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“They’ll go after you,” Arthur tells Merlin.
War has arrived on their doorstep. While Camelot’s army is strong and disciplined, famed throughout the land for their prowess, they are severely outnumbered and most certainly outmagicked.
The division Uther had sown throughout his reign has proven itself too deep for Arthur to bridge. Magic is welcomed back at the heart of Camelot, sure, but it doesn’t breathe life back into those who burned. Prejudice and distrust of magic remain deeply entrenched amongst highborns and commonfolk alike, a sticky dark ghost that refuses to budge. And despite Arthur’s best efforts, those with magic remain wary, reluctant to take the side of their kinslayer’s son.
“I can take care of myself,” replies Merlin easily. “I am not bad at magic, you know.”
Understatement for the ages. Arthur snorts despite himself.
“I know,” he huffs. It’s impossible to miss the way the Druids treat Merlin; as though he is magic itself, a god walking among men. “The greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth, and all that. But you’re not invincible, Merlin.”
“It is my duty to protect you,” insists Merlin, who can be incredibly thick-headed when he wants to be. “Not the other way around. That’s not how it goes.”
“You are in no position to dictate how things go,” says Arthur exasperatedly. “And in any case, yes it is. It is my duty to protect Camelot first and foremost, and you are our best chance at that.” He exhales loudly, but they both know that it is mostly for show. And then he adds, because he can't help himself, "God save us all."
It’s difficult to reconcile the bumbling servant boy from Ealdor with the all-powerful sorcerer who can summon lightning and thunder from his fingertips without breaking a sweat, sometimes. Arthur tries anyway. He can still catch a glimpse of that boy from time to time when he truly looks and it never fails to cause warmth to bloom in his chest. He sees it in Merlin’s badly concealed eye rolls during court sessions and in his appalling table manners during banquets. Arthur more than tolerates it—he guards each of these moments close to his chest, clutching at them with both hands.
Something softens in Merlin’s expression. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Well, don’t get used to it,” Arthur mutters gruffly, clearing his throat. It’s difficult to stay frustrated at Merlin when the tiniest crinkle of his eyes is enough to cause Arthur’s heart to stutter in his chest, but Arthur manages it. Just about. “Morgana knows it too. She’ll make immediately for you.” His spine is stiff with fear that pools at its base. Why does Arthur have to explain it all—can’t Merlin just understand? “Her army will go after you, her sorcerers will rain hell upon you. They’re not stupid, Merlin. No kingdom is invincible—Camelot is only halfway there because we have you on our side.”
“You should be on the ground with your men.” Merlin points out, not unreasonably. “Arthur, they need you.”
Merlin isn’t wrong, and Arthur knows Merlin isn't wrong. His men need Arthur to lead them into the battle; that is exactly what it means to be king. That is exactly what is expected of him. But who is going to protect Merlin, if not Arthur?
Arthur is only one king; there can always be another. With Arthur gone, Camelot will still stand—he appointed an heir for exactly this reason. Morgana seeks to loot all of Camelot's riches as restitution for the Purge, and then she seeks to raze Camelot to the ground. She seeks Camelot’s utter destruction, and she may just find it if not for Merlin. After all, Camelot would have fallen fifty times over if not for Merlin.
“I can protect myself,” Merlin continues. His lips twist in a wry smile. “I’ve managed just fine all this time, haven’t I?”
But Arthur doesn’t want Merlin to “manage just fine”. He wants to ensure that Merlin is safe from harm—as safe as you can be in the heat of battle, that is. And the only way he can alleviate some of that worry is by being by Merlin’s side. Being so far away across the field, on the other hand, unable to see Merlin and not knowing if he is hurt, will only drive Arthur to madness.
It’s counterproductive. It's the last thing Arthur needs.
Sensing Arthur’s turmoil, Merlin walks around the desk standing between them, stealing all the breath in the room with each step. With gentle fingers, he tilts Arthur’s chin up until their eyes meet. Arthur’s chest constricts.
“Arthur, I’ll be fine,” Merlin promises, lips curving ever-so-slightly into a small smile. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
Arthur swallows. There is a storm raging in Merlin’s eyes and Arthur is adrift. He swallows again. His throat is dry when he says, “swear to me that you’ll be careful.”
