Archive of Our Own ^beta

It all began with a decision. Should he let Mordred live, or let him die?

Merlin didn't know the answer. He didn't want to know the answer. There was no right decision. Either way, someone would die. 

If he told Arthur to save Mordred and embrace the old ways, then it would fulfill everything he could have dreamed of. Destiny would come true, magic would be free, Merlin could finally stop this ten-year deception...but Mordred would live. And Mordred was destined to kill Arthur.

He couldn't stand to let Arthur die. His life would be so empty without the one person who mattered most to him. But could he justify killing Mordred, an innocent man? Could he justify letting Arthur continue to persecute magic? Could he justify letting a thirty-year genocide persist, all in the name of love?

"If I do save Mordred," said Arthur. "All of my father's work will be for nothing. Sorcery will reign once more in Camelot. Is that what you'd want?"

He wasn't as oblivious to Merlin's inner turmoil as Merlin would like, but he at the very least had the grace not to bring it up. Merlin, despite being the most talkative person in Camelot, was extremely private in matters of the heart. Arthur respected his desire for privacy, and seldom pressed on matters Merlin preferred to keep to himself - no matter how deeply Arthur burned for answers. It was one of the many things Merlin admired about his king.

"Perhaps my father was wrong. Perhaps the old ways aren't as evil as we thought."

Yes, Merlin's heart begged to say. A thousand times, yes!

There was a tiny sliver of his soul that reached out to what Arthur said and tucked it into himself. The child inside him, the child who'd grown up believing himself to be a monster, gasped. He wasn't evil? For once, someone thought he wasn't evil? 

Merlin craved to hear such words from his king, more so than he could have realized. That little child inside of him, dry and desperate for love, reached out with withered hands toward the golden king. Reached out to his words, to his light, begging for just the slightest glimmer of hope to pull him out of the darkness.

"So what should we do? Should we accept magic? Or let Mordred die?"

He opened his mouth to say, "There can be no place for magic in Camelot," but the words burned in his throat. He couldn't bring himself to say it. 

So Merlin did as he did best. He avoided the question with some conversational handwaving. 

"Both choices have their benefits and consequences," he said as cryptically as possible. Perhaps Kilgharrah was rubbing off on him. "Whatever you choose, I will support you."

And so it was that Arthur chose to embrace magic.

It didn't happen right away, of course. No law gets rewritten overnight, and especially not a law Arthur's father had been so passionate about. 

But nevertheless, he was making progress in the right direction. They came home and celebrated Mordred's recovery, and then Arthur immediately hit the books. No stone was left unturned, no book was left unread, no old wiseman was left uninterrogated. 

Gaius and Merlin had spent many a night tossing around the idea of telling him the truth, but eventually agreed it would be best to maintain the secret until magic was officially legalized. 

For some reason, the thought of telling the truth frightened him.

"Can we please go home, Arthur?" He shifted his weight on the saddle. They'd been riding for four hours now, and not once had they stopped to take a break.

"Why, is your bum sore?" Arthur teased.

"Yes, along with the rest of me," Merlin shot back. He cracked his spine, but it provided little relief. "It's almost sundown. We should turn back before it gets too dark, or at the very least make camp for the night."

"We have to make it to Madam Ysmay," said Arthur. He had a fiery glint in his eyes that Merlin had seen often enough to dub it the 'Arthur's About To Do Something Stupid Because He's Too Stubborn For His Own Good’ Look. 

Not to be confused with the 'Arthur's About To Do Something Stupid Because His Ego Is As Fragile As A Hard-Boiled Egg’ Look.

Needless to say, Arthur had a lot of Looks. Was it a sign of insanity that Merlin had begun cataloguing them? Perhaps. But it was the only way to predict what inevitably stupid thing Arthur was going to do next and plan accordingly.

"Madam Ysmay can wait," he said. He knew it was a lost cause to talk Arthur out of this, but Merlin was nothing if not persistent.

Arthur shook his head. "The druids said she moves around a lot, and that her movements are unpredictable. We have to find her while we still know where she is."

Madam Ysmay was a formidable Seer, whose powers of foresight rivaled those of even Morgana. All the druids Arthur spoke to had told him about his destiny as the Once and Future King, and that he would have to seek out Madam Ysmay for specific details on the matter.

