Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I want to s-say something I’ve never s-said to you b-before.” 

Merlin can feel life trickling out of him, his body getting heavier, sinking further into Merlin’s arms. He can’t tell whether the stuttering is the result of pain or cold. Arthur’s skin has always been golden, warm to the touch even during the fiercest of winters. Merlin would know. He’s spent the past ten years marveling at the fact. Arthur has always reminded him of the sun - intense, blinding in its beauty. Irreplaceable. One of a kind. 

He’s all of those things still. Even when his skin has turned ashen pale, his lips blue and trembling. 

Merlin shakes himself, trying to hear over the deafening noise of his heart pounding in his ears. 

He clutches Arthur closer, pressing their cheeks together, breathing him in. He smells strongly of dirt, sweat and blood. But underneath it all he still smells like Arthur - like thunderstorm and grass after rain. 

His breathing slows down rapidly, and Merlin searches out his eyes in panic. The sparkling blue of his irises has dimmed to a hazy grey and he stares up at the sky with an empty look. But he must feel Merlin’s gaze on him, because he takes a long breath in and cranes his neck until their eyes lock. For a split second, Merlin sees a flash of that familiar sparkle and his heart clenches with hope. 

Arthur’s dry lips part, and Merlin wants to tell him not to strain himself, to hold on for just a little longer. 

It’s Merlin who has so much to say, so much to explain. Knowing that Arthur doesn’t hate him, that he forgives him, is above anything he's ever allowed himself to hope for. It’s more than enough. 

But he owes Arthur so much. Arthur deserves so much. So much better than what he’s been dealt. So much better than Merlin.

“I love you.”

Arthur’s tongue doesn’t trip over the words. There’s no trace of barely concealed pain in his voice. Not once does his gaze waver, and he looks like the warrior he was born to be. 

When he takes in the gobsmacked look on Merlin’s face, there’s an ever so soft tilt to his lips, and Merlin realises, with irrefutable finality, it’s a smile meant only for him. He knows, because he’s seen it before. Only a few times, only on the rarest of occasions, when Arthur felt safe, and happy, and free. When he allowed himself to be vulnerable in front of Merlin, opening his heart, letting Merlin see.

He raises his hand, the rough leather of his glove sliding through Merlin’s matted hair. He smiles then, not wide but blinding all the same.

Merlin’s heart skips a frantic beat when he registers Arthur’s pulling him down, his dimming eyes locked on Merlin’s lips. Merlin wants so badly to follow his lead, to press their mouths together, as they always should have done, and breathe life into Arthur, the way all those fairy tales speak of. 

But his body is frozen in place, the echo of Arthur’s soft but sure I love you running through his veins like lightening.

Arthur’s hand slides heavily alongside Merlin’s neck, eyes turning into his head and eyelashes fluttering shut. 

“No,” Merlin chokes, panic boiling in his stomach. "No. Arthur.”

His hands scramble over Arthur's serene face, desperately shaking him awake.

"Arthur!" 

Arthur's eyes blink open momentarily, but he's not looking at Merlin, he's not really looking anywhere at all.

Merlin feels him slip away further, somewhere he knows he can't follow. He still begs him in a hopeful whisper, "Stay with me." 

The last spark of warmth seeps out of Arthur's body, leaving him lifeless in Merlin's arms. Merlin clings to him, mumbling prayers and pleas against Arthur’s temple. He feels a sob crawling up his throat, but it comes out as a roar.

"O drakon, e male so ftengometta tesd'hup'anankes!"  

His voice breaks on a heart-wrenching sob, and he couldn’t care less. Gently, carefully, he extracts himself from under Arthur, making sure he doesn't let go at any moment. He takes Arthur's beautiful, stone cold face between his trembling hands and brings their foreheads together, eyes squeezed shut. Maybe, if he keeps them closed for a little while, he can open them again and find it's only been a terrible dream. 

But Arthur doesn't move under him, his breath doesn't ghost over Merlin's skin. 

Merlin’s magic screams in anguish at having been separated from what it’s always been a part of.

He doesn't realise he's crying until a few tears land on Arthur's cheeks, trickling down his face as if they belong to him. Merlin brushes them away with his thumb, then follows the path with his lips. 

He's never been one for fairy tales. The battle between good and evil is not external. It's a battle everyone fights inside themselves every day. Good isn't always good, evil isn't always evil. Everyone and everything is made of both. And fairy tales are just a lie.

But there's this one thing he does believe in. One thing that can move worlds, that can conquer life and death. One thing that bends the rules. One thing that can defy destiny and rewrite the stars. 

He presses his lips to Arthur's, trembling and feather-light. Magic burns under his skin, demanding to be reunited with its other part. He lets it consume him, trusts his magic to know what to do. 

Into the space between them, he begs one more time, "Stay with me." 

Kilgharrah's roar resounds in the distance. 

Arthur's body remains cold. 

Chapter Text

”Merlin, there’s nothing you can do.”

Merlin shoots Kilgharrah a defiant look as he struggles dragging Arthur’s lifeless body to the lake. He’s not going to listen to the dragon anymore, not after all the lies he’s fed Merlin.

He tightens his grip on Arthur’s armour, hoisting him up. He manages to move them both to the water by a couple of steps, before Arthur starts slipping from his hold again.

Because it’s too late.

A sudden wave of hopelessness washes over him. He turns his gaze back on Kilgharrah, eyes wide with silent pleading.

“I failed?” he croaks, unable to keep disbelief from his voice.

The dragon shakes his head slowly. “No, young warlock. For all you’ve dreamt of building has come to pass.” 

And he sounds so calm, so collected - pleased even. As though all the puzzle pieces have fallen into their rightful place.

Merlin lets out a snarl, mustering all his strength to lift Arthur up and hold him close. “I can’t lose him!” he screams over Arthur’s shoulder. “He’s my friend!”

Kilgharrah sighs quietly, like Merlin is a child who needs things explained to him that he should have known all along. “Though no man, no matter how great, can know his destiny, some lives have been foretold. Like yours has. Like Arthur’s has.”

Merlin presses his lips together and shakes his head once. “No.”

“Merlin,” Kilgharrah says warningly, making the growing rage inside Merlin roar with abandon.

“No! It can’t end like this!” he argues, gasping for air that just won’t make it into his lungs. “I won’t let it!”

Kilgharrah tilts his head, large eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Merlin, you cannot-”

“This can’t be our destiny! He can’t-" He swallows a sob, then continues quietly. “Arthur belongs with me. We are... We are two sides of the same coin.” He nods to himself. He’s heard that so many times. He’s heard it from the dragon himself! There is more. There must be more! “He can’t be-“

“Merlin,” Kilgharrah tries again, sounding resigned. “This is not the end. Arthur is not just a king. He’s the Once and Future King.”

Merlin holds his breath, waiting for the dragon to deliver the silver lining he yearns for.

“He shall rise again, when Albion needs him the most.”

Merlin’s brows draw together and he turns his head, pressing his face into Arthur’s hair, squeezing his eyes shut.

“What about me? What if I need him?”

He already knows the answer. Because right here, in this moment, he needs Arthur more than ever. More than he ever needed anyone or anything.

And Arthur’s body is still cold.

“It has been a privilege to have known you, young warlock,” Kilgharrah says instead. “The story we have all been part of will live long in the minds of men.”

“No. This is not my story. This is not our story.”

A minute passes, maybe more, with Merlin breathing Arthur’s fading scent in, waiting for Kilgharrah’s answer he doesn’t want to hear.

“What’s written can’t be unwritten, Merlin,” the dragon says evasively.  “Everything has a beginning. And everything has an end. It’s a rule that applies to all things in existence.”

Merlin knows this. He knows this. Always has. It’s a lesson hard-learnt, after years of failings and heart-breaks. He knows better. He knows not to hold onto things, nor people. Especially not people. Especially not Arthur.

But the bond between them is stronger than his will, stronger than logic. Stronger than magic. Stronger than life. And so much stronger than death.

“What about love?”

Kilgharrah regards him with something resembling sympathy. It’s the closest to emotion, besides anger, the dragon has ever displayed. And it leaves Merlin wondering how much more there is to him, how much more that Merlin will never learn.

“I’m sorry, Merlin,” he says, sounding genuinely regretful. They look at each other for a while, then Kilgharrah continues. “This is where we must part. But I have faith our paths will cross again.”

Merlin doesn’t reply, doesn’t know what to say. Despite their disagreements, despite Merlin’s constant frustration with the old dragon, they are friends. At least sometimes. At least a little. He thinks Kilgharrah might feel the same, finding Merlin’s silly, human brain equally endearing and annoying.

So he doesn’t say goodbye, and is not surprised when he doesn’t receive one either. Instead, he watches Kilgharrah bat his wings once, twice, before he’s in the air, looking down on Merlin with something akin to a smile.

Merlin doesn’t have enough strength to return it. Isn’t sure he wants to. He manages an acknowledging nod, and then Kilgharrah is gone, taking a part of Merlin with him.

***

It feels final, seeing Arthur lie still in the boat Merlin has put him in. It feels like giving up.

He places his hand on Arthur’s forehead, fingers brushing against golden hair. The warmth has long since left Arthur’s body, but that’s not what Merlin misses the most.

His magic always wreaked havoc inside him in Arthur’s presence, ever since they'd first met. He remembers the inexplicable pull of the invisible thread leading him to Camelot, Arthur, and how it'd burned brighter the longer he'd remained by Arthur’s side.

How it'd faded with Arthur’s last breaths.

“Arthur,” he chokes out, body shaking with suppressed sobs.

The warmth is gone, but the pull is still there, faint as it is. He can feel it like a lost limb, like a ghost of something that’s been there for too long to disappear completely. It’s almost gone, but not quite, murmuring that all is not yet lost, even though Merlin knows it is.

Ignoring the murmur, he swallows over the growing lump in his throat. Regretfully, he takes his hand off Arthur, curling it into a fist to prevent himself from reaching towards him again.

He takes in a shaky breath, eyes fluttering shut.

“In sibbe gerest."

He watches as the spell takes Arthur further and further away, the thread pulling at Merlin’s heart like a silent scream.

Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s standing in the lake, the muddy water soaking his trousers. The pull intensifies and he finds himself taking another step forward, and then another, and another, the water licking the skin above his waist...

And then he stills, frozen in place. He commands his legs to move, to go and not stop until he’s reunited with Arthur, but an invisible force holds him back. 

“Please,” he breathes, willing his body to move and failing. "Please.” Nothing changes, the lake refusing to let him further.  

“Bring him back,” he begs. To whom he doesn’t know. “Bring him back to me.” He calls for his magic, eyes flashing gold. His legs won’t move, his magic useless against the ancient power of Avalon.

He lets his head drop, lets the tears flow freely until they are blending with the magical waters of the lake. He looks at his reflection, distorted and barely there.

Suddenly, the surface breaks in front of him, a familiar figure emerging from the water.

“Freya?” he gasps, blinking the tears away.

She looks completely different and yet exactly how he remembers her.

“Merlin,” she returns, and it’s so painfully familiar. 

He feels more tears streaming down his cheeks, his vision swimming until Freya is nothing but a blur. 

“Oh, Merlin.”

“Freya,” he repeats, voice filled with hope and yearning.

“I’m so sorry, Merlin,” she says, and it sounds as heart-broken as Merlin feels.

He wipes at his eyes furiously, pleading with his gaze. “Freya, are you- Can you bring him back?”

“Merlin,” Freya starts, the regretful note dousing the last spark of hope. “I can’t change what’s come to pass.”

“But this is not right,” he argues through clenched teeth. “Arthur, he...he’s my destiny.”

Freya floats through the water closer to him, curling her fingers around Merlin’s arm. “It was Arthur’s destiny to die by Mordred’s hand,” she explains patiently. “It was long foretold."

“No! It was not!” he objects, feeling Freya’s grip tighten, grounding him. “It was my destiny to protect him!”

“You did, Merlin. For ten years, you’ve been by his side.”

He shakes his head, nails digging into his palm. “I couldn’t save him.”

“Nothing could have saved him. It was written in his stars.”

And there it is again. Destiny. Fate. The story written for them before either of them was even born. The story that had brought them together. The story that had so unforgivingly taken Arthur away from him.

He feels something inside him shift, a curious sensation settling heavily in his chest. His magic burns in his veins, demanding to be unleashed.

“Then I will rewrite the stars.”

"No one can do that, Merlin,” Freya says carefully, as though she’s taming a wild animal.

“You don’t know that! I’m supposed to be the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth, right?”

He registers a flash of panic in Freya’s eyes and her voice mirrors it. “You can’t change the past, Merlin.”

He holds her gaze, unblinking. “But you can?”

“No.”

“But you can do something!”

Freya’s face twists into a pained expression. She shakes her head again. “I’m sorry, Merlin. Arthur’s soul will rest in Avalon now. There’s nothing that can bring him back before his time.” She gives him a pointed look. “Not even me.”

Merlin’s magic screams at him, asking to be released, to shake heaven and earth only to see Arthur again, to hold him again.

“If you can’t bring him back to me,” he says as calmly as he can. “Then bring me to him.”

Freya’s eyes darken. “No.”

“Freya, please.”

“No! I won’t do that!” She draws her hand back, her expression stormy.

Merlin’s resolve starts to shatter, the fire now becoming a simmer.

Freya must feel his anguish, her eyes softening. She raises her hand again, this time placing it gently on Merlin tear-streaked cheek, wiping their remnants away.

“It’s not your destiny,” she adds quietly.

“Arthur is my destiny,” he says. “He’s everything to me.”

Freya drops her hand, lets out a loud exhale in resignation. “Merlin.”

“Please,” Merlin tries again. “Please.”

Freya avoids his eyes, bites down on her lip. It’s the first sign of uncertainty she’s displayed so far, and it has Merlin hold his breath with hopeful anticipation.

“There might be...something,” she says guardedly, but it’s enough to spur Merlin into action. 

He reaches forward, grasping her by the shoulders, a reluctant smile finding its way to his lips. “Freya...”

“But it’s dangerous,” she warns, giving Merlin a meaningful look.

“I don’t care.”

“Don’t you?” She chuckles humorlessly. “You don’t know what you’d be risking. What you’d be leaving behind.”

For the first time since Merlin had carried Arthur from the battlefield, he allows himself to look beyond. To what awaits him at home.

He thinks of Camelot, his family. He thinks of Gaius and how he must be anxiously expecting him to appear at the doorstep. 

He thinks of the knights, of the last drunken game of dice they’d played in the tavern, before everything had come crashing down.

He thinks of Gwen, watching from the window of the royal chambers, praying for her husband’s safe return. He thinks of how he’s going to tell her that he’d failed, that he couldn’t save him.

He thinks of his mother, of how much faith she’s always had in him. Of what she would say if she knew that all she believes in is nothing but a huge lie.

He thinks of what his life is going to be like without Arthur in it.

“There’s nothing left for me here,” he replies, letting go of her. The emptiness inside him spreads like poison, numbing him.

“Isn’t there?” Freya asks dubiously.

They hadn't had much time together, but it'd been enough for Merlin to make Freya feel loved, and enough for Freya to see right into Merlin’s soul. With everything that’s happened in the years after her untimely passing, Merlin'd got caught in the whirlwind all too often. Somewhere down the line, he'd forgotten how much he's missed her. How much he's missed being with someone who understood him in a way no one else could. Not even Gaius.

He’s acutely reminded of her absence, of the hollowness she'd left behind after Merlin'd said his goodbye at the lake.

A surge of affection overtakes him, washing some of that emptiness away, and for a moment it’s easier to breathe.  

“What about the kingdom you helped build?” Freya continues. “Your friends? What about your mother?”

He ignores the stabbing sensation in his gut, and simply says, “Do it.”

Freya hesitates. “Merlin, you have to know.” She lowers her voice. “I’m powerful. But even I have no control over the laws of nature. The fabric of existence acts according to its own rules. It’s far beyond the realm of my abilities. Not even the Fates can tamper with it.”

The powerlessness of Freya’s words terrifies him, but he doesn’t tell her to stop. Whatever it is, he can do it. He will be reunited with Arthur, whatever the cost.  

“If I do this, if I cast this spell, there’s no telling where it will take you.”

There’s only one thing Merlin needs to know. “Will Arthur be there?”

Freya nods hesitantly. “I believe so, yes.”

And that’s all that matters.

“Then do it.”

Freya doesn’t move, only keeps watching Merlin with a calculating gaze, possibly looking for any sign of hesitation, of doubt.

There’s none.

“Do it.”

Freya’s shoulders sag, her eyelashes flutter shut.

She’s made up her mind.

Her eyes open again, glistening with an overwhelming combination of fondness and sadness that has Merlin’s heart clench with longing. She places a tender hand on his cheek, brushing a few stray curls behind his ear. The smile she gives him isn’t more than a subtle quirk of lips, but Merlin feels the love pouring out of her and into him in waves.

“I will miss you,” she says quietly, like sharing a secret.

A few more tears escape, brushed away by Freya’s gentle fingers. Merlin takes her by the wrist, turning his head to place a reverent kiss to her palm, answering without words.

He lets Freya’s hand slide alongside his neck and lower, until it comes to rest at the centre of his chest. She gazes up at him, the silent question loud in the space between them. Merlin gives a single, determined nod, and Freya mirrors it.

Her eyes close, her lips part, a litany of whispered words spilling out. Freya’s voice grows in volume, reciting words Merlin doesn’t recognise. The air around them cracks, charged with magic. Freya’s hand burns on his skin, like it’s branding him. The thread in his heart comes to life, pulling violently. A loud gasp escapes him, the burning sensation almost unbearable as it spreads throughout his body.

He lets out a howl, the liquid fire crawling up and licking at his throat. The world around him dissolves. He loses sensation of his body, until there is nothing left but the intense pull. He surrenders to it, lets the thread guide him. 

Golden light fills his vision, reminding him of the colour of Arthur’s hair, bright like the sun. 

Arthur’s anguished face flashes behind his eyelids, and it’s wrong, seeing him like this. The pain is suddenly gone. Merlin’s need to comfort Arthur, to save him from whatever had put the tormented expression on his face overtaking his senses. He feels his heart reach out to him, repeating Arthur’s name in his mind like a prayer.

And then everything turns black.

Chapter Text

He’s drowning. His lungs convulse with every attempt to inhale as water pours into his mouth and down his throat. He chokes, tries to scream, only for more water to come rushing past his lips. His eyes shoot open, eyelids fluttering rapidly to blink away the onslaught of water coming down. 

No, not water. Rain.

He turns his head, raising a hand to protect his face from the fierce downpour. He spits and coughs, forcing the water out of his lungs. Cold seeps into him, sending unpleasant shivers down his spine. His arms come around himself, trying to preserve as much body heat as they can while his teeth chatter violently.

His magic awakens without his conscious decision, as it tends to do so often,  spreading throughout his body like warm honey sliding down a sore throat. The tremors gradually subside, allowing his mind to focus on his surroundings instead.

He’s still at the lake, lying at the shore only a couple of feet from the water. The ground under him is soaked through, soil turned to mud by the unrelenting torrents. The dreary sky mirrors the murky waters of Avalon, reminiscent of what Merlin feels like.

Freya’s nowhere to be found, and Merlin starts to wonder if she was ever there in the first place. The memory of the spell she’d cast still burns under his skin. It’d felt so real, and yet so bizarre. Had he dreamt everything up?

No, it can’t be. It can’t be, he would know! 

He doesn’t remember walking out of the lake, doesn’t remember losing consciousness. His last memory is of Freya’s hand on his chest, golden light filling his vision. Then Arthur’s face, filled with sorrow. He remembers his magic coming alive, reaching towards Arthur, for Arthur, and then...nothing.

It couldn’t have been just his imagination. Why would he dream something like this?

“Freya?” he croaks, voice rough and weak, as though he’s been screaming himself hoarse for hours. He clears his throat, takes a deep breath and tries again, louder. “Freya!”

He pushes himself up into a sitting position with a groan, gaze flicking in all directions, always coming to rest on the lake. A moment passes, then another, and another, hopelessness shaking Merlin to his core as realisation dawns on him, colder and heavier than the rain.

“No,” he whispers, denial rearing its ugly head. “No. Freya.” This time it’s not rainwater sliding down his cheeks in rivulets. “No.”

He slides one hand to his chest, spreads it right over where his heart is. He focuses on the link, the thread that always leads him home. It’s still there, eerily quiet. The raging desperation from before is gone, like it was never there.

Merlin sinks into it, dives deep to bring the connection back to life. His confusion only deepens, bringing an impending sense of dread with it. The intense pull that’d prompted him to follow Arthur anywhere, even to the afterlife, is no more than a gentle buzz, warm and tingling. Just as it was when Arthur was still alive.

He pulls at the thread himself, willing the simmer to burst into a fervid flame and lead him to Arthur, wherever he is.  But the thread has a mind of its own, purring contently as it always did in Arthur’s presence.

Merlin claws at his chest, growling in frustration when the one thing that’s always connected him to Arthur remains quiet, refusing to acknowledge the loss. He lets out a deafening scream, feels the ground shake under him, the lake crashing against the shore in waves.

The thread keeps humming, undisturbed in his chest.

***

He takes the long way home. It doesn’t give him more than half a day, but he’ll take anything, whatever delays the inevitable. 

He’s walked these woods countless times, knows them like the back of his hand. There’s something different this time, though. He can’t quite explain it, but he can’t shake the feeling off either. The woods change, he knows. Magic is woven into every tree, every blade of grass. The air itself shifts, giving in to its ever changing current. But the essence of it remains the same. The trees could fall and the ground could turn to ash, and Merlin would still recognise this place for what it is.

The trees all stand proudly, the ground still smells the same. But something is different, like moving all the furniture from one’s chamber to a different one hoping it will feel the same.

Merlin stops at a creek, kneeling down and scooping up a handful of water. Sipping it slowly. He dips his hand in the stream again and splashes the water over his face.

He must be losing his mind. He’s walked these woods before. He walked them after saying his goodbyes to two people he loved, leaving pieces of his heart at the lake. On both occasions, as he’d  made his way back to Camelot, he’d been a different person than he had been when walking to the lake. On both occasions, he could feel it, his heart breaking and hardening with loss, impenetrable walls rising around it to protect what had been left.

He would get home, back to Camelot, burying his sorrow somewhere deep and dark, concealed from everyone. He would lock himself in his room, falling into a restless sleep the second his body hit the bed, praying that he would wake up and all would be right in the world. Then morning would come, as it always did, bringing no comfort whatsoever. And so he would put fresh clothes on, skip his breakfast to avoid Gaius’ pitiful looks, and head straight to Arthur’s chambers to wake his master. His friend. His king.

And Arthur would sneer at him, grumpy as ever, demanding breakfast Merlin would purposefully mess up, so he could provoke Arthur into coming up with a string of insults. Merlin would readily deflect them, engaging in a never-ending banter that, for some inexplicable reason, would be the highlight of his day. Because no matter how bad things got, no matter how much his world was falling apart, there was one thing holding everything together. One thing he let behind those walls. One thing that gave the pain meaning, that had Merlin believe it was all worth it in the end.

And now he’s lost that one thing too, leaving nothing but aching emptiness behind.

It isn’t the woods that have changed.

He slides a hand through his hair, finding it sticky with dirt and mud. He doesn’t remember when he last bathed properly, doesn’t remember when it last mattered. But soon, he’s going to stand in front of the Queen, the whole council, admitting how he’s failed each and everyone of them. How he’s failed the kingdom. And how he’s failed Arthur.

Maybe he should show up like this, filthy and stripped of his dignity, exactly how he feels. It’s what he deserves after all. But the desire to wash away the events of the past few days eventually wins, and he’s ridding himself of his torn clothes before he knows it. He slides his hand into the pocket of his trousers, fingers closing over the familiar shape of the sigil. The sigil that had belonged to Arthur's mother. The sigil that Arthur’d given him. 

It's a comforting weight in his palm and it takes Merlin back. Back to that night in the woods, to the words Arthur said, spoken from the deepest part of his heart. To the way Arthur looked at him when he spoke of his mother, then avoided Merlin's gaze as he handed him the sigil, shy but determined. It was then, in that very moment, that Merlin realised how much he actually loved Arthur. More than a friend, more than a king. More than he’d ever let himself believe. And he knew, with utmost certainty, that when he would walk through the Veil, when he would give his life for Arthur's, it wouldn't be because of his destiny. 

He returns the sigil to his pocket before he takes his trousers off, throwing them on the ground. He whispers a familiar spell, directing it towards the pile of fabric to mend and clean and dry what’s needed, as he’d done many times for Arthur when he was too tired or lazy to do it the hard way. 

He doesn’t do the same for himself, stepping into the freezing stream and scrubbing away the grime, sweat, and guilt with his bare hands. He only succeeds with the first two.

He doesn’t use magic to dry himself either, instead choosing to stand in the cool air until the moisture evaporates on its own. The magic boils in his veins, asking to serve a purpose, to keep him warm. He ignores it, focusing on the chilling sensation biting at his skin like millions of sharp teeth, seeping into his bones, just so he can feel something else than all consuming void.

It doesn’t work.

***

It doesn’t matter how many scenarios he goes through, they all end the same way. The realisation becomes more dreadful with each step that carries him to Camelot, until he can see the castle in all its glory. It looks the exact same he remembers, and yet he knows it’s anything but.  

The sun is high in the sky as Merlin approaches the gates. A lump forms in his throat when he’s close enough to make out two figures guarding it, though not as close as to identify them. Regardless of who they are, they must be anxiously awaiting Merlin’s return. Arthur’s return, to be precise, but everyone in Camelot knows that Merlin never leaves Arthur’s side. Where Arthur goes, Merlin goes. It’s always been like that. What are they going to say, to do , when they notice the King’s absence? 

Lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t realise how close he’s come until a sharp voice pulls him back to the present moment. 

“Hey!” 

His gaze snaps to the guards, who he immediately recognises as Henry and Noah. After a decade spent within Camelot’s walls, Merlin has got to know everyone. And everyone has got to know him, at least to an extent. He was the King’s manservant after all. Still is, despite everything. 

Merlin had always made friends easily. Well, most of the time. Once again, he thinks of Arthur, of their first meeting. Of how much he wanted to wipe Arthur’s smug expression from his face. With his fist, preferably. Or magic. A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips at the memory. 

So yes, with the exception of the entitled prat, he’s never struggled making friends. But the way the guards are observing him now is anything but friendly. Startled by the turn of events, he stops in his tracks, confused.

“Hey, you!” Noah shouts, his right hand coming to grip the hilt of his sword. His eyes narrow in suspicion. He exchanges a panicked glance with Henry, who looks just as baffled as Merlin feels, but mirrors Noah’s actions, reaching for his sword. “Stay where you are!”

And that command is enough to spur Merlin into action and do the exact opposite - flee. His mind is reeling, desperate to come up with an explanation, but there’s no time. He can hear the guards’ heavy steps behind him as they try to match his speed. Merlin has an advantage here - not only is he a decent runner, but he’s not weighed down by armour. He turns to the right, relief washing over him when he spots the guards far behind from the corner of his eye. 

Looking straight ahead, he searches for an escape. He knows another way to the castle, but that would lead him to the dungeons first. Dungeons mean more guards, which means higher chances of getting caught. He still doesn’t understand why he needs to run, to hide, and right now he has no interest in figuring out why. 

He takes another turn to the right, and immediately his gaze falls upon a nook in the wall about twenty yards away. It’s a lousy hiding spot, but it’s better than nothing. 

He slides into the nook, aware that he’s still painfully exposed from the side. The guards haven’t turned the corner yet, and Merlin takes the opportunity to cast a simple spell he’s used many times. His eyes flash gold and footsteps appear in the soil, following the same path Merlin would take if he continued running. 

He holds his breath as he hears the guards approach, the clinking of their armour getting louder by the second. They run past him, gaze firmly on the path ahead until they disappear around the next corner shortly after. 

Merlin lets out a long, relieved sigh, tension bleeding out of him. Before he can change his mind, he runs back to the gates. He enters through the gates, keeping his head low. It’s around midday and the court is alive, the markets full on. He blends in with the crowd, hoping everyone’s too busy or distracted to pay attention to their surroundings.

He has no idea where he’s headed, no idea why he needs to hide. His best option right now are the stables. He makes his way there, adding a spring to his step, avoiding locking his gaze with anyone. 

He’s relieved to find the stables empty, safe for the horses. He leans against the wall, resting his forehead on his forearm. What on earth just happened? Why were the guards chasing him like he was some sort of a criminal? 

Could it be…? What if Gwen’s found out? About Arthur, about Merlin. Maybe she figured it all out. A mysterious sorcerer, coming to the rescue while Merlin had been nowhere to be found. What if she knows? What if she’d given an order to have Merlin arrested and-

No. Gwen wouldn’t. Even if she’d somehow managed to reveal Merlin’s secret, she would never… Would she?

Gaius. That is the only safe place right now. Merlin needs to get to Gaius.

His stream of thought is interrupted when something sharp presses between his shoulder blades. Oh, hell.

“Declare yourself.”

Merlin’s heart skips a beat, the familiarity of the voice sending all coherent thought out of the window. It can’t be… 

“Lancelot?” 

He hears a sharp inhale, the pressure of what must be a sword against his back faltering. “W-What...”

No, that’s definitely his voice. “Lancelot!” He whirls around excitedly, knocking the blade away from his body in the process, but it’s back in the next second, pressed against his throat instead. 

“Don’t move!” Lancelot barks, but Merlin can’t think straight, because yes, it’s him! Just as Merlin remembers him, except for the dumbstruck look on his face, staring at Merlin like he’s seeing a ghost. And isn’t that ironic?

“Lancelot, it’s me! Merlin.” 

Eyes like saucers, Lancelot shakes his head, adjusting his grip on the sword when his hand trembles. “You’re not Merlin,” he says darkly. “You can’t be.”

“What? Why not?” Merlin demands, frustrated beyond belief. He’d barely set a foot back in Camelot and he’s never been so confused. He raises his hand, touching the blade gingerly, trying to push it away. 

“I said, don’t move!” Lance orders, gritting his teeth. 

“What’s going on?” Merlin finally asks. “Why are you- How are you here?”

Lancelot huffs a humorless laugh. “I should be asking that question.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yeah, well, that makes the two of us.”

Merlin’s eyes prickle with tears. He curses internally. He’s so damn tired. Not just physically. The heartache is still fresh and it stings like an open wound. As much as he’d dreaded to return to Camelot, this is his home. He’s supposed to be safe here, this is where he’s supposed to heal. Instead  he’s been chased - hunted, more precisely - and one of his best friends (who’s supposed to be long gone) is holding a sword to his throat. 

And Merlin still doesn’t have any answers. 

“I swear,” he says weakly. “It’s me.”

“Liar,” Lancelot snarls, anger and confusion glistening in his eyes. 

Merlin wants to argue, wants to demand an explanation, but all protest dies on his tongue with Lancelot’s next words.

“Merlin is dead.”

Chapter Text

Merlin’s mind is blank. Gone is the fleeting moment of joy he experienced with his discovery that Lancelot is alive. He wants to laugh it off, to scold Lancelot for making such a stupid joke. Expects him to burst out in a fit of giggles, proud that he made Merlin speechless. But his friend is as serious as Merlin’s ever seen him, jaw clenched tight, his gaze piercing through Merlin like a dagger.

This… whatever it is, doesn’t make any sense. For a split second, Merlin let himself believe that Freya got it wrong, that maybe she didn’t realise how powerful she actually is. That the spell she cast granted Merlin’s wish and sent him back in time. Back to a time when everything was not yet lost. When there was still hope. Before one of his closest friends sacrificed himself for Merlin. That maybe he could save more lives than Arthur’s. That this is a second chance.

The tip of the sword scratches uncomfortably against Merlin’s throat. Lancelot grunts impatiently.

“You’d better start talking before I start swinging.” 

Maybe this is not Lancelot after all? He’s been brought back to life once. What if it happened again? But Morgana is dead, and who else could have any interest in using dark magic to bring him back to life? Morgana was close to Gwen. Once. She knew what was in Gwen’s heart and she used it against the kingdom. But who else could possibly know about those feelings? 

Merlin’s eyes bore into Lancelot’s, studying him. He doesn’t look like a Shade, indifferent and empty. The opposite, in fact. Merlin can feel emotion pouring out of him, can sense his confusion and frustration. And also a flicker of hope. 

No, this is Lancelot. Merlin might not understand how this is possible, but he doesn’t have to. It’s Lancelot, and he’s Merlin’s friend, and God, Merlin’s missed him so much he can feel it in his bones. His vision goes blurry and wetness coats his cheeks. 

Lancelot does a slight double-take but collects himself immediately. 

“What are you-” He cuts himself off, expression darkening. “Don’t think I’ll fall for that. Tell me who you are and what you’re doing here, or I swear I’ll-” 

“I’m sorry,” Merlin chokes out. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s going on.” He raises a hand to wipe at his cheeks, slowly so as not to alarm Lancelot with any sudden movement. “I don’t know where I am.” Not really. “I don’t know why you are here. All I know is that I watched you die. Because of me. And there hasn’t been a day since that I haven’t thought of you. That I haven’t wished it was me instead.”

He doesn’t know what does it, whether it’s the tears or the mention of Lancelot’s death, but something hits home. Lancelot’s gaze softens and his hand on the sword wavers, even as his confusion grows. 

“If this is some sort of a joke…” he says warningly, but the quiver in his voice betrays him. It’s enough for Merlin to push harder.

“I swear it’s me,” Merlin repeats. “Please. I’m telling the truth.”

Lancelot shakes his head, and Merlin notices a suspicious glistening in his eyes as well.