Merlin lowers his gaze, bowing ever-so-slightly. “I swear it.”
The battle is brutal, just as they knew it was going to be.
Eventually, it comes down to this: Merlin and Arthur side by side, beset by all sides with enemies baying for their blood.
They had been fighting since dawn. There is blood dripping down Arthur’s temple and he is fairly sure he has cracked a rib or two. His muscles are trembling with fatigue, but still, he stands, grip firm around the hilt of his sword. He will be damned before he lets the enemy get within an inch of Merlin.
Merlin, for his part, has been striking down enemy soldiers left, right, and centre, summoning lightning that strikes from the sky and calling forth roots of the land’s oldest trees. But there is only so much one sorcerer can do against a whole army.
“Arthur,” Merlin calls out in between smiting one man and the next, “Arthur, I can finish this.”
Arthur wasn’t born yesterday. He knows Old Religion will always demand a price.
Heat pricks at Arthur’s eyes and his sword arm begins to waver. He wants to say no and damn the consequences, but his knights are scattered across the field. He doesn’t even know if they are still alive. He can only hope that fate is kind to them. But they have been fighting for so long—they have had to fall back and retreat, and retreat again. The defensive wards Merlin put up above their heads are almost in tatters; there is no time to think. The fact is this: they are losing. Camelot will fall if Arthur doesn’t give Merlin the order.
“Do it,” he commands. It feels an awful lot like dying.
Merlin throws his arms out and screams.
Arthur is alive.
When he comes to, it is to the feel of the damp ground under his cheek. The ringing in his ears is so loud that it’s almost impossible to hear anything else, and stars dance across his vision to such an extent that he can hardly see anything at all. Worst of all, he can’t shake off the feeling that something has gone terribly wrong.
It takes a tremendous amount of effort just to lift his head. That’s when he sees it: a bright white speck of light in the distance.
Realisation trickles in slowly. “Merlin.”
Arthur pushes himself up and breaks into a run—or at least tries to, anyway. He stumbles unevenly across the field like a newborn fawn learning to walk for the first time.
He can’t hear Merlin’s answering call.
Arthur trips and falls and gets back up again, fear thick like a noose around his throat. Headache like lightning tries to split his head in half, but he doesn’t stop his slow, determined march. He focuses simply on putting one foot in front of the other towards the direction of the light. There is no room for anything else.
He lifts his gaze to find that there is no trace of Morgana’s army around him, bar spots of still-smouldering ashes on the ground. Around him, his knights are groaning and getting up, clutching their heads. Arthur barely spares them a glance.
“Merlin,” he tries to call out again. It comes out more like a mumble than anything else. “Merlin!”
It takes an eternity and Merlin still doesn’t respond. Arthur feels his breath quicken, his heart pounding an impossible rhythm against his ribcage. The speck of white is impossibly brighter the closer Arthur gets, an exploding star he is helplessly drawn to. He throws an arm over his head to shield his eyes and calls out Merlin’s name, again and again.
At the heart of the star is Merlin. When Arthur finally reaches him, Merlin is already half-gone, gold flowing from his eyes and his fingertips in rivulets that sink back into the earth. It’s easy to see now, how he is more god than mortal. His skin glows luminescent white and his eyes are pure gold, and he is every inch the all-powerful being the Druids prophesied him to be.
Merlin looks heavenward, his face a perfect blank slate. He doesn’t seem to have noticed Arthur—indeed, he doesn’t seem to have noticed much at all.
Arthur steps closer, because he has an inkling of what is happening and he will be damned if he let the earth claim what is his.
“Merlin,” Arthur tries again. He grabs Merlin by his face and turns his head to face Arthur. The heat radiating from Merlin sears the skin of Arthur’s palm but Arthur pays it no mind. “Merlin, it’s me. It’s Arthur.”
His voice seems to penetrate Merlin’s haze. Merlin looks at him, almost questioningly. The smallest crease appears between Merlin’s brows.
“My King,” Merlin whispers, tremulous with reverence. It’s a solemn vow, born from every drop of blood that runs in his veins, echoing through every dark corner of his mind. Arthur would have accepted the vow any other day, perhaps even return it with equal veneration, but not today. Not when the earth is in the midst of extracting her price.
