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“War has begun,” Arthur had said. The Knights looked around at their brothers, knowing that their odds were not good. Knowing that, if they rode out to meet Morgana and her army of Saxons, some of them would not return. Which of their brothers would they be saying good bye to?
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“The only pass that gives passage to an army of that size is…here.” Arthur pointed to a spot on a map and looked up.

Merlin watched in trepidation as they spoke of geography, the dreaded Camlann and the sacrifice made to give him that information still burnt into his memory. Sacrifices, including his own. The attack on his magic could mean only one thing – somehow, Morgana had intercepted the information and discovered who the target was. Merlin. Emrys. Now that she knew, Merlin was at a loss for how he was going to protect his king.

“What do they call this place?” Merlin held his breath.

“Badon Hill, sire.”
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Arthur had walked in to see all of his clothes, armor, and weapons laid out neatly in the bedroom table, Merlin standing quietly to the side. He couldn’t read the solemn expression in Merlin’s face, so often an open book, and found himself longing for his smile.

“Impressive, very impressive. I’ve never seen work like it – well, not from you, anyway.” He was disappointed when Merlin’s usually-sharp tongue did not reciprocate with their ritual banter, but he carried on anyway, determined. “So, what are you after?”

“After?”

“Come on, Merlin, you’re the worst servant in the history of the world. Now suddenly this. Is it money?

A pause. “No.”

“No, it can’t be that, you’ve already won all of mine,” Arthur continued, willing his servant to retort. “Time off?”

“Arthur…”

“No, can’t be that either. You don’t really do anything.” Come on, Merlin.

“I just wanted to make sure you had all you needed for you journey, for the days ahead.”

“Thank you…”

Arthur hated that tone, that subservience that Merlin had always fiercely avoided, even when it was to his own detriment. He was always quick to retort with a bold comeback or one of his silly insults. It was his fearlessness that made him stand apart from the crowd, that had forced down the barriers between king and servant, making way for the forging of an impossible friendship. But before he could think about that, he was struck as Merlin’s response sunk in.

“Merlin, what do you mean, my journey?”

Merlin merely looked up at him, his blues eyes rimmed with pink, as though he had been crying. He always had been such a girl. As he spoke, voice trembling, his eyes remained wide, begging Arthur to believe him. Of course he didn’t. Arthur only caught fragments of Merlin’s excuse – vital supplies? – his mind too caught up in Merlin’s lies.

“You know, Merlin,” he said slowly, watching Merlin’s expression the whole time. “All those jokes about you being a coward… I never really meant any of them. I always thought you were the bravest man I ever met.” What was he holding back? There was no fear in Merlin’s eyes, only guilt, guilt and lies, and Arthur could not make sense of it. “Guess I was wrong,” he said in a final attempt to shame the truth out of his friend.

Again, Merlin kept silent, although as he watched pain shine through the guilt in Merlin’s features, he instantly regretted the cruel remark. He turned away, barely listening as Merlin swept out of the room, and sank down on the nearest chair.

As he fought to repress the wave of abandonment and self-doubt that threatened to wash over him, he thought guiltily about the position he had forced onto his servant. Of course Merlin would not want to accompany him on this mission. The battle plans themselves were a great risk, and although Arthur could think of no other way to protect his people, he knew… well, he knew that there was a solid chance that he would not return. And Merlin had never been of any use in a battle; in fact, more often than not, his presence was a distraction, as Arthur would worry about the livelihood of his useless servant who barely knew one end of a sword from the other. How he had managed to survive for so long, with no weapon and no armor, Arthur had always considered as a testament to his unnaturally good luck.

But of course, there was no such thing as luck. And although Merlin had never shied away from a battle before now, every man had his limits. Maybe he was smarter than all the rest of them. Arthur felt overwhelmed by that thought, that he might be leading his men - his people, his allies, his friends - to certain death, that all his efforts would be in vain, that Camelot would fall, that Morgana would win in the end. Would Merlin be here to see it? Or would he flee, save himself, start over in a new kingdom, forget about the prat king who had been his master, his dearest friend? Had Arthur merely imagined the depth of their relationship? His heart ached at that, and he shoved the thought and his complicated feelings for Merlin to the back of his mind, forcing himself to focus on the fine details of the battle: memorizing maps of the terrain, double-checking supply lists, playing out and preparing for dozens of scenarios so that whatever happened, they would be ready. He would prove Merlin’s doubts wrong.

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She smirked as she slipped past the guards patrolling along the borders of the camp, lurking in the shadows cast by the campfires. Even in the castle dungeons, the Knights of Camelot had always been painfully incompetent as guards. She repressed the urge to kill them as they marched right past the shadow she was crouching in, to come out and slit their throats from behind, just because she could. She wouldn’t even have to resort to magic. It would be easy. It would teach them to be so careless on patrol.

She refrained, knowing that dead soldiers would only alert the camp to enemy presence sooner than necessary, and she was relying on the guards’ lazy lookout to complete her mission.

It was not difficult to find Arthur’s tent – he had two guards posted outside the entrance. She had been expecting this, and reached into her pocket for a small pouch. Glancing around to make sure there was no one nearby to see, she lit the pouch on fire with a whisper and tossed it to the ground between the two guards. It was dark here, the distant campfires providing only a faint glimmer, and the dense smoke that curled up from the pouch was virtually undetectable until the guards were gasping and choking, falling to the ground in seconds. She knew she did not have much time now before the effect of the drug wore off and the guards would be conscious again, so she covered her nose and mouth with her cloak and stepped swiftly over the bodies and across the threshold of the tent.

Inside the tent glowed with dim candlelight, and she could make out the shape of Arthur asleep on the cot. She stalked soundlessly up to the edge of the bed, throwing back her dark hood. She knew that he would not have taken what she was looking for to bed with him, but she couldn’t help but stare at his sleeping face, peaceful despite the looming battle. He had always looked so innocent when he slept. It reminded her of when they were young, when everything was easier, when she would come to him in the night, crying after a particularly vivid nightmare, and she would glimpse this peace for a moment before it was replaced by wakefulness and a little bit of exasperation and more than a little bit of concern for the young girl who was practically a sister to him. Who, it was discovered too late, was a sister. She frowned a little at the thought, remembering the events surrounding the last time, much more recently than childhood, that she had seen Arthur in bed. Sister or no, she had done what she had to do, and as long as he never knew the truth, she would never regret it…

Before she could lose herself in the memories, he shifted restlessly, turning but not waking, and she shrank back into the darker corners of the room, remembering the task she had come to do. Looking around, she found his armor, filthy and piled haphazardly on the floor off to the side, and she smirked when she thought about Merlin would react to seeing the armor that he spent so much time caring for tossed carelessly on the ground. Emrys. Her resolve hardened at the thrill of the victory she knew they would face tomorrow, now that Emrys was out of the picture. Poor Arthur, he would die without ever knowing the truth. As she unbelted a sheathed sword from her hip, laying it down near the pile of armor, she almost regretted that Arthur would never find out, would never get to experience the ultimate betrayal of his last remaining friend before he died. But as she slipped Excalibur and its scabbard onto her belt and stood to flee, she turned for one last look at her brother, and decided that his death tomorrow could not come soon enough.
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“Believe, Merlin. Believe what your heart knows to be true.”

The rocks brought down by Morgana to block the entrance of the Crystal Cave exploded outward, and Merlin, eyes blazing, marched out ready to meet his destiny.
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“On me!” Arthur shouted, and the army of Camelot cried out in response as they rushed toward enemy forces. Arthur had caught a glimpse of Morgana before, lurking in the rocks above them, but he paid her no mind now that the battle had begun. All of his attention was captured by body after body coming at him, not wanting to rely solely on muscle memory as his sword arm swung out, cutting down the next foe before the last one even had time to fall. He was not just a machine – while he could not pride himself in being the cleverest Knight of Camelot, all of his men were as calculating as they were brawny. It allowed them to best any bandit group they encountered on patrol, and, hopefully, it would be enough of an advantage to let them end this battle efficiently and with little loss on their side.

There was something off, though, about his movements today. He had woken with a start when he thought he had heard Merlin calling out to him in the night, but despite the absurdity of some repressed memory of the hidden trail manifesting itself in the form of Merlin in his subconscious (at least, that was what he had assumed had caused his sudden awareness of the trail), the warning had turned out to be legitimate, and he had charged forward with his men satisfied in the knowledge that they would not be caught off guard. If he could take no other solace in this bloodshed, he was grateful that they were fighting on even terms. No subterfuge, no ambushes – just blade against blade.

But as he wrenched his sword out of his foe to turn on the next, it was his blade that seemed to be throwing his movements off. He had thought, on the initial charge, that it was just lethargy, a symptom of a restless sleep plagued with nightmares of Merlin, trapped, surrounded by a strange blue light. Now that his adrenaline was pumping through his limbs and he was in his element, he could not deny that it was not his body, but his sword, that was off-balance. It was almost as if it were a completely different sword, although as he had dressed that morning, he had not noticed anything out of the ordinary. That is, besides having to call on a squire to help him with his mail and armor, something that Merlin always did with much more tenderness and efficiency than any other. He shook the thought off, focusing on the battle, although the onslaught of enemies was slowly thinning, for which he was grateful. He was still the best warrior in Camelot, which he proved as he cut down Saxon soldiers right and left, but he could not be sure how long he could succeed in this state.

He spun, and his sword whistled through the air, and when it made no contact, Arthur was aware that there was a momentary break in the attack. He looked around at the bodies littering the ground around him, eyes darting over the faces and armor, picking out his men. He felt his gut wrench with remorse whenever he recognized one, but was thankful when it was clear that his side was not taking as many losses as the Saxons. As he reached down to grasp the hand of one of his own men with a gruesome stomach wound, he heard the metallic slide of sword against scabbard behind him, much closer than the distant cries he could hear as the Saxons continued to press against his men.
Arthur whirled, sword in hand and poised for attack, but stopped in his tracks when he saw the man approaching him slowly.

“Accolon.” It wasn’t a question, but he couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice as he gazed at the knight.

The patrol had been attacked weeks ago by Morgana’s men. Knights had died. Accolon had died. Arthur had read Leon’s report himself. How could he be here? And… fighting for Morgana?

With a face full of rage and contempt, Accolon swung his sword down hard. Arthur was only able to get his sword up to block at the last moment, but it barely helped – upon impact, Arthur’s sword shattered. The pieces rained down on him as he fell back to the earth, and before he could comprehend what had happened, Accolon advanced with a sneer.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Accolon indicated the sword in his hand, the one he now held at Arthur’s chest. Scrambling back, trying to evade the sharp point pressing into his mail, he glanced down and recognized his sword. The one he had pulled from the stone, the one had never failed him in battle, the one that had never left his side. He said nothing, but his confusion must have been plain in his face, for Accolon chuckled darkly. “Yes, it’s a pity that you could never appreciate it for what it truly was. Even now, Arthur,” he spat the name, “for all your training, you’re nothing without your magical protection.” And with that, Accolon lunged, and Arthur, armed only with the hilt of the imposter sword, could do nothing as he felt his own blade pierce through this mail, his flesh, and sink into his gut with excruciating agony. Accolon’s face was very close to his, and though his mind was reeling from the pain blossoming from his center and shooting through his limbs, he could hear when Accolon said gently in his ear, “Long live Queen Morgana.”

With the last of his strength, Arthur reached up and cupped one hand around the back of Accolon’s neck; with his other, he thrust the jagged edge of his broken sword into Accolon’s jugular. Blood burst from the gash, and the smirk on Accolon’s face twisted into a grimace as Arthur watched the light fade from his eyes. He fell back, dead, releasing his grip on the sword that was still impaled in Arthur’s body. Arthur clutched at the sword, but knew better than to pull it out without the strength to stop the flow of blood that was already gushing out around the wound. Struggling to draw breath and feeling the darkness closing in, he laid back and closed his eyes, wondering how his men were faring. His last thought as he succumbed to the black was a prayer to any deity that would listen for their safety and success. For some reason, the deity’s face in his mind was Merlin’s.
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Merlin had no concept of how he had arrived there or how much time had passed since he had left the Crystal Cave, but he found himself atop a great Hill, gazing down at the battle beneath him as if he were still watching it through one of the crystals. He could see that the battle had been playing out for a while, and although it seemed as if there were more Saxon bodies than Briton lying still, the Saxons clearly outnumbered the Knights of Camelot. The Knights were fighting valiantly, but the Saxons were pressing in.

The air crackled with electricity and storm clouds began to form above the Hill, but Merlin did not notice. Aching with the rush of power that threatened to consume him, he unleashed the lightning throbbing in his veins, raining wrath and terror upon the Saxon hordes below.
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Gwaine knew that they were losing. He had been in enough brawls in his life to know losing when he saw it, and even though he had managed to keep the warriors at bay without sustaining much bodily harm himself, he was getting tired, and he could not see an end to the surge of Saxons. He chanced a glance around and saw his comrades faring much the same as he – alive, for now. But the Saxons were pressing in, and he could sense Camelot losing precious ground.

Suddenly, thunder boomed ominously around them, echoing off the mountain rocks in a deafening roar. Gwaine started at the sound, but stilled as the Saxon army he had just been fighting were thrown back, flying off their feet, slamming into rocks and tumbling down precipices. He caught Leon’s eye, not far off, and saw his own wonder reflected in his face. They turned simultaneously to look up to the top of the Hill, where, standing tall amidst the lightning storm forming at the peak, they saw a solitary man. Gwaine thought he would recognize that lanky figure anywhere, but he seemed so out of place that Gwaine found himself second-guessing.

“Is that...Merlin?” he asked aloud to no one, not quite believing it, but, if he was being honest with himself, not entirely surprised. Leon had wandered over and was gazing up at the figure, but said nothing, only stood with his mouth agape in awe.

“It’s Merlin!” hollered Lancelot, who had appeared on Gwaine’s other side. Unlike Leon, he looked completely unsurprised, but was beaming up at the man – the sorcerer – with pride. “C’mon!” He turned away and charged toward those Saxons who were still standing and who were now retreating hastily. Gwaine and Leon grinned and followed suit, whooping and howling like wild animals as they drove their victory home.
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Merlin watched as the Knights of Camelot chased after the remaining Saxons. He could not pick out Arthur among them, and since he had he neither seen nor heard Morgana since he had appeared, he could not find it in himself to celebrate their victory prematurely. As he descended the Hill, he reached out with his magic, searching desperately for his king.

He sensed him before he saw him, just a faint pulse, and leaped over heaps of bodies to get to his side. Arthur was lying sprawled on his back, indistinguishable from the bodies around him save for the sword that stuck straight up out of his body. Merlin was reminded of how the same sword had looked just like that as it stuck out of the stone, but hurriedly pushed the morbid thought aside and he ran desperately to the body. He was not dead, Merlin knew he wasn’t, but judging by the amount of blood congealing on and around his body and the barest flutter of a pulse in his neck, he knew he did not have much time.

Ever so gently, he slipped the sword out of the body. Arthur cried out, but did not wake, and Merlin quickly replaced the sword with his scarf, tying it in place with strips from a nearby body’s cloak in order to catch the fresh blood pouring out of the wound. Slipping the sword through his belt (the scabbard was nowhere to be found, not even strapped to Accolon’s corpse), Merlin mustered his strength and lifted his king in his arms, carrying him into the safety of the woods before Morgana could finish what her lover had started.