So here they were, riding for hours on end in the thick of the Darkling Woods. All because the druids said she might be camped out in the area.

"How do we know she's not moved on already?" Merlin asked.

"I have to take that chance," said Arthur. "If you had a destiny written about you before you were even born, wouldn't you want to know everything you could about it?"

Merlin hated that his answer was yes.

In all honesty, he couldn't deny that he was curious about what Madam Ysmay had to say. Kilgharrah was a mysterious bastard at the best and worst of times, and the druids weren't much better, so Merlin was a bit starved for information. 

At the same time, Merlin also couldn't deny that he was afraid Ysmay might reveal a little too much.

Arthur pulled on the reins, bringing his horse to a sudden stop. Just ahead was a clearing, and in that clearing was a faded yellow tent. 

Merlin expected Arthur to get cheeky about it and say something along the lines of, "I told you so", but that never happened. No, Arthur just got off his horse and walked straight to the tent, leaving Merlin behind to hurriedly tie up the horses. 

(Since Arthur wasn't looking, Merlin used magic to do it for him.)

The clearing was small, barely large enough to fit the shabby tent and an equally shabby campfire. The ground was surprisingly barren though, as if someone had taken a broom and swept all the leaves and detritus into the treeline. A magic broom, if the rumors about Madam Ysmay were true.

"Madam Ysmay," Arthur called out. "Are you there? I just want to speak with you."

For the longest time, the forest made no noise. Birds did not chirp, leaves did not rustle, and even the twilight autumn wind seemed eerily reticent.

Just as Merlin opened his mouth to suggest they leave and try again later, the yellow tent flapped open.

Out of the tent hobbled a crooked, mousy-haired woman who looked closer to a wraith than a human being. Her body was sallow and her cheeks were sunken. Her eye sockets were so deep and narrow that they could easily be mistaken for keyholes, if not for the electrifying shade of blue that pierced out of their depths. Her gaze roved around wildly and aimlessly, and every time it landed on Merlin a shiver coursed up his spine.

Arthur cleared his throat uncertainly. "A-are you Madam Ysmay?"

The woman curtsied in her tattered cotton gown - which, for all its dirt and grime, was a surprisingly pristine mint colour. "I am she," she said. Her voice sounded very much like a younger, more feminine version of Dragoon.

Arthur grimaced. He must have drawn a similar comparison.

"You come seeking prophecy," Ysmay surmised. Arthur nodded. "Well, come in then, Pendragon. And do leave your weapons outside."

Arthur hesitated. He never liked going without his sword. It had been true when he was a prince, and it was doubly true with Excalibur. Gwen and Merlin liked to tease him about sleeping with it. 

But, to great emotional pain, Arthur extricated the sword from his person and set it onto the ground. Ysmay pulled her tent flap back and gestured for him to enter.

Arthur ducked into the tent, and Merlin surged forward to join him - but Ysmay stood in the way. "No weapons," she said.

"I have none," said Merlin. 

"Aye, but you are one."

"I'm not - "

"You are Emrys, are you not?"

Merlin had nothing to say to that. 

She smiled, and despite the mottled texture of her face it was genuine and bright. "You have nothing to fear from me, Emrys. I'm not so foolish as to harm your king. What I have to say are for his ears alone. You may wait outside."

She closed the tent behind her, and no matter how hard Merlin tried to pry his way in, the tent was enchanted against his entry. So he sat there before the unlit campfire with Excalibur in hand, waiting for Arthur and Ysmay to conclude their appointment.

By the time Arthur emerged again, the sun had already fallen beneath the horizon. Merlin had taken it upon himself to light the campfire, having filled his time by creating little images in the flames (and mocking Arthur and Ysmay with strange renditions of their voices).

Merlin rose to his feet at the return of his king. "Arthur!"

Arthur looked, for lack of better word, troubled. For the briefest of moments, he feared Ysmay had ratted out his magic, but he quickly realized Arthur wasn't upset in the way he usually was when feeling betrayed or angry. No, this was a whole different kind of troubled altogether. The only other times Merlin had seen him like this was when Morgause had summoned a visage of his mother, and when he had returned from speaking to his father's dead spirit. 

Oh no. This was his ‘Arthur’s Just Learned Something Upsetting And He Doesn’t Know How To Feel About It’ Look.