“It’s not possible.”

“I’ll prove it,” Merlin challenges. When Lancelot doesn’t protest, he carries on. “You saved my life when we met. Fought the griffin when it attacked me. And then you killed it with the help of my magic.”

Lancelot blinks a couple of times, but doesn’t say anything. Right. Time to get personal.

“You wanted to be a knight since you were little, but you’re not of noble blood, and you thought it was just a dream that would never come true.”

Lancelot fidgets a little, licks his lips, and says, “That doesn’t prove anything. Most people in Camelot know my story.” 

He looks uncomfortable though, despite his words. It spurs Merlin on.

“You’re right-handed but for some reason, you prefer to catch with your left.” 

Lancelot’s eyes widen a fraction, and Merlin knows he’s on the right path. 

“You excel at playing dice but pretend you don’t understand the rules, because you know Gwaine would want to drag you to the tavern to play all the time.”

Lancelot’s mouth falls open on a gasp. The blade slides from Merlin’s throat to his chest, more resting than pointing. 

“You’re really weird when it comes to drinking. You can down a couple tankards of mead and still walk straight, but a single pint of ale makes you sway and sing to the high heavens.” Merlin chuckles under his breath as fond memories flood his mind. “You’re a terrible singer, by the way.”

Silence follows. The only sound Merlin can hear is the loud beating of his own heart. He waits with bated breath. There’s nothing else he can do. If Lancelot doesn’t believe him, Merlin doesn’t know what he’s going to-

Lancelot withdraws his sword, holding it loosely. Merlin blinks up at him, surprised and hopeful. Sees his friend shake with restraint, as though he’s holding himself back from-

The sword clatters to the ground and suddenly Merlin is enveloped in a crushing hug he thought he’d never get to experience ever again. His body reacts before his mind can process the situation, his arms coming up and around Lancelot to return the embrace, to hold him close. Lancelot stifles a sob against his shoulder, then laughs, a bit manic. 

“Lancelot?” 

Lancelot squeezes him tighter. “It’s you. I never… I thought…” 

He doesn’t seem to be able to form a coherent thought, and Merlin can relate.

“I know,” he reassures, although he’s not sure what he’s agreeing with. He goes with the truth. “I’ve missed you.”

Lancelot doesn’t hesitate. “I’ve missed you, too.” Then adds, “Gods, Merlin, it’s been months. ” 

Yeah, it’s been so long- Wait. 

“What?” 

He extracts himself carefully from Lancelot’s hold, staring. Lancelot frowns at him. 

“What?” he echoes. 

“Months?”

“Yes,” Lancelot says slowly. “Since… you know.” 

Merlin doesn’t know. But he sure as hell wants to make sense of this mess. 

“Lancelot, listen.” He takes a deep breath. “I promise you it’s really me, but we both know that something doesn’t make sense here.” Lancelot nods. “It’s so good to see you, you have no idea.” Merlin smiles shakily. “But I need to find out what’s going on.” 

He’s being deliberately vague, but he can’t just ambush Lancelot with the whole truth. Hey, so I screwed up my destiny and Arthur died. And now I’m here, thanks to the work of some ancient magic I’ve never heard of, so I can save one man and change the future.  

Yeah, probably not. 

Lancelot grimaces, but gives a resigned sigh. 

“Agreed. As happy as I am to have you back, there must be a reason for this.” He looks at Merlin nervously. “Who could have possibly brought you back? Was it Gaius? Can he even do that?”

Merlin bites his lip. This is already harder than he anticipated. “Lancelot, I… Nothing brought me back.” He stares at Lancelot unwaveringly. “I never died.”

Lancelot’s frown deepens. 

“Yes, you did,” he argues gently, yet firmly. Merlin opens his mouth to object, but Lancelot holds up a hand. “You died, Merlin,” he stresses. “I would know.” He drops his gaze, clenches his eyes shut, then peers up at Merlin, ashamed. “It was my fault. You died on my watch.” 

Merlin’s mouth goes dry, his mind reeling. He knows it’s not true. He knows. But he needs to ask. “How? When?”

Lancelot’s lips set into a thin line, his throat bobs as he swallows heavily. “The dorocha.”

“The dorocha?” Merlin repeats, then realises. “Oh. Did I… I walked through the veil, didn’t I?” 

That must be the only explanation. If Merlin was the one to close the veil, Lancelot never had to. As it should have been in the first place. 

Lancelot shakes his head, brows scrunched up. “No, Merlin. That’s not…” He stops. “You were sick. And Arthur ordered me to take you back to Camelot, to get you to Gaius.” His eyes tear up and he avoids Merlin’s gaze. “You were my responsibility and I didn’t… I didn’t get you here in time. You died because of me.” 

Merlin stares, speechless. That’s not what happened. The Vilia healed him, and he and Lancelot went back to help the others and- 

Oh, no.

“Arthur,” he blurts out, panicked. If Merlin died here before closing the veil, and if Lancelot’s alive too, that means… 

“What about him?” Lancelot asks, then his expression clears. “Oh, God. Arthur.”  

Merlin’s overcome with dread, the possibility that he was brought to another place without Arthur in it too overwhelming to bear. Before he can demand answers, Lancelot continues.

“I can’t imagine what he’ll do when he finds out you’re back.” He gives a fleeting smile. “But I don’t think it’s wise to take you to him before we know what happened. He’s going to want answers.” He looks at Merlin apologetically. “I imagine his reaction won’t be much better than mine. And I know about your magic.” 

Merlin’s hardly listening. He can only stare, dumbstruck, Lancelot’s words ringing in his ears, confirming that Arthur is here, alive. He needs to get to Arthur, needs to see him. He has to tell him. Tell him everything . All the things he meant to say and never did- 

“Merlin?” 

“Yeah?”

“Did you hear what I said?”

Merlin feels his cheeks heat. He blinks at Lancelot bashfully. 

Lancelot rolls his eyes fondly. “I said we need to get answers before we tell Arthur. Or anyone else.”

Merlin pouts a little. He knows Lancelot is right. As much as he would love to, he can’t just barge into Arthur’s chambers and unleash everything on him. . 

“Yeah, okay. You’re right, I guess. What do you suggest?”

“Gaius. He’s the only other person who knows about your magic. And if there’s someone who’s got a chance at unravelling the mystery, it’s him.”

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees. “You need to sneak me in, though. If anyone recognises me we’re going to be in serious trouble. Oh, crap.”

“What?”

“We already are.” 

“What? Why?”

“The guards, Henry and Noah? They must have recognised me. Chased me around the castle before I even stepped through the gates.”

“Oh, right.” Lancelot sighs. “I was wondering what was going on when I saw you creeping around, trying to blend in with the crowd. That’s why I followed you.” He drops a heavy hand on Merlin’s shoulder, squeezing comfortingly. “Don’t worry, I’ll have a word with them, make sure they don’t tell anyone.”

“Thank you.”

Lancelot nods, throwing an arm over Merlin’s shoulders, telling him to stick close. He barks out a laugh, eyes sparkling with mirth. Merlin looks at him questioningly. 

“Gaius will be so happy to see you.” 

***

Gaius is not happy.

“What on earth is this?!” the old physician demands, regarding Merlin with disdain. 

“It’s good to see you, too,” Merlin replies sarcastically, his hopes that at least one person would accept him without throwing accusations crushed. He’s not sure how many times he can go through the same thing he did with Lancelot before giving up. 

“Gaius, I know it’s confusing. And scary. But it really is Merlin,” Lancelot explains patiently, putting his hand back on Merlin’s shoulder, warm and soothing.

Gaius shakes his head once, resolute. “Impossible. There’s no way.”

“That’s what I thought, too. But it is him.”

“This isn’t Merlin,” Gaius hisses. “Merlin is dead. This-” He waves a hand in Merlin’s direction. “Can be nothing but the work of a necromancer, or some other dark magic. Someone trying to impersonate him.” He gives Merlin a judgemental once-over. “He doesn’t even look the same. ” 

Merlin does a double-take, sharing a confused glance with Lance. 

“What do you mean I don’t look the same?”

“I knew Merlin like the back of my own hand. You’re not him.”

Lancelot is still studying his face, his head cocked to the side, calculating. 

“He’s right,” he says evenly. “I didn’t notice before, but… you do look different.”

Getting more and more lost with each passing second, Merlin finally snaps. 

“Look, I don’t give a damn what I look like! For some reason, I’m here, wherever here is. Because this sure as hell is not my world. And I sure as hell did not die. I wish I did, believe me. I wish I’d died instead of you-” He jabs a finger against Lancelot’s chest, making him yelp quietly. “Instead of Arthur. But unfortunately, here I am, and I’m sorry that I don’t look how I should, but tough! Something out there clearly thought it would be hilarious to throw me into the unknown and watch me lose my mind trying to wrap my head around this bloody mess. So I’m deeply sorry if my sudden presence is confusing to you, but you’d better shake it off and help me figure this all out. Or I swear I’ll turn around and storm straight into Arthur’s chambers, and damn the consequences. I don’t know why I ended up here. I just know that Arthur is alive, and that’s all that matters, and I’ll be damned if I watch him die again because I’m too busy doing what others tell me to do instead of thinking for myself at least once in my life!”

Gaius and Lancelot stare while Merlin tries and fails to catch his breath after his sudden outburst, leaning on Lancelot for support. Merlin’s chest heaves, his head is pounding and he only barely manages to hold himself together.

“Um,” Lancelot says awkwardly, turning his wide eyes on Gaius who doesn’t look much different. 

Gaius moves then, taking cautious, steady steps towards the two. He comes to a stop less than a foot away from Merlin, watching him intensely. 

After a few moments of open staring Gaius reaches out, gripping Merlin by his arms and hoisting him into an upright position. His expression is stern, not giving anything away. Merlin stands his ground, giving as good as he gets. 

Something flickers in Gaius’ grey eyes, an emotion Merlin can’t quite determine. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, because in the next instant Gaius is pulling him forward, pulling him close, until Merlin’s chest is pressed firmly against his, Gaius’ arms winding around Merlin’s neck. 

Neither of them speaks; Merlin too anxious to break the fragile spell. The hug doesn’t last long, though, Gaius’ hugs never do. He slides his hands from Merlin’s neck down to his shoulders, pushing him gently away, keeping him at arms’ length. He cradles Merlin’s face between his calloused palms, searching it for… something. 

“I thought I lost you,” Gaius says, voice steady, but Merlin hears the subtle note of wonder and affection. 

Gaius' lips tremble as he tries for a smile and mostly fails. Still, a heavy weight drops off of Merlin's chest.

"Me too," he replies, remembering his conversation with Freya. 

You don't know what you'll be leaving behind.  

He’d been ready to give up everything and everyone if it meant he would get Arthur back. He hadn’t known what it meant, had no idea where he would end up. He hadn’t let himself think about it, fearing that it would steer him away from his final decision. 

But here he is, in a strange world that's so similar and so different to the one he came from. Arthur is alive, Lancelot never died, and Gaius is here, as he always has been. Whatever, wherever this is, it's everything Merlin wished for, and so much more than he allowed himself to hope.

"Shall we maybe talk?" Lancelot suggests tentatively. "There is a lot to discuss."

"He's right," Gaius agrees. 

He lets go off Merlin, takes a couple of steps backwards, suddenly all business. He gestures to a couple of stools by the table. Merlin and Lancelot take their seats without further prompting, waiting for Gaius to sink heavily into his favorite chair in front of them. 

"So, Merlin," he begins, interlacing his fingers. He raises a challenging eyebrow, regarding Merlin sceptically. "Tell me what you did this time, my boy." 

And just like that, Merlin knows. Whatever this place is, it's home. 

***

Merlin doesn't start at the beginning. He's not sure where that would be. He tells them about Camlann, about Arthur suffering a fatal wound. He doesn't mention Mordred, aware that there is still much Lancelot doesn't know - about Merlin's destiny, and the prophecy. He will tell him eventually. When there's time. Gaius seems to understand anyway, looking at Merlin knowingly, regretfully. 

Merlin rushes through the events of the last two days of Arthur’s life, the memory of that time too painful to elaborate on. He leaves out the things they said to each other, confessions and pleas whispered between them. He doesn't mention having taken Morgana's life, nor the last words Arthur said to him as he died in his arms. His eyes burn and his voice shakes when he speaks of Arthur's death, about saying goodbye to him at the lake. 

Gaius asks him to slow down and describe in painful detail what happened at the lake, and Merlin has no choice but to recall and repeat what was said. About the spell Freya cast, and what happened right after.

Lancelot's eyes flicker between the two of them as Merlin speaks of his destiny, about changing what was always meant to happen. Merlin sends him an apologetic look, promising to explain everything when the time is right. 

Finally, Merlin describes waking up at the lake. His confusion when he wasn't sure he hadn't dreamt the whole thing up. Then what happened with the guards. And finally, with Lancelot.

"That sounds… incredible," Lancelot comments, dumbstruck. 

Merlin's shoulders sag tiredly. "I thought nothing could surprise me, but clearly I was wrong." 

"I have a question, though. I'm sorry, I know we have more important matters at hand, but I have to ask. You said that I died." Merlin nods, hesitant. "How? When?"

"About four years ago." Guilt squeezes in his chest. "When the dorocha attacked. I meant to close the veil so Arthur didn't have to. But while I was fighting the Cailleach, you’d already got to the veil and you… you walked through. It was supposed to be me but I couldn't stop you. I'm so sorry." 

Merlin rubs at his eyes, willing himself to not cry. Again. He wonders if it's possible to cry so much you have no tears left. 

"Hey, Merlin. No," Lancelot soothes, leaning forward until he can pry Merlin's hand off, catching his eyes. He smiles, sad but genuine. "I would give anything to go back in time and exchange my life for yours. No, listen," he orders gently when he sees Merlin's disapproving expression, a protest on the tip of his tongue. "I've made many mistakes in my life and I've learnt to live with them. But the one thing I'll never make peace with is how I let you down. Not just you, everyone who knew you. Your life was in my hands and I crushed it. But this? Knowing that there's a version of reality where I got to save you? You can't imagine how much that means to me. And please believe me when I say that I would do it a thousand times over if only I got another chance." 

Merlin sways forward in his seat before he knows what he's doing, falling against Lancelot's chest and wrapping him in another hug, sobbing against his chainmail. Lancelot is crying too, although more dignified. He’s the first to pull away, looking unsure. 

"Merlin, did you say this happened four years ago?"

Merlin wipes his nose on his sleeve, sniffling unattractively. "Give or take, yeah." 

Creases appear on Lancelot's forehead. "That's… strange. Because you… um, the dorocha attack happened three months ago." 

Merlin already suspected as much, after what Lancelot told him in the stables. This is yet another thing that doesn’t make any sense. Not only has he arrived in a different version of reality, as mad as it sounds, he also appeared in a different time. Even though Freya claimed it impossible to time-travel. 

He spares a quick glance for Gaius, silently asking for confirmation. Gaius looks about the same he has for the past hour, his perpetual, stoic expression in place and… is he trying to murder Merlin with his glare?

"Gaius?" 

The physician shoots up from his chair, as smoothly as one could expect from a man his age. He's towering over both of them, but his murderous stare is aimed at Merlin.

"What were you thinking?!"

Merlin gapes at him, Lancelot mirroring his expression. 

"What?"

"Do you have any idea what you've done?!"

"Um," Merlin hesitates. "Do you?" 

At this point, Merlin will take anything, even being scolded like a child if it means that all his questions are answered.

"Silly boy!"

"Seriously, Gaius, if you think you might be onto something, can you quit the drama and just tell me?" 

Gaius is not amused. In fact, he starts pacing, and that Merlin knows is not good.

"You should never have agreed to Freya's offer."

"My options were pretty limited, Gaius."

"No one is to meddle with the Fates, Merlin! Not even you!"

Merlin stands up, feeling uncomfortable with Gaius looking down at him. Anger simmers under his skin, turning his vision red. 

"Are you serious? For the past ten years all I've done is to try and defy the prophecy. And now you’re telling me I should have just let everything happen?"

"The prophecy predicted Arthur would die by Mordred's hand. You could have tried to change it before it happened, but it's already happened! There's nothing to be done. You can't change the past."

"I'm not changing the past. As we’ve established, this is not what happened in my world. For one, I never died!"

"No, you didn't. You got to live and your friends, me, Arthur-" He gives Merlin a meaningful look. "Your mother - they never had to deal with losing you. Now look what you’ve done.”

Merlin gets ready to protest, but Gaius silences him with a look. "At least we had the chance to mourn, Merlin. What about your world? What will they think, how will they feel, when you're nowhere to be found? No explanation, no way of knowing if you're dead or alive, if they'll ever see you again."

Merlin is speechless. When he said yes to Freya, he hadn’t been thinking. He’d known what he was risking, but nothing seemed more important than saving Arthur. And he doesn't regret his decision, he can't. Not when he knows he has Arthur back, that Arthur is safe. Alive.  

But Gaius’ confrontation forces him to face consequences he hasn't allowed himself to think about.

"I'm sorry," he says brokenly, shame compelling him to look away. "I'm sorry, I didn't… I didn't mean to hurt anyone. It was just something I had to do."

The air in the room is so thick it could be cut with a knife. Gone is the affection Gaius displayed before, replaced by righteous anger and disappointment. 

"No, you didn't," he disagrees, voice rough and strained. "You didn't have to do anything. It was a choice. A choice you selfishly made. You may not care about the laws of nature, or how your actions impact the fabric of this world - all worlds - but I always believed you would never do anything that would put the people you care about through unnecessary pain." 

Gaius sighs defeatedly, shaking his head. He turns around, walking slowly to the other side of his quarters. To Merlin’s room. He stops in front of the door, one hand already on the knob. He turns to the side, looking in Merlin’s direction from the corner of his eye.

"I know how much Arthur means to you, Merlin. But putting one man above all others can never bode well." The anger is gone, replaced by resignation. “You died in this world, Merlin. We had to say goodbye. It was painful, and there's not a day I didn’t think of you. But there was nothing we could do, so we accepted it, and we mourned, and cried, and eventually, we moved on."

Lancelot makes an unidentifiable sound, somewhere between disagreement and hesitation. Gaius shoots him a look, then continues. 

"How do you think everyone will feel when they learn it was for nothing? Please, Merlin. Know that I'm truly grateful that I got to see you again, whoever you are. But I wish you’d stayed where you belong." 

He opens the door, walks into the room, and closes it behind him, effectively shutting down Merlin’s hopes for happiness.

Chapter Text

“Merlin?”

Lancelot’s voice is soft, careful. Merlin doesn’t deserve to be treated so thoughtfully.

“What do I do, Lancelot?” he asks, his voice muffled from where he has buried his face in his palms.

“Don’t,” Lancelot says, firmer. “Don’t beat yourself up like this.”

“How can I not?!” he cries. “What I’ve done is-”

Lancelot interrupts again, scooting closer to Merlin. He rests a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “What you’ve done, you’ve done out of love.”

Merlin peeks at him through his fingers, curious. “I...”

“It’s okay,” Lancelot says softly. “I understand.”

There’s a small quirk to his lips, as though he’s sharing a secret. It occurs to Merlin he probably is.

Oh.

“What does it matter?” Merlin mutters, feeling his cheeks warm up as blood rushes to his face. “I messed up, and Gaius is-”

“Gaius is hurting,” Lancelot finishes for him. “He’ll need time to work through his grief.” Again, goes unsaid. “ He’ll come around. He loves you too much to brood for long.”

“Well, he’s in the right, isn’t he?”

Lancelot gnaws at his lip, mulling over his next words. 

“I see where he’s coming from,” he admits. “I was there , Merlin. I was the one who took your-” He falters. “Who carried you here, laid you down on this very cot.”

Merlin’s gaze flickers to said cot. He tries to picture it. 

His lifeless body, rigid and cold, skin turned ashen, Gaius and Lancelot sitting by his side. Gwen too, probably. Trying their best to accept the inevitable truth. He wonders if Arthur saw him like this. Did he feel as though his world was crashing down around him? Just like Merlin’s did with Arthur’s death?

“I begged Gaius to do something, even though I knew it was too late,” Lancelot continues. “I wouldn’t wish this upon anyone. At least I had a chance to say goodbye. But people in your world...” 

There’s no need to finish that thought.

“Thanks,” Merlin retorts sarcastically. “I feel much better now.”

“My point is,” Lancelot stresses. “I know how Gaius feels. A part of me agrees with him. But it’s nothing compared to how happy I am to have you back. In any capacity.” He leans closer, making sure Merlin listens. “I don’t care that this isn’t your world, your real home. The people in it are.”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Merlin asks quietly, “Are you sure it’s not just the guilt speaking?”

“I would be lying if I said no,” comes the reply after a slightest hesitation. “But don’t you dare think that’s all this is about. More than anything, I’ve just missed you. ”

Blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay, Merlin manages a shaky smile, humbled by his friend’s words. Once again, he’s hit by a surge of deep buried emotion, reminding him how much he’d missed the man next to him in turn.

Before he can reply, the door to his (not his) room opens. Gaius looks worn down as he walks into the main room, eyes downcast while he makes his way over. Lowering himself to his chair, he fixes Merlin with his gaze.

“All right, my boy,” he starts, interlacing his fingers and propping his hands on the table. He doesn’t sound as resigned as before, and Merlin feels faint with relief. Maybe Lancelot was right - Gaius just needed time to cope. 

“Tell us more about your world.” 

Merlin shakes himself. Right. He’s got work to do. He might as well start by shedding some light on the situation. This will be easier if he doesn’t have to do it alone. 

“This could take a while,” he warns, thinking back on the past four years - how much has happened. How much he’s tried to forget.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Lancelot reassures, sending a rush of warmth through Merlin.

“You’d better not,” Merlin threatens light-heartedly.

Shaking his head fondly, Lancelot replies, “Actually, I should make sure that the guards keep quiet.” He stands up. “Give me a few moments, I’ll be right back.”

***

True to his word, it doesn’t take long before Lancelot rejoins them. Merlin used the time to make a mental list of events to include in his story-telling. He only mentions what is necessary, choosing to keep certain parts to himself. 

Gaius doesn’t need to know Agravaine organised his kidnapping in order to get information about Merlin. About Emrys. Doesn’t need to know he was tortured for it, and almost killed. 

Lancelot doesn’t need to know Morgana used necromancy to bring him back to life as a Shade so she could ruin Gwen and Arthur’s relationship. He doesn’t need to know how she almost succeeded. How no one except Merlin and Gaius ever learnt the truth. How Merlin took his body to the lake and said goodbye for a second time.

What he does mention seems to be enough to paint a clear picture of what the future will be like if Merlin doesn’t put a stop to it. To a certain someone, to be precise.

 “Agravaine.” The name rolls off of Lancelot’s tongue with barely concealed disdain.

“Yeah.”

“That snake.”

“He got what he had coming to him,” Merlin reassures.

“Not yet,” Lancelot disagrees, fingers curling into a fist. 

It’s the first time Merlin has witnessed this kind of righteous fury on the man’s face, and for a moment he’s taken aback.

“Arthur needs to know about him,” Merlin concludes. “I can protect his life, but Agravaine poisoned his mind. Told him lies, turned him against the people he loved. Because of him, Arthur almost didn’t marry Gwen. And Camelot nearly lost its queen-to-be.”

Talking about Gwen in this way has Merlin wonder about Lancelot’s feelings. A part of him expects to see Lancelot’s face twisted with heartbreak, but he finds nothing but open affection, a small smile playing on his lips.

“I imagine she was amazing.”

“She was,” Merlin agrees. “She was clever, and kind. Kept Arthur in line.” 

Chuckling to himself, Lancelot says, “They deserved to be happy.” He pauses and his features harden. “At least in some reality.”

Merlin doesn’t miss the message hidden between the lines. Something cold twists in his chest. 

“What do you mean?”

Hesitating, Lancelot exchanges a look with Gaius. Gaius remains silent at first but eventually speaks. 

“Merlin, there’s something you need to know.”

That doesn’t sound good.

“About Arthur?”

“Yes,” Gaius replies, and Merlin’s heart stops for a moment. “But it’s more than that.”

Lancelot speaks next, drawing Merlin’s attention to himself. “Merlin, you weren’t the only one we mourned.”

Merlin sucks in a sharp breath, dread settling over him like a cold blanket. “Gwen?”

“No,” Lancelot assures, but it doesn’t sound relieved. “I didn’t close the veil,” he goes on. “Neither did you. Nor Arthur.”

Faces of his friends flash before Merlin’s eyes. “Who?”

Lancelot sighs. “Elyan.”

“No,” Merlin sobs, his vision getting blurry. 

“I’m sorry.” 

This is so twisted. For a few moments there, Merlin thought he had it all. Consequences of his decision for the people of his world aside, this almost seemed perfect. Being thrown into a world where all his friends were still alive. Where Arthur was alive. 

Merlin’s death was a small price to pay and he would willingly give up his own life if it meant everyone else got to live. That’s how it was supposed to be in the first place. Lancelot wasn’t meant to be the one to walk through the veil. Arthur, of course, was supposed to live long enough to unite the lands of Albion and bring magic back. All of it could have been prevented if it had been Merlin instead.

But Elyan’s death douses all his hopes.

“There’s more,” Lancelot continues, interrupting Merlin’s descent down the rabbit hole of self-blame, and Merlin is grateful. 

“When Arthur and the others returned to Camelot without Elyan.” He pauses. Merlin watches the bob of his throat. “I don’t have to tell you how devastated Gwen was. First, it was you. And then her brother. And we didn’t even have a body to burn.” 

He rubs at his eyes, brows pinched together. When he speaks next, he keeps his eyes downcast.

“Arthur, he... he blamed himself for Elyan’s death. And yours. He was convinced Gwen would hate him.”

Merlin barks out a humorless laugh. “Gwen could never hate anyone, especially not Arthur.”

“I know,” Lancelot affirms. “Everyone knows. But Arthur wouldn’t hear it.”

No, he wouldn’t, would he? That’s why he needs Merlin. Someone to remind him what a wonderful man and good King he is, brave and true-hearted.

“Merlin,” Lancelot goes on, placing a hand on Merlin’s wrist. “You need to know Arthur is not the man you remember. I think... I think he lost hope.”

Merlin tries to imagine it - Arthur being anyone else but... Arthur. It seems impossible and the mere thought fills him with an inescapable sense of wrong.

“But it’s Arthur,” he argues. “And he’s King. He can’t be-” A dreadful possibility has him choke on his words. “Wait. He is King, right?”

To his immense relief, Lancelot nods. “Uther died shortly after the dorocha attack. Just like in your world.”

The relief Merlin felt just seconds ago turns into a hollow ache. He thinks of the implications - that Arthur lost three people he cared about so soon  one after another. And suddenly Lancelot’s words start making sense.

 “We need to get rid of Agravaine,” Merlin says resolutely. “He’s Morgana’s eyes and ears. Arthur will never be safe with him in Camelot. None of us will.”

Another nod, and then Lancelot asks, “What about the boy? Mordred?” 

He sounds unsure and Merlin doesn’t blame him. Merlin’s only fed him bits and pieces of information about the prophecy and his destiny. All Lancelot knows is that Mordred ended up being Arthur’s nemesis.

This time it’s Gaius who answers. “Mordred hasn’t set a foot in Camelot since he was a child. He’s no threat to Arthur.”

Suppressing a sardonic laugh, Merlin counters, “Not yet. But he will be.”

“That time is still years away,” Gaius insists.

“I can’t afford to wait,” Merlin hisses, Gaius’ ignorance prickling at his skin like thousands of tiny knives. “I cannot risk it.”

Straightening up from his slouched position, Gaius regards Merlin with suspicion, his grey eyes narrowing in disapproval.

“What are you saying, Merlin?”

It’s unnecessary to answer, so Merlin doesn’t. Just holds Gaius’ eyes, hoping the man recognises how serious he is.

Gaius sucks in a sharp breath. “Merlin,” he says warningly. “No.”

“It’s the only way,” Merlin shoots back, uncaring. This is more important than what Gaius thinks of him.

Shooting up from his chair, Gaius yells, “Murder is never the way!”

“It is if it saves Arthur’s life.”

For a few moments Gaius does nothing but stare - in disbelief, confusion, disappointment. Maybe all of these? Merlin doesn’t know. And he can’t afford to care.

“What happened to the boy who came to my chambers all those years ago?”

Gaius’ words from the time he asked Merlin the same question momentarily drown out everything else. Back then, his answer was vague, not really explaining anything. He decides to be more direct this time.

“He watched the people he loved die.”

He glares at Gaius, daring him to argue further.  Gaius stays silent. 

Clearing his throat, Lancelot interjects, “I will need you to explain the whole prophecy thing to me some time. But Gaius is right.” Merlin sends him a betrayed look, and Lancelot adds in a rush, “It’s years away. We should deal with Agravaine first.”

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Merlin weighs his options. If he had his way, he would jump on a horse first thing and not stop riding until he found the Druid boy. Until he made sure the prophecy would never be fulfilled. 

But maybe that’s just hatred and fear talking. Mordred’s betrayal is still fresh, whereas Agravaine encountered his fate years ago. Not in this world though. At the moment, Arthur’s uncle is the biggest threat and Merlin has to set his priorities straight.

Sitting back down slowly, Gaius asks, “Do you have a plan?”

It probably isn’t as much of a plan as a series of regrets Merlin wants to rectify.

“I’m going to tell Arthur, of course.”

“Tell him what?” Gaius barks, uncomprehending.

Merlin shrugs. “Everything. He needs to know about Agravaine. About why I am here.”

Unsurprisingly, Gaius is not delighted. “Are you mad?! You can’t tell him!”

“Why not?” Merlin challenges. He’s heard it all, of course. All the excuses - not just Gaius’ but his own. And he’s done.

“Don’t you think Arthur will ask questions? How are you planning on keeping your magic secret?”

“I’m not. I’m going to tell him.”

Gaius sputters, his eyes like saucers. “Merlin!”

“It’s the only way!”

“For all Arthur knows, magic is an instrument of evil that took his mother’s, Elyan’s and your life, and turned Morgana into a vengeful beast.”

“You can’t blame any of this on magic!”

“I’m not. But Arthur most assuredly does. He might have had his doubts before, but now he has no reason to think magic can be anything but evil.”

“I can change his mind,” Merlin says, determined. 

He looks back at the last moments they spent together. How, despite all that had come down, at least Arthur had finally known who Merlin really was. And he’d accepted him.  

“He knows me, Gaius. He knows I would never hurt him.” Then softer, “I’m not evil.”

Gaius’ voice loses some of its edge, but he doesn’t let off. “He doesn’t know you. You’re not his Merlin. The fact won’t help you get Arthur on your side.”

He knows why Gaius is being so overbearing, but Merlin’s already made up his mind. He won’t make the same mistakes.

“I will tell him.”

 Gaius inhales deeply, no doubt preparing another argument.

 “I already have! In my world, he knew!”

Lancelot, who’s been trying to make himself look as small as possible while witnessing the shouting match finally speaks. “When?”

“After he was injured at Camlann. I had to take him to the lake and there was no way for me to keep my magic secret if I were to protect him.”

“And how did he take it?”

 Lancelot is almost buzzing with anticipation. The fact warms Merlin more than he’d expect. He’s always known he could count on Lancelot’s support, in anything. The events of the past few hours have only confirmed that. Still, Lancelot’s involvement in Merlin’s happiness is incredibly soothing.

“Not well, at first. Said I’d lied to him for years - which I had.” Pushing down a wave of nausea, he finishes, “But in the end, he accepted me. He said...”

I want you to always be you.

I love you.

“ He said he understood I’d done what I’d done for him and his kingdom.”

Lancelot’s expression is soft, almost proud, and Merlin has to hold himself back from dragging the man into a crushing hug.

The comfort doesn’t last long.

“You can’t tell him, Merlin.,” Gaius stands his ground.

“Why not? He said-”

“What he said does not matter!” he stresses, his forehead gleaming with sweat. They had never argued so much and Merlin can tell the strain, both emotional and physical, is taking its toll.

“Merlin, Arthur was dying. People are always more pliant on their deathbed. I doubt he would be that understanding had you told him under different circumstances.”

“Why are you doing this, Gaius?” Merlin asks in a broken voice.

“I’m trying to protect you!” Gaius shouts indignantly, like Merlin is being unreasonable. “You’re going to get yourself killed!”

“With all due respect,” Lancelot interrupts tentatively. “I disagree. Gaius, you know how devastated Arthur was after...” He lets the sentence hang in the air. Merlin understands anyway. “I’m sure Merlin could tell him he can breathe fire and Arthur would just take it at this point.” He stops, turns his gaze on Merlin, nervous and wide-eyed. “You don’t breathe fire, do you?”

Barking out a laugh, unexpected and genuine, Merlin shakes his head. 

Ignoring the last question, Gaius continues. “I love Arthur as my own kin, but he’s not the most level-headed man I’ve come across. Even less so when someone he cares about is involved.”

As much as he would like to, Merlin can’t really oppose that statement.

“I think he’ll just be happy to have Merlin back,” Lancelot reasons, and it’s spoken with such conviction it has butterflies wreaking havoc in Merlin’s stomach.

“And when he finds out it’s not Merlin?”

“It’s still me, Gaius,” Merlin replies with a bite. 

He understands Gaius’ reluctance, but the distinction he draws between the two versions of Merlin stings. They couldn’t have been that different.

“It’s a version of you that lived on after the dorocha for four more years. People change, Merlin. You’re not the same person you were back then.”