*

Once he was sure that they were far enough away from the battlefield that no one would see the smoke from their campfire, Merlin set up camp, attempting to make the unconscious Arthur as comfortable as possible in the ferns, near the fire even though he was already sweating profusely. Merlin gingerly unstrapped Arthur’s armor and pulled his chainmail over his head, grimacing as Arthur whimpered but remained unconscious. The sword had thankfully not gone all the way through his body, so there was only one opening to the wound, but the bleeding had yet to cease and Arthur’s skin was clammy and on fire with fever. With every ragged breath he drew, his face twisted in pain.

Merlin knew that if he did not act fast, infection would kill him before the internal damage even had a chance. Even still, he hesitated. He had never been good at healing, and even though his magic had been raging purer and more powerful through his body since its return, he did not have the physician’s knowledge to know how to help Arthur, and he could not risk using his magic guided by instinct alone, for one false move could kill Arthur instantly.

Kneeling at Arthur’s side, stroking his brow with magically-cooled fingers, Merlin struggled against the severity of the situation, refusing to prepare for the possibility that Arthur would not wake up. Instead, he choked back sobs and whispered quietly, desperately, alternatively begging and threatening his king to come back to him. Unable to keep his exhaustion at bay despite Arthur’s condition, Merlin curled up against his side, resting his head gently on Arthur’s shoulder, knowing that if there was any change in his condition, he would be there to tend to him.

*

Merlin woke with a start just a few hours later. By his side, Arthur was shivering uncontrollably, his clothing and bandages soaked with sweat and blood as the infection set in and the fever took over. Merlin panicked, knowing that he had to act now or he would lose him.

Quelling his anxiety and calling all medical knowledge he possessed, he allowed his magic to take control. He pressed both hands against Arthur’s wound, closing his eyes and looking inside Arthur, through flesh and organ and bone, assessing the nature of the damage. He breathed in relief as he noted that all vital organs had remained intact, and that beyond muscle that had been shredded and extreme blood loss, the primary barrier to Arthur’s recovery was the infection.

Merlin came back into his own body to reassess his approach, and then, calling all of his power to him, he pressed again into Arthur’s wound. Slowly and steadily, he reached with his magic into Arthur’s body, feeling as if with his physical hands as the magic healed torn muscle and sinew, eradicating the infection and stitching the flesh back together from the inside until only a garish flesh-wound was visible. Merlin once again came back to his body, panting heavily from the strict control over his magic, but as Arthur’s breathing hitched once and then evened out, his creased brow smoothing out to reveal the peace that Merlin had craved, he found himself unable to hold back a laugh, giddy with success and hope.
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When Arthur woke several hours later, he found himself gazing up at a blurry yet familiar face.

“Mithras?” His speech sounded slurred in his own ears.

“Close enough!” said Merlin brightly, although Arthur, even in his compromised state, thought he detected Merlin’s usual undertone of concern. He was always worrying about something.

Merlin.

Arthur blinked rapidly to clear his vision and took in his surroundings. Forest? “Merlin, where–” He had been going to ask, “Where have you been?” but he knew he was still sore at Merlin’s abandonment, and would not be able to keep the accusation out of the question. Instead, he asked, “Where are we?” He made to sit up, but a pain in his gut made him inhale sharply, and Merlin, still kneeling at his side, gently pushed him back down.

“Sire, you need to stay where you are,” he commanded. “You have a serious wound, and it’s still healing.”

“A serious wound…” Arthur trailed off, struggling to remember the events that had led him here. He distinctly remembered heading out for the battle, without Merlin, remembered waking from a dream of Merlin, remembered charging against the Saxons, remembered Accolon… He gasped, clutching at his newly-bandaged wound in disbelief as he remembered the way Accolon’s sword – his sword – had been thrust into his body. He should be dead. He had seen enough battlefield wounds to know that. He looked down at the bandage that was not even stained with blood and began to unwrap it, needing to see for it for himself, but Merlin quickly batted his hands away.

“Sire! No, stop that!” He sighed as he took the ends of the bandage and rewrapped it, tucking it securely. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. You need to keep that on.”

“Oh, so you’re the one giving orders, now, are you?” Arthur grumbled, but he left the bandage alone, leaning his head back and closing his eyes, breathing heavily just from the exertion of keeping his head up.

“Are you hungry, sire?” he heard Merlin ask, but he felt his strength fading, and before he could make a biting remark about Merlin’s generous use of the word “sire,” he lost consciousness once more.

*

The next time Arthur woke up, he was alert and aware that he had no idea where he was or why he was there instead of in Camelot. His stomach twisted as he considered that the reason for camping in the woods was that there was no Camelot to return to, that Morgana had won, but he buried that thought before he could panic. He remembered his wound and Merlin’s insistence that it was serious, but even now, a dull ache was all he felt, as if he had seriously misjudged its severity and Merlin was either patronizing him or overreacting. Merlin, who had been sitting by his feet at the fire, crawled over to his side when he noticed that he was awake.

“Sire, can you eat?”

Arthur hesitated, then nodded as a hunger he had not noticed before gripped his stomach. Merlin grasped one hand in his and brought his other behind Arthur’s back, helping him shuffle into a sitting position with his back against a tree. Arthur grimaced, his gut aching, although much less than it should have been.

“What happened? Where are we?” he asked, less forcefully as he would have liked, as Merlin reached for a bowl of stew by the fire. Merlin said nothing, only dipped a spoon in the bowl and held it up to Arthur’s mouth. Arthur took it, but when Merlin held out another spoonful without answering, Arthur glared.

“Merlin.”

Merlin looked back at him, eyebrows raised innocently, but when Arthur continued to glare, Merlin sighed. He pushed the spoon insistently against Arthur’s closed lips, and they parted, waiting for Merlin to answer.

“You were injured. I brought you here, to the woods not far from the Hill, to recover.”

“And the battle?” Arthur asked, forcing down the panic rising in his chest. “Did we… Are we… Did Morgana…?”

“The Saxons were defeated. Morgana fled. As far as I know, she has not been found yet. The Knights have returned to Camelot; when you are well enough to travel, we will return.” He used Arthur’s heavy exhale as an opportunity to push more stew into his mouth, which he took gratefully. He waited to feel a great weight lift off his chest – indeed, it was the best news he could have hoped for, and even though he would return to find that some of his Knights had not, he had to embrace it as the best possible outcome. But there was something still off, some details that didn’t connect, nagging at the back of his mind.

“Merlin, what are you doing here?”

Merlin hesitated, spoon in bowl, and Arthur regretted the harsh phrasing as a hurt look flashed across his face. “I couldn’t just leave you,” he said quietly.

Arthur shook his head. “Of course not,” he scoffed. “But you weren’t exactly, you know, around…” He was no longer trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice, despite the pain and regret that had returned to Merlin’s expression.

“I… I came as soon as I could,” he said, not meeting Arthur’s gaze. He would not say anything more, but lifted another spoonful, which Arthur accepted. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment before Arthur remembered the other point that needed clarification.

“The battle. You said the Saxons were defeated…” Of the snippets he could remember from just before his confrontation with Accolon, it had seemed, though he had not wanted to admit it at the time, that, despite their superior training and knowledge of their surroundings, the vast number of Saxons would eventually drive them back. He had not anticipated such a quick victory. “How did that happen?”

Merlin took the spoon and empty bowl back to the fire, setting it down near the pot he had used for cooking. He was quiet for a moment longer, staring into the fire. Finally he sighed heavily. “I arrived after the Saxons had already been driven back,” he said. “You should give your Knights more credit!” He chuckled hollowly, but the attempt fell flat, because he was still refusing to meet Arthur’s eyes, and there was something in his tone that made Arthur suspect that there was something that Merlin was not telling him.

“How do you feel?” Merlin was by his side again, his hand gently prodding the bandaged wound as if he could monitor its status through the cloth.

“Just fine, Merlin,” he responded, without much bite. Merlin merely nodded, pressing two slender fingers under his jaw. He held them there, staring off, counting to himself. His fingers felt cool against Arthur’s lingering fever, and without thinking, Arthur turned his head to lean his cheek into Merlin’s touch. He only realized what he was doing when he felt Merlin stiffen and gently retract his hand. Arthur met Merlin’s puzzled, wary gaze, his skin tingling where Merlin’s fingers had been, the heat rising in his cheeks. He dropped his eyes and cleared his throat, and Merlin moved back to stoke their small fire.

“It’s getting late, and you should rest now, sire,” Merlin said quietly, staring into the flames, and Arthur regretted his action, not sure what had prompted him to do it in the first place. “You should be well enough by tomorrow to travel.”

Arthur didn’t respond, but he leaned his head back against the rough bark of his makeshift chair and closed his eyes. He had not been awake for long, and though eating had strengthened him, it was still only a matter of minutes before he felt his mind numb with sleep, thoughts of Merlin’s cool hand on his cheek following him into his dreams.
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Merlin watched the as the firelight cast dancing shadows across his king’s face, waiting. Now that he was asleep, Merlin unwrapped the bandage gingerly, not wanting to wake him but needing to check. He stifled a gasp as he removed the cloth. The gash that had been there when Merlin had bandaged it was gone, replaced by a pink, shiny scar. His relief faded quickly as he wondered how long he would be able keep Arthur from questioning the lack of pain, from seeing the too-quickly healed wound, from suspecting magical involvement and connecting it to Merlin. He had left the Cave ready to face his fate, had discarded his disguise and called upon the strongest magic he had known and rained lightning and wrath down upon Arthur’s foes in plain sight, relieved that he would finally be free of his secret. But now that it was clear that Arthur still did not know, had not seen… Merlin felt the same cold dread creep back into his heart, threatening to drown out all the joy that had come with Arthur’s recovery and the continuation of their destiny. On the Hill, in the heat of battle, saving the lives of hundreds of his men, Arthur would have understood. He would’ve forgiven him for years of lies. But now, he was back to where he had been before the battle. Back to saving Arthur’s life from the shadows. Back to the lies.

And the Knights. Arthur had been unconscious, but the Knights who had been fending off the Saxons when Merlin appeared had surely recognized him. Lancelot already knew, of course, and Gwaine would accept him no matter what. But what about Percival? Elyan, whose father had been killed after false accusations of sorcery? Leon, who had served Uther so loyally during the aftermath of the Great Purge, before Arthur had gained the throne? He had saved them, as he had always saved them. Would they understand? More importantly, would they make Arthur understand? Arthur would demand the details of the battle as soon as they returned to Camelot, and Merlin knew his life was in the hands of the Knights and how they would choose to relay the story.

He replaced Arthur’s bandage just as carefully as he had unwrapped it, and if his fingers trembled slightly, his sleeping king never noticed. Merlin had cast a simple protection spell around their camp when they had first arrived so that they could both rest without interruption; now he hugged his knees to his chest and lay on his side, gazing at Arthur’s peaceful face through blurry eyes. He had never seen Arthur more vulnerable than he had today, resting his cheek into Merlin’s open palm. Merlin wasn’t ready to give up the trust that had taken so long to build. He was also not ready to sort through the turmoil of his feelings for Arthur, brought forth more strongly than usual after Arthur’s uncharacteristically uninhibited display of affection.

He sighed, willing his body to rest for at least a few hours before they began their journey in the morning. Arthur was still not strong enough to travel far without a horse, and Camelot was several days away by foot. He took small comfort knowing that that meant he had a few more days together with Arthur as they had always been before his lies were revealed and everything changed.
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He could hear shuffling nearby and recognized Merlin’s clumsy footfalls before he even opened his eyes. Normally, he would be exasperated that the noise had scared away all the game for miles around, making any hunting – his usual go-to strategy for prolonging a trip away from the city walls – impossible. But as scattered images from the events of the past day (days? How long had he been lying here?) flashed through his mind, he found the familiarity of Merlin’s presence calm his mind.

He opened his eyes to see Merlin packing up the camp supplies, which he had undoubtedly stolen from bodies on the battlefield, into a satchel. Merlin’s brow was furrowed, troubled, but as soon as he noticed Arthur, he grinned at him and put down the bag, reaching instead for a bundle of cloth by the dying fire.

“Rise and shine, sire!” Arthur rolled his eyes as he took the bundle Merlin handed him, which he opened to reveal a hunk of stale bread some berries he vaguely recognized as edible. He said nothing, only munched on the tart berries while he watched Merlin finish packing.

“We need to leave soon, Arthur. The Knights, everyone in Camelot will be worrying about you. If you’re ready…”

“What did I tell you about giving me orders?” Arthur knew Merlin was right, but continued to sit and mull over his meager breakfast, just for spite. Merlin sighed, exasperated, and started to bundle Arthur’s armor that he had taken off of him during his fever. As Arthur realized that Merlin was searching for a rope to tie the armor together for packing, waved his hand.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin, I can’t travel like this” – he indicated his bandaged torso – “without my armor. Put it on me.” He groaned as he struggled to get to his feet, Merlin at his side at once, pulling his arm over his shoulders and hoisting him to a standing position. His face was pale, and beads of sweat had broken out across his brow, but he leaned against Merlin to steady himself until he could stand on his own.

He was vaguely aware of Merlin rambling as his side: “...still very weak, don’t know how you expect to wear all that heavy armor and walk…” He was more consciously aware of Merlin’s arm wrapped around his waist, supporting his weight, curling protectively around him as he spoke. It took him a moment to realize that Merlin had stopped speaking and was looking at him expectantly, as if he had asked Arthur a question, but his concerned eyes were very close, piercing, and Arthur felt his cheeks grow warm. He gently broke out of Merlin’s grasp, faltering a bit before righting himself, and turned to gesture towards the pile of armor.

“Merlin, I am the king. I will not go prancing across my kingdom dressed like a peasant. Put it on me.”

Merlin looked back at him as if he were going to continue to argue, but pursed his lips and reached down instead to pick up the armor. He fitted it to Arthur’s body in silence, fingers moving from muscle memory after years of doing this very thing, taking care not to agitate his wound. His wound, which was no more than a dull ache, less painful even than the muscles in his arms and legs, which were stiff and sore from lying motionless for days. Arthur shook off his questions and made a mental note to speak to the physician alone when he returned, knowing Gaius would be more straightforward with him than Merlin ever was. At last, Merlin reached for the Pendragon cloak, which he smoothed over Arthur’s shoulders, fingers lingering on the course fabric. Again, Arthur found his face very close to Merlin’s, and when their gazes met, he could not keep the warmth from creeping up his neck and into his cheeks once more.

“Are you sure about this?” Merlin asked quietly, and Arthur swallowed. Before he could respond, Merlin continued, “If it gets too heavy, it will just slow us down, and we have to travel quickly. We can’t live on berries for too long, and we’ve got no hunting weapons.” The corner of his mouth quirked up at this, and he clapped Arthur gently on the shoulders before dropping his hands and stepping back. Arthur exhaled heavily, clearing his mind of Merlin, focusing on the journey ahead.

“Of course I’m sure. I’m the king.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Oh, and one more thing.” Arthur watched as he reached into the undergrowth and pulled out a sword. His sword. The blood – his blood – had been scrubbed off to leave it spotless and beautiful, and Arthur wondered how he could ever have been tricked by the imposter sword. But Merlin did not ask how it had happened that Arthur should be impaled with his own sword. He merely offered it, reverently, pommel-first, his eyes shining, daring Arthur to take it. Arthur took it. He whirled it once, listening to its familiar song as it sliced the air, and slid it confidently through his… He looked back at Merlin, who shook his head regretfully.