"Thank you for your honesty," said Arthur. He bowed to her, and she bowed in kind.

"Thank you for listening," said Madam Ysmay. "Destiny chose you for a reason, Arthur Pendragon. Never forget that."

Instead of being comforted like her words intended, they only troubled him further. He bade a final farewell to her, reclaimed his sword from Merlin's grasp, and wordlessly marched back to his horse. 

Though it was late at night, they didn't stop to set up camp. They just kept on riding in the thick of darkness, with only the full moon to guide their way.

Many times Merlin tried to wheedle some information out of Arthur, but every attempt was stonewalled with either a habitual "Shut up, Merlin" or complete silence. It wasn't until they were roughly halfway to Camelot that Arthur pulled himself out of his thoughts.

"She said I'm destined to unite the lands of Albion," he said. 

"The druids told you that too, remember? They said you're going to unite the kingdoms, restore magic to the land, and bring about an era of peace. O-or something like that.”

"Aided by a sorcerer called Emrys," Arthur added. "The most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the Earth. The embodiment of magic itself."

Merlin shuddered. He hadn't been able to sleep for a week after discovering he was ‘magic itself’, dreams now plagued with questions about his humanity. Granted, he'd never been able to sleep very well in the first place - what with various traumas, fears, and life-threatening injuries - but that sort of revelation only served to make it all worse. 

He swallowed his discomfort and prodded on. "But that's not what's bothering you, is it?"

Arthur shook his head. "She said that Mordred is destined to kill me."

Ah. Yes, Merlin could see why that would bother him. Did she show Arthur the same vision of his death that Merlin had seen? Would he be just as haunted by it? Would it torment his mind every time he closed his eyes with the sight of blood, blood, blood -

"What are you going to do about it?" 

"I don't know," said Arthur. "I can't bring myself to condemn a man for a crime he hasn't yet committed. And even if I try to stop him preemptively, it's likely to all blow up in my face. Fate's supposed to be inescapable, after all."

Merlin balked. "Y-you can't mean that! Surely we can't just give up -"

Arthur swiveled over to face him. "I'm not afraid of death," he said, voice grave and features serious. "It’s bound to happen eventually. And to be honest, I'd rather it be at Mordred’s hand than Morgana's."

"But Arthur -"

"Relax, Merlin," Arthur cajoled. "Besides, this might work out in my favour."

"How so?"

He grinned. "If Mordred is destined to kill me, then that means nothing else can."

As Arthur urged his horse ahead, Merlin spotted a glimpse of a Look. A Look he had hoped he would never see again.

It was the 'Arthur's About To Do Something Stupid Because He's a Reckless Idiot Look'. 

This wasn’t going to end well, was it?

At first, Arthur did nothing. They came back to Camelot, Merlin was sworn to secrecy about the nature of Mordred's destiny (and threatened into silence with a spoon), and he had foolishly believed that was that. Oh how naive he was.

About a week after Arthur's appointment with Madam Ysmay, the knights went on patrol. It went about as well as patrols usually go in the company of Arthur 'Beacon of Trouble' Pendragon.

That it say, it was a total disaster.

Of course, this patrol was a disaster in the worst of ways.

One of the bandits had sought to strike Merlin down, but just as Merlin was about to use magic to knock them over, Arthur jumped in the way.

The bandit slashed him across the chest. He fell to the ground in a crumpled heap.

"Arthur!" Merlin shouted. He collapsed to his master's side and tore off his neckerchief to staunch the bloodflow. 

Percival wasted no time to run the offending bandit through, but the damage was done. 

Merlin's hands were shaking. Arthur had been wounded many times before, but seldom as fatally as this. God, there was so much blood. A rather unhelpful section of his mind flashed an image of Mordred killing Arthur into his eyes, but Merlin shook it - and the tears - away. It would do no good to panic. He had to act, and he had to act fast.

Arthur's eyes fluttered shut. His breathing was shallow. Almost nonexistent.

Okay, he had to act faster.

"Gestepe hole," Merlin whispered, bloody palms pressed deep against the wound. "Thurhaele."

At first, nothing.

"Gestepe hole thurhaele."

Still nothing. Why did he have to be so shoddy at healing spells?

"Gestepe hole! Thurhaele!" He shouted this time. He didn't even care if the other knights heard him. They could burn him if they wanted, but Arthur couldn't die. He refused to let it happen.