It’s true that Merlin has grown since then. Anyone would. And okay, maybe he has become a little bitter, a little more unforgiving. Maybe he’s not all smiles and jokes as he used to be. But when it comes to Arthur, he’s still the same man. A servant loyal to his King. A man who loves his friend in all ways a person can love another.

“You should tell him,” Lancelot says out of the blue.

“Lancelot!” Gaius chastises, appalled.

“No good ever comes of lies,” Lancelot argues. “Arthur deserves the truth.”

“He’s right, Gaius,” Merlin takes over in a rush before the man can come up with another excuse. “I lied to him for so long, because I was scared. And when I told him it was too late.” He pushes away the memory of Arthur’s lifeless body in his arms. “I don’t want to make the same mistake again.”

Shoulders slumping in resignation, Gaius says, “Your feelings for the man are clouding your judgement, Merlin.”

“I don’t have a choice. What else could I possibly do?”

Gaius doesn’t miss a beat.

“Tweak the truth. Tell him that the last thing you remember is going back to Camelot with Lancelot after you got sick. That you have no reconciliation of what followed after, not until you woke up at the lake and made your way home. Tell him that Lancelot found you, brought you here. That we asked you questions but you couldn’t remember anything.”

Merlin scrunches his nose. It sounds ridiculous even to his own ears.

“He’s not gonna like that.”

“And you believe he would like the truth better?” Gaius carries on before Merlin gets a word in edgewise. “Merlin, please. I only want to keep you safe.”

It’s the please that prevents Merlin from lashing out at the old man again. This is so damn hard. The last thing he wants is to repeat all his mistakes - lying to Arthur until his dying day being the worst of all. 

He only wants to tell the truth. Arthur accepted him. Arthur loved him. Just the thought of going through the never-ending cycle of lies and secrets, keeping Arthur in the dark, makes Merlin feel sick to his stomach.

But what if Gaius is right? Arthur is four years younger, four years less wise than he was when Merlin told him the truth. He’s blind to Agravaine’s treachery. He’s new to kingship. And he’s still hurting from the loss of his loved ones.

What if he’s not ready to know the truth?

“Okay,” he says, uncertain. “I don’t need to tell him about my magic. Yet,” he specifies. “But he needs to know the truth about where I’ve come from. How else will I explain how I know things that haven’t come to pass yet in this world?”

Gaius lifts an eyebrow, and Merlin doesn’t like it one bit.

“You’ve always been very resourceful.” He pauses. “Well, sometimes, at least.”

Ignoring the jab, Lancelot speaks again.

“But you were right about one thing, Gaius. Merlin does look different. There’s no way Arthur’s not going to notice.”

“Different how?” Merlin questions, giving himself a quick once-over, arms spread out.

“I don’t know.” Lancelot purses his lips, cocks his head to the side. “You look... well, you look older, for one.”

“Four years is not that long,” Merlin huffs, insulted.

“It is when you have the weight of your destiny on your shoulders,” Gaius comments, earning a scowl. “I think I’m seeing wrinkles forming.”

“Hey! I don’t have wrinkles, old man!”

“You look bigger, too,” Lancelot adds. “Did you start training?”

“Does doing chores for Arthur count?”

“Good point.”

“That’s why I need to tell him,” Merlin repeats. “Arthur’s never been the most observant.” He chuckles quietly. “But he would smell the lie from miles away.”

Sinking back into his chair, Gaius lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I just hope you know what you’re doing, Merlin.”

Pushing away from the table, Lancelot stands up. He looks at Merlin. “Shall I go fetch His Highness, then?”

The possibility that Merlin could see Arthur shortly causes his breath to hitch and his heart to flutter like crazy, unsure if it’s a sign of excitement or nausea. He decides to believe the former.

He gives a single, determined nod. “I’m ready.” 

He feels anything, but. Thankfully, Lancelot doesn’t call him out, even though he must have noticed the nervous shaking of his hands. He makes his way out, but Gaius’ voice stops him.

“Lancelot,” he calls. “Could you make sure Arthur leaves his sword in his chambers?”

It takes a few moments for Merlin to realise the meaning of the request, but when he does, he wishes he didn’t.

“That’s... very wise,” Lancelot says slowly. “I’ll see to it.” 

And then he’s gone.

Scowling, Merlin turns to Gaius. “You really know how to cheer a man up,” he says bitterly.

“I’m only looking out for you, my boy,” Gaius counters. “I’m sorry I have a strange way of showing it, but I am happy to see you. You’re like a son to me. Losing you was...”

The bitterness is gone as swiftly as it came, and Merlin feels his heart go out to the old physician.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, speaking to Gaius’ hands.

“I know,” Gaius reassures, and untwines his hands in order to wrap one around Merlin’s wrist. “I know.”

**

Merlin hears him before Arthur walks through the door, the low timber of his voice echoing in the hallway. It’s too far and distorted to distinguish specific words, but he can tell Arthur is not happy. Merlin recognises the annoyed tone, undoubtedly hesitant to simply follow Lancelot’s lead without a proper explanation.

Heart racing, Merlin watches the door open with suspended breath, revealing Lancelot’s solemn expression first. Lancelot pushes the door open wider, stepping aside to-

Merlin holds back a gasp when his gaze settles on Arthur’s familiar figure, his head hanging low as he steps over the threshold, lifting his gaze up.

Their eyes meet, as they have countless times. But it’s nothing like before.

Arthur remains frozen on the spot, shock settling on his face.

“W-What-”

His lips tremble, attempting to form words. Merlin’s sheer willpower is the only reason why he’s not leaping across the room right this second and tackling Arthur to the floor, hugging the man tightly until he’s absolutely sure this is not just a fever dream.

But it’s not, he concludes. Because Arthur has never looked like this in any of his dreams - like a shadow of the man Merlin remembers. His hair has never been this long, curling around his ears and falling over his eyes.

Merlin would also never let him go without shaving at least every other day, a faint stubble is the only hint of facial hair Merlin ever allowed him. Now, a scruffy looking beard is covering the lower half of his face, thick enough to rival Leon’s.

Eyes still boring into Arthur’s, Merlin notices that the usual cerulean blue of his irises is significantly dimmer, as if someone blew out a candle in his soul.

Merlin’s never seen him like this, but he knows this is Arthur. He must be, because Merlin feels something inside him come to life, feels the thread thrum with exhilaration like never before. His heart would recognise Arthur anywhere, in every version of reality.

“Hello, dollophead.” He knows his face must be split in the biggest, stupidest smile ever, but he couldn’t care less.

He watches Arthur’s face transform into something unidentifiable, as though the emotions battling inside him cannot decide which one comes on top. 

Fear wins, Merlin assumes. Because in the next second, Arthur is lurching forward, snarling at him like he’s in the middle of a sword-fight, ready to defend his life at all costs. Lancelot jumps in front of him, grabbing Arthur by the shoulders and pushing against him.

“Arthur! Wait!”

“Is this a trick?!” Arthur presses out through gritted teeth, tries to throw Lancelot off.

“It’s not a trick,” Lancelot says, not budging. “It’s real. It’s Merlin.”

Maybe it’s the sound of his name, Merlin’s not sure, but Arthur’s struggling only intensifies.

“Arthur, hold on a second!” Lancelot yells into his ear, red-faced from the effort to hold a man of Arthur’s build in place. “We can explain.”

Suddenly Arthur stills, shifting his gaze from Merlin to Gaius. “Was it you?“

Next to Merlin, Gaius tenses, jutting his chin out. The exchange is peculiar at best, but Merlin doesn’t have time to ask questions. He needs Arthur to believe.

Pushing himself up from his stool, he steps forward, letting his annoyance show.

“Gods, Arthur, if you would just shut up for a moment and pull your big head out of your royal arse so we could explain!”

Arthur’s attention snaps back to Merlin, as does Lancelot’s. At first Arthur only stares, mouth slightly agape and brows furrowed. But then something gives, and Merlin watches anger and fear bleed out of him, his features softening. And just like that, he looks so much more like the Arthur Merlin knows.

“Merlin?” His voice is shaky with reluctant hope.

Merlin huffs, incredulous. After all, Arthur’s always been a tad slower on the uptake. 

“Took you long en- umph! ” The rest of the sentence is muffled by Arthur’s shirt, with Merlin face squashed against his shoulder. His body acts of its own accord, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s back, holding him close.

“Merlin. Merlin,” Arthur chants, voice cracking. 

Merlin hides his face in Arthur’s neck, stifling a sob. With their chests pressed together, he feels more than hears the frantic rhythm of Arthur’s heart hammering against his ribcage, strong and loud and alive.

They pull away after a while, only far enough to look at each other.

“Hey,” Merlin croaks, praying to all the deities he doesn’t start crying again.

Shaking his head, like he still can’t believe it, Arthur says, “I thought... Merlin, I thought...”

And because Merlin has always been good at deflecting serious conversations with humour, he smiles cheekily at Arthur, hoping to sound braver than he feels.

“You should know better by now, Arthur,” he chides good-naturedly. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Arthur offers a reluctant smile in return, sweeping his gaze over Merlin from head to toe, then back up.

“Merlin, I... how?”

And this is it, Merlin thinks. This is the moment when he tells Arthur the truth, as he should have done long ago. As Arthur deserves.

But Arthur’s watching him like Merlin is a wonder, like he’s the centre of his world. His hands have moved from Merlin’s shoulders to his neck, his thumbs brushing, almost absentmindedly, over the soft skin of Merlin’s jaw. He looks at Merlin like nothing else matters and Merlin knows, with frightening certainty, that he can’t live with never being looked at like this ever again.

His determination crumbles under Arthur’s affectionate gaze, like snow melting under the sun.

And in spite of his good intentions, he replies, “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

Chapter Text

“You don’t remember,” Arthur repeats, incredulous. 

His hands, now motionless, are still on Merlin’s neck. There’s no way he doesn’t feel the erratic flutter of his pulse, no way he can miss the nervous bob of Merlin’s throat.

Did he just say that? Did he really tell Arthur-

Did he lie to Arthur again?

He can feel Gaius and Lancelot’s confusion without having to look. Panic rises inside him like a tidal wave - he didn’t expect this turn of events. He didn’t expect himself to cowardly give in to another lie just because for one, fleeting moment lying seemed preferable to the contrary. Easier than risking Arthur’s rejection.

Shaking his head subtly, he forces himself to hold Arthur’s gaze.

“I am sorry.”

Arthur’s expression darkens, his brows furrow.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Breath hitching, Merlin tries to recall what Gaius suggested before.

“The dorocha,” he replies, licking his lips. “Getting sick. Lancelot taking me back to Camelot.”

And this part, Merlin vividly remembers. The powerlessness as Arthur ordered Lancelot to take Merlin back, take him away from Arthur. 

“You sent me away,” he says, almost accusing.

Arthur’s face softens, his lips part on a shaky inhale.

And because he can’t stop himself, Merlin goes on. “You made me leave you. You never should’ve done that.”

The frown is back, Arthur’s hands sliding down to rest on Merlin’s shoulders.

“Merlin,” he says, voice quiet and full of regret. “You were dying. I needed to get you to Gaius. There was no time.”

“There was nothing Gaius could have done. There was no cure for the sickness.” Nothing that wasn’t magic, at least. But Arthur didn’t know that.

“I had to try. I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

And he sounds so resigned, so broken, that all protest dies on Merlin’s tongue. Ever since he came to Camelot, ever since he met Arthur, there was nothing that mattered more than keeping Arthur safe. Nothing more important than making sure Arthur lived.

He never quite realised how much his own life meant to Arthur.

“You should have let me come with you,” he adds, not argumentative, just wistful. 

All those lives that could have been spared, in both worlds, if Merlin had followed Arthur. If he’d made sure he got to the veil first. As Arthur said - Merlin had been dying. He might as well have made sure it wouldn’t be in vain.

“I told you I’d take your place. I told you I’d die for you.” And maybe he hadn’t used those exact words back then, but there was no way the meaning is lost on Arthur.

Arthur’s face shifts into a pained expression, like someone just ran a sword through his chest. His fingers twist in Merlin’s jacket.

“You did,” he says hollowly. “You did die, Merlin. Because of me.”

Arthur’s tone leaves no space for arguments. The words are spoken with a conviction only someone who’s been relentlessly repeating them to himself can muster.

The thread in Merlin’s chest throbs, reacting to Arthur’s emotions as though they are Merlin’s own. As though it can’t differentiate between them.

It’s in that moment, ten years from the day they met, with Arthur holding onto him like Merlin is about to disappear any second, that Merlin finally realises - there has never been a distinction between his and Arthur’s feelings. There has never been a time Merlin considered Arthur to be separate from him. Whatever Arthur feels, Merlin feels like an echo. Wherever Arthur goes, Merlin follows. Because he cannot bear to do anything else.

This has never been about destiny. It’s about them. Always about them.

He’s pulling Arthur into another hug before he loses his courage. And Arthur lets him, falls easily, willingly, into his arms, burrowing his face in Merlin’s neck. It’s not as urgent as the first time, not as bone-crushing. And yet, it’s even more desperate.

Merlin’s not sure how long they stay like this, their hearts beating almost in sync, but he hears shuffling, then slow, heavy footsteps to his right. He doesn’t look up right away, but when he does, he sees Gaius has made his way to Lancelot and, together, they slip into the hallway, shutting the door behind them with a soft click. And suddenly, it’s just him and Arthur.

With great reluctance, Merlin starts pulling away, chest aching at witnessing Arthur so unguarded, so vulnerable. A bit hysterically, he thinks of how death seems to be the only way to get Arthur to hug him. Maybe he should try dying more often. Just to keep Arthur on edge.

“You look terrible, by the way,” he comments dryly, regarding Arthur’s dishevelled appearance with disapproval. It elicits a satisfying reaction from Arthur, a familiar scowl on his face.

Pouting like a disgruntled child - and it’s not cute, nope, just annoying - Arthur starts, “Well, you look-” And promptly clamps his mouth shut, doing a double-take. Taking a step back so he can scan his gaze over Merlin properly, he cocks his head to the side.

“You look... good.”

And Merlin knows Arthur has noticed the subtle differences Gaius and Lancelot commented on. He knows this is dangerous, that any second Arthur might realise the truth, but he can’t help but preen at the words. 

“Not bad for a corpse, huh?” he returns playfully, because apparently he can’t stop making stupid jokes in serious situations. He knows it was the wrong thing to say when Arthur’s expression shutters, the corners of his lips curving downwards.

“Too soon?” Merlin asks with a nervous grimace, chastised by Arthur’s unimpressed glare.

“Idiot,” Arthur huffs, exasperated, and cuffs Merlin behind his ear.

“Hey!” Merlin complains with no real heat. He deserved this one.

“Obviously, death didn’t manage to keep your insolent mouth shut.”

“Just admit it,” Merlin teases, shooting Arthur a knowing smirk. “You missed it.”

Arthur freezes, then sputters, muttering some gibberish under his breath. Merlin can barely contain his glee, proud to have made Arthur incoherent, just like old times. 

But then Arthur’s shoulders sag, his gaze drops to his shoes, and he says, barely above a whisper, “I did. I really did.”

He sounds defeated, like admitting it is costing him something. The Arthur Merlin remembers would put up much more of a fight, would probably throw insults at him to diminish the honesty of such a confession. He wouldn’t put his heart on his sleeve until he knew he had nothing to lose.

But maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s what Lancelot meant when he said Arthur isn’t the man Merlin remembers.

He thinks of the implications. About how vulnerable Arthur is to manipulation in his current state. How easy it would be to feed him lies that would only strengthen his hatred towards magic. Not that Arthur was ever outright hateful. Apprehensive, yes. Distrustful, of course.

But what if Gaius was right?

It’s not worth much, but it’s something, so Merlin makes himself say, “I missed you, too.”

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur grumbles, keeping his head low. Merlin assumes it’s to hide a blush and feels satisfaction spread warmly through his limbs.

“You didn’t even have time to miss me,” Arthur reasons. Merlin stays silent, knowing there is nothing he can say to that without raising suspicion.

Slowly, Arthur looks up. “Do you remember it?” he asks tentatively. “Dying?”

Merlin lets his mind wander to all the times he came this close to the other side. Each of those experiences was different, but he chooses to concentrate on the time with the dorocha. That’s what Arthur is asking about after all, nevermind that Merlin survived. He almost didn’t.

“Not really.” He shrugs. “I remember being cold. Scared out of my mind because I thought you were going to get yourself killed.” That much, at least, is true.

“I wish I did,” Arthur doesn’t miss a beat. Just the notion of Arthur being so reckless and indifferent when it comes to his own life (and yes, Merlin is aware how hypocritical he’s being) has the hair on the back of his neck stand. Arthur goes on before Merlin can give him a piece of his mind.

“If we’d both died, then I could get you to be my servant in the next life. Make you miserable all over again.”

Merlin, of course, takes the attempt at lightening the moment for what it is. He allows his shoulders to relax, lets himself engage in the familiar, easy banter.

“No. In the next life, I’d be royalty and you’d be just a peasant.”

Arthur snorts, eyes sparkling with mischief as he regards Merlin with a slightly challenging look.

“You wish.”

It feels good, being like this with Arthur. It feels right, and Merlin clings to the comforting familiarity like it’s a lifeline. But then a question arises, and it’s one that Merlin cannot help but ask, as much as he’s afraid of the answer.

“Did you-” he croaks. “Did you get another servant?”

Arthur lets his gaze fall to the side, looking at nothing in particular.

“Kind of,” he replies, reluctant, and Merlin feels the words like a knife in the back. “His name is George. He’s fine, I guess. Just...”

“Boring?” Merlin supplies, a small smile on his lips despite everything. He isn’t disappointed with Arthur’s reaction in the slightest.

“He’s so boring, Merlin!” Arthur groans, eyes turned heavenwards. “You have no idea.”

Merlin feels a laugh brewing in his chest, sudden and genuine. And if it weren’t for Arthur speaking again, he might have let it out.

“I didn’t want another servant,” he says in a rush, like it’s crucial that Merlin knows. Like he needs to explain himself. “I think you traumatized me for good. But I... I wasn’t in the best shape. I’m still a bit...” He smacks his lips. “Out of my depth.”

Merlin’s heart breaks for Arthur all over again. In his world, Arthur lost Lancelot. And he lost his father. But Merlin was there for him. He never left his side, made sure Arthur knew he was never alone.

He wonders if this Arthur had someone to do the same for him. Surely, Gwen would take care of him.

Except Gwen was grieving her brother’s death. And Merlin’s, too. Maybe she didn’t have anything to give when Arthur had needed someone.

And there’s that thing that Lancelot mentioned when Merlin spoke about Gwen becoming Queen. He didn't say much, except that Arthur had changed and that he blamed himself for Elyan’s death. But Gwen would never hold that against him, Merlin is sure of that.

“I know,” he says. Arthur’s eyes snap up to his, wide with surprise. “I know about Elyan. About your father. I’m so sorry. It wasn’t your fault, Arthur. None of it was.”

Arthur shakes his head, hands balling into fists.

“You’re wrong.”

“Arthur-”

“All of it happened because of me,” he barks. “You saved my life. Elyan sacrificed himself for me. For the kingdom. He saved all the kingdoms. And my father, he-” He takes a sharp breath in, clenching his eyes shut. “That sword was meant for me.”

“Your father knew Camelot needed a king,” Merlin argues fervently. “So did Elyan.”

Predictably, Arthur takes notice of what Merlin doesn’t say.

“But not you?”

Unwavering, Merlin answers, “That’s not why I did it.”

And for a moment, it’s as though time stands still. There is a shift in the air, a strange, heavy ambience so intense Merlin can almost taste it on his tongue.

The way Arthur’s looking at him is equal parts hopeful and fearful. And it’s so beautiful, and it’s too much, and Merlin knows this isn’t the time to let his heart bleed out unspoken truths. 

“So,” he starts in what he hopes is a conversational tone. “How much exactly did I traumatize you?”

Arthur shakes himself, looking at Merlin like he’d just spoken in a foreign language.

“Huh?”

“Would you consider taking me back?”

Staring in disbelief, Arthur clarifies. “You want to be in my service?”

“I’m your friend. I want to make sure you’re okay.” And he doesn’t even have to lie. “Let’s start with getting rid of the dead animal on your face.”

And that’s all it takes for them to fall back into their usual banter.

“You little shit.”

“You look like a common beggar. Have you even washed lately?”

“I wash every day!”

“In the dark, apparently.”

“Shut up, Merlin!”

“You obviously need me. That George doesn’t know how to get your royal arse to do anything.”

“And you do?”

“I’m the only one who does, clotpole.”

There is a sound of someone clearing their throat. Arthur turns around, a little startled, and Merlin follows the direction with his gaze.

Lancelot is standing awkwardly in the open door, Gaius right behind him, looking most unimpressed, one eyebrow so high it nearly reaches his hairline.

“Are you two alright? We heard shouting.”

Merlin rolls his eyes and waves a hand dismissively. “Just another day in the royal household.”

Giving a tense nod, Lancelot turns to Arthur.

“Sire, should we... should we organise for a council to... break the news?”

Back growing rigid, Arthur takes a while to reply. “Tomorrow.”

“Understood,” Lancelot nods again, then steps inside, Gaius shutting the door and trailing behind him.

“What now?” Lancelot asks, directing the question to Merlin, but Arthur answers for him.

“Now we can all sit down and you’re going to tell me what you remember. There must be an explanation.”

Groaning internally, Merlin resigns himself to his fate.

“That sounds reasonable,” he replies evenly. “We might as well make use of the time. Gaius, can you fetch me scissors, a razor and a basin, please?” Gaius only raises his eyebrow again, but does as Merlin asks.

“Lancelot, would you mind fetching me some water?”

“Sure?” Lancelot hesitates, making his way reluctantly to the door.

Arthur must realise what Merlin is planning and he whirls around, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

“Merlin, you’re not-”

“Oh, but I am,” Merlin grins, enjoying himself way too much to be appropriate for the gravity of the situation. “I can’t look at you with…” He sweeps his hand in Arthur’s direction, aiming for his face. “All that.”

“Hey!”

He pulls out Gaius’ chair, grabs Arthur by the arm and forcefully sits him down.

“Make yourself comfortable, your Highness,” he says saucily. “And I’ll do my best to make you look presentable. You can’t rule Camelot with breadcrumbs in your beard.”

“There’s no breadcrumbs in my beard, you pillock!”

“Not for much longer. Now, shush. I need to concentrate.” He makes a grab for the scissors Gaius placed on the table, chuckling at Arthur’s undignified yelp. So dramatic. It’s not like Merlin hasn’t done this for him more times either of them can count.

“If you cut me, Merlin...” Arthur growls threateningly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Merlin huffs, glad Arthur can’t see his giddy smile. “Prat.”

Chapter Text

“I have to say, Arthur,” Lancelot begins with an undertone of wonder. “You’re taking this really well.”

Merlin snorts, the sound prompting Arthur to turn his head and glare at him, but also has the consequence of Merlin nearly poking Arthur’s eye out with the scissors.

“You bumpkin!” Arthur yells. “I told you to be careful!”

“Well then stop fidgeting, you cabbage head!” Merlin shoots back, grabbing Arthur by said head and turning it into its original position.

Gaius, who has spent the better part of the hour listening intently to Merlin and Lancelot’s narration (and occasionally answering Arthur’s questions) rolls his eyes at the exchange, earning a scowl from Merlin and completely ignoring it.

“I wouldn’t call charging at someone like a wild animal with rabies taking it well, ” Merlin says mockingly, even though he knows that Lancelot is right. 

Arthur is taking this exceptionally well, not just by general standards but by Arthur standards also. Despite Merlin’s big speech about belonging at Arthur’s side, despite all of Lancelot’s reassurances and support, he expected Arthur’s reaction to be no better than Lancelot’s - holding a sword to his throat and blaming Merlin’s sudden ‘resurrection’ on dark magic. 

And it would make sense, wouldn’t it? If Merlin weren’t who he says he is, if he was the Merlin who’d died in this world , it would be logical to suspect this to be the work of dark magic. Not that Arthur really understood the difference between regular and dark magic. Arthur had even suspected that it was Gaius’ doing. 

But no matter Arthur’s limited knowledge, he must know that the only way to bring a man back from the dead is through less savoury means. And yet he seems to have accepted it rather quickly. He probably would have reacted differently if he knew that no amount of magic can bring back someone’s soul. If he knew that if Merlin was brought back from the afterlife he wouldn’t be himself. He’d be just a shadow of himself, at the mercy of the person who cast the resurrection spell. Just a tool to be used, capable of infiltrating the King’s close circle and bringing the kingdom to its knees.

Arthur doesn’t know any of this. Still, his easy acceptance is quite striking.

“Excuse me for being rather perturbed when I come face-to-face with my three-months dead manservant, who looks like he just came back from the tavern rather than the grave,” Arthur retorts saucily, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I don’t even go to the tavern!” Merlin defends, throwing his arms in the air even though Arthur can’t see him. Next to him, Gaius clears his throat, widening his eyes comically and giving Merlin a meaningful stare.

“Not that much anyway,” Merlin mumbles, hoping to save the situation. It shouldn’t be hard - Arthur never believed him when Merlin claimed he hadn’t been in the bloody tavern.

Huffing in disbelief, Arthur replies, “Whatever you say, Mer lin.”

Merlin resists the urge to slap the back of Arthur’s head. Instead, he twists his hand in Arthur’s hair and gives it a none-too-gentle tug.

“Ouch!” Arthur yelps, high-pitched.

“Oh, sorry, sire. It’s difficult to cut my way through that bird nest you have going.”

“I swear to God, Merlin, if you-”

“Ehm.” Lancelot coughs awkwardly, but somehow succeeds in shutting them both up.

“I just meant to say I admire your level-headedness,” he speaks to Arthur. “I might have... overreacted myself,” he adds sheepishly, dropping his gaze to his shoes.

Comforting Lancelot in his guilt laden moments has become Merlin’s second nature by now, and he’s all ready to offer reassurance, tell Lancelot he reacted in a way most people would (and that is if Merlin was lucky), but Arthur speaks first.

“It’s a good thing you followed Merlin. It might have gone very differently if someone else had seen him.”

Merlin quickly finishes cutting the hair at Arthur’s neck, keeping the scissors at a safe distance before he speaks.

“Well, I actually got chased by the guards.”

Predictably, Arthur whips around, turning his whole body so he can stare at Merlin in panic.

“What? And you didn’t think to mention that?!”

Merlin didn’t, to tell the truth. His little encounter with the guards seemed unimportant and he’s mostly forgotten about it by now. Arthur just needed to know Lancelot was the one who noticed and decided to follow him.

“I told you I didn’t remember what happened. I just woke up at the lake and made my way home. I didn’t know I was supposed to avoid anyone seeing me. When I arrived at the gates the guards panicked, and I couldn’t understand why. I think they would’ve tried to put me in the dungeon if I hadn’t run away.”

Arthur’s face darkens, his lips forming a thin line.

“It’s been taken care of, sire,” Lancelot says. “I talked to them.”

“What did you tell them, anyway?” Merlin asks.

“Just made something up.” Lancelot shrugs, like it was no trouble. “Told them you were someone from another village who happened to look alike.”

“And they bought it?”

“It’s easier to accept a simple explanation like that, than believe that someone raised you from the dead.”

“Good point.”

“You should have told me,” Arthur says quietly. Merlin doesn’t understand why the event bothers him so much. Nothing terrible happened, after all. The guards were just doing their job. He doesn’t think Arthur would tell him if he asked.

“Well, now you know. And it’s all sorted. It’s alright, Arthur. No harm done,” he replies softly, something in Arthur’s eyes telling him to tread carefully.

“I’m almost done with your hair,” he changes the topic, ruffling Arthur’s hair and laughing at his glower. “Turn around so I can finish up, and then I’ll tend to that monstrosity on your face.”

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur shoots back, but it holds no heat. Merlin does his best to work extra gently for the next few minutes as he cuts the hair curling around Arthur’s ears.

Exhaling exaggeratedly, Arthur says, “The only reason I collected myself so quickly was that insolent mouth of yours. Hard to believe anyone else could be that audacious when speaking to a king.”

Biting his lip to suppress a smile, Merlin sees Lancelot doing the same and shoots a quick glance at Gaius, whose eyebrow is already raised.

“Truer words have never been spoken,” Gaius comments dryly, mouth quirking despite trying to maintain a serious face.

“Indeed,” Lancelot agrees, shaking his head fondly as though he’s witnessing children fight. Arthur snickers, enjoying the moment of victory.

“Ha ha, very funny.” Merlin smiles, saccharine. 

He throws the scissors on the table and reaches for the razor next to the basin. He comes around until he’s standing in front of Arthur, holding it between thumb and two fingers, waving it in Arthur’s face. Immediately, Arthur’s self-satisfied expression drops.

“King or not, you’re still a prat,” he says matter of factly. “A scruffy looking one, on top of that. Now, hold still.” He fixes Arthur with a look, eyes sparkling with mischief. “We wouldn’t want my hand to slip, would we?”

**

Arthur's head is tipped back, allowing Merlin access to his throat. As Merlin glides the razor over taut skin, he watches Arthur's eyes clench shut.

"Could the lake have something to do with it?"

Merlin's hand falters. "What do you mean?"

“When you… when you died,” Arthur says with a quiver in his voice, keeping his eyes shut. “You and Lancelot were on your way back to Camelot. Right?” He opens his eyes, steering his gaze to Lancelot for confirmation. 

Lancelot gives a slow nod, sliding his fingers together repeatedly. 

“That’s right,” Gaius agrees. “It was too late by the time you arrived.

Knowing Gaius, Merlin assumes the physician meant to ease Lancelot’s mind - to assure him there was nothing that could have been done - but Lancelot’s face falls even further. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Merlin says evenly, adjusting his grip on the razor and resuming his work. He grasps Arthur’s chin between two of his fingers, turning his head slightly to the left. Arthur catches his eyes, his own filled with regret.

“Even if we had arrived sooner, there's nothing you could have done, Gaius,” Merlin continues, but doesn’t look away. “There was no cure for the dorocha sickness.”

Behind him, Lancelot shuffles his feet and Merlin can feel his discomfort like a physical sensation. 

“So,” he starts again, lifting an eyebrow at Arthur. “Your theory?”

Arthur licks his lips, exhaling softly. “Right.” His Adam’s apple bobs under Merlin’s fingers before he speaks. “It means you died in the Darkling Woods.”

Merlin nods, urging Arthur on.

“And we, uh… burnt your body here. Buried you in Camelot.”

For a moment Merlin freezes. Lancelot hadn’t mentioned the details of what happened with Merlin’s body after they’d come back. Merlin didn’t think it important to ask. 

“You-” He hiccups. “You burnt my body?”

Arthur’s eyes glisten and he licks his lips again, turning his gaze to the ceiling. 

“You may not have been a knight, but you deserved to have a funeral like one.”

Feeling his eyes burn, Merlin removes the razor from Arthur’s skin in favour of getting rid of the foam in the basin. Stifling a sniffle, he remains standing with his back to Arthur. 

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Silence stretches between them, and Merlin feels Gaius’ gaze on him without needing to look. 

“Yes, I did,” Arthur replies hoarsely, yet softly. 

Blinking rapidly, Merlin quickly wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his tunic before he turns around. 

“Um… thank you, I guess,” he says sheepishly, keeping his head low. 

He approaches Arthur again, stubbornly avoiding his gaze as he picks up where he left off. Arthur lets him adjust his head as needed, and remains quiet.

There is another thing, just as baffling.

“Did you say I was buried here?”

It’s not as if Merlin’s never imagined what would happen after he’s dead. For the past ten years he’s been too busy making sure Arthur doesn’t get himself killed that he didn’t even have time to wonder about his own death or the aftermath.

But it’s logical to assume he would be buried in Ealdor - maybe next to Will? Merlin’s always believed that people should be buried in their home. It’s not always possible, of course. Most families who lose their loved ones on a battlefield never got to say goodbye to them, not properly. 

Then there are people like Freya who simply can’t go back home, not even in death. The least those people deserved is to rest in a place they loved. For Freya, such a place had been a lake. 

And then there’s people like Lancelot and Elyan who didn’t leave a body behind to be buried. But even without a body, they could be given an honorable funeral. It was more for the people they left behind, but it served the purpose all the same. 

Merlin considers Camelot his home. But Ealdor is his home just as much. It’s where he grew up. Where he made his first friend. Where he was loved. 

Camelot is his home, but he’s not a knight, nor royalty. He wasn’t born here, and despite his love for the city, he is magic. Here, he’s a criminal. 

“Your mother wanted you to be buried here,” Arthur answers, his voice betraying nothing. 

Merlin does a double-take, staring at Arthur with his mouth hanging open. 

“My mother?”

“Arthur and I rode out to inform Hunith of your passing,” Gaius takes over when Arthur seems unable to find words. “She requested that we bury you in Camelot.” 

“B-But,” Merlin stutters through the reeling of his mind. “Why?”

Arthur fidgets in his chair, fingers of one hand tapping against his thigh.

“She said that Ealdor hadn’t been your real home for a long time. That your place was…” He hesitates. “Here.”

“With Arthur,” Gaius corrects, stealing Merlin’s attention. “She said your place was with Arthur.” 

Merlin gapes at him, waiting for him to burst into a fit of laughter for making such a good joke, but when he turns back to Arthur, he finds the man in a similar predicament, eyes widened comically.

His heart feels like it’s about to burst out of his chest, the thread between them thrumming excitedly. He ignores it, instead focusing on making the awkward moment dissipate. 

“Well, it’s not like she was wrong,” he says with forced humour. “You obviously need me.” And he waves a hand up and down the length of Arthur’s seated body. 