“I’m sorry, Arthur. The scabbard was nowhere to be found.”

Arthur only allowed himself a second to share Merlin’s regret before he tucked the sword through his belt. “No matter,” he said brusquely, and smiled at his manservant before turning to begin in the direction of his home.
________________________________________

As the light of their third morning on the road broke through the new spring greenery surrounding their camp, Merlin heaved a sigh and gently rolled away from the heat of Arthur’s body. Each morning had been like this – no matter how much space was left between them as they lay down for the night, Merlin had woken with his body pressed tight against his king’s, once with a sleeping Arthur’s arm draped (protectively? possessively?) across his waist. He could not deny that he was grateful for the extra warmth, and because he was always up and packing up camp by the time Arthur woke, he was not even sure if Arthur was aware of what was happening while they slept. This, too, Merlin was grateful for. It was difficult enough to repress his turmoil of feelings for Arthur, feelings that had only become more complicated under the stress of this journey. And Arthur was not making anything easier. Things had changed; benign tasks that he had been performing for years suddenly seemed intimate, almost intrusive, and he had caught Arthur watching him far more often than ever before. At first, Merlin had been anxious that Arthur’s sudden attentiveness stemmed from suspicion, but as the days had passed, he began to recognize in Arthur’s face emotions that he, himself, had struggled to conceal. Trust. Affection. Love.

Love. Merlin pushed that word from his mind, exasperated with how delusional he had become. Arthur was exhausted, confused, traumatized from his near-death experience, no doubt in extensive pain, and anxious to return to his home and reassure the kingdom that he was alive and well – these were all perfectly valid reasons why he would be treating Merlin differently. Besides, he thought bitterly, glaring at the sunlight strengthening on the horizon, it wouldn’t last the day, anyway. Travelling at the pace they had been able to maintain for the last two days (slowly, so slowly, because Arthur needed to stop and rest every few hours, but still too quickly for Merlin and the fate he would be forced to confront), they would reach Camelot’s gates by mid-afternoon. After that, it was only a matter of minutes – hours, if he was lucky, but did it really matter? – before the Knights revealed all. He knew, deep down, that the best decision to make at this point would be to confess before they even entered the walls, before Arthur heard the truth from others’ lips. Wouldn’t that be easier for both of them?

Just as he knew that the answer to this was yes, he also knew that he would not do it. For the same reason that he had not told the truth in the years since Uther’s death, he would not tell now. It was selfish, it was cowardly… but, looking down on Arthur’s face, untroubled in sleep and glowing in the morning sun, he could not bear to destroy everything he had built with Arthur. Destiny be damned – it was no longer fear of failing his destiny that kept him from revealing his magic. He had long since learned that destiny could not be stopped, no matter what he did to avoid it. No, it was this trust, this love, that Arthur had for him, that Merlin could not betray. Not himself.

He would let the Knights tell the news. And then he would face the consequences.
________________________________________

Arthur was privately glad that they had been forced to make their way back to Camelot on foot. Besides the time he was spending with Merlin – time alone that, for some reason, he had not realized he had been missing until now – he was nervous to return to the castle. Merlin had only supplied him with the vaguest of details, and Arthur was anxious to hear in depth how the battle had played out. He knew that there could be no battle without loss; such was the sacrifice of kings. He did not know if he was yet ready to return to the Table and face empty chairs.

Arthur was also glad, on this final day of travel, to be on foot, because if he had been forced to sit on a horse, he would have spent the trip fidgeting relentlessly in response to the near-tangible waves of nervous energy rolling off of his manservant. The last two days had been...well, pleasant, in spite of everything. There had been moments between himself and Merlin that he could not explain (or rather, that he pushed out of his mind and refused to analyze too closely), but they had not been uncomfortable. Merlin had cared for him in his recovery with enough tenderness to make him feel like a girl, but underneath his protestations, he relished every concerned frown, every exasperated sigh, every gentle brush of fingers against his skin, every sidelong glance Merlin had made when he thought Arthur wasn’t paying attention. He had been nervous, the first time he awoke in the night curled around Merlin, that Merlin would be upset and confront him, if not outright reject him. But Merlin had not said a word, had acted as if nothing were out of the ordinary, and Arthur did not know whether to be grateful or disappointed about that.

This morning, however, Merlin had not woken him with his usual chipper greeting. He had been withdrawn, distracted, skittish… Arthur felt his gut twist as he pondered the reason for Merlin’s sudden mood swing. As they set off, he found himself constantly pausing to wait for his manservant to catch up. He was used to Merlin lagging behind, nattering on about this and that inane topic or complaining about his role as the pack horse. This morning, he was silent.

“Merlin,” he attempted, suddenly desperate to return to the friendly banter that had defined their relationship from the start. “Is there some reason why you don’t want to get home today? I know you like berries, but I would’ve thought a warm bed would motivate your lazy–”

“Of course not, sire,” Merlin said quickly, his eyes wide with an innocence that did not convince Arthur. They had paused for water, and Arthur turned to face Merlin, who looked at the ground.

“Merlin.” Merlin continued avoiding his gaze, his eyes shifting around nervously. Arthur reached out and placed his fingers gently under Merlin’s chin, lifting his head until he was forced to look into his face. Fierce blue eyes reluctantly peered under heavy lashes, and Arthur could not fathom the depth of the expression. Every so often, when Merlin thought no one was looking, Arthur would catch him with this look. Regret, loss, determination… it made his heart ache every time, even more so knowing that Merlin kept those troubles from him, from everyone, his mask of the carefree fool constructed so believably. Now, it made him want to crush Merlin to his chest, wrap his arms around him and protect him from all the unknown demons he faced.

“What is it?” he asked instead, fingers still holding Merlin’s face to his.

Merlin closed his eyes and sighed, but when he opened them, the mask was back. Arthur’s heart wrenched a little more at this.

“It’s nothing, Arthur.” He gave a small smile and reached his own hand up to give Arthur’s a gentle squeeze before brushing it aside and turning away. “I’m just...nervous about what we’re going home to.”

Arthur understood that completely. As he watched Merlin trudge ahead of him through the forest with renewed vigor, he pushed out all of his previous worries. What would come in Camelot would come, and they would face it together, just like they always had.

*

Crowds of people had gathered at the gates, cheering the return of their king as he rode through the streets of the lower town on a horse he had been given by the patrol they had encountered only a few miles from the city walls. Merlin, too, had been put on a horse – it was a testament to how much the king’s soldiers cared for Merlin as more than a mere servant that they would give up their horse for him. Merlin had been nothing but cheery since their confrontation that morning, but as they entered the gates and rode through the throngs of happy people, Arthur could again sense the anxiety coming from the man beside him.

His Knights stood on the stairs of the castle, their red capes swaying in the breeze, the golden Pendragon waving a welcome to its lord. He breathed sighs of relief for he faces he spotted: Leon, steadfast at the fore of the crowd, his expression as stoic as ever; Percival, and beside him, Elyan, their gentle eyes smiling; Gwaine and Lancelot, looking… over his shoulder? He turned his head slightly and glanced at Merlin to see him looking back at his closest friends with a frown. Merlin gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head toward Gwaine and Lancelot, and Arthur looked back to see the two look at each other with wide, concerned eyes. Their gaze lasted less than a second before they turned back to the procession, and Arthur watched with alarm as their expressions morphed into the same pleasant mask that he had seen on Merlin’s face this morning. What was going on? Merlin had been gone for days, they both had – surely Gwaine and Lancelot should be pleased to see them, safely returned? Could it be that his suspicions that Merlin was hiding something were true, and were Gwaine and Lancelot in on it? But, if it had to do with the safety of Camelot, Merlin would certainly have told him by now, wouldn’t he?

Whatever it was, Arthur was determined to find the truth, but it would have to wait. It had been nearly a week since the battle, and almost two since his army had rode out from Camelot to face Morgana and the Saxons. He needed to speak with Leon and the other Knights to hear the official reports, and then he needed to make sure the kingdom was stable. The aftermath of war was the prime time for neighboring rulers to take advantage of a weakened kingdom; he trusted the treaties that stood between Camelot and its allies, but he could not take any risks.

He dismounted his horse and clasped arms with a now-beaming Leon.

“It’s good to have you back, sire. We feared that…” he trailed off and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Welcome back.” His smile widened as he, too, glanced over Arthur’s shoulder to look at Merlin. Arthur pretended he didn’t notice.

The Knights cheered and clapped him on the back as he walked through the crowd toward the castle with Leon at his side. “Call all the Knights to the Table. There is much to discuss. Oh, and, Merlin-” He rounded on his servant, whom Gwaine and Lancelot had been approaching. “Make yourself useful and find Gaius, then ready my chambers.” He turned back to Leon, refusing to let Merlin’s hurt look at being so coldly dismissed take away his small victory. Whatever secret news Gwaine and Lancelot had for Merlin, it would have to wait.
________________________________________

Although they had lost about fifty soldiers to Saxon blades, Leon was grateful that every one of the Knights under his command had returned to the Table. Some were in better shape than others – Elyan had some broken ribs, and more than one Knight had gashes deep enough to warrant stitches – but there were no serious injuries. He knew that Merlin was largely responsible for the victory, but when he saw his own pride for his Knights reflected in his king’s eyes, his chest swelled. His duty had always been to Camelot above all else, but since Arthur had taken the throne, it was not merely duty that kept him loyal. Arthur was everything a good king should be: a fierce warrior, an inspirational commander, a just ruler. Every trial Leon had overcome in his life had been leading him to the era when he could serve his true king, turning his lofty idealism of peace, justice, and prosperity into a reality. He would follow Arthur into the gates of Annwn.

So when Gwaine shook his head fiercely behind Arthur’s back, stopping Leon in his tracks, Leon was forced to make a decision that he had never anticipated.

“…happened to make the Saxons retreat?” Arthur had been asking. All of the Knights had gathered at the Table, but Arthur had turned was speaking directly to Leon, who had
been caught off-guard by the question.

“The Saxons, sire? You didn’t see? Merlin–” It was at this point that Gwaine had shaken his head from Arthur’s other side, his eyes wide in warning. Leon did not understand, but the urgency on Gwaine’s face made him falter and backtrack. “Merlin…er, surely told you?” he finished pathetically. Arthur missed nothing. He turned sharply to Gwaine, who looked back innocently, barely a hint of hard determination lingering in his eyes. Leon waited, unsure of what to say next. The only way Arthur could have missed Merlin’s powerful display of magic is if he had been unconscious, though he looked fit enough that Leon could not imagine that he would be harboring a secret, near-mortal wound. In fact, besides being filthy and travel-worn, Arthur did not look at all like he had led troops into deadly, face-to-face combat less than a week ago. Could Merlin have healed any wound that Arthur had suffered? But then, would that not have given him away? How could Arthur not know? He himself had never suspected Merlin’s secret, but after listening to Lancelot’s stories on the journey home, fantastic tales of Merlin’s magic that had cleared up every mysterious, too-easy victory for the last several years, he could not believe that Arthur had never figured it out. He could, however, understand why Merlin had never told him. Despite Arthur’s determination to be twice the king his father had been, he had suffered too many devastating losses at the hands of misused magic to trust it. Leon, himself, had led raids against Druid camps under Uther’s reign, and had seen more sorcerers executed than he could count. Knowing that Arthur’s reaction had the potential to have serious consequences for everyone, Leon was secretly relieved that Merlin’s fear of Arthur’s rejection had forced him to keep his secret for so long.

But now? It was clear that Arthur still did not know, and judging from Gwaine’s actions, Leon was not to tell. At this point, Arthur was the last to know. Any soldier or Knight who had not immediately recognized Merlin on the Hill had heard the truth by now from his comrades, although Leon had heard nothing but whispers in the Lower Town. It was clear that the townspeople knew and loved Merlin as much as those who lived in the castle, and their loyalty to him would keep them quiet until the time was right.

That time was sooner rather than later, in Leon’s opinion, and he felt his gut twist as he kept the truth from his lord. He had come to trust Merlin, even think of him as a friend; it was for this friendship, and for the desire to keep Merlin safe so that he could continue to keep Arthur safe, that Leon held his tongue.

Arthur did not look happy. “No, Sir Leon, my useless servant told me nothing. Like always, he was hiding until the coast was clear, so he did not see the outcome of the battle. So, if you please: the details.” He addressed Leon, but kept his eyes on Gwaine’s face, who held his hard gaze unwaveringly.

Leon silently cried out for Merlin and the unfairness of it all. He had never heard Arthur speak so scathingly of his servant when he was not present – he usually saved those comments for Merlin’s benefit. Leon knew that Arthur secretly thought very highly of the man who had been at his side unfailingly for almost a decade, but that secret was often buried beneath layers of contempt and pleasure at publicly ridiculing Merlin at every chance he got. Now that Leon knew what Merlin had been risking for Arthur, for all of them, for so many years, it pained him to know that Merlin had been forced to hide in the shadows, putting up with Arthur’s poor treatment of him. While all of his friends and peers had been promoted to the nobility, Merlin had been forced to remain a “mere” servant, and while his relationship with Arthur was stronger than any Leon had witnessed before, Arthur could be a hard master. Leon had often felt uncomfortable with the way Arthur abused Merlin’s fealty; even before Leon had learned the truth, when he had thought Merlin was nothing more than cheeky and a bit odd, his loyalty to Arthur had been obvious. Suspecting that Merlin could have easily overpowered their entire army and taken over Camelot single-handedly at any point over the last several years, he could not imagine the amount of patience that was necessary to play the harmless servant that Merlin had perfected.

“Sir Leon,” his king said impatiently, forcing Leon out of his thoughts and into the impossible situation he was in. He could not, by oath, lie to his king. But he could not, in good conscience, condemn the man that had selflessly saved them all. Despite the tension at the Table and Gwaine’s wide eyes, which held warning again now that Arthur had turned back to Leon, he decided on a compromise that he hoped would satisfy both sides until the matter could be resolved.

“Sire, there… there was a… well, a sorcerer, sire, who appeared, and–”

“A sorcerer?” Arthur cut in sharply. “We had no intelligence that Morgana had magical allies, the Druids–”

“No, sire, er… no, the sorcerer was not working with Morgana…” Leon looked around at his fellow Knights desperately, but nobody stepped in. He could tell they were all watching with bated breath.

Arthur was frowning. “What do you mean, ‘not working with Morgana’? Who was he? What happened?”

“He, well, he came when the Saxons were pressing in on us, and…he… drove them back. With magic. He used his magic to force them to retreat.”

“Why would he do that? Who was this person? A Druid?”

“I… do not know, my lord.” Leon dropped his eyes, no longer able to hold Arthur’s gaze. He had never thought that they day would come when he would knowingly lie to his king.
“I did not recognize him.”

Arthur growled in frustration, his eyes sweeping the Table. Leon could see that Gwaine was the only one whose gaze remained steady, but Arthur did not look at him. Arthur clenched his fists, but sighed heavily.

“Very well. The battle was long and hard fought. It is no wonder there was some confusion. There will be more official matters to discuss later” – Leon felt rather than saw Arthur’s piercing look – “but for now, the Table is dismissed.”

Leon watched as Arthur stalked off in the direction of his chambers. As he let out breath he had not been aware he was holding, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“For Merlin’s sake, thank you,” Gwaine said in a low voice, watching as the other Knights filtered out after their king, some shooting sympathetic looks back to where Gwaine and Leon were standing.