Arthur's blood stopped spurting between his fingers. Merlin could feel new, healthy skin grow over the wound under his grip. Colour pulsed back into the king's pale, lifeless features.

"Merlin," Arthur groaned tiredly. He didn't yet have the strength to open his eyes, and his face was scrunched up in pain, but he was alive all the same. His hand shakily, blindly groped the air until it found its grip on Merlin's sleeve. 

Merlin couldn't help but let out a relieved laugh. "What the hell were you thinking, you dollophead?"

"You..." Arthur coughed. "You w-were going to...die..." He said.

"And you thought you wouldn't?"

Arthur's head shook wearily. "I-I can't...die....'member...? But you...you can..."

It was at this point that Merlin realized that Arthur learning about Mordred's destiny was a very, very bad thing indeed.

Arthur’s eyes slid shut, and he fell into a deep, restful sleep. Once the bandits were all dispatched, the knights carried their mysteriously healed king away and set up camp.

Merlin had no desire to condone Arthur's hair-brained ideas of immortality, but it was the only way he could explain the king's miraculous recovery without exposing his magic. 

"It was like nothing I'd ever seen before," Merlin said halfheartedly. He was too exhausted - both physically and emotionally - to put on a convincing act. If the knights were stupid enough to believe his rubbish, then maybe they deserved being lied to. "The wound, it just closed up on its own."

"Like magic," said Leon.

"Unless you have a better explanation, then yes."

"I told you so," a half-awake Arthur said cheekily from his place by the fire, wrapped up in just about every spare blanket they had on hand (when the king was injured, the knights seamlessly transformed into the biggest flock of mother hens Merlin had ever seen). 

The knights all stared at him quizzically, and Merlin facepalmed so hard he got whiplash. He didn't get paid enough for this.

Elyan was the first to speak. "Er...what do you mean by that, sire?"

And so it was that Arthur told everyone about what Madam Ysmay had said, about Mordred being destined to kill him, and how that somehow made him immortal. He forced them all to make the same oath Merlin had: don't treat Mordred any differently, don't tell him about his destiny, yada yada. 

Leon, as expected, was the voice of reason. He insisted that although Arthur was immune to all forms of death that weren't by Mordred's hand, that didn't excuse him to grow careless. 

Elyan, Percival, and Gwaine, on the other hand...

"Keep this up and you'll get alcohol poisoning," Merlin said. 

Arthur hiccuped and raised one his many, many tankards. A few of the empty ones knocked onto the floor. "That's the whole point," he slurred. Gwaine threw an arm around his shoulders. 

"Princess wants to live a little," Gwaine said cheerily, sounding more drunk than Merlin had ever known him to be.

"Well, die a little," Elyan joked between inebriated giggles. The rest of the knights - sans Leon, who was too much of a stickler to get drunk - erupted into squeals of laughter in response to Elyan’s remark.

Merlin rolled his eyes and mentally flipped through every anti-alcohol, anti-poison, and anti-hangover spell he knew. Considering his friendship with Gwaine, he'd racked up a quite a lot in the past five years.

Arthur did not, in fact, get alcohol poisoning, but that was only due to the anti-alcohol spell Merlin kept casting on him every few minutes. It would empty out some of the mead from his blood and sober him up in increments - which, of course, only inspired him to keep drinking.

In the end, the rest of the knights passed out from their drunkenness and Arthur, thoroughly buzzed, gave up on the alcohol poisoning idea. Thank god for small mercies.

As predicted, Merlin had to drag them all back home. And since Arthur wasn't coherent enough to care, and the innkeeper was a heartless bastard, Merlin had to do it without any help.

Just for the trouble they'd all caused him, he cast a spell on them that would magnify the effects of their hangovers, and took great pleasure in watching Gwen scold them the next day. She also let him have the day off as a reward for getting everyone home safely, which was a definite plus.

That wasn't the last of Arthur’s experimentation, unfortunately. 

Leon and Merlin had to break up an incident where Arthur had an apple on his head and Elyan and Gwaine each took turns trying to shoot it with an arrow, and Merlin had to use magic to redirect the many arrows aimed at Arthur’s face; Merlin had nearly exhausted every cushioning spell he knew, what with Arthur's newfound appreciation for jumping off high ledges; and don't even get him started on the chaos that came from him firing his food tester. You know, the guy who makes sure Arthur’s meals aren’t poisoned?  

