Arthur turned the corner, his boots striking stone like distant thunder. The execution square behind him still echoed with the memory of flames and screams, though the crowd had long since gone.
He didn’t know why he’d wandered this way—just that something felt wrong. And then he saw him.
Merlin. Curled against a column deep in the shadows of the corridor, his face hidden in his hands. His shoulders shook.
Arthur froze for a heartbeat before stepping closer.
“Merlin?”
No answer.
“Are you injured?”
Still no response. But Arthur saw it now—the silent tremble of someone trying not to break completely. Not from pain. From fear.
Arthur’s voice lowered. He knelt beside him.
“Hey. Look at me.”
Merlin flinched but didn’t lift his head. Arthur hesitated—then rested a hand gently on his shoulder. Merlin tensed beneath his fingers like a hunted animal.
“I saw you leave the square,” Arthur said softly. “You ran. I didn’t understand why.”
The torchlight flickered across the stone. Merlin still wouldn’t look at him. He just whispered:
“I didn’t know him.”
*Arthur frowned. “Then why—”
*And then something clicked. The law. The fire. The words Uther had declared so easily: ‘Their love is corruption. Their sin is treason. Let them burn as sorcerers do.’
Arthur's voice became a whisper, as though afraid to say it aloud.
“…You’re afraid.”
Merlin’s breath hitched. He pressed a trembling hand to his mouth, stifling the sob that tried to escape.
“Merlin,” Arthur said again, firmer now. “Talk to me. Please.”
Merlin looked up then—eyes red, tear-streaked, wide with terror. Not from grief. From the knowledge that he could be next.
Arthur stared at him, stunned into silence. But something in his voice softened as he finally asked:
“…Why are you so afraid?”