“What is going on?” Leon hissed. “How could Arthur not know?”

“I’m not sure, Leon. I’m not sure about anything, except that if Arthur doesn’t know, it’s not our place to tell him. We have to trust Merlin to figure things out.”

Yes, we have to trust Merlin, thought Leon. But will Arthur?
________________________________________

Merlin had been pacing anxiously from one end of Arthur’s chambers to the other for several minutes. When Arthur had first dismissed him, he had been hurt and confused, but grateful for the chance to speak to Gaius in private, even if it meant not being able to speak with Gwaine and Lancelot. He had to trust that they had understood his unspoken message that he had not told Arthur, and that it was up to them.

The closest figure to a father that Merlin had ever known, he had gone to Gaius and told him everything, from the defeat of the Saxons to healing Arthur’s wound to their journey home and the secret that was about to be revealed by the Knights. Gaius had held him in a tight embrace as the events from the past fortnight came crashing down: losing his magic, abandoning Arthur in his hour of need, being trapped in the Cave, regaining his magic, obliterating the Saxons, revealing his secret to all of his friends, almost losing Arthur, saving Arthur, hiding himself from Arthur, feeling loved by Arthur, loving Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur… Now, waiting for Arthur to learn the truth, waiting for Arthur’s reaction, not daring to hope that it could be acceptance without consequence… it was torture.

“Things will work out, my boy,” Gaius had said. “You are Arthur’s friend. The Knights have spoken nothing but praise of you and your power all week. Arthur will understand.”

*

It had been comforting at the time, but now, alone in Arthur’s chambers, he found himself dreading the king’s return.

Too soon, the doors swung open and Arthur charged in. Merlin started violently, but managed to hold his ground, careful to put the table between himself and Arthur. Arthur, however, barely glanced at Merlin. His footfalls were heavy and his face read rage, but he merely stormed into the center of the room and stood there, staring at nothing. Merlin said nothing, did nothing, and after a moment, Arthur turned to him and barked, “Don’t just stand there gawping like an idiot, Merlin. Help me out of these.” He gestured at his armor and mail impatiently.

Taken aback, Merlin wondered if it was a trick to get him to come within sword’s reach, but he dared not hesitate. He stepped carefully up to Arthur’s side and started undoing the buckle on one shoulder. Arthur gave a weary sigh and closed his eyes, remaining still and silent as Merlin moved on to other buckles, relieving him of the weight of his armor. It was only after Merlin unbuckled his belt and placed Excalibur on the table beside him that he began to breathe easier, though Arthur’s mood did nothing to release his tension. Was he really not angry to know the truth? Or did he just need more time to think about it, and was ignoring Merlin in the meantime? When Merlin could not bear the silence any longer, he offered shyly: “I drew a bath for you, sire. And brought some food from the kitchens…”

Arthur made no response, but when Merlin had stripped him of his mail, he walked over to the table and contemplated the food for a moment before slumping into his chair.

“The Knights told me…” Arthur started heavily, still staring blankly ahead, and Merlin felt his knees go weak. “...that a sorcerer was responsible for the Saxon victory…” Merlin’s heart pounded in his chest, and he clenched his fingers into fists to keep them from trembling. “Can you believe that?”

“Arthur, I–” Merlin stopped, preparing to defend himself, but no accusation came. “Sire?”

“I said,” Arthur drawled, giving Merlin the usual look of contempt, “Can you believe that a sorcerer would fight for Camelot? What could he have to gain? And now, we’ll never know, because those fools didn’t even bother to catch his name…”

Merlin dropped the pitcher of wine he had picked up to keep his hands busy. His mind went numb, Arthur’s yells and insults nothing but buzzing in his ears. His mind reeled, and all he could think was No, no, no…

The Knights had said nothing. He had been counting on them to say what he could not, and now…

Arthur didn’t know...

He felt like he was drowning…

Merlin was jolted back to the real world when a pair of hands gripped his shoulders and shook him roughly.

“Merlin! Merlin! What is wrong with you?” Arthur was shouting at him, his face inches away. Merlin struggled to pull away, but he was shaking uncontrollably, and had never been strong enough to pull out of Arthur’s grasp. Arthur stopped shaking him, but he continued to grip him firmly as Merlin clapped a hand over his mouth and choked back the sobs that wracked his body. He had no choice.

“It was me.” He closed his eyes so that he didn’t have to look into Arthur’s, so blue, so close to his.

“What?”

“I...I’m the sorcerer.”

Arthur let go of him as if burned, the force pushing Merlin backward. He stumbled and barely caught himself, and looked up to see Arthur looking back at him in wary disbelief.

“Why would you say that?” Arthur’s voice trembled, and Merlin could feel tears rolling down his cheeks as he struggled to catch his breath. “You can’t be a sorcerer, Merlin. I… I would know!” He was begging, and Merlin knew this was his last chance to save himself. He threw it away.

Cupping his hands in front of him, Merlin held his breath and conjured a small fire that morphed into a dragon. The Pendragon. In many of the scenarios that had played out in Merlin’s head over the last several years (at least, the ones in which Merlin lived long enough to perform magic for Arthur’s gaze), he had created the dragon as a symbol of his fealty to Arthur’s reign. It was beautiful. As it flapped its tiny wings and disappeared into the air, Merlin glanced up to see Arthur’s reaction, at long last.

Arthur stared back wide-eyed in horror.

Merlin started again. “Arthur, I can explain,” he pleaded. He made to step toward Arthur, his hands reaching out in supplication, but Arthur only reeled back, his eyes scanning left and right until they landed on Excalibur, unsheathed on the table beside him. Before Merlin could move a foot, he felt cold metal against his skin as Arthur held the tip of the blade against his throat. He froze, terrified.

“Sorcerer.” Arthur hissed the word. He advanced, forcing Merlin to stumble quickly back until his back pressed into the cold stone wall. Merlin could not tear his eyes away from the sword in Arthur’s hand.

“Arthur, Arthur please, I–”

“I am your king!” Arthur bellowed, lowering the blade over Merlin’s heart and pressing forward until the blade pierced Merlin’s skin through his tunic. It was a shallow wound, a warning, but Merlin cringed as he felt the sharp stab and a trickle of blood run over the tender skin stretched across his ribs.

“Sire,” he breathed, swallowing hard. “Please, let me explain–”

“How long have you been studying magic?” Arthur demanded, his eyes boring into Merlin’s.

“No, sire, it’s not like–”

“How long?”

“I was born with it!” Merlin shouted. His body ached from the force with which he was pressing himself against the wall to avoid the sharp blade. It was no use. He felt the weight of the metal, its magic singing against his skin, and he squeezed his eyes tight. This is it. He did not want his last memory to be the sight of his best friend looking at him as if he were a monster.

With the crash of metal against stone, Merlin forced his eyes back open to see Excalibur lying on the floor where Arthur had dropped it. Fear had not left Arthur’s face, but the wildness in his eyes had been replaced with a cold hatred. In that moment, Merlin wished Arthur had slit his throat.

“Leave me,” Arthur said. Merlin exhaled sharply, his breath coming in short gasps, his knees threatening to collapse.

“Sire, I… than–”

“You are hereby banished from Camelot. Your return will be upon pain of death.”

Arthur’s words cut like the steel of his abandoned sword. He had turned away and was staring out the window.

“Wha–? No, I, no, no, please, Arth– sire, I–”

“LEAVE ME!” The words ricocheted off the stone walls surrounding them, echoing painfully in Merlin’s mind, chasing him down as he forced himself away from the wall and scrambled out the door and down the hall. He did not escape quickly enough to miss a roar of pain and betrayal from behind doors that had closed to him forever.

***********************

Incompetence. He was surrounded by incompetence.

Arthur had been home for less than an hour, and already he wanted to throw every one of his Knights off the ramparts. How could they have let this happen? A sorcerer? If word spread around the kingdom that the King only allowed sorcerers to live if he could use their magic as a weapon, there would be panic. And now, not only was the sorcerer powerful – he was anonymous. Leon had never lied to Arthur. He was the most loyal and experienced Knight at the Table. He had been fighting for Camelot since Uther’s reign. He had seen what horrors those with magic could perform.

So Arthur could not, for the life of him, understand why Leon had lied about not knowing the sorcerer’s identity. For a lie it had surely been. He could not bear to doubt Leon’s loyalty; more likely, he had been facing pressure from other Knights at the Table. Arthur would bet his kingdom that Gwaine was involved. Arthur loved Gwaine, but he was not from Camelot, and had not grown up fearing magic. It made sense why Gwaine would feel the desire to protect the sorcerer, especially if magic really had been the reason for their victory over the Saxons.

Victory or not, magic was illegal. Those who practiced magic were criminals. And those with enough power to defeat an entire army were dangerous. Today, it was the Saxons, but tomorrow? He had to know the identity of the sorcerer in order to evaluate the threat to Camelot.

Arthur threw the doors of his chamber wide and barged in. His body and mind were exhausted, and he was desperate to curl into his bed and let any royal duties wait until tomorrow.

He could feel his servant’s eyes on him from where he was standing near the table. Just standing there, staring. Arthur did not have any patience left. “Don’t just stand there gawping like an idiot, Merlin. Help me out of these.” His voice was harsher than necessary, but he had not forgiven Merlin for his strange behavior that morning, and then again with Lancelot and Gwaine. Gwaine. Could Merlin know about the sorcerer? His memory of the first few days after the battle was hazy, but he remembered feeling like Merlin had been hiding something when he reported the outcome of the battle. Later, he had played it off as Merlin’s general obliviousness.

And his encounter with Gwaine and Lancelot this morning… could he have been imagining it? He had been exhausted and overwhelmed with the sights and sounds of the city after traumatic weeks away from home. It was possible that everything had been normal, and that Lancelot and Gwaine had been eager to see their friend alive and well.
Merlin’s quiet words broke his reverie. “I drew a bath for you, sire. And brought some food from the kitchens…”

The hesitancy in his words, not to mention the word “sire,” made Arthur feel instantly guilty for the way he had treated him today. Things had been so different while travelling… per usual, life in the castle complicated their relationship, often making Arthur revert into the prat that Merlin had always accused him of being. He looked down at the table but did not focus on the food before him. He slumped into his chair. He was just so tired.

Merlin had not moved, and Arthur realized he had not responded. True to the way their relationship had been before, Arthur made a sad attempt at disguising a plea for advice.

“The Knights told me that a sorcerer was responsible for the Saxon victory. Can you believe that?”

“Arthur, I–” Arthur heard Merlin choke on his words before the next word came, confused. “Sire?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. He was trying, he really was, but some days, there was no getting through.

“I said,” he spoke slowly, drawing out the syllables so as not to further confuse Merlin, “Can you believe that a sorcerer would fight for Camelot? What could he have to gain by doing that?” Merlin lifted a pitcher of wine to pour into a goblet for Arthur, who continued with a sigh, “And now, we’ll never know, because those fools didn’t even bother to catch his name…”

The pitcher slipped from Merlin’s hands, pouring wine all over the table and clattering to the floor. Arthur jumped out of the way, narrowly avoiding the wine as it dripped onto the chair he had been sitting in seconds before.

“Merlin, you idiot! Really, Merlin, you have one job! How you manage to fail at something as simple as…” He stopped as he realized that Merlin was not scrambling to clean up the mess, the usual string of excuses pouring from his lips. Merlin only stood, shaking his head from side to side, his eyes wide and quickly filling with tears.

Arthur stood in front of him, staring into his vacant eyes. “Merlin?” When there was no response, Arthur gripped his shoulders and shook. “Merlin! Merlin! What is wrong with you?”

Merlin seemed to come to his senses with that, but he looked no calmer. Now that he was holding Merlin, he noticed that his body was shaking. He held him more firmly, not knowing if his knees would be able to take his weight.

“It was me.” Arthur could barely hear the words Merlin mumbled. His eyes were tightly shut, but not tight enough to stop the tears that were escaping down his cheeks.
“What?”

“I’m the sorcerer. I...I have magic.”

Arthur recoiled at the words before the meaning had time to sink in, letting Merlin stumble backwards. Merlin. Sorcerer. Magic. The words tumbled around in Arthur’s mind. They could not connect.

“Why would you say that?” He was ashamed that he could not control the trembling in his voice, but this was Merlin. He could barely remember a time before Merlin had been beside him. This was the man who knew all of his darkest secrets – all of them. Arthur had thought that he knew everything about his servant, too. “You can’t be a sorcerer, Merlin. I… I would know!” Wouldn’t he?

Merlin said nothing. He looked down at his hands, which were cupped in front of him.

Suddenly, a small fire appeared. As the flames danced in Merlin’s upturned palms, they morphed into the shape of a dragon, its tiny wings flapping and its mouth wide in a silent roar.

Arthur barely saw the dragon. His attention was captured by Merlin’s eyes, which had flashed a brilliant shade of gold. They were the same golden eyes that had brought the death of his father, the same that had stared out of Morgana’s haunted, hateful face, the same that had brought nightmares since the first execution he had attended as a small boy, when sorcerers were put to death by the dozens during the Purge.

The man now staring up at him in trepidation was not Merlin. Not his Merlin. This man was a liar, a farce, a traitor. A sorcerer.

“Arthur, I can explain,” Merlin said, pleading. The gold was gone from his eyes, but the truth lingered, throwing Arthur’s world into chaos. Merlin came toward him, hands outstretched, the same hands that had just held a fiery dragon, and Arthur pulled back in fear, searching frantically for something with which to defend himself. He spotted his sword lying naked on the table, and he lunged for it. He was standing his ground with his blade pressed to Merlin’s throat in seconds.

“Sorcerer.” He could not stop the accusation from escaping his lips, and Merlin’s eyes widened in fear. Arthur advanced, forcing Merlin into the chamber wall so that he could not hope to escape. Not without magic.

“Arthur, Arthur please, I–”

“I am your king!” It was both an accusation and a command. How many times had Merlin made him believe just that? That his loyalty was to him, Arthur, and the laws of Camelot, above all else? How many times had Arthur risked his honor and his life by taking the advice of his servant, who had put more faith in him than anyone ever had before?

How long had he been confiding in Merlin, trusting Merlin, all the while not knowing that he was letting an enemy into the heart of his kingdom? Into his heart?

He lowered the sword to Merlin’s chest and pressed forward, drawing blood, and it felt like his heart was being pierced instead.

“Sire,” Merlin barely breathed the word. His eyes were wide in terror and desperation, trained on Arthur’s face but flicking down to the sword threatening to run him through.
“Please, let me explain–”

“How long have you been studying magic?” Arthur needed to know how long he had been living a lie.

“No, sire, it’s not like–”

“How long?”

“I was born with it!”

Arthur felt all his breath leave his lungs. Was it a trick? Merlin had shouted, his familiar defiance shining through, but now his eyes were closed, his body sagging, defeated. Like this, it was harder to imagine Merlin with the golden eyes, Merlin with the magic, Merlin with the secrets and the lies. He dropped his sword. Arthur’s resolve failed, but the fear twisted into anger and betrayal that clawed at his heart.

“Leave me.” His voice was hollow in his own ears, his mind numb. He turned away.

“Sire, I…than–”

“You are banished from Camelot. Your return will be upon pain of death.” The words left his mouth without much thought. He needed to get away from Merlin, away from everyone. He needed to be left alone with his heartbreak.

