Chapter Text
Merlin had once dreamed of freedom.
He had pictured slipping away one day, his newborn wrapped safely against his chest, disappearing into the night. He had imagined living a quiet life somewhere far away from the castle, where no one knew his name, where Arthur’s touch and claim wouldn’t weigh so heavily on his skin.
That had been so long ago.
Now, he wasn’t sure where the idea of freedom had ever come from.
Because there was no escaping this.
Not when his husband—the King of Camelot—would tear the kingdom apart to find him.
Not when his own sons would hunt him down just as fiercely.
Not when every knight, every servant, and even the castle itself seemed to conspire to keep him exactly where he was meant to be.
Here.
By Arthur’s side.
—
The first time Merlin had tried to run after the birth of their eldest, he had made it to the outer courtyard before being caught.
Arthur had found him in minutes, furious, but he hadn’t yelled. Hadn’t even raised his voice.
Instead, he had carried Merlin back into their chambers, laid him in their bed, and whispered into his ear, "Do you think I would ever let you go?"
That had been the first and only attempt.
Not because Merlin had given up.
But because his newborn son had clung to him that night, tiny hands curling into his tunic, as if he knew the dangers of being separated from his mother.
Merlin had never tried again.
—
Years passed.
His belly swelled with child after child, and each time, Arthur had been so proud.
The sons of Camelot were strong, fierce, and devoted to their father. But what no one had expected—what Merlin had not expected—was how much they adored him.
And how possessive they were over their mother.
Just like Arthur.
—
By the time their eldest, Alric, was ten, he already had his father’s mannerisms.
“You’re touching him too much,” he snapped at one of the knights one afternoon, scowling as they helped Merlin off his horse.
“Prince Alric—”
“Did I stutter?”
The knight backed away instantly, hands raised.
Merlin groaned. “Oh, come on, it was just a hand—”
“You belong to Father,” his second son, Hadrian, cut in, crossing his arms. “It’s improper for another man to touch you.”
Merlin turned to Arthur in exasperation.
Arthur simply smirked, sipping his wine. “They’re your sons.”
“This is your fault,” Merlin hissed.
Arthur just grinned wider.
—
There were times Arthur had to be hard on the boys—he was raising kings, after all. But he always left the punishments to Merlin.
Which was worse.
Because the boys would rather die than disappoint their mother.
And Merlin—being Merlin—never raised a hand to them.
Instead, he made them work.
When Hadrian mocked a servant for his dirty clothes, Merlin assigned him as a stable boy for a full week.
When Alric disrespected a council member, he spent the next month copying documents by hand.
When their third son, Dain, got caught sneaking out to the village at night, he was forced to serve the knights’ meals until he learned proper responsibility.
Arthur approved every decision.
And the boys learned.
—
But then there was the youngest.
Little Edric.
Unlike his brothers, Edric was quiet, soft-spoken, and delicate in ways that none of them had been. He had Merlin’s curls, his bright blue eyes, and the same innocent air that made people instinctively protective over him.
Merlin had worried for him at first.
But he should have known better.
Because the moment his elder brothers saw how gentle he was, they became worse than Arthur.
Edric was never left alone.
His brothers escorted him everywhere.
They hand-picked his friends.
They personally chose his husband when he came of age, deciding that no man unworthy of Camelot’s youngest prince would so much as look at him.
Merlin had fought them on that, but—
Even Edric had just sighed and accepted it.
“They would’ve killed any suitor who came without their approval anyway,” he had admitted.
Arthur had beamed with pride.
Merlin had groaned into his hands.
—
Merlin never understood it.
Why Arthur was like this.
Why the boys had inherited it.
Why the entire castle seemed to act as if he were something precious to be guarded and kept.
And then, one evening, he found himself sitting in Arthur’s lap at a council meeting—his husband’s arms locked around his waist, hands on his belly as if claiming him before the world—while his sons smirked, the knights chuckled, and the council members looked vaguely entertained.
It wasn’t until then, with Arthur’s lips pressed against his neck, murmuring, “There is no escaping me, love,” that Merlin finally understood.
He was theirs.
Arthur’s.
His sons’.
Camelot’s.
And he would never be free of them.
But when Arthur pulled him closer, their children grinning in triumph—Merlin realized, maybe he didn’t want to be.
—The End—