The huff of laughter Arthur lets out feels just as fabricated, but Merlin still senses some of the tension bleed out of him, his own shoulders relaxing as well. 

“Keep telling yourself that,” Arthur retorts, but he’s smiling and Merlin can’t help but return it, even though it’s shaky. 

“We keep steering away from the point you’re trying to make,” Merlin points out, tilting Arthur’s head just so before steering the razor into one long glide. 

“Because you keep interrupting me,” Arthur complains, rolling his eyes. He carries on before Merlin has a chance to retort back. “My point is that it makes no sense that you woke up at the lake. Have you ever been there before?”

Denial on the tip of his tongue, Merlin stops himself just in time. If he lies to Arthur, he will have to explain how he found his way back to Camelot from a place he’d never been to before. For all Arthur knows, it’s just a lake. Maybe Merlin doesn’t have to lie about everything.

“A couple of times,” he replies with a shrug. He elaborates when he senses another question coming. “A friend of mine grew up at a lake, but she hadn’t been home in a long time. Sometimes I visited that lake with her. It was her safe place.” 

He hopes he managed to keep the raw emotion in his voice concealed from Arthur.  A wave of sorrow crashes into him as he recalls taking Freya to the lake and what followed after. 

“Oh,” Arthur says, nonplussed. “Do I know her?” 

“No,” Merlin replies. “She doesn’t live in Camelot. It’s been years since I last saw her.”

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Merlin says and finds he means it. He still misses Freya, has missed her for the past eight years, but he also knows she’s not completely gone. Knows he could see her again if he wanted to. 

“Do you know-” Arthur starts, brows drawing together in a frown. “Is it possible that the lake is magical?”

“Well, the scenery looks pretty magical,” Merlin says noncommittally, hoping to distract Arthur with humour. 

“I’m serious, Merlin,” Arthur chides. “Does it have a name?”

“If it does, I don’t know it.”

Arthur purses his lips. “Shall we investigate it?”

“With all due respect, sire,” Gaius interjects, saving Merlin from having to respond, “Does it really matter? You said yourself you can tell Merlin is really… Merlin. He’s not an imposter, I assure you.” 

“Agreed,” Lancelot joins in. “What good would it do if we tried to find out how it happened?” 

Merlin’s stomach drops when he notices Arthur looking rather unconvinced. 

“It would give me peace of mind if I at least tried to unravel the mystery.” 

“Gods, Arthur,” Merlin groans, irritated and more than a little scared. “Can’t you just drop it? I’m here, I’m real. And I’m not going anywhere. What else do you need?”

He expects Arthur to chastise him for his short-sighted thinking, awaits a lecture on how to not underestimate things that haven’t been properly explained, but it never comes.

Instead, Arthur asks, “Aren’t you?”

“What?”

“Going anywhere.”

Merlin blinks at him, uncomprehending. He sees the bob of Arthur’s throat as he swallows before he drops his gaze to Merlin’s chest.

“How do we know this isn’t temporary. Whatever magic is responsible, how can we be sure it’s permanent? What if it’s meant to last only for a certain period of time?” 

He sounds scared, and the raw emotion in his voice makes Merlin’s heart soar and break simultaneously. 

“Oh, Arthur,” he says gently, dropping to his knees so he can make sure Arthur looks at him. “That’s not going to happen.”

“You don’t know that,” Arthur hisses, one of his hands curling into a fist on his thigh. 

“I do,” Merlin counters, feeling a bit more daring and putting a hand on Arthur’s knee, fingers brushing the white knuckles of his hand.

“I don’t know how to explain it. It’s just... something I know. Here.” He presses a hand to his own heart, Arthur’s eyes following it. “My mum said it herself. I belong here.” He pauses. “With you. And whatever brought me back must have known it, too.” 

Arthur makes an indescribable sound, looking as though he’s struggling to keep his breathing under control.

“I don’t have answers,” Merlin continues, hating himself a little for lying. “But what I do know is that I’m not leaving your side ever again.” He gives Arthur a shaky smile. “You’re stuck with me.” 

He hears quiet sniffling behind him but doesn’t bother turning around, all of his attention on the man before him, watching a series of emotions flickering across Arthur’s face. 

Closing his eyes, Arthur takes a few deep breaths, slowly uncurling his fist. The tips of his fingers brush, featherlight, against Merlin’s, causing his breath to hitch. 

“You’d better be right, Merlin,” Arthur all but growls. “Or I’ll hunt you down and put you in the stocks.”

Barking out a laugh, loud and unexpected, Merlin shakes his head.

“I’d like to see you try. Hunting a ghost might be beyond your abilities, sire. ”

“You should hope it is. If you’re lucky, you’ll never have to find out.” 

Smiling toothily, Merlin replies, “I can only agree with that.”

**

“All done. Here you go,” Merlin announces and throws a small, dark brown cloth in Arthur’s wet face. “I’m sure you can take care of the rest.”

“Oi!” Arthur yelps in protest, holding the cloth between two of his fingers and scanning it with a disapproving expression. “It’s only taken you half a day.” 

Propping his hands on his hips, Merlin sends him his best glare. 

“Well excuse me, Your Prattishness. Maybe if you’d been taking care of yourself as you’re supposed to, I wouldn’t have to employ such drastic measures.” 

Letting out a long-suffering sigh, Merlin starts cleaning and putting away the tools, wiping splashed water from the table.

“Can’t believe Gwen let you get away with this. Really, I’m gone for a while and the whole of Camelot is upside down.”

He expects a sarcastic retort any second, but then five seconds stretch into ten, then more. 

 Alarmed, Merlin looks up from where he’s still circling the table. With his back to Arthur, Merlin’s eyes land on Lancelot first, finding the man curling in on himself as though he’s trying to make himself as small as possible. Lancelot doesn’t return his gaze, keeps his eyes firmly on what must be a very interesting spot on the floor. 

Opening his mouth to address the awkward tension, Merlin turns to Gaius, who’s already looking back, the corners of his mouth turned downwards, more so than usual. 

“Guinevere has more important things to do than wasting her time on lecturing me,” comes Arthur’s voice, sounding hollow.

“That’s not true,” Lancelot says, straightening up. “Arthur, you must know she always has time for you. She cares for you.”

Arthur exhales quietly, grabbing the cloth and wiping his face haphazardly. 

“Well, she shouldn’t.”

Questions bursting on Merlin’s tongue, his gaze flickering between the two men. There’s a strange sense of wrongness, an unpleasant flutter in his chest. 

“Sire,” Gaius says suddenly, drawing Arthur’s attention to himself. “What are you planning for tomorrow?”

The flutter moves to Merlin’s stomach, this time definitely caused by nerves. After witnessing Lancelot’s, Gaius’ and Arthur’s reaction to his presence,  Merlin doesn't really want to start to imagine what the others will do, or say.

“I want to break it to the Round Table first. And to Guinevere,” Arthur replies after a short while. “I believe it’s going to be easier if the people closest to Merlin know first. They’ll be more likely to accept it, then spread the news to the rest of the court.” 

He pauses, gnawing at his lower lip. “Let’s summon everyone to my chambers. At midday, I’ll call for the council and we can let them know. Actually.” Arthur holds up a finger. “That’s too formal. Let’s make it lunch.”

“Lunch?” Merlin echoes, baffled.

“A council meeting implies there’s something that needs discussing. But there’s nothing to discuss.”

“There’s not?” Gaius wonders, nonplussed. 

“No,” Arthur says simply, finding Merlin’s eyes and holding his gaze as he finishes.  “Merlin is alive, and that’s all that matters.”

Merlin tries to fight back a toothy smile but loses, elated by Arthur’s blatant devotion. His smile falls somewhat when he thinks of what Arthur would say if he knew the truth.

“I agree,” Lancelot says. “Although I suggest we meet here instead.” 

At Arthur’s questioning gaze, he clarifies, “There’s no guarantee someone wouldn’t spot Merlin on the way to your chambers.”

“Lancelot is right,” Gaius agrees. “We better not alarm anyone before we let the council know.”

“That makes sense” Arthur replies, nodding to himself. “Let's do it like that, then. We can gather here in the morning, give everyone time to… adjust.” He looks at Merlin. “Is that agreeable?”

“Sounds good to me,” Merlin replies, touched by Arthur’s concern. 

“Very well, then.” 

Arthur rises from the chair, throwing the used cloth on the table and coming to stand  in front of Merlin. 

“If everything goes as planned you’ll have the honour of polishing my shoes by the time the evening rolls around.” A smirk appears on his lips, and it’s such an Arthur thing to do, carefree and a little supercilious, that Merlin has to use all his self-control to stop himself from snogging that wonderful, infuriating man right in front of his friend and the man who’s practically his father.

“Can’t wait,” Merlin replies cheekily, ignoring the frenzied thrumming of the thread betraying how much he actually means it. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“See you tomorrow,” Merlin confirms, fingers twitching with the urge to reach forward and pull Arthur into another hug. 

Arthur rocks back and forth on his heels, hesitating, like he doesn’t want to leave, and looking so out of his depth that Merlin takes pity on him. 

“You’d better return to your chambers. You don’t want to keep poor George waiting.”

That does the trick. Arthur groans, then huffs, and with one last, shared look he makes his way to the door. 

“I’ll see you all tomorrow,” he says to Lancelot, then gives Gaius a nod. He doesn't wait for a reply before he leaves.

“Well,” Lancelot starts, standing up. “That went surprisingly smoothly.”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, wondering about the same thing. “It did.”

“I suppose you were right after all, Lancelot,” Gaius says. “Arthur was just happy Merlin is back.”

“I guess I was,” Lancelot replies, beaming at Merlin. “Are you okay?”

Merlin nods. “Yeah. It’s just… it’s a lot. Hey,” he says suddenly. “What’s going on with Gwen? Why did you all look so morose.”

At that, Lancelot hesitates, closing his eyes briefly and shaking his head, like he can’t believe what he’s about to say. 

“Remember what I told you about Elyan? About Arthur blaming himself for his death?” 

“Yeah,” Merlin croaks, feeling his heart go out to Arthur even though the man is not with them in the room. 

“Everything changed after that. Arthur closed himself off, especially from Gwen. He… I guess he was afraid of what he would see if he looked at her. Gwen did her best. She tried to tell him, of course. But you know how Arthur gets.” Lancelot smiles wryly.

 Yes, Merlin knows. He also thinks he knows what this means. 

“What happened?”

“Three months are a long time, Merlin,” Lancelot says solemnly. “Gwen did everything she could. But… I think that at some point she just… gave up.”

Merlin rubs a hand over his face, trying to sort through the implications. Even if Arthur and Gwen went their separate ways for a while, Merlin is back now. Arthur can still get back on his horse. They can still make it work.

“So that’s it?” Merlin asks even though he already knows the answer. “Maybe if I make Arthur sit down and listen to Gwen...” 

But then he thinks of what Lancelot said - about Gwen giving up. He thinks of Lancelot’s evasiveness whenever Gwen’s name was brought up, how he always seemed to want to be somewhere else. How he could never look at Merlin, or Arthur.

Even if Merlin was able to make Arthur see reason, maybe it was too late after all. 

Shaking his head regretfully, Lancelot replies, “I don't think Camelot is going to see Gwen become its Queen. Not in this world, at least.

For the next few seconds, as Merlin’s mind processes the information, are the furthest thing from pleasant, filled with confusion, worry and pity. However, worst of all, is the fleeting but unmistakable flicker of hope.

Underneath the wrongness of the situation, Merlin’s heart soars with an undeniable sense of right.

Chapter Text

“Are you ready?” Gaius asks as he clears their plates off the table.

Merlin is relieved to find his breakfast doesn’t seem to want to come right back up, unlike his dinner last night which he only barely managed to keep down. 

“Hardly,” he replies resignedly, rubbing his temples in a circular motion. 

He was sure he wouldn’t get a single second of a shuteye, but yesterday’s events (and he’s not even counting what had happened before that) exhausted him to such a degree he blacked out the second his head hit the pillow, regardless of how anxious he felt. That doesn’t mean it did him any good - he still feels like he hasn’t rested for weeks. 

“It will be alright,” Gaius says, patting Merlin’s shoulder. “The hardest part is behind you.”

Merlin barks out a laugh. “Hardly.”

It’s easy for Gaius to say. He’s not the one who has to face every single one of his friends and pretend he’s someone he’s not.

He's surprised that neither Gaius nor Lancelot brought up Merlin's unexpected change of heart last night. After his big speech, hearing him tell Arthur more lies must have been baffling at best.

Lancelot is probably just too tactful to address it. They will talk about it eventually, Merlin's sure of that.

Gaius' silence on the other hand is more difficult to explain. Merlin had expected the old physician to feed him some rubbish about how he was doing the right thing, keeping his real identity secret. But Gaius hasn’t. If anything, it almost felt as if he's been tiptoeing around Merlin. 

The door swings open, pulling Merlin out of his daze.

His breath hitches as Arthur steps into the room, clad in his favourite breeches and a red tunic that Merlin always inconspicuously tried to make him wear. His hair has been combed haphazardly - if at all. The tunic is untucked on his left side, his belt a hole too loose. 

Merlin has to cover his mouth to hide the stupid smile at the picture Arthur makes. He looks so much like the Arthur Merlin knows, the Arthur Merlin remembers, and he’s overtaken by a sudden wave of nostalgia. For a moment it’s so easy to believe the past few days never happened. 

“Arthur,” Gaius greets with a subtle bow of his head. 

“Morning,” Arthur replies, hesitant. “I… should have knocked.”

Merlin’s eyebrows shoot up. Miracles never cease.

“That’s okay,” he reassures. He pushes himself up from his chair, taking a couple of steps towards Arthur, as though he can’t bear to stay away. 

“Where’s everyone?”

Arthur shuts the door, squaring his shoulders. 

“Lancelot will bring them here.”

“Okay,” Merlin says, faltering when he takes note of the sword attached to Arthur’s belt. “Why are you wearing a sword?”

Arthur looks down at it, as if he forgot he’s brought it with him. Putting a hand on the heft in a cursory manner, he shrugs.

“Habit, I suppose.”

It’s a valid reason, but something tells Merlin it’s not the real one.

He startles when Arthur is suddenly in his space, his eyes scanning Merlin’s face.

“Nervous?” Arthur asks, and Merlin knows it’s supposed to sound teasing, but all he can hear is genuine worry.

“Pfft. No.” He scoffs, warmth flooding his chest when Arthur looks at him with sympathy. 

There’s a knock on the door, Gaius already on his way to answer it when Arthur holds up a hand.

“I’ll get it.” He looks at Merlin questioningly. Comprehending, Merlin gives a nod in assent, watching with suspended breath as Arthur walks to the door and opens it a crack. 

“Sire,” comes Lancelots’s voice.

“Lancelot.”

Arthur steps aside and Lancelot slips in smoothly, only to be almost knocked over when a familiar figure barges into him, pushing his way inside.

“Come on, I’m dying here! What’s with all the secrecy?”

“For God’s sake, Gwaine-” Lancelot grunts as he finds his balance, shooting a concerned look at Merlin. 

“Holy mother of-” Gwaine starts, mouth agape, staring at Merlin like he’s seeing a ghost. Which… not that inaccurate, given the circumstances.

“You’ll catch flies.” Merlin opts for humour. Gwaine’s eyes widen, his gaze jumping between Merlin and Gaius.                                                                                                                                                          

"What?” comes from behind the door, and then Percy’s large frame pushes inside, Leon and Gwen following behind him. 

Merlin stiffens under the scrutiny of that many people, willing his hands not to shake. 

“Oh my God!” Gwen gasps, her hands coming up to cover her mouth. She looks more scared than anything, and Merlin hates seeing her like that, hates being the cause. 

“Hello,” he croaks, waving a hand awkwardly.

“Merlin?” Despite her fear, Gwen is the only one to have found her voice, hope mixing with apprehension.

“Hey, Gwen.” Merlin attempts a smile. “I like your hair,” he adds, noticing she has cut it, the length reaching just below her shoulders.

“What- How-” Gwaine stutters, arms flailing in Merlin’s direction. Under any other circumstances, it would be hilarious. 

“It’s a long story,” Merlin says, fidgeting under Leon’s suspicious gaze and the way he rests his hand on his sword. He hasn’t said a word, and somehow it makes everything worse. Neither has Percy, who’s currently gripping Lancelot’s arm and staring at Merlin like he’s about to attack him.  

“You might want to sit down for this.”

Before he knows what hit him, Merlin has an armful of Gwaine. He can smell ale on him and while it has him rolling his eyes, it also comforts him.

“You bastard,” Gwaine grunts into his ear, laughing and sniffling at the same time.

“Nice to see you too, Gwaine,” Merlin says warmly, returning the hug, sagging into the embrace.

Gwaine slaps his back and pulls away, gripping Merlin’s face between his calloused hands. 

“Damn.” He shakes his head, laughing incredulously. “You look good.”

“You smell like the tavern,” Merlin tells him, earning another laugh.

“Thanks.”

The laughter eventually subsides and the anxiety comes back. Gwaine turns around, beaming, and though Lancelot and Arthur are smiling softly in encouragement, they are the only ones. 

Merlin’s heart shatters when he notices Gwen is crying quietly, Lancelot reaching over in an attempt to comfort her.

“Gwen?” Merlin says, taking a step closer.

Gwen shakes her head. “I… I don’t-”

“Hey. It’s okay.” Merlin gives her a shaky smile, raising his hands halfway in the air. “Take your time.”

Crying quietly, Gwen looks at Arthur, asking him wordlessly.

Arthur gives her a nod, throat bobbing as he swallows. 

Lancelot shuffles closer to Gwen, rubbing his thumb over her shoulder and whispering something to her. She shakes her head, and Lancelot says something else before taking her hand and prompting her to step forward, closer to Merlin. She lets him, approaching Merlin cautiously.

When she’s within reach, Merlin reaches out, palms up, waiting patiently. It feels like forever before Gwen slips her hand from Lancelot’s and reaches reluctantly towards Merlin, fingers curling around Merlin’s in a loose grip. 

“Merlin.” She draws a sharp breath in, staring at their joined hands. 

“Yeah.”

Then it’s like the dam breaks. Gwen lets out a loud sob and crashes into Merlin, squeezing him tighter than Gwaine did, her small frame misleading. 

Merlin huffs in surprise, pulling Gwen closer. 

“I missed you, too.”

Lancelot is watching them proudly, eyes wet and glistening. Gwaine is grinning ear to ear, drawing a heart in the air. Merlin rolls his eyes but can’t stop himself from smiling back.

Finally, Gwen releases Merlin from her hold, going a little cross eyed as he searches his face for… something. 

“Gaius,” Leon finally speaks, having relaxed marginally but keeping alert. “How?”

“Let Merlin tell the story,” Gaius suggests, gesturing with his hand for everyone to take a seat. 

After a few seconds of hesitation, they start moving. Gwen lets Lancelot lead her to the cot where Percy joins them. Gaius takes a seat in his chair, Gwaine pulling out one of the stools next to him. Leon and Arthur don’t leave their spot by the door and remain standing. 

“Okay,” Merlin says mostly to himself and takes the other stool at the table, relaxing somewhat with Gwaine close by. 

He inhales deeply. “Okay,” he repeats and starts all over again.

**

“You don’t remember anything,” Leon sums up with apparent disbelief. Merlin tries not to let his panic show. 

“Just what I told you.”

Arthur turns to Leon, cocking his head questioningly. 

“You look troubled.”

“Something isn’t right,” Leon says. “I’m sorry, Merlin,” he adds, truly apologetic. “It’s wonderful to have you back, but…”

“It doesn’t add up,” Merlin finishes for him.

“It really doesn’t.”

“I know. I’m sorry that I can’t tell you more.”

“Sod it! Who cares?” Gwaine exclaims passionately. He grips Merlin’s shoulder. “You’re back. What else do we need?”

“It doesn’t bother you that it’s clearly the work of magic?” Percy asks, speaking to Arthur, but Gwaine answers in his stead. 

“Some bloody good magic, if you ask me.”

“Merlin is alive,” Arthur says matter of factly. “That can’t be evil magic, right?”

“I guess,” Percy replies slowly even as his brows draw together in contemplation. 

“Merlin, tonight we’re celebrating,” Gwaine announces suddenly, unfazed by the whole thing.

“What? No!” Merlin shakes his hand off. “You’re just going to get me drunk until I forget my own name.”

“You bet I am!”

“No getting my servant drunk!” Arthur interjects, regarding Gwaine with disapproval. 

“You’re working for Arthur again?” Gwen asks with genuine surprise. 

“He is,” Arthur says without elaborating further on the matter.

“Poor George.” Gwaine huffs. “He wouldn’t stop bragging about being the King’s servant for months.”

“Gods know why someone would boast about that,” Merlin comments saucily under his breath, but loud enough for Arthur to hear.

“Mind your tongue, Merlin.”

Merlin chuckles, whereas Gwaine’s boisterous laugh nearly shakes the whole quarters. 

“I missed you, my friend.”

“Me too,” Merlin replies, feeling his chest contract with a curious but not unpleasant ache. 

“I missed you all,” he adds, sparing everyone a brief glance before settling his gaze on Arthur who’s already looking at him.

“It’s good to have you back, Merlin,” Percy says, hesitant but honest.

Merlin smiles, keeping his eyes on Arthur. 

“It’s good to be back.”

**

Merlin has to use his magic to balance the tray of food on his shaking hands. One would think that the more times you do something, the easier it gets. Sadly, it doesn’t always work that way. 

As funny as the reaction of some of the cooks and servants were when Merlin appeared in the kitchens with Gwen (looking at you, George), it did nothing to ease his mind. Yes, the important part was over - the people Merlin holds dearest to his heart know already. They’ve accepted him. Most important of all - Arthur has accepted him. Merlin couldn’t care less about a bunch of grumpy old farts Arthur is forced to consult on a regular basis. And he doesn’t care, not really. But there’s one person who invokes an unshakable feeling of nausea in Merlin with just a mere thought. 

“You’re shaking,” Gwen points out, not teasing, just concerned.

“I’m fine,” Merlin says curtly, making Gwen laugh at the blatant lie.

“Yes, I can see that.” She brushes her shoulder against his arm, giving as much comfort as she can without dropping her own tray. 

“Don’t worry, everything will be okay. Gaius is there. And Arthur won’t let any harm come to you.” 

“The King does take good care of his pet, doesn’t he,” comes a sardonic comment from behind Merlin. 

He inhales deeply, bracing himself for a sharp reply.

“Shush, George,” Gwen chastises. “You’re just jealous.”

George lets out a yelp, sputtering comically. “I’m not!”

“Sure,” Gwen says in a sing-song voice, then leans into Merlin’s space and whispers, “He’s so jealous.”

Instead of dignifying the accusation with a reply, George pushes forward, in front of Merlin and Gwen, sparing them a single, murderous glare. 

“Just shut up and do your job,” he orders irritably and pushes the large door open. 

Merlin, body rigid, stays rooted to the spot, moving forward and into the throne room only when Gwen nudges him. Keeping his head low, he makes his way over to the long table, flicking his gaze up quickly. He’s relieved to find Arthur’s limited the meeting to a small number of people. He immediately recognises Geoffrey, the grumpy librarian, who’s talking animatedly with Meuric, Arthur’s military advisor . 

Merlin recognises the other two men seated in the middle but doesn’t recall their names. They’re not important. There’s only one man who Merlin needs to keep an eye on.

Everyone seems to be engaged in a conversation, while Arthur and Gaius are shooting nervous glances in Merlin’s direction. Merlin notes that Gaius, who’s seated at the other end of the table, sat himself strategically opposite Agravaine. Merlin can’t see Agravaine's face, but he would recognise the greasy mop of hair anywhere. 

Shuddering, he walks over to Arthur at the head of the table. For a split second their eyes meet, and that fleeting moment is enough for Merlin’s nerves to settle. 

It will be okay. Arthur knows what he’s doing, he repeats like a mantra. 

Miraculously, his hands are not shaking anymore when he places the tray on the table. 

When he looks around, Gwen has already put her tray on the table on the opposite end, and George is methodically filling everyone’s goblet with wine. When he’s done, he takes two, measured steps back, waiting for further instructions. 

“Ready?” Arthur asks in a half-whisper, studying Merlin’s face. 

Taking a deep breath, Merlin gives him a nod, and Arthur returns it.

“Thank you, George, Guinevere,” he says in a silky voice. “That will be all for now.”

Bowing their heads, they both make their way out, Gwen giving Merlin an encouraging smile over her shoulder that Merlin can’t return.

“Merlin, you may stay,” Arthur adds, and air leaves Merlin’s lungs at once.

It’s like watching the scene unfold in slow motion. The table falls eerily silent, you could hear a pinprick hit the floor. For the next few seconds, there’s nothing but intense staring, five pairs of eyes burning holes into Merlin. The men gape, undignified, and if it weren’t for the circumstances, Merlin would laugh.

 “Your Majesty, this is-” Meuric speaks first, but doesn’t finish the thought. Arthur doesn’t say anything, just waits patiently for the inevitable. He doesn't have to wait long.

As if on cue, the old men, with the exception of Gaius, shoot up from their seats, shouting allegations over each other.

“Impossible!”

“Sorcery!”

“Quiet!” Arthur orders, a stormy expression on his face that has everyone do just that. 

Merlin ducks his head, biting back a smile. He didn’t expect the feeling of empowerment that comes with being stood up for, by the King himself on top of that.

“Everyone, sit down,” Arthur says gruffly, waiting for the men to do so. 

Agravaine is the last to follow the order, grimacing as though he just tasted something unpleasant. 

“Sire?”

Arthur holds up a hand.

“I know what you all must be thinking.”

“This cannot be your servant, Your Majesty,” Geoffrey interrupts, pointing at Merlin with a trembling finger. 

“I know,” Arthur replies, voice strained. “But it is, I assure you.”

“I can attest to that,” Gaius says, leaving no room for debate. “We made sure it’s really Merlin.”

“But… how?” Geoffrey asks, looking around the table as though he can find answers there.

“Magic,” one of the men whose name Merlin doesn’t remember exclaims, spitting the word out like it’s venom. 

“Possibly,” Arthur replies evenly, earning disbelieving stares. “Unfortunately, Merlin doesn’t remember what brought him back. Only that he woke up at a lake near the Darkling Woods.” 

“He must be lying,” Agravaine speaks as though Merlin’s not standing right there . 

Merlin has to grip the back of Arthur’s chair when he feels magic pulse under his skin, making his fingers tingle. Even his magic wants to reach towards Agravaine and squeeze the life out of him. Slowly, this time. Slow and painful. Not like the last time, when he got away way too easily. 

“Enough!” Arthur barks. “Don’t you think I wouldn’t recognise my servant of six years?” he challenges, jaw clenched tight.

Merlin watches in satisfaction as everyone sinks back to their chairs, chastised. 

“I understand your reluctance,” Arthur continues. The way his fingers are curling towards his palms tells Merlin he’s struggling to keep his composure. “I was quite unsettled myself. I know how this must look. We still don’t have all the answers. But what we do have is enough.” He turns his head so he can look at Merlin, his eyes softening immediately. “It is Merlin. I’m absolutely sure of that.”

“But… magic, sire,” Geoffrey repeats, alarmed.

“If I may.” Gaius speaks, bringing everyone's attention to himself.  “There are many kinds of magic. It can be used for both good and bad, depending on who wields it. Magic is to a sorcerer what a sword and shield are to a warrior - it’s a tool.”

To Merlin’s astonishment, Arthur speaks first. 

“Magic can be used for healing, can it not?”

“That’s right, sire,” Gaius confirms, looking as serious as Merlin’s ever seen him.

“But,” the man next to Agravaine says reluctantly, speaking for the first time. “Your servant died, sire.”

“Yes,” Arthut replies, unfazed. “And now he’s back. And, as you can see, ready to resume his duties.” He turns to Merlin again. “Correct?”

Straightening his back, Merlin replies, “Yes, sire. ”

Arthur’s lips quirk minutely. He quickly looks away. 

“I know it’s a lot,” he goes on, speaking to the whole table. “But I hope that in my short reign, I’ve proven to be a trustworthy king. The future of this kingdom lies in my hands. I would never do anything to endanger it. So I’m asking you to trust my judgement. Trust your King.”

One by one, the men let out a resigned sigh, bowing their heads respectfully. 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” they say in unison. Agravaine is the only one who keeps regarding Merlin like he’s a dead bug stuck to his shoe.

Merlin juts his chin out, challenging him quietly to speak what’s on his mind. His magic sparks under his fingertips, and he holds his breath to keep it from lashing out.

Eventually, Agravaine looks away, to Arthur, bowing his head as well.

“Sire.”

A ragged exhale leaves Arthur’s lips, shoulders slumping infinitesimally, giving away how wound tight he’s been since he entered the throne room.

“Thank you. Truly,” he says, humbled. “Your trust means a great deal.”

A chorus of encouraging murmurs resounds around the table, but Merlin doesn’t pay it any mind. His attention is on Agravaine, regarding the man with unconcealed disdain. 

Agravaine doesn’t seem put out, his own gaze both distrustful and contemplating. He eventually breaks the staring match, putting on his patented fake smile.

“Welcome back, Merlin. It’s wonderful to see you again.”

Merlin isn’t surprised that Arthur doesn’t hear the blatant dishonesty in those words, but he’ll be damned if he lets Arthur put his trust into that snake of a man for much longer. 

Soon, he thinks. Soon, Arthur will know how much Agravaine has poisoned his mind.

“Thank you. I’m grateful to be back in Arthur’s service,” he replies, putting his other hand on the back of Arthur's chair, watching Agravaine over the top of Arthur’s head. 

“There’s no place I’d rather be.”

**

Morgana is not happy to see him. He’s not surprised. He hates ambushing her like this, but he wouldn’t employ such measures if he didn’t deem it necessary. He knows Morgana has never been the most open with him, but this doesn’t feel right. She would tell him if she planned something like this, right?

“My Lady,” he greets, turning his gaze downcast humbly.

“What is it?” Morgana demands gruffly. “You weren’t to come see me until the next moon.”

He swallows the lump in his throat.

“There were… unforeseen circumstances.”

“Out with it,” she orders, eyes cold and unwavering.

“My Lady,” he repeats placatingly. “I know you have no obligation to share anything with me. But I do hope you trust me enough to confide in me with what’s truly important.”

“Agravaine,” she says warningly, the name sounding more like a hiss as it leaves her lips. “I’m losing my patience with your babbling.

He winces at the tone, and words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. 

“Have you brought Merlin back from the dead?”

Silence. And then, “What?” 

“Merlin, he… He’s back. He’s alive.” 

Morgana doesn’t reply, staring at him in what Agravaine would almost describe as panic. That answers his next question but he still asks it.

“I thought… maybe you had something to do with it?”

That shakes Morgana out of her stupor.

“Why would I bring back Arthur’s pathetic servant?!” she spits out, as though the mere idea is humiliating.

Agravaine tries not to fidget.

“Because you know the toll his death had taken on Arthur,” he reasons.

“Yes, that was one good thing that came out of the disaster with the dorocha!” Morgana yells, pacing agitatedly. “Why would I-” She comes to a sudden stop. “Oh.”

Agravaine exhales quietly, relieved that Morgana is starting to see his point.

“Merlin would be a perfect way to get into the heart of Camelot,” he voices. “With Merlin as your puppet, you could bring the kingdom to its knees. Overthrowing Arthur would be as easy as breathing after that.”

“Yes. It would,” Morgana agrees, sounding strangely defeated. She lets out a snarl, hands coming up to pull at her hair. “I should have thought of that!”

“So it wasn’t you?” Agravaine asks unnecessarily. 

Morgana ignores the question, whirling around and marching towards him. She grabs him by the arms, her long, slender fingers digging bruisingly into his flesh. 

“Describe him to me,” she demands.

Agravaine stares, nonplussed. “Sorry?”

“Merlin. Describe him,” she repeats. “Does he look the same? Does he act out of the ordinary?”

Agravaine hesitates, not sure what Morgana is asking.

“Not that I noticed,” he replies, unsure. “Except he looked at me suspiciously.” 

He recalls the council meeting earlier that day. Merlin’s challenging glare kept Agravaine on the edge of his seat, feeling it prick his skin like hundreds of tiny needles. 

“There is something strange about him. I don’t know how to explain it.” 

Morgana nods vigorously, her smile unsettling. 

“Like he’s dead inside?”

Agravaine barely manages to hold back a laugh as he remembers Merlin’s possessive behaviour during the meeting.

“No. That’s not it. He still follows Arthur like a love-sick puppy.”

Morgana’s eyes fill with confusion. She lets go of Agravaine’s arms, starting to pace again. She chews on her nails, arms crossed defensively over her chest.

“What is it, Morgana?” he worries, taking a couple of cautious steps forward as to not alarm her. 

She replies after a while. 

“There’s only one spell that can bring the dead back to life.”

Agravaine senses her hesitation.

“But?”

“But there’s nothing that can bring the soul back from the afterlife.”

Agaravine does a double take.

“Soul? Those are real?”

“Of course they are real!”

“What does it mean, then?”

Stopping in front of the table, Morgana opens one of the spell-books, tracing the foreign words with the tip of her finger.

“It means that whatever brought Merlin back is more powerful than anything I’ve heard of.” Agravaine can hear her swallow heavily. “More powerful than me.”

“How is that possible?” 

Morgana is a High Priestess. There’s no one more powerful than her, except for the Triple Goddess herself. And why would she have any interest in resurrecting a servant?

“I don’t-” Morgana starts, cutting herself off. The sound of her nails scraping the table is loud in the hut.

“Morgana?”