He ignored Merlin’s pleas. They were the pleas of a traitor who should be executed.

“LEAVE ME!”

Merlin bolted from the room. Arthur did not even bother to make sure the door was closed before all the pain and betrayal in his heart caused him to roar in frustration. As the breath left his lungs, he collapsed onto the bed. King or no, he could not suppress the dry sobs that wracked his body. He curled onto his side, hugging his arms around himself, and fell asleep.
________________________________________

Leon knew that something was very wrong the moment he stepped into the throne room. He had thought it strange that he should be summoned there, and so late in the evening; he had often conducted business with Arthur in the king’s own chambers, and since the founding of the Table, business that concerned all of the Knights took place there. The throne room was only ever used for great feasts and to welcome common petitioners or foreign leaders.

So when he marched into the throne room to see Arthur upon the throne and the rest of the Knights congregating before him, his gut wrenched. He considered walking up to take his place at Arthur’s right hand, but after one look at the unidentifiable expression on Arthur’s face, he settled into place among the throng of Knights.

He glanced around. Some men looked confused, even intrigued, some looked bored, most wary, like himself. He noticed Gwaine and Lancelot standing together looking especially agitated, and Leon realized that Merlin, usually to the left and behind Arthur wherever he sat, was missing. Something was definitely wrong.

Arthur signaled toward the entrance, and Leon, not looking back, heard the great doors slam shut.

“One of you,” Arthur spoke slowly, deliberately, “will give me the exact details of the outcome of the battle. We will not leave this room until the entire story is told. And if any of you try to lie to me again…” He let the threat trail off, for which Leon found himself grateful. Arthur was not looking at him, or at anyone in particular, but Leon knew that the accusation was directed at him. He dropped his gaze and swallowed hard, clenching and unclenching his fists in nervous energy. He could feel the eyes of other Knights on him, expectantly, but what could he do?

He did not have to think on the question for long, because he heard Gwaine’s harsh voice echo in the hall after a few moments of agonizing silence.

“Where’s Merlin?” It wasn’t a question. Some of the Knights gasped at his boldness, muttering to themselves and each other. Leon exhaled in relief but did not turn to look at Gwaine. Instead, he lifted his eyes to Arthur, whose cold stare had turned murderous. He said nothing, and Gwaine repeated, more angrily, “Where is he? What have you done with him?”

“That...traitor,” Arthur hissed, “is lucky to have his LIFE! As are you, Sir Gwaine, for harboring the secrets of a sorcerer! That is TREASON!”

“Why, you…!” Gwaine moved forward in the crowd, drawing his sword. Arthur leapt to his feet, drawing his as well, but there was no need. Instantly, the Knights mobilized, disarming and restraining a violent Gwaine, who was hurling insults at Arthur. Leon himself took Gwaine’s sword from where it had been tossed to the floor. He turned to see Arthur, sword still in hand, advancing menacingly toward Gwaine, who was being held firmly in place by several of the Knights.

Before Leon could understand what was happening, Arthur raised his sword, and Lancelot, brave Lancelot, forced himself in front of Gwaine, shielding him from Arthur’s dark intentions. Arthur paused, frozen, his expression still threatening bloodshed. Leon held his breath.

“My lord, listen to me.” Lancelot spoke softly and urgently. “You do not want to do this.”

Arthur remained silent and still for a moment longer before lowering his blade.

“Guards, arrest this Knight. I will deal with him later.”

Leon exhaled in relief, but he knew it had to be short-lived. Arthur had lowered his sword but had not sheathed it. He rounded on Lancelot as Gwaine was dragged hollering from the throne room.

“Well?” Leon was grateful that it was level-headed Lancelot on the spot now.

“Sire,” Lancelot paused, shifting from foot to foot, but he kept his eyes locked on his king. “Merlin saved us all. Whatever lies he’s told to keep his secret, you have to believe that he would give his life to protect Camelot. To protect you.” The last sentence came out like an accusation, and Leon could see Arthur stiffen, but Lancelot continued. “The battle was not going well. We may have been the better warriors, but we were sorely outnumbered, as you saw. When Merlin appeared…” He spoke with awe, and Leon see several other Knights with similarly reverent expressions, remembering the raw power Merlin had unleashed upon their foes. “…well, he did more than just drive the Saxons back. He won that battle for us. We owe him our lives.” Many of the Knights nodded at this, finding courage in numbers as they sided with Merlin – with magic – against their king.

Arthur himself had squeezed his eyes shut and was shaking his head, as if he could not believe what he was hearing. At last he sighed and sheathed his sword.

“Be that as it may,” he said heavily, “he broke the law, and who knows how long he has been breaking it, practicing magic in secret–”

“Arthur,” Lancelot said impatiently. “You can’t seriously believe that Merlin is a threat to Camelot. He is your friend. He has risked
everything to remain at your side, and he has done more to protect you with that magic than you will–”

“How long have you known about this?!” Arthur’s murderous glare was back, and Leon gulped. Lancelot noticed his folly too late, but he did not back down.

“I’ve known for years. Ever since I killed the griffin. Well, ever since Merlin killed the griffin.”

“YEARS?! You’ve been harboring the secrets of a sorcerer for years?!”

“I’ve been protecting Merlin’s secret from a reaction like this!” Leon had never heard Lancelot shout. Neither, he guessed, had Arthur, for the king simultaneously took a step back and put a hand on his sword, though he did not draw it. Lancelot continued, his voice low but no less desperate. “What have you done with him, Arthur?”

Again, Arthur ignored the question. He turned away from Lancelot to gaze at the other Knights. “Who else knew?” The Knights all shook their heads, all as shocked as Leon had been to discover the secret on the Hill. Arthur seemed to take small comfort with this, and he turned back to Lancelot. “And Gwaine?”

“He had his suspicions, sire, but none of the other Knights knew until the battle.”

Arthur turned his back on them and slumped into the throne. Leon noticed that he looked significantly more exhausted than he had when he had returned just hours before, and he felt pity for him. However, it did not diminish his fear for what Merlin’s fate may have been, although he had been relieved to hear that he was still alive.

When he spoke, his voice sounded detached, leagues away, and held none of the resolve or menace that it had when Leon had entered the throne room. “He…Merlin” – his voice cracked on the name – “has been banished from Camelot. If he returns, he will be charged for sorcery and tried under all the laws of Camelot.” He held up a hand as Lancelot and a few of the other Knights spoke up in what sounded like protest. “This is my final word. Leave me now.”

The Knights said nothing and filed out, few wanting to linger. Lancelot opened his mouth as if to speak, but seemed to decide better of it, turning on his heel and whisking out of the room. Leon knew he had not been forgiven for his lies, but the pull of duty as the First Knight kept him in the room. “Sire?”

Arthur looked up wearily from where he had been staring at the floor. His gaze hardened, but then fell. He dropped his face into his hands. “Go, Leon,” he said with resignation. “I will call for you if I have need.” If decorum had allowed it, Leon would have sprinted from the room. He did not want to be anywhere near when his king inevitably broke down at the betrayal of his Knights and the loss of his greatest friend.
________________________________________

Arthur didn’t normally knock on the physician’s door before entering. He had been avoiding confronting Gaius, or speaking to anyone, really, for days. The first night he had slept fitfully, and when he had been woken in the morning by George, of all people, he had yelled and cursed and shut his door to everyone, locking himself in his room to wallow in his misery and loneliness.

When he heard muffled voices in the room, his gut wrenched at the thought that it was his manservant speaking to Gaius, that he had returned. It was only after the voices had stopped abruptly at the knock and the door had been opened to reveal Lancelot at Gaius’ table that Arthur realized he was disappointed that it had not been his manservant’s voice. Former manservant, a snide voice in Arthur’s head reminded him. He ignored the pain that tightened his chest at the thought.

“Sire,” Gaius said simply, his normal, friendly greeting nowhere to be found. Of course not, thought Arthur bitterly. Gaius was like a father to him – it still pained him to think his name – and he had torn him from Gaius’ life without a thought. As Arthur looked at him, he noticed that his eyes were rimmed with red, as if he had been crying, and his gut squirmed in guilt.

“Gaius. Sir Lancelot.” He nodded to each of them stiffly, feeling awkward at the formality.

Lancelot stood. “Sire,” he said, just as short, before excusing himself and exiting, leaving Arthur alone with the physician.

Even though he was an adult and a king, Arthur thought that he would never be able to escape Gaius’ power to make him feel like a naughty child with a mere glance. He found himself fidgeting nervously, avoiding the physician’s gaze, hoping that Gaius would say something to break the silence. He did.

“Can I do something for you, sire?” Arthur cringed internally at the detached formality, and forced himself to remain in the room and get the information he came for. All he wanted to do was flee, return to his room and shut himself away again until the memory of him faded.

“Gaius, I came because…because I need…to know… I need to know more. About him… About” – he swallowed – “About Merlin.”

Gaius’ eyes hardened almost imperceptibly, and he turned away. “I’m afraid I cannot help you, sire.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur had accepted early that if anyone could know about Merlin’s magic, it would be Gaius. This betrayal had hurt far less than the others – for one, Gaius was not technically sworn to him in the way that his Knights were; second, he knew that Gaius had studied sorcery before the Purge, and it made sense that he had been in on the secret. For all he knew, Gaius could very well have been teaching him. Arthur moved toward him, coming around the table that Gaius was working at so that he could face him again. “Why not, Gaius? Surely, you know more than–”

“More than whom, sire? I’m afraid that the person with the greatest knowledge on the subject is the one you need to hear it from, and I don’t need to tell you that he’s gone.”

Arthur’s heart sank. “But Gaius, he… he’s a sorcerer!” The words tumbled from his lips before he could catch them, and Gaius looked up sharply.

“He is your friend.”

“Gaius, I –”

“There is no need to fear him.”

“But he –”

“– has done far more than you could ever imagine.”

“Wha—”

“Arthur. He doesn’t just have magic. There are those who say he is the greatest sorcerer ever to walk the earth.”

It took a moment for that information to sink in. Before he could respond, Gaius asked, “How else could you have survived such a wound?”

“What do you—” He gasped, his hands flying to his side, where Accolon had thrust his sword into him only a week ago. In the days since his return to Camelot, Arthur had not once changed clothes. Shut up in his room with no servant and none to care about his appearance, he simply hadn’t had the motivation to wash. He had not thought about the wound once, and he realized now that it was because there was no pain. None. But how…?

“See for yourself.” Arthur looked up to see Gaius watching his confusion with a daring look, and Arthur lifted his shirt. He untied the bandage – now loose from wear – to find… nothing. He was sure it had been this side…? He flung off his shirt and tore the bandage from his waist, looking and feeling around for a scar, a bruise, any indication that he had been on the brink of death. He met only smooth skin. Even scars from previous battles, skirmishes with bandits, accidents at training, scars that he had had for years… everything seemed to have faded.

“Gaius, I… I was dying, I swear, I don’t… I don’t understand…? Merlin couldn’t possibly have done…?”

“It is destiny.”

Gaius continued to stare at him with raised eyebrow as the full weight of his mistake crashed around Arthur.

“I’ve got to find him.”
________________________________________

Arthur found the Druid camp on the evening of his third day of travelling. He was weary and filthy from riding almost non-stop, his desperation increasing each day that he could not find Merlin. But as he woke from a brief, necessary nap on that third day, the ache in his chest that he had attributed to Merlin’s loss had felt sharper, more directed, and he knew, without knowing how he knew, that it would not be long now.

He could feel when he was close – the air seemed to hum with what he assumed could only be power, but even knowing that, he could not feel fear. He could only wonder, as his skin tingled pleasantly, at how he could possibly have missed this before, how oblivious he had been. When the colorful flags of the Druid camp peeked through the trees, waving carelessly in the light breeze, Arthur knew that his journey was complete.

As he approached the camp, he slowed his horse, suddenly aware that there were people, Druids, among the trees around him. They did not seem hostile, or even approach him at all, merely looked at him with interest. It was not until he had reached the edge of the clearing that he saw him. Merlin was standing near the center of the camp, tall and gangly as ever, dressed in his usual jerkin and scarf, but as Arthur halted his horse, he could tell that there was something different about him. As Arthur dismounted, suddenly shy and carefully avoiding his gaze, Merlin took a few steps closer, though stopping with a good twenty feet between them. Just out of sword’s reach, thought Arthur, but he hastily pushed that thought away, along with the sharp ache of guilt that had risen in his chest at the memory of Merlin’s terrified face at the end of his own sword. He reached for his sword then, meaning to draw it out of habit from the sheath on his saddle, but at the last moment thought better of it, and left it. Not knowing where else to look then, he finally turned to face Merlin, who, upon eye contact, pointedly masked his features from what looked like relief into something withdrawn, although Arthur knew him well enough to find traces of both determination and hesitation in the set of his jaw and the way his blue eyes widened nervously.

Now that he was facing Merlin, Arthur could see what it was about him that was different. It had been only a week since Merlin had fled from Arthur’s wrath, but somehow he looked ages older, as if all the knowledge and experience he had been carefully concealing from Arthur throughout the years had suddenly been etched into his features upon exposure. Where before he had been an impertinent serving boy, Arthur now looked upon Merlin and recognized him as a man with power and responsibility and duty. Merlin straightened under Arthur’s scrutiny, squaring his shoulders as if self-conscious but daring Arthur to confront him, and Arthur realized that he must have been waiting for him to say something.

He exhaled heavily, not aware that he had even been holding his breath. “Merlin.”

“Sire.”

Arthur’s breath caught then, and he looked sharply at Merlin’s face. There had been no hesitation as the title passed his lips, no traces of the insolence that Arthur had come to expect, even rely upon, from the obligatory deference a servant must show his king. The only emotion Arthur could find looking back at him from those eyes was reverence, the same pride mingled with awe that accompanied those rare occasions when Merlin had abandoned impertinence in favor of riddles about destiny, and that always left Arthur feeling uncomfortable and altogether unworthy of such blind devotion. It was the same look that Arthur had always associated with honesty from a servant – a friend – who was burdened with too many secrets. And after Arthur had all but slain Merlin by his own hand and banished him from his home, it was a look that he had never expected, had never dared hope, to see again. But he had not come to reassert his dominance as a king over his subject. He had come to mend the relationship whose dissolution had torn at his very soul.

“Merlin, I–” he faltered, not knowing how to say everything that needed to be expressed. “I’m sorry,” he finished pathetically, and he dropped his gaze, knowing it could never be enough to atone for what he had done.

“Arthur,” Merlin said slowly, testing out the familiarity, and Arthur dared to lift his eyes back to Merlin’s face, which had become soft. “Arthur,” he said again, resolutely, “There is nothing to be sorry for. Please. It is I who should apologize. I’m sorry I hid it from you for so long, I’m sorry that I didn’t trust you with that, I’m sorry tha–” Arthur held up his hand to cut him off, and Merlin’s rambling fell silent abruptly, only his eyes betraying his desperation to say more. How had Arthur ever looked into Merlin’s honest eyes and
not seen right through his façade?