Arthur being Arthur, he accredited his inability to be mortally wounded to his supposed immortality. Gaius once posited that perhaps the king's claims of immortality had some merit, but less in the way that Arthur couldn't die and more in the way that Merlin wouldn't let him. Like some kind of self-fulfilling prophecy or something. Merlin tried not to think about it.

All in all, Mordred was confused, Leon was dangerously close to snapping, Gwen had already snapped, and Merlin was just numb. It was surprisingly easy to do that these days. Go numb, that is. Perhaps it was the trauma.

(It was the trauma.)

This went on for about three weeks. And despite Arthur's love for tempting fate, the new legislation on magic still made a lot of progress in that time. It had only been two months since the incident with the Disir, and the entire castle was already on Arthur's side about the matter. One of the perks to being the Once and Future King, Merlin supposed: everyone loved you and listened to you.

That is, unless you count Lord Beyforn.

Lord Beyforn owned a decently sized territory near Mercia. He was a hard-edged, no-nonsense kind of man who was distinctly reminiscent of Uther. While most of the nobles in Arthur’s court had learned to at least tolerate Merlin after all these years, Lord Beyforn only hated him more with every passing day. He had silvery hair that reminded Merlin of the king’s fancy cutlery, his feet were duck-like, and his hands were bound in a thick layer of callouses. He seemed rather fond of the colour blue, and most of his robes paid homage to his favourite shade of navy.

As one can expect of Uther’s most vocal supporter, he did not approve of Arthur’s decision to legalize magic. The other nobles, while they had their misgivings at first, managed to concede to Arthur’s logic after a few weeks of debate. But not Lord Beyforn.

He didn’t quite have the gall to shout at the king, but his words weren’t exactly gentle either. Beyforn was in the business of rooting out people’s insecurities and picking at them until he got what he wanted. And Arthur had a lot of insecurities.

“Your father would be so disappointed in you,” Beyforn would say. “Do you want the people to suffer?” “This new law will be the death of Camelot, watch my word." “You are young and inexperienced." “Even that traitor Agravaine could have served this kingdom better than you."

Of course, where Beyforn had the habit of bullying Arthur, Merlin also had the habit of accidentally enchanting his tongue to stick to the roof of his mouth whenever he insulted the king. Accidentally.

(How no one suspected magic was responsible, Merlin would never know.)

It was raining outside, and the castle was a bit chilly, but he didn’t even care. Ever since Arthur gave a speech about magic’s potential for good the other day, Merlin had been floating on cloud nine. It could be flooding outside and his good mood still wouldn’t be dampened. The only thing that could possibly get him down was if Mordred finally fulfilled his destiny.

Or, perhaps, if Lord Beyforn decided to take matters into his own hands and kill the king.

Of all the ways he could have expected Beyforn to pull it off, he didn’t expect this. Poison, sure. Hiring an assassin, definitely. But attacking him with a dagger in the middle of a council meeting? Absolutely outlandish.

And Arthur, thinking himself unkillable, stood his ground. Didn’t even flinch at the sight of the oncoming sword. He just lingered his gaze in Merlin’s direction, as though watching him for some kind of reaction, and prepared to be stabbed.

Luckily, Merlin was able to slow down time just enough for him to push Arthur out of the way. Just enough for Merlin to get caught by the blade instead.

It plunged into his chest.

He stumbled a few steps, gasping and wheezing, and collapsed. 

The world grew fuzzy and black around the edges. Everything sounded so muddy and unclear, as though his head were had been plunged into a marsh. If he strained his ears, he could her a cacophony of screams shouting his name. 

Were those hands grabbing onto him, pulling him close? Whose hands were they? Was that an arm looped under his back? 

He coughed and something dribbled out of his lips. It tasted like blood. Was he bleeding?

Oh yeah. He’d been stabbed. Judging by the way his chest ached, he’d guess the dagger was still lodged in his right lung.

Well that sucked.

A strong yet gentle hand rested on his face, holding the side of his head and shaking him desperately. Just like how Tristan had done with Isolde when she died.

Was he dying? It certainly felt like it.