“Emrys,” she breathes, and to his shock, Agravaine detects fear in her voice. 

“The one the Cailleach spoke about? Why would he bother with a servant?”

“Maybe because he knows how hung up Arthur is on him,” she replies begrudgingly, hands balling into fists. “Maybe Arthur had asked him for a favour.”

“The son of Uther Pendragon consorting with a sorcerer?” Agravaine barks out a laugh. “I would know about it. Arthur tells me everything.”

Morgana turns to him, skeptical. “Are you sure about that?” 

His immediate reaction is to say Yes, of course! Arthur’s depended on him since Uther’s mind deteriorated. There’s nothing Arthur hasn’t shared with him. 

But it would make sense that Arthur would be reluctant to confide in him about working with a sorcerer. After all, if someone found out that the King of Camelot turned to magic for help it would be Arthur’s doom.

“I’ll find out,” he says eventually. 

“Make sure you do.”

He turns to leave the hut, stopping at the door.

“I don't understand one thing.” He spins around. “If Emrys could bring someone back, why didn’t he choose Uther? Arthur would surely ask for his father to be brought back to life.”

This time, it’s Morgana who laughs. 

“Resurrect the man who hunted down and tried to wipe out his kin?”

Agravaine frowns, understanding dawning on him.

“You think Emrys wants Arthur to be King?” Morgana doesn’t reply. She doesn’t have to. “Why?”

She draws herself tall, eyes glinting dangerously, yellow mixing with the forest green of her irises.

“Time to find out.”

Chapter Text

“Leave it. Guinevere and George will be fine,” Arthur orders as Merlin begins to clear the table after everyone has gone.

“I really don’t mind. It’s my job,” Merlin says, meaning it wholeheartedly. He never would have thought the day would come when he would actually look forward to washing Arthur’s stinky socks. 

Arthur shakes his head, wiping his hands on a napkin as he stands.

“I’ll need you to help me with my armour. I have training coming up shortly.”

Merlin lifts an eyebrow, slightly concerned he might be turning into Gaius. 

“You have training in the afternoon?”

Arthur gives him a look like Merlin is daft, and it’s so familiar Merlin has to bite back a smile.

“Our morning was rather busy, don’t you think?”

Merlin wouldn’t call telling his friends he’s back from the dead busy - more like emotionally exhausting - but he humours Arthur anyway. 

“Right. I didn’t realise,” he says with a sheepish grin, making Arthur roll his eyes, but the subtle quirk of his lips gives him away. 

“Naturally,” Arthur deadpans. “Come on now, I don’t have all day.” And without waiting for Merlin, he strides away. 

Merlin makes a series of mocking faces directed at Arthur’s back, startling when he hears someone clear their throat. When he turns to look, he finds Gwen staring at him meaningfully, beckoning him over with a tilt of her head while she stacks the plates and utensils.

“How did it go? Are you alright?” 

“Yeah,” he replies, surprised that it’s not even a lie. “Arthur got all kingly and put everyone in their place.” 

“I’m sure he did.” Gwen giggles, then says more solemnly, “I told you he would take care of you.”

Cheeks heating up, Merlin ducks his head, chuckling awkwardly. 

“It’s my job to take care of him .”

“Oh, Merlin.” Gwen tuts, looking at him earnestly. “It goes both ways.” 

Ignoring the shiver running down his spine, Merlin tries to come up with a reply. Anything that won’t make him sound like a love-struck idiot. 

“Merlin!” comes Arthur’s booming voice, startling them both and saving Merlin from an uncomfortably intimate conversation. 

Gwen presses her lips together, shoulders shaking from the way she must be holding back a full-bodied laugh. 

“Go on. Don’t keep His Majesty waiting.” In a low voice, she adds, “He’s waited long enough.” 

Nonplussed, Merlin lingers by Gwen’s side, wondering what she meant. 

“Merliiin!”

“I’m coming!” Merlin calls back, giving her an apologetic look. 

“Go,” she repeats, smiling again, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. 

Merlin hesitates briefly before deciding he doesn’t want to risk irritating the prat any further and runs after Arthur. 

“Sorry,” he says meekly when he catches up with him. 

Arthur squints at him, then turns his gaze heavenwards. 

“Good to know dying did nothing to improve your manners,” he comments sardonically, nudging Merlin with his shoulder. 

Merlin grins, doing the same to him and drawing an exasperated huff from Arthur.

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m not going to change. You’d miss it if I did,” Merlin teases. For a moment he feels as though he’s been thrown back in time, walking side by side with Arthur, bickering like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

His breath catches in his throat, the thread in his chest fluttering wildly like a caged bird. It's pulling at him almost violently. On instinct, he looks at Arthur, finding him staring blankly ahead and frowning.

Suddenly, memories come rushing at him, taking him back to the night in the woods, Arthur’s words ringing in his head like an echo.

I want you to always be you.

His stomach lurches, a dreadful possibility that this Arthur may not feel the same way crushing in its intensity. 

He should have kept his mouth shut. Engaging in their usual banter is one thing - something they have always done. But this Arthur is different, only infinitesimally, but he is. He’s also younger, unaware of the things the two of them have shared in the last few years, how much they both have grown. 

He nearly breaks into a string of apologies waiting for Arthur’s reaction, but in that moment something shifts inside him, like a mosaic rearranging itself to something new. And while it's scary, it doesn’t feel wrong. 

“You’re right,” Arthur finally speaks, bursting Merlin’s anxious bubble. “I would.” He pauses, giving Melin a sidelong glance. Then in a whisper, “I have.” 

It shouldn’t shake him to his core, this pure admission. Arthur already told him yesterday, though not in those exact words. But somehow this feels different,  more profound. More real, in a way. 

The thread screams at him to respond in kind, to lay himself bare and say what he’s felt all along. The words are on the tip of his tongue, begging to be released. 

But Arthur’s gone unnaturally quiet, his body tense as a bowstring stretched to its limit. It’s the most vulnerable Merlin has seen him - considering that neither of them is dying - and Merlin doesn’t have it in him to push Arthur to his breaking point. So he swallows the words down, because making Arthur feel safe is more important than pouring his heart out, no matter how much he wishes he could. 

He takes a deep breath, summoning the biggest smile he can muster, and says, “George being way too perfect and obedient for your liking, is he?” 

The immediate shift in Arthur would be laughable if Merlin were in the mood. His shoulders relax and his breath leaves him in a whoosh. 

“He might be boring, but he’s still a better servant than you,” Arthur retorts, daring to look at Merlin for the first time. 

Merlin takes the bait, because that’s what’s expected of him, isn’t it?

“And yet, he left you looking like a common beggar for months.” 

Arthur bristles. “Stop calling me that! It wasn’t that bad!”

“No, you’re right. It was worse. As if you’d agreed on a wager with someone, betting who could pull the shabbiest look. Or scare people away with just your face. Ouch!” Merlin shrieks, massaging the spot on the back of his head where Arthur cuffed him none too gently. 

“Shut up, Merlin. Everyone knows you would win that bet without even trying.” 

In lieu of a reply, Merlin shoves Arthur hard enough to send him flying into the wall. 

Glaring murder at him, Arthur straightens up, smoothing down his tunic. 

“You’ve crossed a line, Merlin,” he says coolly, taking a single, menacing step forward. 

Merlin gulps, laughing nervously. 

“Yeah? What are you going to do? Chase me around the castle?”

Lifting an eyebrow in challenge, Arthur stares him down, puffing his chest out. 

Merlin takes a step back. “You wouldn’t,” he says, unconvincing.

“Wouldn’t I?”

Merlin waits exactly two seconds before he turns on his heel and bolts.

“You little-” He hears before Arthur is after him, heavy steps resounding through the corridor. Even as he speeds up, Merlin can’t help but laugh, feeling more alive than he has in a long time. 

**

Merlin massages his side, groaning at the growing sensitivity there. All because Arthur tackled him to the ground in the corridor like the savage he is. 

“Stop whining, you big girl,” Arthur complains, pulling his tunic over his head and reaching for the new one Merlin has ready for him. 

Merlin shoots him a dirty look. “You’re a brute, just so you know. An outright barbarian.”

Arthur snorts, struggling to get his hands through the sleeves. 

“And you’re too sensitive. It’s horseplay, Merlin.”

Whirling around, Merlin gets ready to tell Arthur what exactly he thinks of his stupid horseplay when his eyes land on the blooming discolouration on Arthur’s left shoulder. He’s at his side in the next second, fingers tenderly tracing the purple-red patch. 

Arthur startles at the unexpected touch. 

“What?”

“I…” Merlin gulps, brows pinched together. “Is this from when I shoved you?”

Arthur’s gaze falls to Merlin’s hand on his shoulder, blinking owlishly.

“Oh. I guess so?” He shrugs. 

“I’m sorry,” Merlin blurts, stomach churning. He never meant to hurt Arthur. His fingers tingle, his magic surging to the surface, wanting desperately to heal, to mend. He snatches his hand back before his magic decides to act of its own volition. 

Oblivious, Arthur huffs a laugh. “Stop fretting, Merlin. I didn’t even know until you pointed it out.” He tugs the white tunic on, hands coming down to undo his belt, letting it drop to the floor. 

Kicking his boots off, Arthur pushes his trousers down, struggling to maintain his balance as he pulls them past his ankles. 

Merlin watches him, more than a little shell-shocked. 

“Since when have you known how to dress yourself?” 

Glaring up at him from his bent over position, Arthur barks, “I’m not an idiot, Merlin.”

Merlin’s expression grows skeptical. “That’s debatable,” he mumbles, loud enough for Arthur to hear and throw his trousers in Merlin’s face as punishment.

“Watch your tongue,” he warns with no bite. “Hand me the breeches, will you?” 

Merlin takes the breeches from the bed, throwing them at Arthur in return. 

“Seeing you wrestle with your tunic would suggest otherwise.”

“Shut up, Merlin.” Arthur scowls. “I’ve dressed myself many times in the past months.”

Merlin pauses, chuckling. “Are you too shy to let George see you naked?” He only means to taunt him a little, but the silence that follows has him do a double-take.

“You are!” Merlin exclaims, eyes wide with disbelief. “Seriously?”

Straightening up while pulling the breeches over his hips, Arthur pointedly keeps his gaze downcast. 

“I just don’t particularly enjoy people touching me, okay?” Arthur presses through gritted teeth, his ears turning pink.

Merlin is grinning like a maniac, the mere thought of Arthur being all fidgety when it comes to taking his clothes off in front of other people as amusing as it is surprising. 

“Really? You and the knights are all over each other on a daily basis.” 

“That’s different,” Arthur argues stubbornly, buttoning up the breeches. “We’re fighting. Physical contact is inevitable.”

“You never told me,” Merlin says, only a little accusing. “Is this how you’ve felt this whole time?”

“No,” Arthur says hastily, eyes flicking tentatively between Merlin and his own hands. “I… guess I just got used to you.”

Stupefied, Merlin scours his mind for an adequate response, but Arthur’s reluctant admission has left him speechless. He can only stare as Arthur finishes fixing his clothes, then turns to Merlin, licking his lips.

“I do need your help with the armour, though,” he says, avoiding Merlin’s gaze.

“Right,” Merlin replies absentmindedly, finally noticing he’s still holding onto Arthur’s trousers. He bends down to pick up the tunic from where Arthur had dropped it on the floor.

“I’ll take these for washing after we’re done,” he informs Arthur. Something blue falls from his hands as he’s straightening up. He bends down again to pick it up. 

“Wait!” Arthur yelps, lunging forward and snatching it away before Merlin can get to it. He thrusts his hand behind his back, posture rigid.

“What are you doing?” 

“I…” Arthur hesitates, blood draining from his face. “It’s nothing.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Merlin scoffs, stepping forward. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” Arthur repeats, sounding desperate. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and fetch my gambeson?”

Merlin shakes his head. “Nah-ah. I’m not letting you go that easily. Show me.” He takes another step, determined to get a peek behind Arthur’s back. 

Fast as an arrow, Arthur dodges his attempt, shuffling backwards. 

“No. Merlin, really, it’s-”

“If it’s nothing then why don’t you show me?” 

He briefly debates fighting Arthur bodily to see what he’s hiding. But Arthur already looks like a cornered animal and Merlin can’t bring himself to stress him further, even though the curiosity is killing him. Instead, he indulges Arthur in  a staring match, waiting with feigned patience to show him willingly.

Seconds pass, maybe minutes, until eventually Arthur’s panicked expression turns into one of defeat. He looks like he’s walking to his execution as he removes his hand from behind his back, still clutching whatever it is in a death grip. 

Merlin reaches forward, palm up, prompting him to hand it over. 

Arthur takes a deep breath, eyes turned away as he thrusts his arm out, dropping the item in Merlin’s open palm.

It takes a moment for Merlin to recognise what he’s holding, but when he does, the realisation nearly makes him swoon.

“You-” He chokes out, heart hammering in his chest. “You kept my scarf?”

Arthur’s shoulders sag, his previously pale face now flushed bright red. 

“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have. But…” He exhales tiredly. “It was the only thing I had left of you.” His voice is soft, like he’s ashamed. 

“No. No, that’s okay,” Merlin assures him, drowning in emotions and not knowing which one to settle on. “I’d have done the same thing.” 

He would, too. But the sigil Arthur gave him is more than enough. The thought of Arthur keeping his scarf - something Arthur always made snarky comments about - is almost ridiculous in comparison. But Merlin never had any valuable possessions to give. 

“I guess I don’t need it now that you’re back,” Arthur reasons weakly, shuffling his feet. 

Merlin’s eyes burn, Arthur’s reluctance to part with a silly piece of fabric sending his mind reeling.

“Nah,” he answers with poorly feigned nonchalance. “I have more where this came from.” That’s an understatement, and Arthur must know it. “You can have it.” 

He nudges the garment in Arthur’s direction, then withdraws his hand quickly when something catches his attention.

“Gods, Arthur, it’s filthy, ” he states, wrinkling his nose. “Have you even washed it?” It’s more of a rhetorical question, considering this must be the same neckerchief Merlin wore as they set out to deal with the dorocha. Surely Arthur wouldn’t go three bloody months without washing the damned thing at least once? 

But as he waits for a reply that never comes, it gradually dawns on him that Arthur has not done so after all. 

Merlin can do nothing but gape at him, strangely flattered and more than a little disgusted. 

“Arthur!” he squeals. “Seriously?!”

The neckerchief is snatched from his hand before he notices Arthur moving. 

Arthur, accordingly ashamed judging but the flush high on his cheeks, gathers the garment into a ball and shoves it unceremoniously into the pocket of his breeches as though he’s afraid Merlin’s going to take it from him. 

“I worried it would get lost with the rest of the laundry,” he mumbles, laughably unconvincing, studying the floor near his feet. 

Scoffing, Merlin points out, “And I assume you don’t know how to use water and soap to do it yourself?”

“Would you just-” Arthur snaps, embarrassment mixing with irritation. He breathes in through his nose, sighing his exhale out tiredly. “What does it matter? It’s not as if I actually wear it.”

He sounds resigned, as though he can’t be bothered to think of a better excuse for an explanation. Something in his voice - or maybe it’s the uncharacteristically bashful expression - makes Merlin shut his mouth and swallow all the questions he feels itching in his throat. 

Silence stretches awkwardly between them, and while uncomfortable, it seems to help Arthur gather his bearings until he’s finally able to look Merlin in the eye, drawing himself tall as he usually does. 

“So,” he drawls, clearing his throat. “My gambeson?”

“Oh.” Merlin perks up, grateful to have something to busy himself with while he’s willing his pulse to slow down. “Right. On it!” 

He hears Arthur exhale shakily behind him, and it’s so relatable he wants to laugh. He doesn’t, of course. He doubts it would be appreciated given the delicate situation they have found themselves in. 

“Any time today would be great, Merlin,” Arthur taunts, his eye roll nearly audible. Merlin finds himself slipping into the warm familiarity of it gratefully, even as righteous annoyance rises inside him. 

“Patience is a virtue, my Lord,” he shoots back, turning around with an exaggerated grin plastered on his face, holding the padded, red gambeson in front of himself. He revels in the satisfying scowl Arthur’s features arrange themselves into, tilting his head upwards to prompt Arthur to turn around so he can slip it on.

Scowl firmly in place, Arthur follows the silent instruction, doing a 180 and stretching each arm to the side, parallel with the floor. 

Merlin’s heart thuds almost painfully against his ribs, the reality that he’s able to do this again for Arthur making him weak-kneed. The intense relief washing over him is enough to make his eyes sting and he blinks rapidly, willing the tears not to spill over. 

It hadn’t just been Arthur himself that he’d mourned. It had been everything that he'd come to associate with the man. After ten years in his service, ten years of friendship and carefully concealed longing, there is little in Merlin’s life that doesn’t revolve around Arthur. Every day had been filled with tasks and duties that made it quite impossible to be apart for more than a couple of hours. And even then, Merlin would be in the midst of running errands for him. 

Going home to rest after he’d finally helped an exhausted Arthur into bed hadn’t helped either, his thoughts consumed by the man even as he was falling asleep and, rather unsurprisingly, his dreams following a similar fashion. 

He manages to slip one of Arthur’s arms into the sleeve, then the other, relying solely on muscle memory. He tugs the collar up, arranging it neatly around Arthur’s neck, smoothing the gambeson with a downward stroke of his hands across Arthur’s back. 

From this close, he can smell the hint of fresh sweat on his skin, his blond hair around the lower hairline damp and slightly darker than the rest. Heat radiates off of him in waves, seeping into Merlin’s skin and warming him in a way no fire or magic  ever could. It’s nothing new - it’s always felt like this. It’d become so normal, so natural that Merlin hardly ever consciously acknowledged it. He’d learnt to accept it - just another thing that was integral to Arthur. To him and Arthur. 

All these years Merlin has taken this for granted.

He won’t make that mistake again.

Whether it’s due to the nature of his thoughts, or the ever-present pull of the thread pulsing in his chest, Merlin ends up closing the distance between them, pressing his chest to Arthur’s back. He snakes his arms around Arthur’s waist, one hand resting proprietarily on his stomach, the other hitching higher and settling in the centre of his chest, right over his heart. 

He feels rather than hears the sharp hitch in Arthur’s breath, his heart thumping violently against the palm of Merlin’s hand. In a sudden rush of need, he pulls Arthur backwards, firmer into his chest, dropping his head to rest his forehead on Arthur’s nape, breathing him in. 

“Merlin,” Arthur rasps out, the sound revibrating in his chest. Merlin can feel that, too. 

“Hmpf,” Merlin says unintelligibly, the idea of speaking out loud without accidentally professing his ever-lasting, soul-consuming, world-shattering - and rather pathetic - love for Arthur quite unimaginable in this moment. 

“Merlin,” Arthur repeats. It sounds a little rushed, a little desperate, and it has Merlin clinging to him even tighter. He doesn't know how long Arthur will allow this. It's a testament to how much he must have missed Merlin that he allows it at all. 

Arms twitching at his sides, he places one hand on top of Merlin’s on his stomach. For a second, Merlin dreads that he’s going to pry it off, defensive and irritated, but Arthur never does. Instead he fans out his fingers, cupping Merlin’s hand in the cradle of his palm. They fit together - Arthur’s hand wider, but his fingers shorter, the skin of his palm roughened from the callouses he’s acquired from over two decades of swordwork. 

The memory of Arthur holding his hand almost exactly like this, lying limply in Merlin’s arms as his life bled out of him, turning his head so he could look Merlin in the eye when he said those three little words, hits Merlin like a tidal wave. He squeezes his eyes shut, fighting down the crushing panic as the memory plays itself on repeat. 

He tries to focus on what’s right in front of him, on the differences of the present moment. 

Arthur is very much alive. His heart beats strongly, if a bit unsteadily, under Merlin’s hand. His ribs expand with each hastily taken breath, then draw back as it leaves him shakily. His hand on top of Merlin’s is warm, skin on skin, not just a cold leather against Merlin’s equally cold flesh. 

Arthur is alive, and he’s here, and Merlin wants to bury himself in him, curl himself into a ball of warm, magical light and hide in Arthur’s chest, near his heart, keep him safe. 

“I’m sorry.” The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. He’s not even sure what he’s apologising for - there’s so much he ought to account for. 

When Arthur answers with an equally defeated, “It’s okay. It’s not your fault,” it’s clear to Merlin they’re thinking completely different things, but he doesn’t correct him. Not only because he can’t do so without spilling his secrets, but because he desperately wants to believe Arthur would still feel this way even if he knew the truth. 

So he lets the words hang hopeful and heavy between them, lets himself believe the past few days never happened. That this is just another day in the royal household, just another day of being the servant to this prat of a King, having to deal with the insufferable dollophead until it’s time to go to bed, and then repeat the whole thing the next day, for the rest of their lives.  

“Merlin,” Arthur says again, and by now it sounds almost like a mantra, a prayer. 

Merlin makes an unidentifiable sound, prompting Arthur to say what’s on his mind, but not moving an inch. 

“Are you alright?” 

It’s unexpected, especially when spoken in such a tentative, careful way. It makes Merlin feel a little guilty.

“Yeah,” he replies hoarsely, not recognising his voice. He swallows the lump in his throat. “I just… I’m glad I get to do this for you again, you know?” And he doesn’t even have to lie.

Wriggling out of Merlin’s hold gingerly - although not without a noise of protest on Merlin’s part - Arthur slowly turns around, a subtle frown on his face that seems to have more to do with concern than confusion.

“I do,” he says, licking his lips. “I- I am…” He shakes his head briefly, as though trying to banish whatever thought resurfaced. “I’m glad you’re here, Merlin.” 

It’s not the first time Arthur’s admitted something like this to him, but it will never cease to turn his blood into a liquid fire, burning in the most wonderful way. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Arthur confirms, a soft smile on his lips that swiftly transforms into a cheeky smirk. “Although it would be even better if you got on with your job instead of making me late for training. Especially on your first day. I might have to take George back otherwise.”

And just like that, the palpable tension breaks, punching an incredulous huff from Merlin.

“Just when I thought you had a heart,” he retorts in a feeble attempt to appear at least a little more collected. He turns around to grab the hauberk from the bed, yelping in a very unmanly manner when Arthur flicks his ear.

“So whiny.” Arthur huffs, not doing much better at trying to make himself look composed. 

Letting himself be comforted by the knowledge that Arthur is just as wrong-footed as him when it comes to expressing intense emotion to each other, Merlin sets to work.

There will be time to change destiny. For now, he lets himself have this moment - knowing that Arthur is here, alive and safe.

He will always be safe, because Merlin’s not leaving his side ever again. 

Chapter Text

Merlin doesn’t know what he expects when he accompanies Arthur to the training field. Whatever it is, he most definitely doesn’t anticipate being wound tight with paralyzing dread while watching Arthur spar with his knights.

He knows he’s overreacting. Arthur seems to be enjoying himself, maybe even showing off. Merlin can’t really say - he’s too anxious to pay proper attention. The only thing he can focus on is the lightning-fast swinging of swords, the jarring sound of blade hitting blade. He’s at the edge of his seat, unable to tear his eyes away, waiting for something terrible to happen.

“You look like you’re waiting for someone to charge at you any second.”

He jumps as the voice pulls him from his daze, clutching a hand to his chest.

“Gods, Gwen,” he grumbles, peering at Gwen scoldingly.

She bites her lip. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

He waves a hand, feeling a little bad about putting that guilty expression on her face. “I was just… thinking.”

“Very deeply, it looks like,” she teases good-naturedly, smoothing the back of her skirt as she sits down on the bench next to him, their arms pressed together. 

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he replies a little too quickly. “Yeah, I just…” He’s not sure what to say without sounding suspicious. “Don’t you ever worry that something might go wrong?”

Gwen purses her lips, unsure. “Wrong as in…?”

“Like an accident.” Merlin shrugs, realising how stiff his shoulders are. “Someone is too fast, someone too slow. Someone might trip, or not notice in time.”

“Oh, Merlin.” Gwen’s hand circles his wrist, and he wishes it was enough to banish his fears. “That’s not going to happen. They’re all too good at what they do.” 

That’s the point, Merlin thinks, watching with suspended breath as Gwaine’s sword bounces off of Arthur’s gauntlet. 

Gwaine is one of the best. Better than Lancelot. Almost as good as Arthur. If Arthur lost focus for just a second-

“Where is this coming from, really?”

Merlin’s shoulders sag as he lets out a sigh, willing himself to look away from the fight in front of him. 

“I don’t know.” He conjures a thin smile. “Anxiety that comes with revival, maybe?”

Judging by Gwen’s pitying look, the excuse works.

“How are you feeling?” she asks. 

They haven’t really had time to catch up, and Merlin is reminded of how much he’d missed her. Missed this. Things had changed after Gwen became Queen. 

“I’m fine.” Gwen squints at him. It’s a little unnerving. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“It’s a bit strange, you know? You look… alright,” she says it like a question. “But there’s something different about you. Something I can’t place.” She lets out a frustrated huff, shaking her head. “I’m probably just overthinking. I still haven’t got over the shock of having you back. Not that I’m not happy to have you back!” she rushes to clarify, arms flailing as she turns her earnest eyes on Merlin. “I am! Thrilled, actually. I- We all missed you so much. It wasn’t the same without you.” 

Merlin’s heart melts a little, the fear that’s taken hold of him easing off. He brushes his hand over her arm, cupping her elbow.

“I’m so sorry about Elyan.” Gwen blinks at him. “Lancelot told me.”

She nods, exhaling shakily. She sways towards him. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. “It’s been so hard these past few months. Losing both of you.”

She doesn’t say more, but Merlin can tell there’s something on her mind. She gnaws at her lip, avoiding Merlin’s gaze.

“What is it, Gwen?”

“I…” She starts reluctantly. “Please, Merlin, don’t take this the wrong way.” Merlin still tenses. “But I can’t help but wonder… if you’re here, if something brought you back…”

She doesn’t have to finish that thought.

“Why couldn't the same be done for Elyan?”

“I’m so sorry,” she cries, gazing at Merlin pleadingly. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m so happy you’re here, I truly am-”

Gwen always babbles when she’s nervous or scared. She’s probably both right now, and Merlin hates seeing her like this, hates being the cause.

“Gwen, calm down.” He takes her by both arms, giving her what he hopes is a comforting smile. “It’s okay. I understand. I would’ve been asking the same thing if I were you.” She sniffles a little but nods, relaxing. “I’m sorry that I don’t have answers. I wish he could be here, too.”

Gods, he hates lying to her. To everyone. The familiar feeling of self-deprecation rises inside him and he squishes it down angrily.

“Maybe,” Gwen begins, unsure. “It’s because we didn’t-  Elyan, he just… disappeared into that veil.”

Merlin should jump at the theory, feed into it so Gwen can have an explanation. Give her something she can comfort herself with. But he can’t bring himself to fuel the lie.

“I was told my body was burnt.”

“That’s true,” she agrees. “But… I don’t know. Maybe it’s a completely different realm behind the Veil. Maybe it’s somewhere no magic can reach.”

Merlin’s thoughts come to a halt. He replays Gwen’s words in his mind. 

“It doesn’t bother you? That magic must have brought me back?” he asks, a little incredulous. Gwen has never explicitly displayed hatred towards magic. Apprehension, maybe. But the easy acceptance still steals Merlin’s breath away.

Gwen leans towards him, scanning their surroundings briefly before she speaks. 

“Between us? I don’t believe all magic is evil. I believe it can be used for good. Depending on who uses it.” 

Merlin feels his face soften, watches Gwen answer in kind. 

“I don’t think whatever brought you back is evil. Not when it gave us a second chance.” A crooked smile appears on her lips, and she continues even more quietly, “I think that’s what Arthur believes as well.”

“You do?” Merlin blurts, his heart jumping in his chest. 

Gwen laughs, and it sounds both happy and sad. 

“You have no idea what it was like these past three months, Merlin. It felt like we’d lost him, too. He just… wasn’t himself.”

Lancelot’s words echo in his mind. 

“I’m sorry about Arthur, too,” he says, feeling inexplicably ashamed. “He’s so stubborn. He should have never pushed you away like that.”

Gwen gives him a weak but grateful smile.

“I can hardly blame him. He already blames himself. Unrightfully so!” she cries exasperatedly. “I tried to tell him, Merlin. I really did.” 

Merlin knows that. Lancelot told him as much. Knowing Arthur, there was very little Gwen could have done to break through his walls. Merlin knows better than anyone how Arthur gets when he’s overcome with grief or guilt - or, in this case, both. 

“Well, he’s one stubborn clotpole,” he tries to joke. It’s obviously forced. He knows Gwen can tell, but she humours him anyway, giving a short laugh. 

He hates that he’s going to ask, but he needs to make sure Gwen has moved on. 

“Maybe it’s not too late?”

Something inside him unclenches when Gwen shakes her head without hesitation.

“Things are different now. Looking back on it, it’s probably for the best. I guess we just weren’t meant to be.” Her voice is laced with sorrow, but there’s something else that makes Merlin believe she means it. 

“So, things are going well with Lancelot?” He has to bite back a smile at her alarmed expression. “It’s okay, Gwen. I didn’t mean to sound accusing.”

“You didn’t,” she says in a hurry. “I just… Did Lancelot-”

“No,” he replies. Gwen lets out a relieved sigh. “But contrary to what a lot of people think, I’m not daft.” He chuckles to himself. “And Lancelot is rather ridiculously obvious.”

When Gwen laughs this time, it sounds genuine. An endearing flush warms her cheeks. 

“It’s not ideal, Merlin. Lancelot is… He’s very torn about… the recent development.” She trips over her words. “I know how he feels about me. But his loyalty to Arthur is holding him back. I understand that, of course. I’m quite wrong-footed myself. But I want to try.” She looks at him keenly. “I really want this to work. I think… I think we could have something good.”

Yes, Merlin thinks. He’s always thought so. But it wasn’t his place to say. He’s convinced that Lancelot had made a mistake when he’d chosen to leave, chosen not to come between Gwen and Arthur. He remembers how his departure had  left Gwen heartbroken. He knows Lancelot meant well. He thinks Gwen knows, too. But ultimately, it was Gwen who was supposed to make that choice. She deserved to choose to whom she would give her heart. And that choice had been taken from her. 

Maybe it isn’t just Merlin who was granted a second chance to make things right. To make different choices. 

“Then you have to fight for it,” he hears himself say, surprised at the firmness of his voice. “And don’t let anyone tell you what’s right or wrong.”

It’s a bit funny, how much like Gwen he feels right now, despite their situation being different. But it feels as though they’re both standing at the same precipice, preparing to take a leap of faith.

In the next moment, Gwen is closing the distance between them and pulling him into a tight embrace, their cheeks pressed together. It only takes a couple of seconds before Merlin shakes himself and winds his arms around her waist, propping his chin on her shoulder. 

He didn’t realise how much he needed this.  

“Thank you, Merlin,” she murmurs into his jacket. She sounds vulnerable, and Merlin squeezes her tighter, as if he can protect her better like that.

All too soon, Gwen’s pulling away, her eyes wet but sparkling. She holds his gaze and smiles cheekily. 

“I hope you know to take your own advice.” 

Merlin stares at her, his mouth falling open. 

Gwen giggles, shaking her head fondly, as though Merlin is a silly child. Placing a finger under his chin, she prompts him to close his mouth. 

“You are daft, aren’t you?”

Before he can come up with a suitable, affronted reply, Arthur’s cry of victory steers his attention. 

Gwen pats his shoulder, wiggling her eyebrows. 

“See? Everyone’s survived.” 

Merlin laughs nervously. 

“Yeah. It would seem so.” 

He really hopes it will stay that way. 

***

“You’re awfully quiet,” Arthur remarks with suspicion as Merlin wordlessly works at removing his armour. “It’s concerning.”

“Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? For me to shut up because I talk too much?”

“I haven’t heard your mindless chatter for three months. It’s safe to say you’re allowed to talk your usual gibberish for a while without me nagging you to keep your mouth shut.”

It’s more of a backhanded compliment, but Merlin’s stomach flutters at the not-quite display of affection all the same. 

“You say the sweetest things,” he replies with a saucy grin, hoping he doesn’t look as lovestruck as he feels. 

He must succeed, given that Arthur graces him with an arrogant smirk. 

“I try.” 

Silence stretches between them again, broken only by the high pitched sound of metal on metal. Merlin has already rid Arthur of his hauberk and is about to take off his gambeson as well when Arthur speaks again. 

“Really. What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” Merlin replies genuinely. Maybe it’s not exactly nothing , but it’s not something either. “I talked to Gwen.”

It was quite wonderful, being able to be with Gwen the way they used to be before she became Queen and the amount of royal responsibilities turned out to be too much for their friendship to withstand it. They were friends, of course. It just wasn’t the same.

It will probably never be the same. 

Arthur nods. “I saw you.”

“It’s been difficult for her lately,” Merlin continues. “Losing so many people she loved.”

There’s a sudden, intense shift in the air. Then Arthur replies, “Yes.” And Merlin realises how his words must have come across. 

“It’s not your fault, Arthur.” He ducks his head, willing Arthur to look him in the eye. “I’ve told you before - none of this was your fault.” He holds up a hand when Arthur opens his mouth, no doubt about to protest that statement. “No, listen to me.” 

Arthur presses his lips together, a muscle jumps in his jaw.

“Yes, you’re a great king. A just king. You’re compassionate, and kind, and brave-” Merlin chuckles to himself. “-if a bit hot-headed at times.” 

Arthur huffs, pretending to be offended, but his shoulders relax.

“People follow you because they believe in you. They believe in the future you’re trying to create. And they want to be a part of it.”

Arthur regards him expectantly. “But?”

