He Had the Power

Disclaimer: Merlin belongs to Shine and BBC. I don't make any money from this. Also, I read a lot of fanfiction, and I subconsciously pick up ideas, so if I inadvertently stole anyone's ideas, I'm sorry, and it was not intentional.

Warning: Character death

At first, Arthur didn't want to believe it. He couldn't believe it. But the fact remains that when he went to go see why Merlin was taking so long to collect firewood, he saw his manservant, arms outstretched, eyes glowing gold, with tree branches flying at him and then organizing themselves into neat little piles of firewood.

Arthur didn't alert Merlin of his presence. Instead, he kept quiet about his serving boy's magic and kept going as usual. Nothing changed between them; in fact, if nothing else, Arthur was even kinder to his friend.

Unfortunately, it didn't last. Nothing perfect ever did.

It was all because of a hunting trip. Uther had come with them and, unfortunately, seen Merlin do his whole glowy eyes thing with the branches, just as Arthur had months before. However, Uther was not his son. He was not nearly as... lenient.

The sorcerer was to be executed by beheading. But, since they were in the middle of the woods, the executioner wasn't there. Well, good thing they had the prince and his knights, though. After all, whom better to do the deed than Prince Arthur?

All Arthur could hope was that Merlin would resist. That he would vanish before his blade met the soft flesh of his neck. That he would live. Sorcerers could do that, right?

He should have known better. Merlin was too noble to run, to determined to make sure that he ready would serve Arthur til his dying breath.

Uther at least let Merlin bathe before he died. Arthur had to go with him to make sure he didn't run away. When they reached the small stream, far away from the camp and out of earshot of the other knights who insisted on coming with them, Arthur spoke.

"Merlin."

"Yes, Sire?"

Arthur cursed. "I'm still your friend, goddammit! Stop it with the 'Sires' and speak to me freely as you always have!"

"I apologize, Sire."

Arthur sighed, running his fingers through his blond hair. "Look, you can teleport, right? Or at least freeze time and run, right? I've been reading about the abilities of sorcerers," he added as if in explanation.

"Yes, Sire."

The unspoken question hung in the air. But there was no unspoken answer.

Now that he thought about it, Arthur supposed that in some way,he knew what was going to happen. He couldn't quite pinpoint when it was; it could have been when Uther read out Merlin's crimes, or when the serving boy had knelt down with nothing but resignation in his once-vibrant blue eyes. Or maybe he'd always known; Merlin was stupidly noble and loyal. But Arthur definitely knew mid-swing, too late to back out, too late to stop. He knew when instead of air, his blade bit soft flesh and then bone. He knew when he heard the soft, dull thud shortly afterwards.

There was so much blood. Blood that Arthur would never be able to wash off his hands. The blood of his manservant. The blood of his friend. The blood of Merlin.

Arthur didn't understand at first. He'd known what was going to happen. He'd had the power to stop it.

And Uther had clapped. Had declared that there would be feasts upon their return to Camelot. After all, they'd rid Camelot of another evil sorcerer, another spy plotting to destroy the kingdom from within. That was a great thing, wasn't it?

And Arthur... There'd been a noticeable change in the Crown Prince. He was much more subdued, never smiling, talking only when he had too. He'd put little effort into training, and often spaced out during Council meetings. Everyone ignored it. They'd known how close he'd been to Merlin, and to have to execute someone you trusted so much, no matter how much they'd betrayed you...

Perhaps that was why, weeks later, Uther had been the only one surprised to see his broken body on the ground, suspiciously close to the Citadel's walls.

Perhaps that was why Uther had been the only one who didn't know why there'd been a bloody red neckerchief clutched in his son's cold, unmoving hand.