“- no no no no ,” came a scared, familiar voice from above him. He squinted, just barely making out the details of someone with smooth blonde hair and weeping eyes. “Don’t you dare die on me, you idiot!”

Arthur? No, couldn’t be. Arthur didn’t cry often, and certainly not over his servant. 

Merlin spluttered and wheezed on his own breath. His hand trembled as he drew it up to Arthur’s face, seeking to hold his cheek just as Arthur was holding his. Holding his arm up took far more effort than it should have, but his hand didn’t belong anywhere but Arthur’s face. He had to soak up Arthur’s touch as deeply as he could, before it was too late.

He opened his mouth, but more blood gurgled out. There was no voice to his words, just a wet, dying croak that gusted from his bloodied lungs. “Ar...thur…”

“Don’t talk,” Arthur ordered. "Save your air."

No. He couldn’t shut up. Not now. He was going to die. Of that Merlin was certain. He couldn’t leave this world without telling Arthur the truth. He couldn’t rest in peace while still coveting this horrible lie.

“I…” He gulped on air, but nothing seemed to get into his lungs. Blood kept getting in the way. “...h...h-have...mag…ma-”

“I know, dammit,” Arthur said. “I know about the stupid magic. That you’re Emrys. So just - shut up, will you? Help is on the way."

Distantly, Merlin was horrified and confused. When had that happened? And how?

But despite the maelstrom of anxiety that should have been swelling in his chest, there was only relief. And blood.

His breaths came out in depressurized hisses. His lungs felt like they were transforming into mush. In the distance, he could hear what sounded like Lord Beyforn getting arrested - and maybe, just maybe, getting cut down by a furious Gwaine. 

“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” Arthur said. “Don’t you dare .”

Another blurry figure stepped into his slowly darkening line of vision. “I can heal him, sire,” said the figure. “Please, let me heal him.”

He knew that voice. It was Mordred.

No. Mordred was here to kill Arthur, wasn’t he? No. He couldn’t. Merlin wouldn’t...let...him…

Merlin knew no more.

He awoke in his bed.

Rain pattered against the window. It was dark outside. A candle flickered confidently on his nightstand. The shadows in his room were long and smooth. Thunder rumbled, but gently so. Like peaceful background ambiance.

His chest ached to move. From the feel of things, he was shirtless, shirtless and bandaged. What happened?

This was far from the first time he’d woken up injured, of course - but it was the first time such a thing had happened with Arthur in the room. Usually when he was ill or wounded, Arthur didn’t show up until long after Merlin’s consciousness had returned to him.

And on top of that, Arthur was slumped over the foot of the bed, head rested in his arms as he slept in what appeared to be the most unpleasant of sleeping positions. There was blood stained to his hands.

What…

A rush of memories slammed into him at once. The council meeting. Lord Beyforn. His dagger. The blood. 

And Arthur, cradling Merlin’s limp form against his chest, telling him that he knew he was Emrys.

Merlin sprung upright in shock and horror - which, of course, only agitated his wound. Seething through the pain, he edged away from Arthur. He knew, rationally, that Arthur posed no threat. He was a supporter of magic now. He wouldn’t kill Merlin for something he had no choice in having. But still, that instinctive fear of the truth is what pushed him into the corner of his bed, as far from Arthur as he could get without standing up.

The movement jostled the king, of course, whose warrior instincts snapped him into instant awakeness. Upon seeing where the movement had come from, his face split into a massive, relieved grin. “Merlin!”

It faded within an instant, though, and it pained Merlin to know exactly why. Arthur knew about his magic, and now that Merlin was awake they were now forced to confront the truth.

“Are you alright?” Arthur asked, even though his eyes blazed with the heat of a thousand questions and - was that guilt? What did Arthur have to be guilty about? 

“I - I’ve been better,” he confessed. His voice sounded raspy and winded, which made sense considering his ordeal.

The two sat there in silence, but it wasn’t the comfortable kind that was usually shared between them. No, this silence was heavy and thick with secrets. Secrets now dragged into the light for everyone to see in all their grotesqueness. Secrets so hideous that Merlin sometimes, in the privacy of midnight, wished himself dead.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, and etched into his face was a rare Look. Merlin liked to call it the ‘Arthur’s Done Something Stupid And Now He’s Dealing With The Fallout’ Look. Well, it wasn’t exactly rare, per se - Arthur did a lot of stupid things, after all - but never had it looked this sad.