“But that’s not why they risk their lives for you. Not because you’re King. But because who you are as a person. They lay their lives down for you because they love you.” 

Arthur’s eyes widen, caught off guard. Merlin stutters through his next words, undoing the fastenings of the gambeson with fumbling fingers as he drops his chin, hiding his blush.

“Y-you’d do the same for them, right?” He’s surprised Arthur can even understand him. But he must, given that he answers with a slow, deliberate nod.

“Would you blame them if something happened to you?”

“Of course not,” Arthur says, sounding a little offended. 

“So why do you blame yourself?” 

Predictably, Arthur doesn’t have an answer to that. He’s always held double-standards about himself and the rest of the world, especially about people who’ve pledged themselves to him. He’s always believed he needs to constantly prove himself to them. 

Merlin equally loves and hates that particular trait. He would feel differently about it if that need came from the simple desire to show his people he’s able to lead them, to take care of them. But it’s not that easy. Nothing about Arthur is ever easy. 

And most of the time, Arthur is driven by equal measures of self-deprecation and guilt.

Stepping behind Arthur, Merlin slides the gambeson off his shoulders, giving it a little tug when it catches around his wrists. 

“Just something for you to think about,” he says softly, giving Arthur’s shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze. 

He gathers the hauberk in his hands and walks towards Arthur’s desk, depositing it on the stand by the wall where it stays until Merlin takes it for polishing later. 

His gaze wanders sideways, looking through the window at the courtyard. He watches people mingle and talk to each other. He sees Gwaine attempting to charm another poor maiden and - as usual - it seems to be working, considering how she covers her giggle with the top of her hand. 

Merlin shakes his head, smiling despite himself - at least some things will never change. 

The pair soon disappear from view, but a movement further back catches his eye. He freezes momentarily when he recognises Agravaine’s retreating form as the man rides out through the gates, quite in a rush. 

“Merlin, are you listening?” comes Arthur’s voice, mildly annoyed.

“Sorry,” Merlin replies absently. “Arthur, does Agravaine often ride out in the middle of the day?”

There’s shuffling as Arthur approaches, manifesting beside Merlin.

“Occasionally.” He follows Merlin’s gaze where it’s still glued to the gates. 

“Where does he go?”

“I don’t know, Merlin. Do you expect me to interrogate my advisors on what they do in their spare time?”

Bile rises in his throat.

“You need to be careful, Arthur.” 

“What?”

He inhales shakily, speaking to his hands.

“Not everyone supports what you’re trying to build. Not everyone wants to see you succeed.”

“Merlin, what on earth are you talking about?” Arthur sounds irritated, and it’s not in the exaggerated, bantering way. 

Merlin turns to face him, adopting a serious expression. He needs Arthur to listen. He needs Arthur to believe him. 

“You shouldn’t trust Agravaine so blindly.”

Arthur stares at him, first in shock, then confusion. Soon, the confusion gives way to something darker, something that has Merlin’s lungs contract. 

“Merlin, be careful what you say,” Arthur says slowly - a warning. Merlin’s eyes burn. “This is my uncle you’re talking about.”

“He doesn’t have your best interests at heart,” Merlin half-shouts, desperate.

Arthur’s hands ball into fists, and when he speaks next, his voice has dropped a few notches.

“Agravaine is the only reason Camelot didn’t fall apart when my father got sick, and when you- When I-” He grinds his teeth, shaking his head as though he’s trying to banish a memory. He fixes his gaze on Merlin. 

It’s the coldest Merlin’s seen him in a long time. 

“I don’t want to hear you speak ill of him ever again, Merlin.”

Everything inside him screams at Merlin to unleash the truth, to not stop until he’s spilled every little detail. Until Arthur can’t but accept the truth. 

But Arthur’s mind is in a different place, somewhere where he’s not able to hear or see what’s right in front of him, the truth obscured by a thick fog built of guilt, and fear, and sorrow. Telling him now wouldn’t change anything, not for the better. And honestly, Merlin doesn’t want to hurt him any more that he already has. 

“If you don’t need me,” he says as calmly as he can muster. “I’ll go see if Gaius wants my help.” He waits for Arthur to reply. When Arthur remains silent, he adds, “I’ll see you with dinner?” It’s a peace offering - it’s the best he can do right now. He hopes it’s enough. 

Arthur doesn’t look any happier, but his fists unclench. Merlin counts it as a win.

“You’re free to go,” Arthur agrees, voice carefully level and eyes never meeting Merlin’s. He turns away, fiddling with the hem of his tunic. 

Recognising the dismissal for what it is, Merlin blurts out a half-hearted, “Thank you, sire,” before he strides towards the door and slips out, finally able to breathe.

***

“I should have never lied to him,” Merlin snarls, grinding the herbs in the mortar with more force than necessary. “All of this could have been prevented if I’d just told him the truth. Now I’m where I started. I haven’t changed a damned thing.”

The sound of the pestle hitting the bottom of the mortar grows in volume and Gaius reaches around Merlin to extract the pestle from his death grip. Merlin lets him, bracing himself against the edge of the table. Gaius pats his back.

“You don’t know what would have happened if you’d told him, Merlin. At least now you can remain by Arthur’s side and protect him.”

“I know.” Merlin groans, head hanging between his shoulders. “I know, Gaius, but… I hate lying to him.”

“I know, my boy,” Gaius soothes, carrying on with the patting. “The time will come when Arthur learns the truth. But you need to be patient.” He offers the pestle to Merlin again.

Merlin takes it, figuring it’s better to channel his frustration into something inanimate. He looks at Gaius, finding the man looking at him with more empathy than Merlin’s ever witnessed on him. 

“When?” he asks, mostly rhetorically. 

It looks like Gaius is going to answer regardless, but he’s interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he calls. 

Lancelot’s reluctant expression greets them. 

“Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all,” Gaius reassures, shooting Merlin a look, silently asking if he’s okay. Merlin nods, resuming grinding the herbs.

“So,” Lancelot starts conversationally as he steps inside, shutting the door. “I heard that the council meeting went well?” He sounds pleased, and Merlin is warmed by his concern. 

“It wasn’t a disaster,” Merlin confirms. “But I can’t say anyone was too happy to see me alive and thriving.”

Lancelot purses his lips. “Because magic was obviously involved?”

Merlin nods wordlessly, focusing on the twisting motion of his wrist and the ways the herbs have started to form a paste.

“If it went well why are you looking so morose?”

Merlin sighs, feeling exhaustion creep in. 

“I tried to warn Arthur about Agravaine.”

Lancelot makes a face. 

“Shall I guess how it went?”

Abandoning the pestle, Merlin throws his hands in the air. 

“He was so damn defensive! Agravaine’s lies run so deep that Arthur doesn’t even notice when something is off.”

“There seems to be a pattern when it comes to people he cares about,” Lancelot comments, but judging by the way his expression turns alarmed he didn’t mean to say that out loud. 

“I need to ask, Merlin,” he goes on before Merlin can question the remark. “I didn’t think it was the right time before, but… what happened? You were ready to tell Arthur the truth.”

And here it is. Merlin’s surprised he didn’t ask sooner. 

“I know.” He presses two fingers to the inner corners of his eyes. “I was. I meant to, I really did. But… Gods, Lancelot,” he whines. “I couldn’t do it. Not when he- When he looked at me like that. I practically had the whole speech prepared and I couldn’t bring myself to tell him. He looked so happy and I didn’t have the strength to crush his hopes.”

The memory of Arthur’s face and the way it lit up as he gazed at Merlin, thumbs brushing his jaw and eyes boring into his comes rushing back, sending his heart racing as if Arthur is right there in front of him. 

“Merlin,” Lancelot leans closer over the table. Merlin registers he must have spaced out for a second, because he didn’t notice him coming over. “Don’t you think he would have accepted you either way?”

It hurts to think that. It’s dangerous to think that. None of the options sit well with Merlin. 

If Lancelot is wrong it means that what’s between Merlin and Arthur is not as strong and unbreakable as everyone seems to believe. 

And if he’s right, it means that Merlin wasted the perfect opportunity to come clean to the man he’s crossed worlds to save. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Maybe? It would still take him time to come to terms with the fact that his Merlin is not coming back. That he’s stuck with this…” He sweeps a hand down the length of his body. “...strange, more ruthless version.”

Lancelot looks at him like he pities him and is disappointed at the same time. It only makes Merlin feel worse.

“I’m sorry you feel that way. I have faith that one day Arthur will learn the truth and his feelings won’t have changed at all.”

Merlin feels the flame of hope come to life and he douses it before it has time to do any more damage.

“I wish I were as confident as you.”

He’ll never know what Lancelot meant to say next, because Gwaine chooses that moment to come barging into the room. 

Lancelot spins around, fully on alert. He relaxes when he notices it’s only Gwaine.

“Don’t know how to knock?”

“Please.” Gwaine snorts. “I basically lived here at one point.” He strolls casually towards the table, shooting Merlin a wink. “I’ve even slept in Merlin’s bed. I’m practically at home here.”

Merlin guffaws at that, feeling a giggle bubbling up. 

“I’ve slept in Merlin's bed, too.” Lancelot rolls his eyes. “That’s hardly an excuse.”

Gwaine clutches a hand to his chest theatrically, looking at Merlin with big, puppy eyes.

“Merlin, how could you?!” 

“Gwen has, too,” Gaius joins in, shrugging when Merlin gives him a disbelieving glare. The old man is definitely enjoying this too much.  

“Merlin, you harlot!” Gwaine accuses, laughing. “Are you working your way through the whole of the Round Table?”

Merlin gapes, searching for an adequate response but doesn’t get a chance.

“Should we place bets on who’s going to be next?” Lancelot suggests, and he’s definitely smiling, too.

“Oh, yes,” Gwaine agrees enthusiastically. He grips his chin between two fingers, pretending to think. “Who’s going to be the lucky lad?”

“I’m pretty sure I know who,” Lancelot grunts under his breath, but Merlin still hears him.

“Oh, Gods,” Merlin groans in a tortured voice. “Will you two shut up?”

Gwaine looks at him with genuine confusion.

“Have we met?”

Merlin grumbles to himself, working the overground herbs again just so he has something to do with himself. It also gives him a reason to avoid Gwaine and Lancelot’s all-knowing glances. 

“What do you want, Gwaine?”

“I-” He slams a hand on the table. “-want to celebrate!”

“Not this again,” Merlin pleads even though he knows it’s futile. “I have to work tomorrow.”

Gwaine leans in, whispering conspiratorially, “Something tells me Arthur will be willing to overlook some slacking on your part from now on. You should milk the opportunity for as long as you can.” He adds another wink.

“I wouldn’t say no to a drink,” Lancelot admits, shrugging noncommittally.

“Excellent!” Gwaine says cheerfully. “Merlin, come on, my friend. You can’t leave us hanging.”

He really shouldn’t. He knows he’s been here only a couple of days, but it feels like he’s wasted so much time already. It’s wonderful to be able to have this - have Lancelot and Arthur back, even though Elyan’s absence hangs heavy around him whenever he remembers. Even so, he’s gained more than he could ever have imagined. He’s got a second chance, as Gwen put it. 

But the threat to Arthur’s life is still out there. Not just one - there are so many things that can go wrong, so many people that would see the King fall. And the only thing that stands between them and Arthur is Merlin. 

So, no. He really shouldn’t. He shouldn’t steer away from his plan. 

He looks at Gaius, subconsciously seeking guidance from the man who’s like a father to him. He expects him to back up his thoughts, to confirm that Merlin is not here to have fun and mingle. 

Instead, he finds Gaius regarding him with an uncharacteristically soft expression, reminding him of all the times Merlin had made him proud.

“They all missed you very much,” Gaius says, giving Merlin a tentative smile.

“We did!” Gwaine exclaims, coming around the table and grabbing Merlin’s shoulder..

“Okay, okay!” Merlin yells, shaking his hand off even as a huge grin creeps onto his face. “Stop guilt-tripping me! I’ll go. But only for a little while!” He holds up a finger in front of Gwaine’s face, making him go cross-eyed. “And I need to bring Arthur dinner first.”

“Of course,” Gwaine replies with way too much glee. “Don’t forget to feed His Majesty. We wouldn’t want him to be cranky because he’s hungry.”

Merlin can only shake his head at his friend’s antics, his chest bursting with unchecked affection. How did he think he could ever get out of something Gwaine wanted to drag him into?

He ignores the last comment and just says, “I’ll meet you there, then.” 

Gwaine slaps his back a few times, making him choke. 

“Great! See you later, my dear!” And with another cheeky wink and a swish of his hair, he’s gone.

Lancelot, when Merlin looks at him, is unsuccessfully holding back a full-bodied laugh.

“It’s going to be fun,” Merlin says sarcastically.

Lancelot barks out a laugh. “It sure is.” He turns to Gaius. “Are you going to join us, Gaius?”

“I’m afraid my liver can handle very little beyond the occasional goblet of wine.”

“Something tells me you were a wild young man once.”

“I’ll leave that up to your imagination.” 

Chuckling softly, Lancelot looks at Merlin, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah.”

He exits with considerably less drama than Gwaine. Merlin already misses his company. He huffs to himself, turning to Gaius with a fondly exasperated expression.

Gaius gives him a knowing smile, stepping closer and squeezing Merlin’s arm.

“You have good friends here, Merlin,” he says it like a secret, like there’s a hidden truth for Merlin to reveal. “You have a family. You’re not alone.”

Something in those words forces Merlin’s mind to still. There’s a strange buzz somewhere further back, like an epiphany that’s not completely clear - more of a feeling than a solid idea. A feeling that has Merlin wonder if, maybe, he got it all wrong. If there’s more to all of this than saving Arthur’s life. 

It should be impossible - defying the prophecy is what brought Merlin here in the first place, what made him abandon his world (though unknowingly at the time) and step into the unknown with the sheer promise that he would get to see his friend again. 

And yet he cannot shake the feeling that there might be more to it than changing his and Arthur’s destiny. More than the hope that Emrys and the Once and Future King will bring peace and unity to the land. More than ending the oppression of magic and people who practice it. 

Maybe it’s all more simple than that. Maybe it’s never been what he had been led to believe. Maybe there’s no bigger picture to fight for. 

Maybe, just maybe, it’s all about what’s right in front of him. 

***

Merlin hesitates outside Arthur’s chambers, the hand that’s not balancing the tray raised midair, curled into a loose fist. 

The way things went earlier left a bad taste in his mouth. Arthur was upset and there’s a good chance he’s still in a pissy mood. 

“Oh, sod it. I won’t tip-toe around the prat,” Merlin mumbles to himself, and instead of knocking he uses his free hand to swing the door open. 

“Dinner is being served!” he announces as he steps inside. 

Arthur is already sitting at the table. He startles, snapping his head up from where he was leaning on his steepled hands. 

“Would knocking be too bothersome?” he grumbles with no heat. 

Merlin stretches his lips into a wide grin.

“It would. My hands are full.”

“Of course.”

Relieved that Arthur doesn’t seem to dwell on their afternoon exchange - and partially frustrated that his concerns were brushed off without a second thought - Merlin goes over to place the tray in front of him.

He shifts on his feet. The goblet he’s pouring wine into nearly slips from his grip and a bit of wine spills onto the table. 

“What’s got you so fidgety?” Arthur asks, only mildly annoyed. 

Merlin puts both the goblet and the wine jug on the table before he says, “I have a favour to ask.”

“Ask away.” 

“Can I get an early night?” Arthur frowns at him. “Gwaine made me agree to go to the tavern with him.”

“The bloody tavern again.” Arthur huffs exasperatedly. It’s not a no.

“You’re welcome to join.”

“I don’t think so.” 

Merlin deflates. Arthur isn’t a fan of drinking - not that Merlin is, but Arthur doesn’t know that - but there are other things that can be done at the tavern. 

Immediately, Merlin’s mind takes him back to the last time they’d been at the tavern, playing the game of dice. He remembers how the air between them was charged with challenge, how everyone held their breath, curious how it would turn out. The mad cheers when Merlin rolled two sixes, no one caring that a servant beat the King. 

He remembers it was the last time they got to spend together before his whole world was flipped upside down. 

“Suit yourself.” Merlin shrugs, feigning indifference. “Is it okay with you if I draw you a bath in the morning instead? Or I can do it before I go and leave you to it and then get rid of the bathwater in the morning? Or I can come back later, before you go to sleep. I won’t stay at the tavern for long anyway. Or-”

“Merlin,” Arthur groans, pinching his side until Merlin yelps. “Calm down.” He lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Go. Have fun. Don’t worry about the bath.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am.” He smiles like the cat that caught the canary. “If I need something I can always send for George.”

Sucking in a sharp breath, Merlin starts protesting. “Arthur, if you’re not-”

“I’m joking. ” He laughs. “You don’t have to get all jealous.”

“I’m not-” Merlin sputters, then closes his eyes and breathes deeply. He plasters on a huge, fake smile. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I appreciate your kindness.”

“Oh, you’d better.” Arthur snorts, then says more solemnly, “Don’t overdo it, Merlin. I still expect you to attend to me bright and early tomorrow.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Certainly, sire. ”

***

Gwaine didn’t mention whether anyone else would be coming, but Merlin is still pleasantly surprised when he spots Leon sitting next to Lancelot, and Percy next to- Uh. With a lapful of Gwaine? Whatever is happening, Percy’s dignity is saved when Gwaine registers Merlin has entered the tavern.

“Merlin!” he calls, thrilled. He springs up, already swaying as he strides towards Merlin, throwing a heavy arm around his shoulders.

“There you are! My favourite knight!” he yells in his face, and Merlin grimaces as the strong odour. 

“I’m not a knight, Gwaine.”

“You should be!” He drags Merlin to the table, sitting him down at the head. He falls back into his own seat - next to Percy, after all - the old chair rattling under the impact. “I sure would enjoy our sparring matches.” He smiles toothilly.

Merlin turns his bewildered expression on Lancelot.

“I tried to make him slow down,” he says bashfully. “But…”

Merlin waves a hand. “I get it.” There’s probably nothing in the world that could tame Gwaine’s drinking habits. 

“Come on, Merlin. Let’s get you sloshed. My treat!”

“You never even pay for your own drinks, Gwaine.”

“Let’s not go into details,” he slurs. “We’re supposed to have fun!”

Merlin and Lancelot share a look, both suppressing a smile. 

So much fun.

***

“He tripped, Merlin,” Gwaine tells him, gazing earnestly into Merlin’s eyes as though sharing very important information. “Over his own feet. It was like watching a rock mountain crumbling to the ground.”

Percy lets out an unmanly squeak, slamming his tankard on the table. 

“My height makes it hard to coordinate!”

“I trip over my feet, too,” Merlin confesses when he stops giggling. He’s only had two pints, but his vision is already blurring, words rolling off his tongue clumsily.

“Yeah, but when you do it, everyone thinks it’s cute,” Gwaine argues, sounding too coherent for someone who’s drunk nearly as much as the rest of them together. “Percy just looks like an idiot.”

“I swear to God, Gwaine.” Percy smacks his head. “You keep going and I won't be held responsible for my actions.”

Unfazed, Gwaine leans back in his chair, turning bodily towards him.

“If you want me to shut up there are other means to achieve that.” It’s probably meant to be seductive, but only makes everyone laugh uncontrollably and struggle to catch their breath. Percy, of course, is an exception, blushing with the force of a thousand suns and sputtering through a litany of desperate protests. 

“What did I tell you about taking it easy?” says a voice behind Merlin. 

Merlin tips his head back. 

“Arthur?”

“Princess!” Gwaine greets. “Are you joining us?”

Arthur scowls at the nickname, but forgoes a lecture. He must know it’s a lost cause. 

“No. I’m making sure my servant will be coherent enough to attend me tomorrow.”

“Good thinking, Arthur.” Gwaine nods. “You do that.”

“I’m not even drunk,” Merlin protests weakly.

“You’re a little drunk, Merlin,” Lancelot says. Merlin shoots him a wounded look. 

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder. 

“Come on, Merlin,” Arthur says. “Let’s get you home.”

“I can take him home!” Gwaine barks. 

“And who will take you home?” Leon asks skeptically. 

“Percy, obviously.”

Percy chokes on his mead. “I’m not-”

“Gentlemen,” Arthur says impatiently. “Can you not?”

Leon looks uncomfortable, shooting Arthur apologetic looks. Merlin wonders if Leon joined them just so he could keep an eye on them, but accidently ended up enjoying himself a little too much. 

“I can get home by myself,” Merlin insists. 

“I’d rather see to it.”

“Such a mother hen.”

“What was that?”

“I said you’re like an old man.”

“And you’re irresponsible. Come on, get up.”

“I’ll see you, guys!” Merlin shouts as Arthur hauls him outside.

“We already miss you!” Lancelot calls back. 

“Don’t forget to kiss him goodnight for me , Arthur.”

Arthur tries to glare at Gwaine, but they’re too far for Gwaine to see it. Experience says he wouldn’t care even if he did, anyway.

“I’m really not that drunk,” Merlin says, breath hitching when Arthur winds one arm around his waist and pulls him to his side. 

“You can’t hold your liquor to save your life.”

“Right,” Merlin replies, nonplussed. He makes it a few paces before tripping over his own damned feet.

“Christ, Merlin,” Arthur complains as he struggles to keep him upright. 

“Sorry. Wobbly.”

“I’ll say.”

They stay quiet for a while. It should be awkward, tense. Instead, it’s just comfortable. Arthur is a solid presence next to him, pressed against him . Merlin briefly entertains the idea of getting drunk on a regular basis. 

“So this is what you do in your free time?” Arthur asks as they stumble up the stairs to the physician’s quarters. 

“Not really. I don’t always come back from the dead.”

“Well, let’s not make it a habit, shall we?”

Merlin’s not sure if he’s talking about drinking or dying. 

They finally make it to the top, and Arthur pushes the door open without knocking.

“Sire?” Gaius looks up from the table where he’s probably mixing some new concoction. It’s rather late for him to still be awake - and working - but Merlin is too tired to ask.

“Just wanted to make sure he got home safe.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Sure, whatever you say,” Arthur replies, walking in the direction of Merlin’s room. “Let’s put you to bed.”

“That’s very kind of you, sire,” Gaius says. Merlin is sure he’s biting back a commentary. 

“Yes, very kind of you, you prat.”

“What did you say?”

“I said you’re a prat.”

“And you-” Arthur all but kicks the door open. “-are an idiot.”

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees. He smiles goofily. “We’re a pair, aren’t we?”

Turning his gaze heavenwards, Arthur removes his arm from Merlin’s waist, pushing down on his shoulder to make him sit at the edge of the bed. 

Merlin doesn’t even have the strength to protest when Arthur peels his jacket off, then starts undoing the knot on his neckerchief. Arthur’s face is carefully void of emotion as he drops to his knees in front of Merlin and starts taking off his boots. 

Merlin, gods help him, can’t look away. Arthur’s expression doesn’t give anything away, but just seeing him like this, taking care of Merlin the same way Merlin’s done for him for a decade - it’s like witnessing a holy vision. 

Boots off, Arthur finally looks at him. 

“Do me a favour and bathe before you come wake me up in the morning.”

It takes a few moments before Merlin registers the meaning of the words, his affectionate thoughts suddenly taking a rather inappropriate turn.

“Rude,” he grumbles, blushing. 

Arthur pokes his chest, prompting him to climb further onto the bed and lay down. 

The room spins as Merlin does so, falling ungracefully on his back, unable to tear his gaze away as Arthur pulls the blanket over him. 

“This is nice,” he says without meaning to.

“What?”

“Having you look after me.”

For a second, Arthur freezes, hands clutching the blanket. Then he snaps out of it, throwing the thin fabric over Merlin’s shoulders. He straightens up, eyes jumping all over the room.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“No,” Merlin says. “I’m the one who needs to look after you.”

A pause.

“Well, that’s what I pay you for.”

He looks uncomfortable, shifting on the balls of his feet. His eyes stray towards the door, as though he can’t wait to get out.  

A wave of longing washes over Merlin, everything inside him screaming at him to take Arthur’s hand, drag him into bed and never let go. 

“Arthur,” he says. It comes out like a whimper. “Please. Be careful.”

“Huh?”

“I- I can’t have anything happen to you. Not again.”

“What?”

“You must not trust Agravaine,” Merlin blurts desperately. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows Arthur doesn’t want to hear it.

“Merlin...” Arthur draws his name out - not angry, but tired. His hand finds Merlin’s shoulder, the touch feather-light.

“Please,” Merlin sobs, feeling his control slipping. “I can’t lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me, Merlin,” Arthur says firmly. He sounds so sure that if Merlin didn’t know better, he would be tempted to believe him. 

“Get some sleep,” Arthur says softly, sliding his fingers down the length of Merlin’s arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. 

He waits a few moments, maybe waiting for Merlin to say something. Merlin doesn’t trust himself. Cannot risk revealing more than he already has. 

Sighing, Arthur starts taking short steps backwards, eyes never leaving Merlin. 

“Goodnight, Merlin,” he says when he reaches the door. 

Merlin waits until he’s halfway through the door before he replies with, “Night, Arthur.”

He burrows his face in the pillow, groaning in frustration. Why is he like this? He was having a good time - something he thought he’d never get to experience again. And then his brain had to go and ruin it. Stupid brain and stupid mouth. 

He resigns himself to a restless sleep when distorted voices from the main room catch his attention. 

He hesitates. He’s tired and eavesdropping never bodes well. But he hasn’t the vaguest idea what Arthur might be discussing with Gaius, and eventually curiosity gets the better of him. 

“Gestrenge.” His magic rises lazily to the surface, equally tired. 

He makes out Gaius’ words first.

“I’ve told you before, sire,” he says sternly. “It isn’t possible.”

“I believe we have blatant proof that it is indeed possible,” Arthur growls.

“It’s not possible for me. I don’t have that kind of power, Arthur. Nor knowledge.” 

There’s a pause, and then Arthur says, “Well, I just wanted you to know that if you did this-”

“I didn’t-”

“If you did this,” Arthur repeats. Then softer, “I…. thank you. I won’t ask questions. I won’t poke at this anymore. And we will never speak of it again. Just… thank you.” 

Merlin holds his breath as he waits, but neither of them say anything more. There’s a click as the door opens and shuts, signaling Arthur’s departure. 

Merlin’s stomach churns. He doesn’t think it’s from the ale.

He’s definitely not getting any sleep tonight.

Chapter Text

The bathwater is unexpectedly murky after Merlin has finished scrubbing his skin clean, and he scrunches his nose. Yeah, okay, so maybe Arthur had a point when he made that remark about bathing. 

An involuntary smile finds its way to his lips. Arthur.  

Arthur left the comfort of his chambers in the middle of the night so he could make sure Merlin would get home alright. Of course, he wouldn’t stop grumbling about how irresponsible Merlin was and whatnot, but Merlin couldn’t care less about that. And not only did he drag Merlin’s half-limp body to his room, allowing Merlin to lean on him, he even helped him undress. Arthur, the bloody King of bloody Camelot dropped to his knees and helped take Merlin’s boots off, while being so nonchalant that he could fool anyone into believing that this was what His Majesty did on a regular basis. 

“Shit,” Merlin curses as the picture of Arthur kneeling before him sends a tingling sensation down his spine, heat simmering low in his belly. He resolutely ignores the prominent interest his nether regions have taken in the vivid memory involving the King. This is so not the time!

He heaves himself out of the tub with a grunt, rivulets of mildly soapy water running down his legs. Leaving a wet trail behind, he shuffles to the closet, picking a fresh pair of smallclothes and trousers, and a red tunic with a blue neckerchief for a change. 

He pauses briefly, running his fingers over the well-worn fabric of the neckerchief. It looks identical to the one Arthur had kept after the other Merlin had died. Merlin still hasn’t managed to process that fact. The thought to take something of Arthur’s, some kind of memento, never even occurred to him. 

He crosses the room back to where yesterday’s clothes lay discarded. Snatching the trousers from the floor, he reaches inside the right pocket, his hand closing around the familiar shape of the sigil. He runs his thumb reverently over the round edges and lets his eyes slide shut, taking a short moment to relive the night Arthur gifted him with it. Forced him to accept it, Merlin thinks with exasperated fondness. He remembers the vulnerability in Arthur’s eyes as he’d tried to convey what he couldn’t, wouldn’t put into words.

A clanking noise from the main chamber snaps Merlin out of the memory, reminding him of the unpleasant conversation he’s about to subject himself to.

He dries himself haphazardly with a clean cloth and puts on the fresh clothes, sliding the sigil back into his right pocket, the weight of it comforting in a way he can’t describe. 

He squeezes the sigil tight as he steps out of his room.

Gaius’ eyes are on him the second the door shuts behind him. 

“Good morning, Merlin. Did you sleep well?”

Pressing his lips together, Merlin answers with a noncommittal shrug. Gaius lets out a throaty chuckle.

“I have a surprise for you,” he announces cheerfully, jerking his head in the direction of the table. 

“Thought it might do you good after last night. Come on, sit.” He grabs Merlin’s elbow when he’s within reach, pushing him down into a chair. “Arthur will expect you soon. You don’t want to have him come down here again, do you?”

Merlin looks over their breakfast in silence. Under normal circumstances, the rare chance to feast upon fresh bread, ham, cheese and tomatoes would have him dive nose first into the plate. 

Gaius slides into the chair opposite him, eyes bright and expectant as he waits for Merlin to dig in. 

“Why didn’t you tell me Arthur asked you to use magic to bring me back?” Merlin expected the words to come out harsh and accusing - an adequate response to how the conversation he overheard last night made him feel. Instead, he just feels weak, and strangely defeated. 

The mirth disappears from Gaius’s eyes, the corners of his mouth turning downwards. His lips part - Merlin can almost hear the unspoken question. Gaius’ mouth forms a tight line, gaze dropping to his plate.

“I guess that answers the question of how you slept,” he comments flatly. 

And just like that, the indignation, the feeling of betrayal rise within Merlin anew.

“How could you not tell me, Gaius?!”

“What good would it do?” Gaius replies, infuriatingly calm. Gods, he’s not even ashamed. 

Merlin gapes, sputtering, “What good- You made me believe Arthur hated magic from the bottom of his heart! Your big speech about the wrongs magic has inflicted on him - Morgana, the dorocha, all the times he’s been enchanted.” He shakes his head, feeling stupid for following Gaius’ reasoning so blindly. “You were adamant that he would go feral if I so much as mentioned magic!”

“I was just trying to-”

“If you say you were doing this for my own good, I swear I’ll walk out of here, stomp into Arthur’s chambers and let every single piece of furniture levitate right in front of him.”

Gaius inhales sharply, expression strict like he’s about to unleash a lecture. He does no such thing, but his voice is strained when he speaks next, as though his control is hanging on by a thread. The bloody irony.

“Merlin,” he begins, sounding remotely regretful. “I’m sorry. I truly mean it when I say I’m only trying to keep you safe.”

Exhaling raggedly, Merlin pushes himself up, runs his hand over his face. A humourless laugh bubbles up his throat. 

“I was going to tell him Gaius. I really was.” He begins to pace, then comes to a halt, glaring at Gaius with unconcealed bitterness. “But then what you’d said came rushing back and I got so bloody scared. So scared he would hate me.”

“Merlin-” Gaius sighs.

Merlin turns on his heel, uninterested in any more excuses. He strides towards his room, swinging the door open and grabbing the jacket he wore yesterday. He slings it on as he walks back to the main chamber, avoiding Gaius’ gaze even as he feels it burning into him all the way to the door. 

“Merlin,” Gaius says, alarmed. 

Merlin huffs, fighting back a resentful retort. He manages an emotionless, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell him,” and flees before he says something he might regret.

***

“Ow did ouh seep?” Arthur presses out through a mouthful of scone. Merlin replies with an unimpressed scowl. Arthur’s throat bobs as he swallows, chuckling under his breath.

“That’s what I thought,” he says, teasing. “Maybe you’ll heed my advice next time.”

“There’s going to be a next time?” Merlin emphasizes his shock with a hand to his heart.

Arthur rolls his eyes. 

“I’m under no illusion that you’re not going to fall under Gwaine’s influence again. I expect you to know better, though.”

“Of course, sire. ”

Merlin’s outrage slowly bleeds out of him, the intensity of it easing off the longer he spends in Arthur’s presence. It’s quite funny, considering that being around Arthur usually makes him all kinds of frustrated. 

They are quiet while Arthur munches on his breakfast, glancing at Merlin here and there, expression unreadable, while Merlin feigns obliviousness. He’s not ready to withstand the full force of Arthur’s scrutiny, even though a part of him craves it. 

He’s equally relieved and agitated that Arthur doesn’t comment on the fact that Merlin went against his wishes when he tried to warn him about Agravaine again last night. He wonders if Arthur has even bothered pondering the possibility. 

It’s all Merlin’s fault. As much as he wishes he could blame someone, there’s no denying that he’s only reaping the consequences of his poor decisions. Yes, Gauis had said things that caused Merlin to doubt himself, to doubt Arthur. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? This… persistent inclination Merlin has, that makes him hang onto other people’s every word. Mull it over and over until he forgets why he’s doing something in the first place, until fear remains the only driving force. 

What would have happened if only he had followed his heart instead? How many lives could have been spared? How much pain could have been avoided?

“Did you have fun?” Arthur asks, pushing the almost empty plate away. 

Merlin smiles, stacking all the utensils back on the tray. “I did, actually.”

“I’m glad,” Arthur says softly. 

Giving him a sidelong glance, he finds Arthur smiling nervously. Merlin answers with a similar, sheepish expression.