“No,” Arthur shakes his head. “It’s Arthur,” he says, a little desperately. “Just Arthur. Remember?”
The furrow between Merlin’s brow deepens. “Arthur?” he parrots back, testing the way the name rolls off his tongue.
“Yes,” Arthur trembles with the effort it takes not to shake him. Merlin knows him—it’s a simple truth. It’s as certain as the sun rising on the morrow, or the tide rising in the night. “It’s me. You know me.”
He’s desperate, he’s afraid, because in all the times Arthur has seen Merlin perform his magic, never once did Merlin ever look like this.
“Sire,” he hears one of his knights call out in alarm. Arthur can hear the fear in their voice; he can hear the warning but refuses to heed it. Merlin might have just decimated an entire army, but Arthur knows every corner of his soul; there is never going to be a part of Merlin that will ever hurt Arthur.
“Stay back,” Arthur tells them. “Merlin, listen to me,” he says, pressing his forehead against Merlin’s. Surely Merlin knows the cadence of Arthur’s voice, knows it well enough that he can follow it back home? “Come back to me.”
He never should have given the command. They knew all along that the Old Religion will require a price. The thing is, Arthur would have given his life to Camelot in a heartbeat. He’s just not sure if Merlin is a sacrifice he’s willing to make.
There’s no telling what Arthur will do if he loses Merlin to this, but he knows that if the earth extracts everything that makes Merlin Merlin as a price for their victory, they might as well take Arthur with him.
“Remember that fruit we had last summer?” Arthur finds himself saying, apropos of nothing. There was a visiting merchant last summer who brought crates of vibrant-coloured fruits Camelot had never seen before. Merlin had fallen in love with them. The fruit had a funny name Arthur can’t remember, but he couldn’t forget how Merlin’s eyes lit up the first time he bit into them, the way he savoured the flavours bursting upon his tongue. Merlin had smiled from ear to ear—for a moment, he wasn't the greatest sorcerer who ever walked the earth. He was that country boy from Ealdor again, with eyes lit with wonder and a smile that caused Arthur's heart to skip carelessly. Never mind the extortionate price the merchant charged him; Arthur had bought five more of the damn fruit. “I’ll buy you a crate of them when we get back.”
Arthur finds himself promising it all: days off, a raise, a new set of cauldrons. He even promises to revoke Merlin’s title so the servants don’t have to call him Lord Merlin anymore. He doesn’t know what the Old Magic is luring Merlin with, and he doesn’t know where it beckons Merlin to go, but this, he knows: he needs Merlin to turn back and choose the life they built with their hands.
They haven’t had enough time with each other. They’ve won the war, restoring peace to Camelot once again. This can’t be all there is to them.
“Maybe we can even retire, when this is over,” Arthur continues recklessly. “Get a farm out in the country, build a simple life together.”
Merlin makes a noise at that. Perhaps it’s a laugh; Arthur isn’t sure. He searches Merlin’s white-gold eyes and tries not to be blinded by his fire, trying to find the smallest flicker of recognition.
Merlin lets out a small scoff. “You wouldn’t last a day.”
Arthur’s heart soars. He blinks away ridiculous tears and chokes out, “you can do all the work, of course.”
“Of course,” Merlin returns readily, easily, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“People do it all the time,” Arthur says, affecting a haughty tone. It’s difficult to do when he feels like crying. “How hard can it be?”
Merlin’s lips curve in an indulgent smile.
“You can tend to the chickens and sort out the laundry while I spend all day hunting,” Arthur babbles, unable to stop. Is it wishful thinking, or is the gold flowing from Merlin’s eyes slowing down to a trickle? He presses a soft kiss upon Merlin’s forehead, letting Merlin’s heat sear his lips. His voice is barely above a whisper when he says, “come on, Merlin, what do you say?”
There is a beat of pregnant silence.
“I say you can sort out your own laundry,” replies Merlin gruffly. His knees buckle; Arthur catches him. “It’s high time you give it a go.”
“Maybe I will,” Arthur huffs out a breathless laugh, lightheaded with relief. “Only if you promise to do all the cooking.”