He only allowed himself a moment to regret the power dynamics that were more sharply in play between them than they ever had been, that had silenced Merlin with a simple gesture where nothing ever had before, before he said, “Merlin, it’s all right. I know why you didn’t tell me. I… It hurts that you didn’t trust me. But…” He sighed. “I understand.” And before he could say another word, Merlin closed the distance between them with a few quick strides and wrapped his arms around Arthur in a fierce hug. Arthur’s breath hitched again in surprise, but he quickly returned the hug, his strong arms pulling Merlin’s scrawny frame tight against his chain mail, burying his face in Merlin’s hair. The ache that had been eating away at his heart subsided, quelled by the earthy scent of Merlin’s hair, the warmth of his body that could be felt even through his chain mail, the overwhelming sense of trust that hung in the air around him. Arthur felt Merlin’s shoulders shake with what he suspected was a sob, but when he pulled out of the embrace enough to hold Merlin at arms’ length, there was a wide grin spread across Merlin’s face.

Arthur returned the smile with fervor, but faltered slightly when he became aware of their audience. The Druids, all but forgotten the moment Arthur saw Merlin safe and sound, had gathered around the couple. They kept a respectful distance, but were waiting with expectant looks on their faces, and Arthur felt a sudden wariness. The recent peace between Camelot and the Druids had been an uneasy one, and as they surrounded him, he could not help but think back on all the atrocities he had committed to their people. Atrocities that could not all be blamed on his father.

But Merlin, who now had his hands over Arthur’s where he had placed them on his shoulders, gave them a reassuring squeeze before letting go and stepping out of his grasp, turning to look at a man whom Arthur recognized as a leader of this Druid clan.

“You are welcome, King Arthur,” the man said, nodding his head in a slight bow. “We have been awaiting your arrival. Please, allow us to care for your horse and show you to your tent. You must be weary from your travels.”

Arthur was caught off-guard by their hospitality; he had expected to retrieve Merlin and return back to Camelot in all haste, but at the thought of a sheltered bed and a warm meal, he realized how tired he was. He also knew that his horse could use the rest, and felt a small shred of guilt for running him so hard in his search for Merlin. “Thank you,” was all he said, royal manners lost in his weariness.

The Druid, whose name he suddenly remembered was Iseldir, smiled and replied, “Ninianne will show you the way,” gesturing to a young woman who stepped out of the surrounding circle and nodded in his direction. Iseldir then gave another nod to Arthur and a bow to Merlin, and walked gracefully off to another part of the camp. Arthur raised his eyebrows questioningly at Merlin, who had flushed pink with embarrassment at the obvious display of deference, and was flitting his eyes nervously from the ground to Arthur and back down. Before he could ask any questions about how Merlin could out-rank him, however, Ninianne stepped up.

“My lords, if you will follow me, please,” she said politely, and Arthur did not miss the way Merlin’s cheeks reddened further at being addressed as an equal to the King. Ninianne turned and glided away soundlessly, her simple Druid robes flowing about her. Arthur and Merlin fell in step behind her and found themselves in front of a simple but large gray tent, the interior of which was revealed to be full of heavy woolen blankets and pillows. While it was not up to the standard accommodations to which Arthur was accustomed, he had spent enough nights with only the sparse branches of barely-spring trees for cover that he was grateful for the shelter. He also did not miss that it was just as big as several of the other tents in the camp, which seemed to house several people, and for the second time that day he regretted his status.

He did not have much time for regret, however, because Ninianne turned then and said to him with a warm smile, “A friend of Emrys is a guest of ours, and if you are to be his Once and Future King, then you shall have a place of honor among us.”

Arthur opened his mouth to respond, but then frowned and closed it abruptly. Emrys? Who is that? But before he could voice his confusion, Merlin, whose face had managed to pink all the way to the tips of his ears, dismissed her with a quick, “Thank you, Ninianne,” and, as she turned away, he shuffled his feet nervously and motioned for Arthur to enter the tent. He did, closely followed by Merlin, who closed the flap behind them. Rubbing his eyes to adjust to the suddenly dim lighting, he yawned, acutely aware of the exhaustion that was numbing all parts of his body, but he was determined to get some answers before he allowed himself to sleep.

Merlin, however, had busied himself with Arthur’s garments, unclipping his cloak and folding it gently before moving to the buckles on his chainmail. Arthur stood still, his heart swelling with the rightness of it, the familiarity of Merlin’s gestures as they fell back into routine. It was not as if nothing had happened – no, Merlin’s touch was far too light and hesitant for Arthur to forget all that had passed – but it gave him hope that their relationship would not be broken forever. But before they could mend the bond, there were some things that he had to know.

“Merlin,” he started, the sound muffled as Merlin pulled his padded jacket over his head. “Merlin,” he repeated when there was no response. Merlin sighed and, after folding and setting aside his jacket with much more care than he ever had, clasped his hands behind his back and faced Arthur with a smile, only his eyes again betraying his wariness. “Sire?” he asked expectantly.

“Am I?” asked Arthur. He hadn’t intended for it to be the first question he asked, but right now, it seemed to be the only information worth knowing.

Whatever Merlin had been expecting, this clearly was not it, for his forced smile faltered and he said slowly, “What…what do you mean?”

“Am I your sire? Am I still your lord? Am I – ” he struggled to control his voice, not because he was angry but because he was desperate for the truth but anxious that it might not be what he wanted to hear, but he continued, “Am I still your King?”

Merlin was wearing a pained expression and his hands had reached out to Arthur, but when Arthur’s raised to meet his seemingly of their own accord, their own thoughtless desire to hold him, Merlin took them in his own and dropped to his knees in front of him, pressing the backs of Arthur’s hands against his forehead. “Of course, sire. You have always been my king, even before…” Even before your father died, Arthur could hear the words even though Merlin did not say them, just continued, “and you will always be my king. All my life, all my service, my magic” – his voice broke on the word – “are for you, and you alone, to do with what you will, for the rest of time.”

“But why? Why, Merlin? You’re so powerful, you could have lived anywhere else, anywhere where you could have been free, why did you put yourself in danger? Why did you stay in Camelot? How could you” – he was losing it, he could tell, but he had to know, he had to – “How could you offer yourself to me now, after I…after I…I…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it, to admit how rash, how cruel he had been to cast Merlin out after he had placed his life in his hands, after he had proved his loyalty time and time again. He tried then to draw his hands back, to bring Merlin up off of his knees, but Merlin stayed with his head bowed against Arthur’s hands, shaking his head fervently as if none of what Arthur was saying made any difference.

“It’s my destiny,” he said.

Arthur breath stuck in his throat at that. It was the same phrase Gaius had said to him, the same word that Arthur had always taken as the senseless ramblings of an odd servant, the word that he was beginning to realize was playing a much larger role in his life than he had ever acknowledged: destiny. It seemed foreign, impersonal; it hung in the air between them like a cold mist as Arthur struggled to ask what had really been nagging at his mind and heart ever since Gaius first said it in his chambers: “Is that it?”

There was a pause, and he closed his eyes, bracing himself for Merlin’s answer. He felt Merlin pull his face away from his hands, but he did not let them go.

“Arthur.” His eyes opened at that and he looked down. Merlin was looking up at him with an unreadable expression, but his tone had been soft, barely more than a whisper. It was nothing like the way he had said his name before, first with hesitancy and then with bravado, as if to prove to himself that he could. This time, it was with a tenderness that pierced Arthur’s heart, a needle and thread stitching the broken pieces back together. Their gaze did not break as Merlin rose steadily from his knees until they were standing toe-to-toe, their hands still clasped together. Merlin cocked his head to the side, a brief question on his face, before closing his eyes and leaning in.

When Arthur felt Merlin’s lips press gently against his, he stiffened, confused. He felt Merlin pause too, but when Merlin attempted to pull back, Arthur followed. He did not understand what was happening, but he knew he was not ready for it to end. Merlin’s lips smiled against his and he did not break contact, and Arthur felt himself relax into Merlin’s soft kisses at the same time as he felt a warmth spreading through his limbs and a jittery, not unpleasant feeling in his gut. When Merlin lips finally left his, it was not to pull away, but to wrap his arms around Arthur’s waist and pull him tight against him, burrowing his face in his neck. “It was never just destiny, Arthur,” Merlin mumbled, his warm breath tickling Arthur’s skin, and Arthur could not find the energy to respond. He just held him there, aware that Merlin’s arms were the only thing keeping him from collapsing from exhaustion. Merlin seemed to be thinking the same thing, because he pulled back and led Arthur to the soft pile of blankets that was his bed.

Arthur let himself be laid down onto the bed as Merlin took off his boots and wrapped enough blankets around him to keep him warm against the cool spring nights. Arthur could feel sleep overtake him quickly, but as Merlin straightened up to leave, he reached out and grabbed his hand. Merlin turned, a small smile on his face, and Arthur was suddenly unsure. He was too tired to try to understand what was going on between them, and he wasn’t sure what he was asking of Merlin by asking him to stay. But Merlin just sat beside him on the bed, one hand still in Arthur’s, the other brushing the hair off of his forehead soothingly. Arthur closed his eye, content, and slept.

 *

It took a several moments for Arthur to remember where he was when he awoke the next morning. He wasn’t sure what had woken him in the first place, until he heard the scuffled footsteps of his servant close by. He rolled over, about to tell Merlin off for waking him and maybe throw a pillow in his direction, when he glimpsed the unfamiliar tent over his head and he remembered everything that had transpired in the last several days. Merlin had his backed turned to him, fiddling with something on a small wooden table in the corner, and Arthur simply watched. The events of the night before were the blurriest in Arthur’s mind – a testament to his exhaustion – but the distinct press of Merlin’s soft lips against his came in sharp, if confusing. What were we doing? But Arthur could not bring himself to be ashamed of what they had done – on the contrary, he felt quite warm at the memory.

Merlin turned around then to catch Arthur staring, but if his thoughts about the night before were plain on his face, Merlin took no notice. Instead, he flashed the same smile that Arthur had been waking to for years and carried a tray full of simple wooden dishes over to his bed.

“Rise and shine!” he said playfully, and Arthur, who usually dreaded the words that always preceded the blinding sunlight that poured into his room every morning when Merlin came to wake him, found himself grateful that Merlin was putting in such an obvious effort to return to the way they had been before. Before. It was impossible for things to go back to the way they were before the battle, before Merlin had risked his life to save them all, before he had exposed a power that could no longer be ignored – Arthur knew that. He knew that everything would be different between them now. But, his thoughts still dwelling on the night before, unable to forget the feeling of Merlin’s warm body pressed against his, he wondered selfishly if the changes in their relationship would stem from more than just his magic.

Merlin was holding out the tray for him expectantly, and Arthur was pulled out of his thoughts by the sweet smell of fruit and honey and oats, his stomach twisting into knots that made him painfully aware of how long it had been since he last ate. He sat up and took the tray, trying to maintain a semblance of decorum as he shoveled the simple food into his mouth, while Merlin turned and busied himself setting out his clothes for the day.

As he finished, he noticed that Merlin was laying out clothes from his saddlebags, clothes that he happened to know had been worn and filthy, but that were now looking fresh and clean. He felt his chest twinge with the thought that Merlin had been up for gods-know how long doing chores – his chores – when, if Arthur was being honest with himself, Merlin wasn’t even his servant anymore.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” Arthur said. Merlin, who seemed to know to what he was referring, answered with a snort.

“They weren’t going to wash themselves!” he joked, looking up from the wrinkle-free tunic he was holding to flash Arthur another smile. “Are you ready to dress?”

“I–” Arthur started, and then sighed. “Merlin, what I meant was, you don’t have to do this” – he gestured to the clothes and the food – “for me anymore. It’s one thing for you to serve me; it’s entirely another for you to be my servant.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Please,” he scoffed, “if it wasn’t for me, you’d never get your clothes on.” He frowned then, as if considering what he had just said, but shook his head slightly and, ignoring Arthur’s half-hearted protests, hoisted him out of bed and onto his feet. Arthur wasn’t going to let it go so easily, but he was also reluctant to lose Merlin as a servant, however terrible he was. He fell silent as the tunic he had slept in was pulled over his head and he stood bare-chested, chilly in the spring air despite the thick walls of the tent. Merlin paused, his eyes tracing the fine lines of Arthur’s chest as he slowly dropped the old tunic and picked up the new. Arthur felt suddenly self-conscious, which was ridiculous, he told himself, because Merlin dressed him every morning and this was no different. But he couldn’t help but feel like this time was different, like Merlin’s cheeks flushed too pink as he tried and failed to avert his eyes, like Merlin’s fingers lingered a second too long on his skin as he pulled the tunic on, like his own skin tingled where Merlin’s fingers had been and ached in their absence. Merlin was tying up the laces on the front of his tunic, biting his lower lip in concentration, and Arthur had a sudden urge to lean in and take that lip between his own teeth. Before he could act, however, Merlin took a step back and cleared his throat, smiling affectionately, giving Arthur a once-over and nodding, satisfied.

“I think you’re ready for them,” he said simply.

“Ready for who?” Arthur asked, suddenly confused.

“The Druids,” Merlin said slowly, as if talking to a child. “They’re going to pledge their allegiance to you today.”

Arthur frowned. “What do you mean, ‘pledge their allegiance’? The Druids come and go across borders as they please. They make treaties, but they don’t pledge themselves to any king.”

Merlin continued to look at him as if he was missing the obvious. “Well, sire, you’re not just ‘any king,’ now, are you?”

Arthur regarded him closely. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with my destiny, would it?"

“Of course it does.” Merlin rolled his eyes. “When are you going to understand that you’re the Once and Future King?”

“And what role do you play in this, Emrys?”

He threw out the mysterious name, hoping to get a reaction. He wasn’t disappointed. Merlin blushed again, looking down at his shoes. “That’s just the name the Druids know me by. It doesn’t mean anything.” He looked up to see Arthur raise his eyebrows skeptically, and sighed. “It’s part of the prophecy. The Once and Future King and Emrys, together, will unite all of Albion, and…” He swallowed. “And bring magic back to the land.”

He fell silent, still staring at his shoes.

“So…I assume you’ll be explaining this to me in more detail when we get home?”

Merlin’s head shot up, a hopeful grin spreading across his face. “I’ll explain everything, Arthur.”

“Good,” said Arthur, putting an end to the conversation and, he hoped, any fears Merlin may still be harboring. “So, are you ever going to introduce me?” Merlin smiled at him with genuine affection, and, grabbing his arm lightly, pulled him out into the sunlight.

* 

Arthur could not remember a time when he had felt so at peace. He did not envy the Druids; they lived very simply, struggling to find food in the harsh winters, constantly living in fear of persecution and uprooting themselves until the (very) recent peace treaty, keeping to themselves in order to keep the Old Religion alive and safe. But as he let Merlin lead him through the camp, meeting and mingling with every person, young and old, hearing their stories, their hopes and fears, he appreciated the chance to do what he thought was the most important duty of being a king.

He also appreciated watching Merlin interact with the Druids. Although he had already been here for several days, the Druids still insisted on bowing low to him upon each encounter, a privilege he himself was not afforded even after they had sworn allegiance. It flustered Merlin, he could see, to be shown such respect; although after the first few times it had happened and Merlin had cast anxious looks Arthur’s way, he had pulled him aside to tell him to stop worrying, that he understood, and after that, Merlin seemed to relax considerably. After a rather informal ceremony in which Iseldir and the other adults of the camp officially pledged their allegiance to Albion’s Once and Future King, Merlin took Arthur everywhere, showing him off to everyone they met.