What could they have been if Merlin had forgotten about the prophecy for just a second and focused on what was right in front of him? If he had just trusted Arthur? 

Maybe there would have been no war against magic. Maybe Morgana would have found acceptance and belonging in Camelot. Maybe there would have been no wedding. Maybe Gwen would have found her happily ever after with the first man she’d ever loved. 

Maybe it would have been Merlin who got to say goodnight to Arthur as he fell asleep in his arms, then wake the King up with a kiss good morning. 

Maybe…

Maybe the prophecy isn’t what he was led to believe after all.

“You should join us next time,” he blurts without thinking, the prospect of spending time with Arthur outside of his duties exhilarating. “You don’t have to drink,” he adds in a rush when Arthus scowls. “Neither do I. We can just play a game.”

Arthur perks up. “Oh?” 

“Yeah. I’m saving up for this really expensive jacket,” he lies, shooting Arthur a mischievous look. “I could use some extra money.”

Arthur snorts.

“And you think you’ll get that from me?”

“I’ll beat you so easily you won’t even know what hit you.”

Leaning back in his chair, Arthur crosses his arms over his chest, amusement radiating off him in waves. 

“I’d like to see that.”

Merlin hides a victorious grin. 

“So you’ll join us next time?”

“I make no promises,” Arthur warns. “But I’m open to the possibility.”

Merlin almost nods vigorously, then stops himself. 

“That’s good enough for me,” he says instead. 

Arthur takes a sip of water, a slight frown between his brows as he puts the goblet on the table. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he says vaguely.

“Oh, my.” Merlin fakes a dramatic gasp. Arthur doesn’t disappoint, glaring at Merlin and muttering something that sounds a lot like insolent little shit. 

“I’ve been thinking-” He shoots Merlin a warning look.“That you might want to visit your mother?”

“My mother?” Merlin parrots, nonplussed. Whatever possessed Arthur to come up with that idea?

“She still believes you’re…” Arthur makes a vague gesture.

“Oh… Right.” 

Merlin chews on his lip. With everything that’s happened, he hasn’t had time to think of anything but making sure Arthur was safe. And despite Gaius’ initial outburst at Merlin’s “reckless choice” - the choice that had brought him here in the first place - his brain hasn’t completely caught up with all the implications and consequences. 

“I’m happy to give you a few days off if you’d like to go,” Arthur carries on, oblivious to Merlin’s internal panic. “It’s not fair to keep her unaware.”

No. Absolutely not. Not only is Merlin not leaving Arthur’s side in the foreseeable future - under any circumstances - but he’s not going to appear on his mother’s doorstep and lie to her face. There have been so many lies already, and far it be from Merlin inflicting another one on his own poor mother. 

Telling her the truth is not an option either. Given Gaius’ less than desirable reaction, he’s in no way ready to face the same, or worse, from the woman who’d raised him. It was hard enough to deal with Gaius’ rejection (maybe Gaius didn’t think of it that way, but that’s what it felt like), no way is he going to put himself through that again. 

“I… I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”

“Why not?” Arthur asks, genuinely baffled. 

“It will be a shock to her,” Merlin reasons unconvincingly, already chastising himself for such a lame excuse.

“Naturally. A good kind, though.”

“Yes, of course. I just… I don’t think I should go. Not now,” he adds when he sees Arthur is going to protest. “Can I hold onto your gracious offer until some other time?” he suggests hopefully, praying that Arthur will drop the subject. He holds his breath, trying not to flinch while Arthur searches his face for… something. 

“There’s no expiration on that offer,” Arthur eventually says with a smile, and Merlin tries to return it. Arthur’s concern is warming, despite the current circumstances. 

Of course he would be empathetic when it comes to parents. It only now occurs to Merlin, not without a small amount of chagrin, that Arthur is officially an orphan. Yes, he’s a grown man. And yes, he’s King. But he’s still human, overwhelmed by the weight of his responsibilities. Not long ago, he believed that he’d lost everything he’d ever cared for. And Merlin couldn’t be there for him. 

For all Arthur knows, Agravaine is the only person who’d remained by his side and supported him through his worst times. No wonder Arthur’s hackles rise at the mere idea that Agravaine could be anything but a loving uncle. 

This is going to be harder than Merlin initially anticipated.

“Thank you, Arthur,” he says, putting as much emotion behind the words as he can. “I appreciate it.”

He’s rewarded by an endearing blush high on Arthur’s cheeks.

“It’s nothing,” he mumbles, picking on a loose thread at the hem of his sleeve. Merlin feels his heart swell, almost too big for his chest.

“It really isn’t.” He takes a step closer, brushing his fingers over Arthur’s forearm. Arthur’s eyes snap to his face, wide and so blue.

“How about that bath I promised?” Merlin offers, and nearly bursts a vessel when Arthur sinks into his chair, tipping his head back as he groans, low and guttural, “God, yes, please.”

Merlin stammers through a simple, “I’ll get to it right away,” and all but flees the chambers, nearly forgetting to take the tray with him. 

***

The first thing Merlin sees as he pushes the door to the kitchens open is George, stacking a large tray with an obscene amount of food that would feed a small army. 

“What brings you to the kitchens?” he asks idly as he passes by him, dumping his own tray in the basin for washing. 

George doesn’t spare Merlin a glance.

“My duty as a servant?” he retorts dryly. “I know it might be an unfamiliar concept for you-”

“Shut up, George.” Merlin groans, uninterested in picking up a fight. “I was just asking. That’s quite a feast you have going on there.” 

Unless there’s a banquet, or a ceremony. Or a council meeting. Which, as far as Merlin knows, there isn’t. 

Unlike Merlin, George is a servant without a direct master. So is Gwen, ever since she’d ceased to be Morgana’s handmaiden. Their duties consist of anything and everything that requires doing around the castle, from running errands, to doing laundry, to mucking out the stables. In a way, their duties are identical to Merlin’s, except they aren’t tied to one person. Which also means there is no one to serve breakfast to.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” George says, voice thick. “But I’m taking over Harold’s duties while he’s sick.”

Merlin’s head snaps up so fast he nearly suffers whiplash.

“You’re Agravaine’s servant in the meantime?”

“Yes. Sir Agravaine-” George corrects patronisingly. “Can hardly do everything by himself.”

“Right,” he says absently. 

George is Agravaine’s servant. George is Agravaine’s servant. Merlin and George don’t see eye to eye, but they’ve already interacted more than Merlin ever did with Harold - back when Agravaine was still alive, obviously. And Agravaine’s the scummiest scum to walk the earth, and Merlin is going to bet his left bollock that he’s not exactly popular among servants, either. 

“How is it? Working for him?” he asks, going for casual. George may genuinely like his job, but there must be something that irritates him, right?

“It’s a job like any other,” George replies coolly. Merlin hopes his frustrated groan isn’t too audible. 

“Yeah, but… does he treat you well?”

“I’m a servant, Merlin.” George says it as though he believes Merlin might have actually forgotten that part. “I’m treated like one.” He pauses shortly, like he’s weighing his next words, then adds petulantly, “Not everyone has the luxury of being favoured by the King himself.”

“Um…” Merlin starts, at a loss for words. 

George has expressed his distaste at their unusual servant-master relationship before, but Merlin had always suspected it had more to do with the fact that he’s a rubbish servant, and yet is allowed things not even men of nobility can dream of. All the while George, the epitome of the perfect servant, is subjected to the same treatment as any other servant.

“Arthur is my friend, but working for him is hardly a walk in the park,” he argues weakly, realising he’s only trying to find an excuse for George’s benefit.

Yes, Arthur is a prat. And yes, he enjoys torturing Merlin to no end. And yes, having to be vigilant every second of every day, always ready to intervene at the first sign of a threat to the King is trying.

Yes, being the King’s servant is a long shot from a dream job. And yet, Merlin wouldn’t change it for the world. 

Damn, he actually exchanged his world for this one, so he could be with Arthur.

“He still likes you better than anyone else.” George sounds different now, his voice laced with an undertone Merlin can’t quite place, but if he had to, he would say it sounds like resignation. Or regret.

“What do you mean?”

George visibly freezes, shooting Merlin a slightly panicked look before turning his attention back to his tray, rearranging the food aimlessly. 

“Nothing.”

“George,” Merlin prompts, sliding closer. “You can tell me.”

George stops moving the food around, but doesn’t reply right away. Merlin waits for him patiently, aware of how bizarre the whole situation is. 

“It’s just…” he starts, apprehensive. He peers at Merlín inquiringly. Eventually, he lets out a drawn out sigh. “When I was assigned to be the King’s manservant, I was… I was quite… excited. It was such an honour and after years of seeing and hearing all about how he treats you, I thought…”

Merlin bites back a laugh. George probably isn’t referring to all the bullying Arthur has inflicted on him over the years. 

“Oh,” he breathes, a sudden clarity washing over him. “You wanted to be his friend.”

He definitely didn’t mean to sound judgmental, but George still shoots him a defiant glare, even as his face turns pink.

“Royals don't befriend servants,” he bites out, as though the mere idea is appalling.

“That’s not always true,” Merlin argues, determined to break through George’s walls now that he was shown a way. “I’m sorry to hear it was such a disappointment to you. Did Arthur…” He falters at George’s exasperated glance. “Did His Majesty treat you badly?”

He flinches at his wording. Arthur wouldn’t treat anyone badly. Even on his worst days, he wouldn’t go further than being a giant pain in the arse.

“No.” George shakes his head, then huffs out a humourless chuckle. “He barely acknowledged me. Just like everyone else.”

“He’d been through a lot,” Merlin defends automatically. “I doubt he was a ray of sunshine to anyone.”

“I know,” George says, and then his face transforms into that emotionless mask, his voice following suit. “It doesn’t matter. I was expected to carry out my duties and I did that meticulously. That’s all that matters.”

“Well, you are a very good servant.” Merlin smiles, hoping the olive branch will be accepted. 

“I know,” George retorts, and Merlin scowls. Why is he even trying?

George turns to him, and for a moment, Merlin witnesses something like amusement flash across his face. “I guess you can’t be completely terrible if Ar-” He clears his throat. “If His Majesty likes you that much.”

Ducking his head, Merlin fights a blush. “Oh, no, believe me - I am.” He smiles at George toothily, earning an eye roll. “It’s a disaster. But I guess you get used to stuff.” He adds a wink for good measure, and nearly swallows his tongue when George laughs, sudden and short but real, the very first time Merlin has heard him laugh, before he quickly schools his expression to neutral again. 

Merlin still counts it as a victory. 

***

By midday, the argument with Gaius still sits hot and heavy in his stomach. He also realises he|s starving, cursing himself for skipping breakfast because he was too busy storming out in a fit of rage. He makes his way home apprehensively, not even the promise of warm food enough to excite him.

He stalled as much as he could with preparing a bath for Arthur, then disposing of the bathwater when Arthur was done. He took his sweet time putting armour on him until Arthur snapped and yelled at Merlin to hurry the hell up, otherwise he was going to miss training, blahblahblah. Merlin finished up quickly, sending Arthur on his way with a not-at-all whispered prat. Arthur had a retort coming, no doubt, when Merlin’s growling stomach decided to make an announcement. In the end, Arthur just huffed and instructed Merlin to eat something before you fall over, idiot. 

Gaius’ eyes are on Merlin the second he sets foot inside. 

“I roasted a chicken,” he says in lieu of a greeting. 

Merlin’s nose is attacked by a delicious, spicy smell, and he’s saved from having to reply, because his stomach does it for him. 

Gaius chuckles, gesturing for Merlin to take a seat as he plates up for both of them. Merlin slides into his chair wordlessly, unable to prevent a moan from escaping when Gaius puts one of the plates in front of him, sitting down on the other side of the table. 

Despite being famished, Merlin doesn’t dig into his lunch right away, slightly worried his queasy stomach might not be able to handle it. He starts slow, growing bolder when each bite only makes him feel better. 

The silence eventually becomes oppressive - sitting down for a meal with Gaius usually involves a laid back discussion about anything and everything, and Merlin misses it fiercely. What they need to talk about now is by no means laid back, but it’s preferable to choking silence.

“He did it in my world, too,” Merlin blurts out, catching Gaius with a fork halfway to his mouth.

“What?”

“Arthur,” he clarifies. “He asked you to save Uther when he was dying. By any means necessary.” He waits for the words to sink in.

Merlin didn’t go into details when he gave Gaius and Lancelot a run-down on the events that had come to pass in his world. Some things were just too intimate to share. 

Gaius drops his hand, giving a nod in understanding. “And I refused.”

“Not exactly.”

“What?”

“You said you didn’t have that kind of power, but gave him information on the whereabouts of someone who did.”

Gaius doesn’t put all the pieces together right away, but it doesn’t take long before he breathes out a slightly incredulous, “You.”

“Yeah.”

“What happened? Did Arthur do it?”

“He did.” 

“But Uther died.”

Merlin winces without meaning to. Even after all those years, he hasn’t been able to make peace with his failure. If only he had been more diligent. Back then, he hadn’t known the extent of Arthur’s trust towards Agravaine. If he’d known, things could have been different. He might have saved Uther. 

But Arthur wouldn’t have become King , a part of him whispers. 

“Morgana found out what we were doing. I’ll let you have a guess at who the leak was,” he says sourly, knowing by Gaius’ displeased expression that he doesn’t need to explain that part. “Agravaine put a necklace on Uther. It was enchanted to reverse and amplify the effect of the spell. And since I used a healing spell…”

“Uther died on the spot.” Gaius sighs. He looks at Merlin worriedly. “What did Arthur do?” 

“Tried to kill me,” Merlin says flatly, tasting bitterness on his tongue. “He was convinced that killing the King was my plan all along. He-” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I think all hope that Arthur might have been changing his mind about magic died with Uther. And it was my fault.”

“It was Morgana’s. And Agravaine’s,” Gaius argues vehemently, leaning forward and curling his fingers around Merlin’s forearm. “You did everything you could. You offered to save the life of the man who persecuted your kind.”

But that’s not how Arthur saw it.

“So,” Merlin begins instead of replying. “Arthur didn’t ask you to use magic to heal Uther?”

Why would Arthur be willing to throw all his beliefs to the wind and use magic to bring Merlin back, but not his father?

“He didn’t,” Gaius confirms. “I think he knew what my answer would be after how I reacted to his first request.”

“But that was different,” Merlin counters. “The other Merlin was already dead. Uther was still alive.”

“And I told Arthur that my knowledge didn’t extend as far as to be able to save lives, not unless it was feasible by using herbs and potions.”

Merlin takes a moment to think it over. Even if Gaius is right, there are things that just don’t make sense.

“I’m surprised he’s not suspicious. I’m back but Uther isn’t. Neither is Elyan. Why bring one back but not the others?”

It would be understandable if Arthur was willing to use magic to save his father’s life but not his servant’s or his knight’s. Uther had been family, after all. But putting Merlin’s life above his father’s didn’t make sense. 

“I don't know about Uther," Gaius admits. "But when Arthur asked, he wanted to bring both you and Elyan back,” Gaius replies, pausing briefly before he continues. “But… Merlin, you must know that your relationship with Arthur is very different to his relationship with Elyan.”

Heat rises to his face and he quickly looks away.

“Still, isn’t it strange? In his eyes, I mean.”

“Well, aside from being thrilled that he has his mouthy manservant back-”

“Hey!”

“I think he’s aware that bringing Elyan back would be different. Elyan didn’t die by ordinary means. He disappeared into a different realm.”

In spite of Gaius’ logic, the underlying meaning is not lost on Merlin. 

You’re different.

The guilt rears its ugly head again. 

Arthur is King of Camelot. He rules a kingdom where use of magic is punishable by death. Before he became King, he had been Prince, raised by a man whose hatred towards magic overshadowed everything else. For nearly three decades, Arthur has lived in a world that regards magic as the root of all evil. 

And yet, here he is, risking everything he’s built to save the life of his servant, a man he considers a friend. A man he, maybe, possibly, loves. 

A man who’s done nothing but lie to him ever since they’d met.

“I wish I had told him,” Merlin says brokenly. “I… after everything, I still had doubts about his… um… f-feelings for me.” He knows Gaius knows. He knows that almost everyone knows, or suspects, at least. Saying it out loud still feels all kinds of surreal. “All the while Arthur was willing to forget everything he believed in only so I would live.”

Gaius’ eyes sparkle knowingly.

“You’re not just a servant, though, are you?”

Merlin makes some indescribable sound, hunching forward and staring intently at his plate. As lovely as it would be to discuss Arthur’s feelings for him (actually, no, that would be the worst), at the moment it would do nothing but send Merlin further down the rabbit hole of self-deprecation. 

“I owe you a great apology, Merlin.” Merlin lifts his gaze, curious. “Even knowing what I know, I was still worried about what Arthur might have done had you told him. I was wrong.” He looks at Merlin earnestly, giving him a tight smile. “I’m truly sorry.”

“Thank you,” Merlin whispers, caught off-guard. He meant to apologise to Gaius first, for blaming him for his own mistakes. He thinks Gaius understands, anyway. 

“What do I do, Gaius?” he groans, dropping his head to his hands. “I can’t just tell him and bombard him with allegations about Agravaine. It would be suspicious.”

Not that it hadn’t been suspicious the first, or the second time around. But Merlin doesn’t want to push his luck.

When he peers at Gaius, there’s a faraway look in his eyes that Merlin recognises as deep concentration. It doesn’t take long before Gaius’ gaze is back on him, lips spreading slowly into a victorious smile.

“What if he heard it from someone else?”

***

They agree it will be best to do it as soon as possible, in case Merlin ends up freaking out and overthinking, consequently making no progress. 

After Arthur has wrapped up today’s training session, Merlin helps him out of his armour and goes to fetch his lunch. The fleeting feeling of disappointment when he doesn’t bump into George again in the kitchens is unexpected, and Merlin quickly shakes it off. 

Arthur informs him, upon a very subtle inquiry from Merlin’s side, that he won’t be needing his services until dinnertime. He’ll be glued to his desk and sorting through a disgusting amount of paperwork until then, but Merlin is welcome to hang around regardless. 

Merlin regrettably refuses, claiming Gaius needs him to empty the leechtank, and Arthur makes a face in sympathy. 

After he’s got rid of the empty lunch tray, Merlin makes his way back up the stairs and sneaks into one of the upstairs chambers he knows haven’t been occupied in months. 

He shuts the door using the weight of his body and thumps his head against it with a tortured sigh. 

There are so many ways this could go wrong. And even if it goes smoothly, there’s no guarantee it’s going to do any good. Arthur is as stubborn as a mule, and this whole thing is nothing but a shot in the dark. But it’s the only shot Merlin has. Well, except for the obvious, which he’s not ready to face just yet. And who knows when he will be. He can’t afford to wait. 

"Miht dagan, beþecce me. Adeadaþ þisne gast min freondum ond min feondum. " 

He hates this part: feeling his body lock up, a strange, creeping ache spreading through his bones as if he was dropped to the ground from several feet high. His skin tightening, like there’s not enough of it. The exhaustion beyond belief, making him feel as though he hasn’t slept in days. 

The spell complete, he gives himself a minute to adjust, pleased to discover that it’s getting easier each time. He’s still not keen on making this a regular thing. 

He unties the knot on his neckerchief, then takes his jacket off. He reaches under his tunic, pulling out a long red cloak and sliding it on, whispering a quick spell to make the laces fasten on their own. 

Conceding he’s as ready as he’ll ever be, he takes a deep breath. Bracing himself, he turns around and twists the knob, cracking the door open. He gives the hallway a sweeping gaze, and upon determining it’s safe to leave the chambers, he makes his way to Arthur’s, listening closely for any footsteps or voices. 

He encounters no one until he reaches Arthur’s chambers, as expected. 

“Sorry about this. Nslæpaþ, ” he mumbles under his breath, the words scratching his throat. Even talking hurts when you’re eighty, Gods!

He can’t help but feel a little bad as he watches the two guards blink dazedly at each other before they start falling face first to the floor. He slows their abrupt descent with a simple thought, until they settle on the floor without impact or noise. 

Having thought the next steps through, he grabs both men by their collars and drags them to a dead-end corridor at the end of the hallway, praying that no one comes snooping around until he’s finished. 

He walks back to Arthur’s chambers, stopping in front of the door, doubt creeping in again. 

None of that, he chastises himself. I’m doing this.

He feels a bit stupid knocking and waiting for invitation, but the dire possibility that Arthur might recognise him still lurks in the back of his mind. And anyway, it’s better if he walks in invited than barging in on the King like a madman. 

“Come in,” comes Arthur’s rough voice, and Merlin’s heart leaps to his throat.

Here goes nothing.

He opens the door and steps inside before he can change his mind. The door shuts behind him, and it’s only then that Arthur lifts his head from the desk, a quill in his hand and forehead creased in concentration. 

Merlin knows when recognition dawns on him, because Arthur shoots from his chair, sending it toppling over.

“It’s you.” His eyes fill with dread. “H-how did you get in here?”

Merlin cracks a smile, lifting his shoulders in a half-shrug. 

“It wasn’t difficult.”

He’s barely finished speaking when Arthur makes a grab for his sword placed strategically on the stand behind him. He whirls around, ready to charge at Merlin, and promptly freezes in his position.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Merlin says in a sing-song voice. “Fear not, Your Majesty. I mean no harm.” He hates that he needs to use magic on Arthur, given the nature of the conversation they’re about to have, but it’s not like he would get far with his plan if Arthur ran him through.

Arthur snarls at him, face turning red with the effort to break out of the spell.

“That’s not how I remember our last encounter.”

“Things are not always what they seem to be,” Merlin says simply.

Arthur’s gaze flicks to the door. “Where are my guards?”

Arthur is not stupid - he knows it must be futile to try to scream for help. 

“Sleeping. They’re unharmed.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“You don’t have to.” Merlin shrugs again. “You’ll be able to speak to them shortly and see it for yourself.”

Pursing his lips, Arthur contemplates his options (probably determining he only has one) and says, “Release your spell.”

Merlin’s lips twitch involuntarily. Always so demanding. “Do I have your word that you won’t try to take my head off?”

A pause, and then Arthur huffs an annoyed, “Yes.”

The invisible bind that’s kept Arthur immobile disappears and he sucks a sharp breath in, as though he’s been suspending it until now.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, genuinely remorseful. “It wasn’t my intention to use magic to control you.”

Arthur doesn’t look impressed. “What do you want…” He frowns. “Dracon?”

A small laugh slips out of its own volition. “Dragoon. The Great,” Merlin corrects, secretly pleased that Arthur remembers. Well, kind of. “I admit I gave you a fake name last time we met,” he confesses with a lopsided smile. 

He thought this over and over, wondering how much he should let Arthur know. Eventually, he determined he wants Arthur to know as much as possible, even if he can’t tell him as his real self. Arthur deserves to know, and right now this is the best Merlin can do.

“My name is Emrys. And I’m destined to help you unite the lands of Albion.”

Arthur stares at him like he’s grown a second head. And possibly a third. And a fourth. 

“What?”

“It’s been long foretold, since before either of us were born,” Merlin explains slowly, watching closely for Arthur's reaction, paying attention to every twitch of muscle, every blink.. “You’re the Once and Future King. And I’m… well, I’m a sorcerer.” He smiles again, not surprised but still a little bummed when Arthur doesn’t return it. “And I’m meant to protect you during your reign, so you can fulfil your destiny.”

Arthur blinks at him. “You’re insane!” he barks with disdain. 

Merlin tries not to let it deter him. “Well, I am rather old.”

“You tried to sabotage my relationship with Guinevere so you could have your petty little revenge,” he growls darkly. “And now, you’re trying to tell me-”

“That was a lie,” Merlin interjects. “I did all that so you could be together.”

“What?”

“Your father wanted to separate you. He believed Gwen-...evere-” Merlin corrects quickly. “Was an enchantress who put a spell on you to fall in love with her. Correct?” Arthur gives a reluctant nod. “He would have had her executed. The only other option was to come up with a different culprit. Someone else who enchanted you both.”

Arthur gnaws on his lip. Merlin can almost see his thoughts reflected in his eyes. 

“Even if that were true,” he starts slowly. “What reason would you have for doing that?”

“I just told you.”

“You’re a sorcerer.”

“Very observant of you, sire.”

“Magic is outlawed in Camelot.” Arthur narrows his eyes. “Why would you help its King?”

Merlin swallows down the truth. The actual truth. His truth. 

Because you’re Arthur. Because you’re my friend. Because I would give my life for you.

Because I love you.

And replies, “You’re not just Camelot’s King. You’re the Once and Future King.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means that despite the lies you were raised on and despite the hardships you’ve endured due to magic, your mind is open and your heart is pure.” There’s a tremor in his voice, and he hopes Arthur doesn’t notice. Or maybe he hopes Arthur does notice. He doesn’t even know anymore. “You’re different, Arthur Pendragon. You’re like no King that’s ever ruled.” Then softly, “And there will be no other like you.”

He’s not sure if Arthur subconsciously detected the sentiment in his voice, or his words actually made an impact, but Arthur’s stunned into silence. He regards Merlin with a perpetual frown, staring right into his eyes. Merlin tries his hardest not to squirm under the scrutiny. 

“You actually believe something that some old crone predicted decades ago?” Arthur says dubiously, and he sounds almost vulnerable. Merlin doesn’t outright correct him.

“I do,” Merlin answers honestly. “I’m not the only one, Arthur. And I’m not just blindly following an ancient prophecy. You’ve already proven yourself to be just, and fair, and kind. You don’t seek victory - you seek peace.”

Arthur’s face gradually softens the longer Merlin speaks, and Merlin is overtaken by a sudden urge to pour his heart out, to lay himself bare and spill all the secrets he’s kept from him. 

“And I’m meant to help you achieve that. I want to help you achieve that.”

Arthur makes a strangled noise, his shoulders sagging. 

“Is something the matter?” Merlin asks.

Arthur licks his lips, speaking to his desk. “Someone very dear to me has recently said something similar. I thought he was exaggerating.” He huffs out a laugh, then lifts his gaze and fixes it on Merlin. “You truly believe that? You believe in me?”

“I really do.” 

“You don’t even know me,” Arthur argues weakly. 

“Don’t I?”

“Magic is outlawed,” he repeats in a way someone who doesn’t really believe what he says would. “You’re committing a crime just by setting a foot on Camelot’s land.”

Merlin gives him an indulgent smile. “I have faith it won’t stay like that for long.”

Arthur drops his gaze again, and when a moment passes, then another, and another, with no response in sight, Merlin continues.

“There’s another reason I’ve come.”

Arthur’s eyes darken. “What is it?” 

“There’s a traitor in your midst. And he would watch you fail without hesitation.”

Arthur squints at him in suspicion. “How do you know?”

“I know many things. I know that you desperately want to see good in everyone, even if it leads you to your doom.”

Arthur doesn’t deny the not-quite accusation, and asks, fearful, “W-who is it?”

Now or never.

“Your Uncle, Your Majesty.”

And just like that, the cracks in Arthur’s walls disappear, leaving nothing behind but denial and rage. 

“You’re lying.”

“Arthur-”

“You’re lying!” He slams his fist on the desk. “Agravaine did nothing but support me when I lost everything.”

“I know this is difficult for you,” Merlin says carefully. ”Having to accept that one of your kin has betrayed you.”

“Agravaine hasn’t betrayed me.”

“He’s working with Morgana.”

Arthur visibly flinches at the name. “No, you’re wrong.”

“He brings her information. About you, the kingdom. He-”

“Stop!” he demands. “Just shut up!”

“All right,” Merlin says, voice thick with defeat. “I’ll say no more.” 

Arthur looks at him with something akin to hatred, but Merlin keeps telling himself it’s just fear. 

“I’m going to leave now,” he says, taking short steps back. “I only ask that you remain alert at all times. You have a good heart, Arthur. Don’t open it to everyone.” At the door, he hesitates, shooting Arthur one last, pleading look, feeling his heart break at the hardness he finds in Arthur’s eyes. 

“Please, be careful. I only want to keep you safe.”

He doesn’t expect a reply, but it still hurts when he doesn’t get one.

Chapter Text

Gaius is on him the second he opens the door.

“Merlin!” He scans his gaze over Merlin with open disbelief. “I was worried the spell didn’t work.”

Merlin huffs, both warmed by the concern and a little insulted at Gaius’ lack of faith in his abilities.

“I told you I’ve learnt a thing or two over the last few years.”

That’s not exactly the truth. Merlin hadn’t been able to change back on his own until the battle at Camlann. He hadn’t even known he could, but the desperate situation he’d found himself in hadn’t exactly given him a choice. He’d carried Arthur from the battlefield, searched for a hidden spot to rest until Gaius had found them, only to realise he hadn’t brought the potion to reverse the spell with him. And why would he? He’d never even planned on using the aging spell. Hell, he hadn’t even been sure that he’d get his powers back.

But the Crystal Cave must have done more than return what had always belonged to him. Whether it had been the Cave, or his father’s words - You’re magic itself - something was set free inside him that day, like a dam breaking, and for a little while Merlin had felt invincible. Believed he could make the skies fall if he so much as wished for it. 

The illusion had been shattered the moment Merlin had found Arthur’s unconscious body next to Mordred’s lifeless one, the prophecy laughing in his face. 

“Merlin.” Gaius’ hands are on his shoulders, giving him a shake.

“Sorry,” Merlin says dazedly. “What did you say?”

Gaius frowns at him, worry written in the countless lines of his face. “I asked how it went. Did you manage to get into Arthur’s chambers?”

“Yeah, without complications, actually.” He can scarcely believe it. When was the last time something went according to plan? 

Gaius nods to himself, a shaky, relieved breath escaping him. “Good. Did he let you speak? How did he take it?” 

Merlin laughs despite the situation not being funny at all. 

“How do you think?”

It could have been worse, Merlin reasons. Arthur could have started screaming to high heaven, causing a fuss and giving Merlin no choice but to flee before he managed to get a single word out. 

But Arthur let him have his way, allowed him to continue even after Merlin had told him about the prophecy, about bringing magic back, about Arthur working with a sorcerer.

Granted, Arthur had laughed at him at first, called him insane (and Merlin can’t blame him, for he himself feels like he’s gone mad more often than not), but Merlin could tell Arthur was listening. 

Despite Arthur’s best efforts to come across as unshakable, collected and bossy (although the latter is accurate), a confident leader - an amalgamation of all the traits worthy of a king - his eyes have always betrayed him, like a doorway to his soul. And Merlin can read him like a book. 

He’d seen the conflicting emotions in Arthur’s eyes, reason battling with intuition, the struggle that came with questioning the deeply ingrained beliefs Camelot was built on. It was impossible to miss the glimmer of hope when Merlin spoke about peace and unity, how everything about Arthur softened when Merlin called him kind and fair - like he desperately wanted to believe it. It was probably the last thing Arthur had ever imagined to hear from a sorcerer. 

"What did you tell him?"

“What we discussed beforehand,” Merlin says. 

He’s not lying, not really, but Gaius doesn’t need to know about the sentiment that stole its way into Merlin’s speech. They’d agreed Merlin would have to precede the revelation with something that would make Arthur more inclined to accept the possibility that his uncle is a sleazy piece of crap. 

“So you told him who you are? Why you want to help him?”

“Yeah. Told him the truth about our first meeting, too. I think he believed me. Not that it did any good,” Merlin adds wryly. “He seemed agreeable until I mentioned Agravaine’s name.”

Gaius sighs in sympathy. “As we anticipated.” Merlin answers with a grunt. “He didn’t try to follow you? Restrain you?”

“No.” 

Merlin hadn’t expected him to, anyway. He’s certain Arthur still hasn’t left his chambers. He’s probably replaying the conversation over and over, trying to come up with excuses in Agravaine’s favour while doubt is eating at him. 

“No one saw you leave his chambers?”

“I didn’t see anyone.”

Merlin had dragged the guards back to Arthur’s door, so Arthur wouldn’t have to go look for them. Last thing Merlin wanted was for Arthur to think he’d caused anyone harm. The spell would wear off shortly anyway, resulting in no side-effects except for a short-lived headache. 

He didn’t run into anyone on his way back to the chambers where he’d performed the aging spell. He’d shrugged off the red robes, put on his jacket and neckerchief, and changed himself back. The hallway had still been empty when he left the chambers, and after that he was safe. 

“Good,” Gaius says again. “I suppose it couldn’t have gone better.”

“Uh-huh,” Merlin says grimly. He knows Gaius is right - it’s not like they expected Arthur to jump with joy - but Merlin doesn’t have to like it.

“Merlin, stop moping,” Gaius scolds him lightly, which only makes Merlin pout.

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m just tired. Try being eighty years old.”

Gaius fixes him with a look. “That hardly requires effort.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, pushing past Gaius on the way to his room. “You’re not eighty, Gaius.” 

“Slowly getting there. Oi, where are you going?” 

Merlin’s steps falter. He points a finger in the direction of his room. “To have a nap?”

Gaius lifts an eyebrow, and Merlin knows he’s in trouble.

“Well, Merlin, now that you’re back to your young, vital self and can appreciate the struggles us old men experience-”

“Nooo. Please, Gaius, I really want to-”

“-why don’t you make yourself useful and clean the leechtank for me?”

“That was just an excuse I made up as a cover!” Merlin cries. He runs his hand over his face and neck, a part of him expecting to find a bunch of leeches feasting on him. 

“See? You didn’t even lie. Come on. It’s been ages since it was emptied. My joints can’t tolerate kneeling for longer periods.”

Merlin’s shoulders drop and he approaches the tank like a man walking to his execution.

“I’d rather take the stocks.” 