“S-sire?” Merlin asked tentatively. He didn’t know where their relationship stood now. Didn’t know if he had the right to call Arthur by his name anymore. Everything was so uncertain. 

The truth was like that. Uncertain. Scary. Ugly. Permanent. That’s why he was so afraid of it.

“I screwed everything up,” Arthur said. 

Daring to banter, Merlin choked out a shaky, “N-nothing new there.”

Arthur rose a thin, blonde eyebrow at him. The ghost of a smirk hinted at the corner of his lip, but he was too distraught to fully commit to a smile.

“S-sorry, sire.”

His eyebrow rose higher. “What for?”

“I-it’s just - I’ve lied.” He inwardly cursed his fatigue, for it made this even harder to say than it already was. “F-for so long now. Y-you’re probably...m-mad at me, a-and rightfully...s-so.”

Arthur adopted a look on his face. For once, Merlin couldn’t interpret it. Not the swirling depths in his blue eyes, nor the peculiar tilt to his mouth, nor the arch of his eyebrows, nor the tension in his jaw. This Look was completely new, and Merlin was terrified to find he didn’t know what it meant.

“I understand why you lied,” the king said, defeated. He stared down at his gloved hands. “I never exactly gave you a reason to trust me, did I?”

Merlin reached over to place an unstable hand over Arthur’s taut knuckles, causing Arthur to look up at him in surprise. “I d-do trust you...sire. I-I just...I’ve been…h-hiding..a-all - all -”

“All your life,” Arthur finished for him. Merlin nodded. “I know. Madam Ysmay told me that Emrys was born with his gifts. That he grew up hiding and lying because of it, that he grew up in fear , and as a result he would find it very difficult to tell me his identity. She said if I wanted him to come out into the open, I had to take initiative.”

“D-did she...tell…”

“Did she tell me about your magic? No, I figured that out for myself. Your reaction when I asked you about whether to legalize magic is what tipped me off. It wasn't anything more than a suspicion, but then I started hearing about this ‘Emrys’ person, and how he was destined to stand by my side and protect me as I ushered in a new age or whatever. And I knew in my heart that Emrys couldn’t be anyone but you.”

Merlin shifted his weight. They lapsed into a momentary silence again. 

“Why...wh-why didn’t you t-tell me…?” Merlin asked. A part of him was hurt that Arthur wouldn’t tell him. Merlin lived in fear every day, feared for his life, feared for the way his friends would react if they knew the truth. Arthur could have come clean to him, could have said something, could have put him out of his misery. But he didn’t. He let Merlin remain in hiding. Why?

“I didn’t have any proof,” Arthur said. “I couldn’t accuse you of magic based only on a feeling. Plus, for all that you're a braindead bumpkin, you can be bizarrely...crafty, at times. If I didn't have enough research to back up my claims, you'd surely find a way out of it. So I decided to get evidence first. If nothing else, then to at least prove to myself that I wasn't over-thinking things.”

“A-and…?”

Arthur sighed weightily. “And that’s where I screwed up.” At Merlin’s inquisitive but encouraging look, Arthur continued. “That druid, Iseldir I think, told me that whenever I was in danger, Emrys would be there. So I, er...made some danger."

Merlin began piecing together the past few weeks, and an unpleasant picture took shape in his mind.

“I didn’t want to risk my life just to expose you, at first,” said Arthur. “I’m not that stupid. But then Madam Ysmay told me about Mordred, about how I’m meant to die at his hand, and I saw an - an opportunity, I suppose.”

“S-so you...risked your life...to ca-catch me in the act?”

More than mildly ashamed, Arthur averted his gaze with a nod.

He no doubt expected Merlin to be disappointed. Frustrated. Upset. Merlin still was, of course. He was all of those things. And when he recovered, they would be having a lengthy conversation about all the lies between them.

For now, Merlin laughed. 

“Y-you - you d-dollophead !” His lungs ached from the force of his uproarious laughter, but he couldn’t find it in himself to stop. "You mean you - and the apple - and the - and you got drunk just to - see m-my magic!"

Soon, Arthur joined in the laughter as well. They laughed and laughed and laughed, until they could laugh no more. 

One day, Mordred would kill Arthur, and Merlin wouldn't be able to save him. But until then, everything would be alright.