Arthur was touched by the pride he could see in Merlin’s smile as he introduced him to the Druids. He also could not keep his mind off of Merlin’s hand tugging on his arm, resting on his shoulder, sliding gently across his back. Arthur was not sure if Merlin was aware that he was touching him, but after every time he drew his hand back, Arthur’s skin tingled where Merlin’s fingers had been, and he found himself longing for the next touch. Merlin, for his part, seemed oblivious, content to simply be with Arthur again, feigning whatever normalcy he could under these conditions. Even though he had made it clear that morning that Merlin would be welcome back to Camelot, Arthur wondered if he was nervous to return. After his own reaction, which had cast him out and threatened to deprive him of his truest friend, Arthur couldn’t blame Merlin if he wanted to draw out this visit for as long as he could. But Arthur had not paid any heed to Camelot’s needs since Merlin had left, and he needed to return to court.

“Merlin.” They were sitting on the soft ground outside their tent, enjoying a light lunch. They had fallen into a comfortable silence a few moments before, and Arthur was hesitant to break it.

“Yes sire?” Merlin looked up at him from where he had lain back onto the earth, a lazy smile playing across his features. Arthur rolled his eyes, but made no comment.
“We have to go back.”

There was no response. Arthur looked over to see that Merlin had thrown his arms over his face, as if he could shield himself from Arthur’s words.

“Did you hear me?”

Merlin sighed audibly. “Yes, I heard you,” he grumbled, sitting upright and curling into a ball, his lanky arms wrapped around his knees. He dropped his head onto his knees.

Arthur could hear his thoughts even though he did not speak them. He reached out a hand tentatively and placed it on the exposed back of Merlin’s neck. “It’ll be all right,” he promised, as much for Merlin’s sake as for his own. Merlin looked up as Arthur pulled his hand back, smiling fondly at him.

“We’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” he said.

“Um, Merlin, I know you’re some all-powerful sorcerer around here, but I’m still the king, and I still get to give the orders.” He nudged Merlin playfully, which resulted in Merlin toppling over, laughing. Arthur laughed too, a hearty, carefree laugh that only deepened when Merlin pushed himself up and threw himself back into Arthur’s shoulder with all his weight, to absolutely no avail. Druids sitting nearby looked at them with glanced at them with interest, and Arthur was very glad of Merlin’s status here. He could only imagine the stern, disapproving looks he would get at court for showing such affection for a servant. Not that he thought the Druids would mind either way.

When their laughter faded, Merlin said, “It’s not that.” It took Arthur a moment to remember what they had been talking about. “It’s that tonight, it’s Beltane Eve. It’s a special celebration to the Druids. They’ve prepared a feast…for us…” he trailed off, biting his lower lip and giving Arthur an unreadable look through his lashes. Arthur was familiar enough with Beltane, even though its observation inside Camelot’s walls was strictly secular. But despite the ban on the Old Religion that had existed since the Great Purge, he had heard stories of villagers meeting in the woods in secret, atop hillocks where bonfires were lit and lovers celebrated the fertility of spring. He wasn’t sure what the celebrations would be like here in the camp, where the celebration still undoubtedly held religious significance. It went against everything he had been raised with, but ever since the revelation of Merlin’s magic, his whole world had been flipped on its end, and he was starting to wonder if it was for the better. Merlin’s loyalty had never wavered, his relationship with the Druids had been strengthened and they had treated him with greater hospitality than he could ever have expected – staying for their celebration was the least he could do.

“All right, Merlin,” he said after a moment of thought. “We can stay tonight. But we can’t put it off past tomorrow. We both have duties to attend to in court.”

Merlin smiled, closed his eyes, and lied back down on the ground, Arthur’s eyes lingering on his slight frame.

* 

As dusk fell over the camp, Merlin and Arthur made their way to the center of the site, where a large campfire had been built. They had changed clothes; Arthur had insisted on dressing himself so that Merlin could also change. He had chosen his favorite red tunic with black breeches, and when Merlin greeted him outside his tent to walk to the fire, Arthur was surprised to see him in a loose-fitting black tunic with simple embroidery in red and golden thread around the edges. Merlin caught him looking, and looked down shyly. “It was a gift.” Arthur didn’t have to ask from whom. His gaze lingered at the collar, where Merlin’s lack of scarf left his neck exposed, slender and pale in the evening light. He swallowed hard and exited the tent, shooting Merlin a playfully impatient look, eager to get into the company of others and away from his dangerous thoughts.

The Druids – a few dozen in all – were seated on logs and stumps and blankets in a circle around the fire, more trickling in as Arthur and Merlin sat themselves in a less-crowded portion of the circle, a few people away from Iseldir. The people were laughing and talking loudly, passing plates and bowls of delicious-smelling food from one to another while children ran in packs around the clearing and an older woman threw more logs onto the already blazing bonfire. It was the kind of care-free merriment that Arthur had not realized he had been missing between the intricacies of court etiquette and the many emergencies that happened to inconveniently spring up every time there was a celebration in Camelot. He looked over to see Merlin grinning like a spoiled child, and he echoed that grin when Merlin caught his eye.

They had barely filled their plates with food when Iseldir stood up, holding a cup of wine aloft and waiting patiently for the crowd to quiet. “Sisters and brothers,” he greeted them, “on this eve of Beltane, we gather among friends and family to celebrate the fertility that Spring has brought us and the coming of the Summer months. We pray that the gods look down on us with favor, that our lives may be blessed with prosperity and abundance. Tonight, we are graced with the presence of Emrys” – he lifted his cup in Merlin’s direction now, much to his embarrassment – “and Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future King. Together, they are two sides of the same coin, one that is destined to lift Albion out of the shadows and unite Her in peace against Her adversaries for many ages to come!” The Druids cheered at this, and all around, cups were raised and drunk in their honor. Merlin was doing his best to take the compliment gracefully, but even after a week of being openly heralded by these people as a savior, Arthur wondered at just how humble Merlin was. Clearly, Arthur thought, Merlin didn’t know how special he really was, not just to these people, but to his king.

He reached out then, not quite sure what he intended, but when his hand fell on Merlin’s shoulder and Merlin turned to look at him, cheeks pink with embarrassment, Arthur gave him a playful shake and let his hand drop while he still had the willpower to do so. He had been barely letting himself acknowledge the complicated feelings that had been developing towards Merlin over the course of the day (although, if he was being completely honest with himself, they had been developing for far longer than that; it just hadn’t been until last night that he could ever have dreamed that those feelings would be reciprocated). Now, however, with some good food and wine in his system and the company of people who viewed them not as king and servant but as partners, equally necessary to build this Albion of theirs, it was easier to let himself appreciate Merlin as he never could before. He watched quietly as Merlin conversed animatedly with their neighbors. The way the firelight cast dancing shadows across his face… the way his cheeks dimpled when he smiled, really smiled… the way his tunic, black as his hair, contrasted so vividly against the white skin of his hands, of his throat...

Thankfully, Arthur’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of music. Somewhere on the other side of the circle, a group had taken up instruments – drums, small harps, even a flute – and adults and children alike were gathering about them, dancing. Merlin had perked up when the sound had drifted their way, and he glanced over at Arthur as if to ask for permission. Arthur nodded, and watched as Merlin stood up, unsteady but enthusiastic, and wander over to the dancers. He continued to watch as Merlin struggled with what he assumed was a traditional dance, having drank too much to grasp it with ease, and eventually gave up, giggling and stumbling and dancing to his own rhythm. Those in the organized dance, Arthur noticed, were not in much better shape, and they too abandoned the choreography to move about freely, skipping and twirling and howling like wolves.

“My lord,” Arthur was startled at a voice by his side. He turned to see that Iseldir had moved so that he was sitting beside him, watching the dancers. He looked around and was surprised again to notice that they were two of only a few left sitting in the circle – the rest were dancing.

“Iseldir,” Arthur replied, not sure if he had wanted to ask something of him or merely announce his presence.

Iseldir gazed upon the dancers for a moment longer before saying, “You are not dancing.” It was not a question. Arthur turned back to the dance and found Merlin again, who was holding the hands of a man and a woman and spinning around in circles. “No, I am not.”

“Perhaps you should be.” Arthur snapped his head back to face Iseldir, who was giving him a look worthy of Gaius when he knew far more than he needed to say aloud. Arthur smiled, resigned, and sighed, looking back at Merlin. “Perhaps I will,” he said, and, before he could convince himself otherwise, he stood up and wandered over to the dancers.

“Arthur!” Merlin exclaimed, dropping the hands of the girl he had been twirling and waltzing over to him. The girl he had left looked disappointed, and Arthur recognized her as Ninianne. But Merlin did not seem to notice as he pulled up short in front of Arthur. His face was flushed from dancing, his dark hair was in disarray and crowned in a wreath of spring flowers, he was grinning like a carefree child, and his eyes were glowing, though from reflecting the firelight or from magic, Arthur could not tell.

They stood for a moment, regarding each other, when Merlin held out his hand. “Dance with me?” Arthur grasped his outstretched hand and felt himself relax, letting Merlin pull him into the crowd of dancers, take his other hand in his and skipping in circles until they were dizzy. They collapsed into a fit of laughter, pulling each other close for support to keep from falling to the ground. Arthur found himself with his arms around Merlin’s waist, his palms pressed into the small of his back, Merlin grasping Arthur’s upper arms and resting his head on his shoulder, the warm breath of his giggles tickling the exposed skin of Arthur’s neck. Arthur felt something in his gut stir, and he pulled Merlin’s body tight against his. Merlin responded by lifting his head to face him, gazing at him through his dark lashes, his eyes full of want. Arthur wanted him. But before he could lean in to kiss him, Merlin’s expression transformed into one of cheeky insolence that Arthur recognized from years of putting up with a servant who had never figured out how to be a real servant. Merlin winked at him, and before Arthur knew what he was doing, he had spun out of Arthur’s grasp and was twirling away, losing himself in the throng of wild dancers.

Arthur reached out after him, but dropped his hands in confusion and frustration. He didn’t understand. Had he just been rejected? The thought hurt, but he couldn’t bring himself to accept it. He looked around the crowd, desperate to find him again.

“My lord,” Arthur was startled for the second time that night by Iseldir, who had appeared suddenly at his side. Arthur wondered idly if his powers of observation were suffering here at the Druid camp, or if Iseldir was able to appear and disappear magically. The latter didn’t bother him as much as he thought it should have.

“Yes?” he asked, impatient, wanting to find Merlin again.

“My lord, I have something for you.” Arthur looked at him now with interest, wondering what on earth the Druid could have for him that needed to be given now. He turned and glided out of the dancers, Arthur at his heels, somehow avoiding being jostled by the bodies with a grace that Arthur could not manage. When they had escaped the crowd, Iseldir motioned to a young girl who was standing over by the fire. As she approached, Arthur noticed that she was holding what at first looked like a tree branch, but upon closer inspection, turned out to be deer antlers. She held out the antlers, a matching pair fastened to a band, to Iseldir, who turned and offered them to Arthur. Arthur looked at Iseldir, at the antlers, and back at Iseldir, not knowing what exactly he was supposed to do with them. Iseldir smiled.

“My lord, if you would do me the honor of kneeling,” Iseldir said solemnly, and Arthur dropped slowly to one knee, confused but intrigued, not taking his eyes off of the Druid.
“Arthur Pendragon, on this eve of Beltane, we celebrate the fertility of the land with the joining of bodies in honor of the Great Goddess and her consort, the Horned God. As our Once and Future King, we would be honored if you accepted the role of the Horned One on this night. Do you accept?”

Having a very limited knowledge of the Old Religion, Arthur had no idea what this would entail, but he gathered that what was being asked of him was significant. He nodded slowly, giving a shaky, “Yes,” and Iseldir placed the antlers upon his head. At first, they were heavy and awkward, and Arthur was not sure how he was going to move without them falling off. But as Iseldir brought him to his feet and muttered a blessing under his breath, Arthur suddenly felt as if he had been born with them. He turned his head experimentally and felt the antlers move with him, natural, and was too intrigued by them to feel any fear.

Iseldir pointed over Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur turned to see that he was gesturing to a tent. “My Lord,” he said, bowing to him in reverence for the first time. “Your Goddess awaits.”

Arthur gave him one last nervous glance before he turned and strode to the tent. He paused briefly at the door, gathering up his courage for whatever he might find inside. He allowed himself a moment to think regretfully of Merlin – was he still dancing? Or was he out in the night, wrapped in the arms of a woman, performing his own rite to the Old Religion? He thought of Ninianne, of Ninianne and Merlin together, and blocked the image from his mind before he was overcome with jealousy. He inhaled deeply, and entered the tent.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the light of several candles that flickered around the room. But when he could see, his gazed locked with that of a familiar face.
Merlin was standing across the tent, his head, still framed by flowers, cocked to the side, a puzzled expression on his face that Arthur was sure his own features must be mirroring.

“Merlin?” Arthur asked. “What are you… How… Um…” Merlin watched him with amusement as he struggled for words.

“Arthur?” he prompted.

“Why are you here?” Arthur blurted out. Merlin looked taken-aback, his face falling.

“I… I can leave, if you want me to…” Merlin looked down at his feet, but not before Arthur could see the hurt there, and he instantly regretted his words.

“Merlin, no, that’s not… I don’t want you to go. I just…” he looked around, his arms spread in exasperation. “I just don’t understand what’s going on.”

Merlin looked up at that, wearing the same puzzled expression that he had when Arthur had first entered the tent. “What don’t you understand?”

“They said… Iseldir was saying things about ‘fertility,’ and some ‘Goddess,’ and something about the… the ‘joining of bodies’… But, it’s you! And you’re a…well, you’re not…um…” Arthur felt himself blushing, but couldn’t bring himself to say more.

Merlin was smiling gently at him. He took a few steps forward, and Arthur could tell by the way he was moving that the wine was all but gone from his system. Merlin reached out and took one of Arthur’s hands in both of his, the way he had last night when he was pledging his fealty. But instead of dropping to his knees, he merely held it in his, caressing it, inspecting its lines and scars as he spoke. “Arthur, ‘fertility’ can mean many things. The Druids are not expecting a child from this union,” he rolled his eyes as he said it, “of course not. But fertility can come in the form of ideas, of knowledge, of intimacy, of love” – he stuttered on this word, but continued with determination. “Fertility in all its forms is necessary for growth.”

“And this, this Horned God?” Arthur pointed to his antlers. “Are you supposed to be the Goddess?”

Merlin smiled again, this time looking up at his antlers. “Yes…” he mumbled, but Arthur suspected that it was less of an answer to his question and more of an affirmation of his own status as the Horned One. Merlin reached one hand up to trace the smooth curves, the blunted tips of the bone protruding from Arthur’s skull, unconsciously biting on his lower lip as his hand moved down to where the antlers met Arthur’s head, finally resting his palm against Arthur’s pink cheek. When Merlin’s eyes met Arthur’s, he could see the desire in them.

“The Goddess, too, manifests Herself in many ways,” he whispered softly, almost to himself, and Arthur could only just hear him. “I may not be a woman, but much of my power comes from the Feminine. Magic is a gift from the Earth Herself, and it is the balance to your strength and virility.” He smiled at that, his gaze straying for a moment to roam over Arthur’s muscled body before returning to meet his eyes. “We are two sides of the same coin, Arthur.”

Arthur wondered if, someday, he would ever understand what that actually meant.

