me? There isn't anything you could do for me to condemn you to death." Arthur shakes him slightly when Merlin doesn't reply. "Not anything. Do you hear me, Merlin?"
It's not possible for him not to have figured it out, is it? Arthur may be oblivious when it comes to many things, but he never would have missed something like this.
Hesitantly, Merlin nods.
"You have nothing to fear from me," Arthur says, this time more quietly. Neither of them have called the magic by its name, but it's becoming increasingly clear that it's what they're both talking about. "I don't want you to feel like there's anything you can't tell me."
And that—that—is the last feather that breaks the horse's back.
"I have magic," Merlin whispers, tightening his grip on Arthur's waist so much that it must hurt, and yet Arthur doesn't protest. "I've always had magic, and I. And I—"
He can't stop the sob that's bubbling up in his throat, can't force it back. Arthur only pulls him closer, holding him through it, letting Merlin cry himself out into his shoulder. He's imagined this moment so many times; dreamt of it, too. Never once did he think that he would be met with acceptance of all things.
Arthur doesn’t let go of him—not while Merlin is sobbing his lungs out, nor when the tears dry out. Merlin should probably be more embarrassed, but right now the only thing he can feel is the last vestiges of fear fading away into the night and the relief that takes its place. It's as though a weight has been lifted from his chest. Merlin doesn't know when he last felt so light.
It's not until the last of the sniffles subside that Arthur speaks.
"I'm glad you told me," he whispers, still, still holding Merlin so tenderly, and it's making him want to cry all over again.
Merlin slowly extricates himself from Arthur's arms and wipes his nose on his sleeve. "You're not mad?" he asks, his own voice barely more than a rough croak. "I thought you'd—"
"I wouldn't," Arthur says, heavily emphasising the last word. "Which I think should have been made clear by now."
"Sorry."
Arthur sighs. "Don't apologise. If anything, this whole situation is my fault. I never imagined that you were so afraid. If I'd known, I would have told you sooner."
"Told me what?" Merlin asks, putting in the effort to sit up straighter.
"I already knew about your magic. I've known for a while," Arthur confesses. Merlin's heart just about stutters to a stop in his chest; he doesn't even realise that he's stopped breathing until blackness starts encroaching on his vision.
The next breath he takes is a gasp. The one after that is no better.
"How?" he asks, barely able to get even that one word out of his mouth. "W-when…?"
"One too many conveniently falling branches, I suppose," Arthur says with a laugh that quickly fades once he takes in Merlin's countenance. "Merlin, are you all right?"
"Am I…" Merlin says, blinking up at him rapidly. "You already knew?!"
"I suspected," Arthur replies, dropping his hands back down to his sides, letting Merlin have his space. "I didn't know for sure until you healed me, and even then, it was a while before I realised that I hadn't dreamt it all up."
"Right," Merlin says. "Right. So, weeks."
Arthur nods uncertainly. "I was going to approach you about it, but it…"
"It was never the right time?" Merlin finishes for him with a smile. "I know what that's like."
"If I'd known it was giving you so much grief, I would have talked to you about it much sooner," Arthur says, raising one hand. It hovers between them, as though Arthur isn't sure his touch is still welcome after his revelation. Merlin quickly grasps it in one of his own.
"This is… I didn't expect this," Merlin admits. "I wasn't even going to mention the magic at first."
"Just like you didn't mention the nightmares?" Arthur asks. "Really, Merlin. Did you honestly think I wouldn't notice? That I wouldn't wake to a sudden movement in my bed?"
"You never said anything."
"And neither did you. I wasn't sure, at first. Whenever I awoke, you would be lying beside me looking just as you do when you were asleep, and yet during the day, you're always so tired. I tried giving you less work to do, but that didn't seem to help at all. I only recently put two and two together."
"Oh." He flounders for a moment, unsure of what to say to that. Thankfully, it turns out that he doesn't need to say anything.
"Do you want to try getting some sleep now?" Arthur asks, squeezing Merlin's hand.
"I suppose I should," Merlin mumbles. He inches his way out from between Arthur's legs and moves over to his side of the bed. "I'm not sure I can, though."
"Try," Arthur replies, sliding down the bed until he's lying on his back. He doesn't even have time to spread out his arms before Merlin is moving in, placing his head on Arthur's chest. Once they're set, Arthur pulls the covers over them.
He's still tired—much more so now than he was before. The crying really did a number on him but he doesn't regret it, not in the least. He feels incomparably better than he did before. He's still hesitant to close his eyes, fearful that it will bring the nightmares back in full force, but Arthur's heartbeat is steady in his ear, his breaths slow and deep. He's always been quick to fall asleep but Merlin has a sneaking suspicion Arthur didn't sleep at all before waking him from his nightmare.
The thought of Arthur spending what must have been hours watching over him brings a smile to his face. Merlin sighs, wrapping one of his arms tightly around Arthur and intertwining their legs. He spends more time than he'd like just staring up at Arthur's relaxed face, pale in the limited moonlight coming in through the window.
And Merlin never once takes his gaze off him, not until his eyelids become too heavy to keep open and he falls asleep.
For the first time in a long time, he doesn't dream.