Chapter Text
Merlin never imagined a life like this.
Not one where he would sit in Arthur’s bedchamber, draped in soft robes and sun-filtered curtains, a fire crackling in the hearth, while Arthur Pendragon knelt before him, gently rubbing oil into the stretch of his stomach.
His fourth pregnancy. His fourth child.
Merlin breathed in deep, blinking back the mist that gathered behind his lashes. “You don’t have to do that every night, you know.”
Arthur hummed in disapproval. “Don’t argue with me. It helps with the marks. And you like it.”
Merlin huffed, but he didn’t argue. He couldn’t, not when Arthur’s thumbs swept low and slow just above his hips in a way that made him sigh out loud.
The room was quiet. Safe. Full of warmth and history. Every corner held a memory.
Arthur had proposed here. Right here, in this room. Clumsily. Desperately. With a ring that looked like it had been forged out of sunlight, and with a speech that had devolved into stammered declarations and one breathless kiss.
Merlin had cried.
He hadn’t stopped crying for an hour.
He hadn’t said “yes” so much as fallen into Arthur’s chest and whispered it against his heartbeat.
The first had been the hardest.
Not physically—no, the pregnancy with Alric had been relatively smooth. It had been the fear that had haunted Merlin.
Fear that it wouldn’t last. That his body wouldn’t hold.
Arthur had watched over him like a knight guarding a sacred relic, one hand constantly braced against the small of Merlin’s back, the other curled around his wrist like Merlin might vanish.
And Merlin, for all his obliviousness, had felt it too.
The terror. The awe.
The first kick had made them both cry.
Arthur had pressed his forehead to Merlin’s belly and just breathed. “You’re real,” he whispered. “Both of you.”
When Alric was born, red and angry and perfect, Arthur had crumbled.
Collapsed to his knees beside the bed, gripping Merlin’s hand, whispering, “You did it. You did it, love, you brought him here.”
Merlin had been too exhausted to speak. He’d just smiled. Weakly. Wonder-struck.
They’d called him Alric, after one of Arthur’s old knights. A strong name. A good name.
Their golden boy.
The second had started the same.
Soft excitement. Quiet hope.
Merlin had been sicker this time. More tired. Gaius had said it wasn’t unusual.
Arthur had built a crib anyway.
And when they’d lost the baby, when the bleeding hadn’t stopped and Merlin had cried out Arthur’s name like it was the only thing tethering him to the world—
Arthur had knelt in blood.
Held Merlin through his sobs. Kissed his damp curls. Murmured, “I’m here. I’m here. I’m here,” until Merlin fell asleep in his arms.
They buried the baby in the castle gardens, beneath the old white tree.
Merlin still left flowers there sometimes.
So did Arthur.
They never spoke about it. Not much. But Arthur never disassembled the crib. It stayed, quietly in the nursery, a silent monument to the one they didn’t get to meet.
Hadrian had come two years later.
Merlin had been terrified.
He hadn’t told Arthur until he was nearly five months along, hiding it beneath tunics and excuses. He couldn’t bear the hope again. Couldn’t bear to see Arthur break if it went wrong.
Arthur had stared at him for a full minute after Merlin finally confessed. Then, without saying a word, he’d gone down on his knees and pressed his face to Merlin’s stomach.
And whispered, “Thank you.”
This time, Arthur refused to let him lift a finger. Not a single plate. Not even a book if it looked heavy.
Merlin had snarled at him more than once, growling that he was pregnant, not dying, but Arthur had only smiled.
Hadrian had been born in the winter. Quiet. Dark-haired. With Merlin’s eyes and Arthur’s scowl.
A thinker. A stubborn one.
He didn’t cry much. Just stared at the world like he already knew its secrets and was simply waiting to be proven right.
Twins.
They hadn’t known.
It hadn’t shown up in any of the potions or charms. Gaius had blinked in surprise when two infants had emerged, wailing and wriggling.
Dain had come out healthy.
His sister hadn’t cried.
Merlin had screamed.
Arthur had held him through the night, their son sleeping quietly between them, as the silence of the second twin—their daughter—echoed louder than any scream.
They named her Elen.
Buried her beside her older sibling under the white tree.
Arthur visited more than Merlin knew.
Merlin had seen the stones. The fresh flowers. The carved figures of tiny dragons that Arthur had whittled from ash wood.
Their final son had been a miracle.
Merlin hadn’t even known. Again.
He’d just thought he was ill. Bloated. Too many honeycakes.
Arthur had laughed when Gaius confirmed it. Laughed and then sobbed.
Merlin had scolded him. “What are you crying for? You act like this doesn’t happen every few years.”
Arthur had just looked at him. “You don’t understand. Every time, I think… it might be the last. Every time, I think I won’t get to see you like this again.”
Merlin had flushed down to his neck. “You’re daft.”
“You’re radiant.”
Edric had been the smallest.
He’d nearly slipped away in the first few days, but he’d held on. For Merlin. For Arthur.
Now, at four, he was the one who clung to Merlin’s robes, who cried when Arthur left for war meetings, who curled up between them at night and talked in his sleep.