“But, Arthur,” Merlin started, his voice low and serious now. “This… rite. Tonight. This ‘joining of bodies.’ It’s just symbolic.” He paused, as if to let the knowledge sink in. “What I mean is, we don’t have to, you know… do anything. If you don’t want to…” Arthur could sense a hint of doubt entering Merlin’s tone, and before Merlin could say anything else, Arthur grabbed Merlin’s waist and pulled him against him, pressing his lips firmly against his. He could feel Merlin gasp and then melt into the embrace, his fingers reaching around Arthur’s neck to tangle themselves in his hair, pulling himself into the kiss. Their lips moved as one, their breath quickening, their fingers grasping at the other’s body, desperate to get closer.

Arthur felt Merlin’s hands leave his hair then, tracing his neck and pausing at the laces of his tunic, fumbling with the knot only briefly before giving up, muttering under his breath. Arthur pulled back in time to see the glow fading from Merlin’s triumphant eyes, Arthur’s tunic lying in a pile on the ground without ever having been pulled over his head. “That’s cheating,” Arthur growled low in his ear, his teeth grazing Merlin’s earlobe, and he felt Merlin shiver under his hands. Merlin’s own hands, still lingering at the base of Arthur’s neck, slid down, exploring his naked shoulders, his arms, his chest, his back, his nails digging shallowly into flesh as Arthur moved his lips down Merlin’s neck, resting at his bare collarbone. He bared his teeth again, biting down gently at the soft skin at the base of Merlin’s neck, and Merlin let out a quiet moan that drove Arthur wild.

He pulled back, allowing himself to take one last appreciative look at the handsome tunic before he tugged at the laces and pulled it over his head in one deft movement, managing even to keep Merlin’s crown intact. Merlin gazed back at him hungrily, and Arthur pressed forward, backing Merlin up until his legs collided with the edge of the bed. Arthur gave him a playful push, and he fell back onto the soft bed, trying to scowl back at him but dissolving into laughter. He reached up for him, but Arthur remained standing a moment longer, gazing down at Merlin’s bare chest. He had seen Merlin shirtless several times before – no one could afford to be shy while out on patrols – but he had never allowed himself to look at Merlin’s body before now. His skin was pale, ghost-like in the low candle light, and marked with scars that Arthur was sure had been acquired under his service. There were several, however, that Arthur had no idea where they came from, including one that looked like the imprint of chains running across his chest.

“Arthur?” Arthur met Merlin’s eyes, tinged with self-consciousness, and Arthur smiled. Someday, he would discover everything Merlin had done in secret to save him and his kingdom. But not today. He climbed onto the bed, his hands planted firmly on either side of Merlin’s head, his knees straddling Merlin’s waist.

“Merlin,” Arthur whispered as Merlin’s arms wrapped around him and he dipped his head to kiss Merlin’s forehead, his nose, his lips. He lingered there, his lips hovering a hair’s breadth away from Merlin’s, pulling away teasingly each time Merlin tried to lift his head to meet him. After his third failed attempt at a kiss, Merlin moaned in exasperation, and Arthur grinned wickedly. He entwined the fingers of one hand through Merlin’s hair and pulled back roughly, causing Merlin to gasp and arch his back as Arthur returned to moving his lips down Merlin’s neck, pausing several times to nip and suck at the skin, each time rewarded as a soft moan escaped Merlin’s lips. He hesitated only briefly at the hollow of his throat before continuing down his chest, his hand leaving Merlin’s hair in favor of tracing every inch of skin that his lips were missing. He could feel Merlin’s breath hitching as his lips travelled lower, lower, reaching the tender skin below his navel. He glanced up to see Merlin staring back at him desperately, and watched Merlin throw his head back into the soft bed, his moans growing louder as Arthur ran his tongue from hip to hip where his skin slid under his breeches. He could feel Merlin’s hardness beneath him, pressing against his breeches. He touched his lips very softly against Merlin, only the thin layer of cloth separating his mouth from Merlin’s cock. Merlin gasped and lifted his hips eagerly towards Arthur, but Arthur pushed them back down, holding them and teasing with his lips the way he had done over Merlin’s mouth. Merlin squirmed, grasping at the blankets beneath him, and panted, “Arthur… please…”

Arthur shivered as his name left Merlin’s bruised lips, and his hands, so steady before, trembled as he unfastened the belt and yanked his breeches and smallclothes down to his knees, exposing Merlin’s stiff cock. Merlin’s eyes met his again, begging, and Arthur pressed his lips to the base of his cock, inspiring a small squeal out of Merlin as he ran his tongue up his length. He formed his lips around the head and gave an experimental suck, and Merlin let out a moan that fought against Arthur’s self-control and won. He grasped the base with one hand and gave long, hard strokes as he brought as much as he could into his mouth, sucking and stroking with his tongue. He felt Merlin take hold of his antlers and push his head down, bucking his hips and thrusting his cock further down Arthur’s throat, Arthur taking it hungrily.

“Arthur… Arthur!” Merlin started frantically, pushing himself up onto his elbows, and Arthur drew back in time to avoid Merlin’s orgasm, locking eyes with Merlin as he came. Merlin collapsed back on the bed, panting, and Arthur crawled up his body, giving swift kisses along the way, relishing the saltiness of Merlin’s sweat-soaked skin. Merlin had let go of his antlers, but grabbed at them again to pull him into a kiss. “I like these,” Merlin chuckled, pulling him down to kiss him again, his tongue prying Arthur’s lips open and exploring his mouth. With each tug at his antlers, Arthur’s hard cock ached longingly, and when he thrust himself against Merlin’s hip bone, Merlin pulled out of the kiss, looking up at him with a smirk that just barely hid his thirst. His hands slid from his antlers to his waist, covering as much skin as they could reach on the way, and lingered at the belt buckle, teasing Arthur as he had been teased. It was Arthur’s turn to moan, his eyes rolling back, and Merlin chuckled again.

“Merlin…” Arthur had clenched the blankets on either side of Merlin’s head, knuckles white. Merlin took advantage of Arthur’s distractedness to wrap his arms around his waist and roll, pushing Arthur onto his back with more strength than Arthur would have given him credit for. He fell back into the bed with a surprised “Oh!” as Merlin quickly rid himself of his pants and straddled him, grinding himself down on Arthur’s cock and giving him a smug smile as Arthur’s heavy breathing turned into moans. Arthur had never begged Merlin for anything – they both knew it – and Arthur could tell that Merlin was content to draw this out as long as he could.

Arthur had other plans. He reached up and thumbed Merlin’s soft cock, thrusting up against him as he did so. The motion forced him to close his eyes tight against the ache in his painfully hard cock, but he heard Merlin’s sharp intake of breath and knew he was winning. He opened his eyes to see Merlin pulling at the laces of his breeches, a dark, hungry look on his face. As his long, slender fingers gripped tight around Arthur, he had to close his eyes again, the anticipation and the look on Merlin’s face enough to make him come right then. Merlin’s weight shifted on top of him, and he watched as Merlin leaned down to take him in his mouth.

“M-Merlin, wait,” he breathed, kicking himself internally for denying himself those lips around his cock. Merlin looked at him, his face inches away from his cock, and for a moment, Arthur thought about abandoning his train of thought and letting Merlin take him. But there was something else he wanted.

“Merlin, there’s something… Can I… I want…” He could feel his cheeks reddening, and he didn’t know how to put into words what it was that he wanted. Instead, he gripped behind Merlin’s knees and pulled him up so that he was straddling his waist again. He slid his hands up the back of Merlin’s legs until they reached his arse, pausing for only a brief second before pressing a finger against his entrance. Merlin’s eyebrows shot up as he realized what Arthur meant, and his eyes darkened with desire.

“Arthur, yes,” Merlin moaned, and he grabbed Arthur’s hand, bringing it to his mouth and sucking on two fingers. Arthur clung to Merlin’s arse with his free hand, leaving crescent-moon marks from digging his nails into the tender skin, small moans escaping his throat as he pushed his fingers down Merlin’s throat, watching Merlin’s cheeks hollow as he sucked. Finally, he withdrew them, well soaked in spit, and brought them back to Merlin’s tight entrance. He pushed one finger in, slowly, feeling Merlin’s body tense around him. Merlin had doubled over, his hands supporting him on either side of Arthur’s body, his breath coming out shallow and ragged. His eyes were locked on Arthur’s, and when Arthur paused, he nodded encouragingly for him to continue. Arthur wriggled his finger around inside him until he had relaxed, and pushed in another one, causing Merlin to bite his lip to keep from crying out in discomfort and desire. With two fingers inside of him, Arthur could coax his entrance into expanding, trying to ignore his own desperate erection as Merlin writhed on top of him.

“Arthur, I want… I need…” Merlin was begging again, and it was all Arthur needed. Merlin looked disappointed as Arthur pulled out of him, but Arthur looked down at his own cock and back at Merlin pointedly, and Merlin flashed him an understanding smirk before going down. Arthur was gasping, struggling for self-control, as Merlin’s tongue lathered up his cock. But he was gone before very long, repositioning himself so that Arthur’s slick cock was pressing against his entrance. He paused there. Arthur looked up at him.

“Ready?” he asked.

Merlin swallowed and nodded. “Ready.”

Arthur placed his hands on Merlin’s hips and gently pushed. He felt Merlin expand to accommodate him, tensing and loosening as Arthur slid his length into him. Merlin’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut and he was biting down hard on his bottom lip, the muffled sounds of his moans driving Arthur wild. When Arthur was fully enveloped in him, he stopped, breathing heavily, not wanting to move too rashly for fear he would come too quickly and it would all be over too soon. He wasn’t sure when, or even if, he was going to be able to do this again, and he needed to be able to cherish every glorious second of it.

“Are you all right?” he asked Merlin, not sure whether Merlin was cringing in pain or desire. His eyes snapped open, and Arthur could tell it was the latter.

“Gods, yes Arthur,” he replied, grinding down and causing Arthur to moan loudly, digging his nails into Merlin’s flesh again. That served only to make Merlin rise up and grind down again, hard, and again, until Arthur was writhing and moaning and bucking his hips up to meet him as he came down. Merlin arched his back and his head fell back, and Arthur could see the bite marks on his neck beginning to bruise and his lips longed to be touching, kissing him again. He knew he was close to coming now, and he grabbed Merlin’s waist and rolled him back over, still inside of him, pinning him back against the bed. Merlin grabbed his antlers again and pulled him into a fierce kiss and Arthur grabbed him under his thighs and pushed his knees up to his shoulders, spreading him wide and thrusting deep into him. He could feel the friction of Merlin’s cock, hard again, against their stomachs. Merlin was practically choking on his moans now, and in just a few hard thrusts, they were both coming, Arthur shooting his come inside Merlin’s warm body. They cried out each other’s names and held each other close, riding out their orgasm. Merlin’s eyes flashed a brilliant gold, and Arthur thought he had never seen anything so beautiful.

They collapsed back on the bed, clinging to each other tightly, their heavy breathing evening as their chests rose and fell together. The candles surrounding the bed had gone out – Arthur suspected in response to Merlin’s magic – and he laid there on top of Merlin in the darkness for several moments, just listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

He was wondering if Merlin had fallen asleep when he heard a soft whisper. “Arthur?” Arthur thought he could listen to Merlin say his name forever and never tire of it. He lifted his head from Merlin’s chest – his antlers had disappeared soon after they had finished, and Arthur did not bother to wonder how – and saw Merlin looking down at him with a gentle smile on his face, which he returned.

“Merlin?” he whispered back. Merlin reached out a hand and stroked Arthur’s cheek tenderly, looking into his eyes. Arthur leaned forward and kissed him sweetly on the mouth, and then lingered there, their foreheads pressed together.

Merlin was silent for a few moments more, and then just said, so low Arthur could barely hear it, “I love you, Arthur.”

“I love you, Merlin,” he responded without hesitation, surprised at himself to know that it was the truth. In all his years with Merlin, he had never allowed himself to get too close to him, to anyone, and had never realized how dear Merlin had become to him until he had almost lost him. He could never afford to lose him again. Not just because he had made a dire mistake in underestimating the undying loyalty of his servant, but because he knew that, given the chance, he would die rather than see Merlin dead for him. He did love him. Maybe he always had.

He rolled off of Merlin, only to curl up beside him, his spine pressed against Merlin’s side. Merlin rolled too so that he was curled protectively around Arthur, his arm snug against Arthur’s ribs, his face nuzzled against Arthur’s soft hair. “Sweet dreams, my lord,” Merlin whispered, drifting off to sleep.

“Sweet dreams.”

* 

The whole camp of Druids turned up to wish Emrys and his King safe travels as they departed the next morning. A horse had been procured for Merlin, and their saddle bags had been packed with food and supplies to last the three-day ride back to Camelot. Iseldir approached Arthur before he mounted his horse.

“Iseldir,” Arthur said, nodding his head. “I thank you and your people for your hospitality. It has been… Well, I look forward to working with you to further strengthen the alliance between Camelot and the Druids.”

“King Arthur,” he replied, smiling and nodding back. “We shall meet again, very soon. Take care,” he added, with a knowing look at Merlin, who was fumbling with Arthur’s saddle, giving it a once-over to check that everything was buckled correctly. He always had been paranoid when other people took care of Arthur’s horse. Although Iseldir had not mentioned his name, Merlin looked up then, making eye contact with Iseldir for a brief moment before nodding and returning to his own horse. Arthur assumed it was a magic thing, and didn’t ask. He mounted his horse.

“Farewell, King Arthur, Emrys.” Iseldir and the Druids raised their hands to them. They returned the gesture, and then turned their horses and rode out of the camp.

They rode for several minutes in a comfortable silence, occasionally knocking knees as their horses walked beside each other. The spring morning air was warm, the sky was clear, and Arthur could tell that they would make good time returning to the castle. He was nervous about what they would face upon their return, and could sense Merlin’s anxiety too, although he was working to mask it. But for now, he was looking forward to a few more days of peace to be alone together before the stress and duty of the court bore down on him again.

“We’ll have to find Gaius a new apprentice,” Arthur said, breaking the silence.

“What?” Merlin asked a few seconds late, pulled out of his thoughts, whatever they were.

“Gaius. He’ll need a new apprentice.”

“But, why?” asked Merlin, confused.

“Well…” said Arthur slowly, exaggerating, as if Merlin were a child. “He can’t very well expect you to have time to clean his leech tank if you’re going to continue to be my manservant and be Court Sorcerer.”

He let the words hang in the air until Merlin spluttered, “Court S-s-sorcerer? What? But Arthur, that’s impossible, you’d have to –”

“Overturn the ban on magic, yes, I’m aware.” He rolled his eyes. “And nothing is impossible, Merlin, I’m the king.”

He waited for Merlin’s usual sharp retort, but it didn’t come. He glanced over to find Merlin looking down at his hands. Merlin looked up at him then, and his eyes were glistening with unshed tears, the smile on his face shining with unexpected joy. “Arthur…” he started.

Arthur rolled his eyes again. “Don’t be such a girl, Merlin!” And they burst into laughter, spurring their horses homeward, to Camelot.
________________________________________

The boy clung to his mother, whimpering in an attempt to be held. Morgana ignored him, her gaze fixed, as ever, upon the walls of Camelot.

“One day, Mordred. One day, you will sit on that throne.”

Mordred did not even look at the castle. It was only when he started to cry that Morgana lifted him into her arms.

“Hush, child.” She brushed his soft locks away from his brow and he quieted, content. She gazed one last time at the walls of Camelot, one hand poised reassuringly on the empty scabbard at her waist. She would be back.