***

Arthur doesn’t move for a long while after the sor-... Emrys leaves, willing his racing heart to slow down. He should be raising the alarm and notifying every single person in the castle of the sorcerer’s presence, demanding he be caught and locked in the dungeons. Although Arthur doubts that would help. Emrys might be old, but if he was able to creep into Arthur’s chambers unnoticed, he wouldn’t be stopped by non-magical means. 

No, Arthur needs to think clearly. Obviously, Emrys meant it when he said he didn’t intend to harm anyone. Or so Arthur hopes.

The concern for his guards spurs him into action. He marches to the door, a heavy weight falling off his chest when he opens them to find the guards at his feet, snoring softly. 

So Emrys hadn’t lied about that. Not that this proves everything else to be true. 

He drops to a crouch, shaking the guards roughly. 

“Wake up,” he orders, doubting it will have an effect, but the men’s eyes blink open, grunting as they try and fail to push up from the floor. 

Finally, one of them squints in Arthur’s direction, his eyes shooting open in alarm when he registers who he’s looking at and from what position. He turns to the other man in panic, then back at Arthur.

“Had a nice nap?” Arthur asks dryly.

“Sire!”

The man shoots to his feet, swaying from side to side and pressing a heel of his hand  between his brows. The other guard struggles to stand up as well, gazing blearily around himself. 

“Sire, I- We-”

“It’s all right.” Arthur holds up a hand, trying not to sound too relieved. “I see you’re tired. Go home. Let someone else take over for you.” 

The guard looks at Arthur in confusion, ready to protest when the other man loses his balance and crashes bodily into him. They manage to stay upright, but only just.

The first guard must have reevaluated the situation because he lets out a jumbled litany of Yes, sire. Sorry, sire. Thank you, sire, and with a subtle nod he drags himself and his companion away. 

Arthur shuts the door with a sigh, grateful that the two men had been too confused to ask questions since Arthur has no intention of mentioning the little surprise visit to anyone. 

He returns to his chair, leaning back and crossing his legs, gnawing at the skin of his thumb.

The sorcerer hadn’t made any sense.

You’re the Once and Future King, he’d said, whatever that means. I’m destined to help you unite the lands of Albion.

That is utterly impossible. Arthur will strive for peace until his dying breath, will do anything to protect the kingdom and his people. Anything to make sure they are safe. 

But uniting all the lands? That isn’t feasible. 

Odin hates Arthur from the bottom of his heart. The multiple assassination attempts are blatant proof. 

The reluctant truce between Camelot and Caerleon hangs on by a thread after Uther’s death. In fact, Arthur has been bracing himself for the inevitable snap of that thread for months. 

And although Arthur has no intention of persecuting the Druids or going after magic users, there will never be peace between them as long as magic is banned in Camelot.

I have faith it won’t stay like that for long.

It was long foretold.

Emrys can’t possibly mean Arthur would allow magic to return, right? That’s crazy.

It doesn’t matter what Arthur thinks. It doesn’t matter he’s King now. After all the wrongs magic has inflicted on his family and the kingdom, there’s no way people would accept magic being legalised. They would live in fear and Arthur would lose the trust he’s worked so hard to gain. 

It was long foretold.

Clearly, the sorcerer must have hit his head. What he’d spoken about could never come to pass.

Agravaine is working with Morgana.

No. The sorcerer is lying. Even if some of the things he’d said were true, it doesn’t mean he’s to be trusted. For all his talk about Arthur’s virtues and how he only wants to help, spouting accusations about his family is where Arthur draws the line. 

Agravaine is Arthur’s only remaining relative, his only anchor during the times of struggle. It makes sense that his enemies would strive to undermine Arthur’s trust in the only person Arthur has left. 

You have Merlin back.

Arthur’s stomach does a strange little flip-flop. Merlin is back.  

The reality of it hasn’t properly sunk in, yet. It’s been two days, and both mornings Arthur had woken with a desperate cry of Merlin’s name as he’d watched him disappear into darkness, the dream - the nightmare, the memory? - fading away slowly. Merlin hadn’t come to wake him that first morning, and Arthur had nearly gone mad, unsure whether he’d dreamt Merlin’s return. But then Lancelot had come knocking on his door, checking with Arthur if the plan to let his knights and Gwen know about Merlin was still in effect, and Arthur almost cried from relief. 

It was so easy, so mind-blowingly natural, to fall back into their perpetual banter, like they’d never stopped, never been apart. Arthur yearned for Merlin’s nonsensical prattle, his merry laugh and fleeting, purposeful touches. He was willing to overlook the occasional, but definitely-there nuances in Merlin’s behaviour. It was still Merlin - the brazen, challenging way he spoke to Arthur was unmistakable - but something was different. Arthur hasn’t been paying it much mind. After all, Merlin has just come back from the afterlife. Who knows what’s going on in his head. He looks fine most of the time, but one can never know. 

But then Merlin had come up with those outrageous claims against Agravaine, insisting that Arthur be careful around him. And Arthur had ignored it, refused to acknowledge it, because why should he? He had no reason to believe those allegations, for Agravaine had never let him down, had given nothing but unwavering support to Arthur. And Merlin had still been adjusting. Is still adjusting. Yes, that must be it. Who wouldn’t be confused in his place?

Unlike Merlin, Emrys is not Arthur’s friend, no matter that he claims to be his supporter. He’s a sorcerer, for once. For all Arthur knows, he’s waiting for an opportunity to strike when Arthur is most vulnerable, to take revenge for all the wrongs Uther had inflicted on his kin. 

Despite the hardships you’ve endured due to magic, your mind is open and your heart is pure.

He was just playing Arthur like a harp. Emrys knows nothing about him, least of all about his heart. No one does. Sometimes, Arthur doubts he knows himself. 

It’s only when there’s a knock on the door that Arthur notices the sun has started to set. God, how long has he been sitting here like this, mulling over this nonsense? He hasn’t even got any work done and it’s already dinnertime.

He looks guiltily over the scattered scrolls on the desk, groaning long-sufferingly as he begrudgingly accepts it’s going to be a long night.

“Come in.”

It takes him the two seconds between his invitation and the door cracking open to realise Merlin never knocks, just barges inside like a wild horse.

Agravaine steps inside, angling his head in a subtle bow. “Your Majesty.”

“Uncle,” Arthur chokes out. He stands up abruptly, tension spreading in his body and turning his legs into lead, Emrys’ words echoing in his ears. “Is something the matter?”

He’s working with Morgana.

He chastises himself for his unreasonable reaction. He just spent the entire afternoon crushing the unfounded allegations against his uncle, and yet he can’t shake off the apprehension left behind, like a poison he’s managed to get rid of, but can still taste its lingering bitterness on his tongue. 

“No. Well, yes.” Agravaine smiles, sauntering towards Arthur. “I merely wish to express my regret over my poor reaction to your manservant’s miraculous resurrection. We haven’t spoken since the council meeting and I’ve spent the time reflecting on my behaviour. I admit I was rather…” He chuckles wryly. “Shocked by the news.”

Nonplussed, Arthur manages a neutral, “That’s understandable.” 

Agravaine nods in agreement, taking another step forward. “Nevertheless, I wish I had been more empathetic. I know how much your manservant-”

“Merlin,” Arthur corrects reflexively. 

He dislikes Merlin being referred to as his manservant. It’s rather laughable, considering how often Arthur likes to rub it in Merlin’s face, but that’s when it’s just the two of them. Merlin is so much more than Arthur’s manservant, he’s more than a servant. 

He’s Merlin and he deserves to be addressed properly. No one but Athur is allowed to mess with him. 

Agravaine pauses, lifting and eyebrow. He nods again and continues, “How much Merlin means to you. All those years, he’s stood by your side, loyal to you beyond imagination. Sacrificed himself for you. He’s a true friend.”

Arthur feels his blood rush to his face, agitation boiling under his skin.

“Is there a reason why you’re pointing out the obvious?”

“Apologies, sire.” Agravaine drops his gaze, sounding genuinely apologetic. He licks his lips, seeking out Arthur’s eyes bashfully. “What I’m trying to say is that I understand how losing someone so dear to you would be soul-crushing. And therefore, how thrilling it must be to have that person back.”

Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, an invisible rope tightening around his throat. 

No, he mustn’t panic. Agravaine didn’t mean anything by it. 

“Yes,” Arthur says in a whisper. 

Agravaine smiles again, and that somewhat eases Arthur’s anxiety.

“I imagine that’s what it would feel like if I could get my sister back,” he says. 

Arthur falters at the mention of his mother. They rarely talk about her. 

“Even after all this time, the ache hasn’t gone away. Sometimes I miss her so much it’s hard to breathe,” Agravaine says. Arthur can hear the anguish in his voice. His chest aches, as it always does when he thinks of his mother. “If I knew a way to bring her back, I would do anything in my power to do so.” Agravaine holds his gaze. Arthur struggles not to look away. “After all, people are willing to do many things when it comes to protecting the ones they care about. Even things that go against everything they believe in.” 

It is then that Arthur realises with absolute certainty that Agravaine knows. 

“What is this about, Agravaine?” he snaps. “Tell me the truth.”

Agravaine doesn’t miss a beat, closing the distance between them and standing an arm’s length away.

“The truth is that I understand decisions made from desperation, from grief. I understand the lengths one would be willing to go to make the pain stop.” He lowers his voice. “I’d even understand if one would decide to use magic to make it happen.”

“Magic is outlawed,” Arthur replies automatically, his heart pounding in his ears.

“Indeed, it is.”

“Uncle…” Arthur says like a plea. He hasn’t been this scared since he watched Lancelot ride away with Merlin all those months ago.

“It’s quite alright, Arthur.” Agravaine surprises him, squeezing his arm in reassurance. “It’s as I said: I understand how grief changes a person. How it changed your father.” 

“I’m not my father,” Arthur argues, baffled by his own reaction. He’d spent the majority of his life trying to prove himself to Uther, to make him proud. But ever since he took the throne, he hasn't been able to see anything but all the mistakes Uther had made, all the suffering his reign had brought. He’d loved his father, loves him still, but knows he doesn’t want to follow in his steps. 

You’re like no king that’s ever ruled. And there will be no other like you. 

For a fleeting moment, gone so fast that Arthur’s not sure he’s not imagining it, Agravaine’s expression darkens, like a shadow cast by a candle, before he smiles again, unusually soft.

“No,” he agrees. “You’re more like your mother. She, too, would move heaven and earth for the people she loved.” 

“I…”

“Arthur,” Agravaine interrupts. “Whatever is said between those four walls will only stay here. You can trust me,” he says ardently. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

The rope around his throat loosens. He sways forward, Agravaine’s hand on his arm keeping him steady. 

“I just… I didn’t know what to do,” he says to the floor. 

Agravaine sighs. “I know.”

Suddenly, words start pouring out of him. “It all happened so fast. First Elyan, then Merlin. They both died because of me and I… I couldn’t- I didn’t-”

“I know,” Agravaine repeats, taking Arthur by both shoulders. “It was too much to bear, losing two of your closest friends like that. And then your father…”

“Yes.” He squeezes his eyes shut when he feels the familiar burn.

“Yes. And there was nothing that could bring them back. But one thing.”

“I… I didn’t know,” Arthur says brokenly. He looks up, willing Agravaine to believe him. “Gaius said nothing could be done. And I-”

“Gaius?” Agravaine asks. For the first time since he walked through the door, he seems confused. 

“I asked him a favour. He… he used to practice magic, after all,” Arthur explains. “If anyone would know, it would be him.” 

Agravaine doesn't reply immediately, frowning as he listens to Arthur. 

“Of course. That makes sense,” he says eventually. “Yes, Gaius is very knowledgeable. And loyal. You knew he wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Yes.”

“And he’s helping you keep the circumstances of Merlin’s return secret.” 

“No.” Arthur shakes his head. Now that he’s revealed so much, he might as well tell the whole truth. “No, he… he said there was no way to bring the dead back to life.”

Agravaine huffs a small laugh. “Well, evidently, he must have found a w-”

“I spoke to him yesterday,” Arthur admits. He hesitates, feeling guilty for outing Gaius like this after the promise he made. But Agravaine’s not upset, merely curious, wishing to understand. “I wanted him to know how grateful I was, but… He insisted he didn’t do it.”

Agravaine hums thoughtfully. “It would be understandable if he feared for his safety after performing a spell like that. It’s likely that he lied-”

“I know. I’m still not sure whether he was telling the truth or not. And I don’t care. I told him as much.”

Agravaine drops his hands from Arthur’s shoulders, reprimanding Arthur with his gaze. “Arthur-”

“I- We have Merlin back and that’s all that matters. I don’t care how it happened.” He doesn’t leave room for argument. 

His uncle must sense it, taking a step back and sighing deeply.

“Arthur. I understand how you feel. This is… quite a miracle, magic or not. I’ve never heard of anything like it.”

It’s not a contradiction exactly, but Arthur can tell there’s something on his mind. 

“What is it?”

“I just worry…”  He says mournfully. “Can we be absolutely sure that it’s really your manservant? No one knows what happens to the soul in the afterlife. And-”

“It is Merlin,” Arthur growls. “I'm sure of that.” 

There’s no question about that. Arthur would recognise Merlin anywhere. No one can be so endearingly insufferable. 

Agravaine still looks like he wants to say something, but Arthur stares him down, his jaw cramping from being clenched so hard. 

“Very well. I trust your judgement,” Agravaine says. He’s not happy, but doesn’t question Arthur further. “You and Gaius are the closest to him, after all.” 

“Yes.” 

“I’m happy for you, Arthur. You’ve been given a second chance no one has ever been granted.”

“Yes.” He gives Agravaine a pleading look. “Uncle, you have to promise me you won’t-”

Agravaine holds up a hand, sweeps it through the air in a circle. “Four walls. Four ears.” His smile reveals a flash of teeth. “No one will know.”

And this, right here, is what Arthur is talking about. Who else would understand like his uncle does? Who else could be trusted to not tell a soul? Arthur broke his own rules - his father’s rules, but it hardly makes a difference - and yet, Agravaine is nothing but understanding. Accepting, even. 

“Thank you.” 

Agravaine opens his mouth for a response when the door flies open, and Merlin storms in, a silver tray in hands.

“Dinner time!” he announces brightly. “I bet you’re starving after all that paper-” 

Merlin’s cheerfulness disappears as his gaze flicks between Arthur and Agravaine, settling on the latter with a disapproving glare.

“Jesus, Merlin, can’t you knock?!” Arthur complains even as he knows it’s pointless. But if Merlin walked in when they were still talking about… 

“Sorry,” Merlin says, anything but apologetic. “Am I interrupting?”

Obviously! Arthur wants to yell, but Agravaine replies first. 

“Oh, no. We just finished.” He looks at Arthur meaningfully. “I’m glad we talked, Arthur. Have a good night.”

Arthur nods, still a little stunned by the conversation.“You, too, Uncle.”

“Merlin,” Agravaine says acknowledgingly as he passes Merlin on his way out. Merlin’s glare follows him, silent. 

“You’re being rude, Merlin,” Arthur admonishes when the door shuts behind Agravaine. 

Whatever is going on with Merlin, Arthur doesn’t like it. A heavy weight has lifted from Arthur’s shoulders now that he’s spoken to his uncle. And here is Merlin, treating Agravaine like he’s the enemy. 

Merlin turns his attention to him, then smiles wildly and says, “When am I not?” He strides towards the table. “Hungry?”

“Sure.” Arthur shrugs. He doesn't know how much he’ll be able to eat, his stomach roiling with leftover anxiety, but he doesn’t want Merlin to be suspicious. He dutifully takes a seat at the table, murmuring thanks when Merlin slides a plate in front of him. 

After a few bites, he turns to Merlin, wondering why he’s being so uncharacteristically quiet. The silence is shockingly obnoxious, although Arthur would admit that over his dead body. 

Merlin is frowning at his hands, gaze unfocussed. Arthur rolls his eyes.

“Spit it out.”

Merlin startles. “What?”

“I can hear you thinking from here, Merlin.”

“It’s nothing.”

Yeah, as if.

Arthur hazards a guess. “It’s Agravaine, isn’t it?” Judging by the way Merlin instantly freezes, he’s spot on. 

“I was just wondering what you were talking about.”

“I cease to see how that’s any of your concern,” Arthur retorts, regretting it immediately at the hurt that flashes across Merlin’s face. 

This is so frustrating. How is it that when it comes to Merlin, Arthur is fretting about the silliest things? Why does he deem it necessary to constantly look over his shoulder to make sure Merlin is okay? Doesn’t he have enough on his plate as it is? 

Merlin won’t meet his eyes, pretending to be busy filling Arthur’s goblet with wine, and Arthur just can’t handle seeing him like this. 

Begrudgingly, he says, “But since you must know, we were talking about you.”

Merlin’s hand slips and the jug of wine knocks the goblet over, sending it’s contents spilling all over the table, some of it dripping to the floor.

“Christ, Merlin!” 

“Sorry. Sorry,” Merlin chants, distracted. “What about me?” 

Instead of reminding Merlin of his place, Arthur finds himself saying, “He wanted to apologise. For his behaviour during the meeting.”

Merlin stares. “Um, what?”

“Yes, Merlin. The man you’ve been bad-mouthing came to me of his own will to apologise about his less than enthusiastic reaction to your… reappearance,” he says, reproachful. Hopefully, that will knock some sense into Merlin. 

Arthur expects a reluctant apology, or at least for Merlin to look adequately chastised. 

But Merlin looks nothing short of suspicious when he asks, “Wouldn’t it make more sense if he apologised to me, then?” 

Arthur can hardly believe his ears. 

“He apologised because he realised what it means to me.” 

Merlin doesn’t say anything, eyes round as saucers as he gawks at Arthur. Arthur nearly tells him he looks like a mentally afflicted stoat when he realises what he just said. He quickly looks away. 

“W-What does it mean to you?”

Merlin is looking at him like he’s never seen him before. There’s hope in his eyes, mixed with trepidation. Arthur thinks, if he checked in a mirror, he would find it reflected in his own eyes. And it’s all too much.  

“It means that I get to experience the joy of listening to you prattle on about various kinds of rubbish on a daily basis.”

Merlin scowls, mutters, “Prat,” and Arthur can only cuff him behind his ear for the insolence, even as he fights and fails to hide a smile.

“Ouch!”

“Manners.”

Merlin sticks his tongue out, pulling a laugh from Arthur. The mood shifts into something more comfortable, and noticing his stomach has settled considerably, Arthur returns to his meal. 

“Anything else you talked about?” Merlin asks after a while. 

“Nope,” he lies. “Just you and your lack of propriety.”

He expects an indignant retort, but Merlin remains silent. His face has drained of colour, paler than usual. 

“Are you alright?” Arthur worries. “You look a bit nauseous.”

Shaking himself, Merling gives him a lopsided smile. “I had to empty Gaius’ leechtank, remember?”

Arthur groans in sympathy, remembering the one, traumatizing occasion when Gaius had to administer leeches as treatment. 

“Did you get bitten?”

Merlin undoes his scarf, pulling it off. Arthur chokes on his chicken when the long, pale column of Merlin’s neck is exposed, revealing a stretch of unexpectedly smooth skin and… oh, yeah, a small red patch with a tiny Y-shaped mark in the middle.  

“Um… wow, that’s…” Arthur swallows with difficulty, his fingers twitching with the impulse to reach out and just… touch. 

“I know,” Merlin whines, running his hand over his neck. He puts the scarf back on, tying it up with practised fingers. “I hate those things.”

“Uh-huh,” Arthur says eloquently, shifting in his chair. “Bet you wish you’d stayed here instead and did chores for me.”

“Don’t know about that,” Merlin teases. “It might be slightly preferable to be bossed around by you than Gaius. I guess you’re easier on the eyes.”

Arthur sputters, and that’s not a whimper that just escaped his mouth.

Merlin grins at him, so bloody cheeky and infuriatingly gorgeous, then winks and says, “Just a little.”

And before he can stop himself, Arthur breaks into a fit of laughter, dragging Merlin with him. He has to wipe tears from his eyes at some point, seeing Merlin do the same.

“Will you ever change, Merlin?” 

For some reason Arthur can’t explain, Merlin’s expression clouds over, making him look older. But then the smile is back, saucy as ever. 

“Nope.”

And for once, instead of downplaying this… whatever this is that’s between them, Arthur just says, “Good.” He knows it was the right thing to say when Merlin’s lips part on a surprised inhale. His brow furrows, like he wants to cry but fights tooth and nail not to. 

Arthur has no idea what he’d do if Merlin were anything but… Merlin. If he were anything but his cocky, clumsy, insubordinate, honest, kind-hearted, ridiculously charming self. The mere thought is unimaginable. Arthur definitely doesn’t want to imagine it. 

For all his complaints and insults, Arthur’s never craved someone's company as he craves Merlin’s. No one’s ever made him feel this much of… everything. From frustration and exasperation to unadulterated joy. No one’s ever managed to sneak their way into Arthur’s heart so inconspicuously, like they were meant to, and carved out a space there that would belong only to them. 

Arthur has become a completely different man since he met Merlin. Merlin, who challenges him at every turn, pushes him to be his best self, to always do what he feels is right even if everyone else says otherwise. 

Merlin, who flipped Arthur’s world upside down and stayed, keeping Arthur upright, lighting up his world like a torch in the dark, showing him the way when he’s lost.

"Merlin."

"Hm?"

"What do you think about magic?"

Merlin turns to him, blinking rapidly, but doesn’t look nearly as shocked as Arthur expected. 

"It's… um… against the law?" he offers, making Arthur groan. 

"Very observant of you. That's not what I asked."

"I don't know what you want me to say."

An unpleasant thought that Merlin might not feel safe expressing his opinion in front of Arthur makes him sick.

"Do you think there are… instances when using magic is justified?"

It takes ages before Merlin replies, studying Arthur’s face with curiosity. 

"Maybe."

That’s not a no. 

"But?"

"But it's hardly fair,” Merlin says, not looking at Arthur. There’s a shadow over his face that wasn’t there before. 

"How do you mean?"

"Don't you think it's hypocritical? To take advantage of magic and therefore sorcerers when it suits you, while it’s still outlawed?"

There’s a challenge in Merlin’s eyes when he finally looks at him. So Merlin does have an opinion on this. 

Arthur’s never thought about it like this. But hearing it from Merlin, he can’t believe he hasn’t. However, King or not, Arthur has no control over the resistance the legalisation would be met with. 

"Can you imagine the riots if Camelot lifted the ban?"

Merlin’s eyes turn stormy and he looks ready to argue, then comes to a halt. He blinks at Arthur, gaze softening. 

"You've been thinking about this,” he says, incredulous and more than a little stunned. 

"Not really.” Arthur shrugs. Merlin doesn’t need to know about the dilemma Arthur’s been working through since he witnessed his first execution of a sorcerer when he was eight. “But sometimes, I just… wonder."

"About?"

This is Merlin. I can tell Merlin. He’ll understand. He always does.

"What life would be like if there was no war against magic. Like before the Purge. Not that I was around to see what it was like, of course.” He chuckles humourlessly. “But I imagine it was rather peaceful."

"Arthur.” Merlin’s voice cracks. 

Arthur can’t look at him when he knows what he’s about to say next. 

"I know my father had a good reason to resent magic. It caused so much suffering, to all of us. It took my mother's life. It took Elyan's. Yours."

"Arthur."

"But it also brought you back. I've seen good things happen because of magic. I've seen wounds heal, I've seen pain recede. It can't all be bad, right?” In a sudden surge of bravery, he says, “It can't be evil if… if it gave me another chance to see you again."

A part of him wishes he could take the words back the second they leave his lips, bury them deep inside where they belong. But Merlin is looking at him like Arthur hung the moon and made the stars fall from the sky into his hands, and for that he can’t regret what he said. 

"I suppose not,” Merlin croaks, clearing his throat. The colour has returned to his face, tinting his cheeks and ears pink - his big, ludicrous, wonderful ears - and he busies himself with filling Arthur’s plate with what’s left on the tray. 

"So, what do you think?" Arthur asks when he realises Merlin conveniently ignored his most important question. 

He watches the bob of Merlin’s throat, watches him lick his lips. 

"I think… that whatever you decide to do will be the right decision.” And God, he sounds so sure. His voice is softer when he continues. “I believe in you, Arthur. I always have. Follow your heart and it will lead you to the truth."

Arthur swallows the lump that has formed in his throat, cursing Merlin for being able to elicit such a reaction with just a few, simple words. 

"You're no help, as usual.” 

"Oh, sod off.” Merlin slaps his arm, his lower lip jutting out in a funny pout. “I was being nice!"

Arthur welcomes the banter eagerly, the tension bleeding out of him.

He reaches for his goblet, holding it out to Merlin for a refill. He takes a sip, smirking at Merlin over the rim. 

"Keep telling yourself that."

Merlin rolls his eyes and starts cleaning up the spilled wine from before. 

Arthur smiles to himself, comforted by the knowledge that Merlin will always be Merlin.

Chapter Text

“Shall I help you get ready for bed, now?”

Merlin didn’t mean for it to come out so hoarse, but Arthur’s timid words of affection and his indirect admission that he’d been entertaining the idea of bringing magic back has left his brain hopelessly love-struck and little more- than aroused mush. To make matters worse (for Merlin’s self-control, that is) it sounds like Arthur’d had those thoughts way before ‘Emrys’ paid him a visit.

Fuck.

Why does Arthur have to be so bloody loveable? Why can’t Merlin get a fucking break? 

“As tempting as that sounds,” Arthur says, rubbing his palms together above the plate to get rid of the crumbs sticking to his skin. “I’m afraid I’ll have to stay up late.” He rises with a grimace, rolling his neck to demonstrate his lack of enthusiasm at the idea.

“You haven’t finished with the paperwork?” Merlin wonders, reaching for the plate and the goblet. 

“There was a lot on my mind.” Arthur rubs the back of his neck, stealing a glance at Merlin before he turns away, walking to his desk. “I was distracted.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that,” Merlin says honestly. He’d known that ambushing Arthur like that and spewing less than favourable things about Agravaine would throw Arthur for a loop. That was the whole point, after all, to make Arthur question Agravaine’s loyalty. That doesn’t mean Merlin shouldn’t feel bad about it. Arthur is stressed enough as it is. He’s still new to kingship and the past few days have been strenuous at best. 

“Would you like me to come by later and-”

“No. No point keeping you up just for that.” Arthur is gentle in his rejection, and though Merlin can’t see his face, he imagines the soft gleam in his eyes and the tentative quirk of his lips. “But thank you.” He turns to face Merlin, resting the fingertips of one hand against the desk, and the thread in Merlin’s chest pulses madly when Arthur smiles in the exact same way Merlin imagined. 

The play of light and shadow cast by the candle atop the desk makes Arthur look like some kind of a divine creature, like an otherworldly painting that’s come to life. The flame drowns out the blue of Arthur’s irises, and for a fleeting moment the golden flicker resembles a flash of magic. The comparison sends the pulsing thread into a complete frenzy that has Merlin’s nerve endings itch with an overwhelming urge to fling himself across the room and ruin Arthur to a point where he forgets his own name. 

“You should get some rest,” Merlin hears through the nearly deafening rushing of blood in his ears. Arthur doesn’t seem to notice his internal battle and carries on. “For both of us. And I’ll see you in the morning.”

Merlin conjures the memory of Gaius’ leechtank and Agravaine’s greasy hair to regain his composure. It works like a charm and he’s finally able to process Arthur’s instructions and even come up with an adequate response.

“I might even let you sleep in,” he suggests with a conspiratorial waggle of his eyebrows. “You have nothing of importance to attend to first thing in the morning, do you?”

“Well-”

“The kingdom won’t fall apart if you get an extra hour of sleep,” Merlin interjects in an attempt to dispel Arthur’s reluctance. 

Arthur bites the inside of his cheek and gives a resigned sigh signalling his surrender to Merlin’s reasoning. He looks at Merlin through narrowed eyes. “You just don’t want to get your lazy ass out of bed.”

Merlin exaggerates his reaction, smacking his lips in displeasure. “Ah. I knew you’d reveal my true intentions.”

Arthur snorts loudly, shaking his head. 

“So?” Merlin prompts, delivering a pinch to his side to keep his stupid smirk at bay. 

“So,” Arthur echoes. “Yeah. You might have a point.”

“I do.”

Arthur huffs exasperatedly, causing Merlin’s grin to widen until his cheeks hurt. 

“Have a good night, Arthur,” he says brightly, turning to take the tray from the table. His heart comes to a staggering halt before it restarts, beating twice as fast when he turns back only to find Arthur watching him with the same desperate heat Merlin feels whenever he’s in Arthur’s presence. 

“Goodnight, Merlin,” he says quietly, like he’s confiding in Merlin with an important secret.

Merlin produces an unidentifiable sound in the back of his throat and makes a frantic escape on unsteady feet before he reaches the point of no return. And because the Gods feed off his pain, his hip connects with the edge of the table in a painful thunk, the tray toppling over and sending the utensils flying across the floor. He picks everything up, throws it back on the tray and all but runs from the chambers, Arthur’s boisterous laugh following him all the way to the stairs. 

Merlin makes it one flight down and promptly collapses against the wall just in time before his knees give out. At least Arthur’s voice doesn’t carry here.

Bloody Arthur and his bloody disarming smile and his stupid, addictive laugh.

Merlin unleashes a litany of curses under his breath. How is it that he could listen to Arthur’s laugh for eternity even when it’s directed at him, mocking him goodnaturedly? Gods, he needs to pull himself together. There are more pressing matters at hand than pining after his best friend. 

Taking a few, steadying breaths, he pushes away from the wall, his legs already carrying him back to the staircase while his gaze wanders around the hallway. He stops midstep, tilting his head in question. The door to what used to be Morgana’s chambers is opened a crack, and Merlin’s gut twists unpleasantly at the possible implication. But what would Agravaine need in Morgana’s old chambers? 

Bending down carefully, Merlin sets the tray on the floor. Standing up, he squares his shoulders, approaching the chambers slowly, as though he’s bracing himself for an attack. He peeks inside. Immediately, his shoulders slump in relief.

“Gwen?”

Gwen jumps from where she’s sitting on the bed, placing a hand over her heart. 

“Merlin!” she yelps, an exhale leaving her in a whoosh while she chastises Merlin with a glare. 

Giving her a sheepish grin in apology, Merlin asks, “What are you doing here?” 

He steps inside and closes the door behind him. He walks over to Gwen when she sits back down on the bed, resting her intertwined hands in her lap. 

“I… don’t know,” she says, head hanging low. “Sometimes, I… feel drawn here. Despite all the awful things that have happened, this place it’s… comforting. I know it doesn’t make sense,” she adds in a rush when Merlin doesn’t say anything, only sits quietly next to her, their thighs pressed together. “I know what she’s done. How much pain she’s caused. Merlin, she…” Gwen hiccups. “She’s the one who opened the Veil. She’s the reason Elyan is dead.”

She’s the reason Arthur is dead, he wants to say. The possibility that he and Arthur could have made it if Morgana hadn’t showed up before they’d reached the clearing still haunts him. If they’d had their horses, if Merlin had insisted they continue and not rest even though Arthur had been so tired, maybe they could have avoided Morgana completely. 

He shakes the thought away. It’s all water under the bridge. Arthur died in Merlin’s own world, but the Arthur from this world is very much alive, and he’s so, so much like the Arthur Merlin knows. And he needs Merlin, more than ever. 

“It does make sense,” he says. “You still remember the person she used to be.”

Merlin does, too. He tries not to, he doesn't want to remember. And most of the time, it doesn’t require much effort. The pain Morgana has inflicted overshadows the faint memory of the goodness she used to possess. But sometimes it’s impossible not to look back and mourn the girl who had lost herself to darkness and spite.

“I just… I don’t understand,” Gwen says, voice thick with tears. “Where did it all go wrong? We were happy, weren’t we?”

Merlin curls his fingers into a fist, holding back a bitter laugh. “I suppose that depends on where you’re standing,” he says instead, unable to hide the hostility of the words.

Gwen turns to him, their shoulders brushing together. “What do you mean?” 

Merlin sighs. How is he supposed to explain this without outing himself? 

“You might have felt safe and happy as long as you were a law-abiding citizen. As long as you kept your head low, never spoke up. Never drew attention to yourself.” He gives her a knowing look. “But we both know Uther didn’t need much persuasion when it came to implementing punishment or sentencing people to death.”

Gwen inhales shakily, wipes the wetness from her eyes. She nods subtly, and Merlin knows she’s thinking about her father. 

“Do you think things would have happened differently if Morgana hadn’t been scared for her life?” she asks.

“Maybe.” Merlin shrugs, not really wanting to go down that road. He’d beaten himself up over it enough to last a lifetime, had run all the potential scenarios in his head, all the things he could’ve done differently. “But I don’t think it was only about survival.”

“She didn’t want to have to hide herself,” Gwen concedes, surprising Merlin with her swift deduction. “I wish she’d have told me. I would’ve accepted her. I would have done anything to protect her.”

“I’m sure she wanted to tell you.”

“But she didn’t trust me.”

“It’s not always about trust.” The guilt twists in his insides like a white-hot blade. “Sometimes, no matter how much you want to tell someone, you can’t. You don’t want to do anything that would put them in danger. You choose to live a lie, so they can be safe.”

He instantly freezes, aware of the broken sound of his voice. He said too much - what if Gwen starts asking questions? What if she finds out? 

The thought is not as scary as it should be.

But none of that is going to happen, Merlin realises. Gwen is looking at him with nothing but aching sympathy - or maybe it’s pity. 

“Oh, Merlin.” She runs a hand over his back, rubbing soothing circles through his tunic. 

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t tell her they are thinking two different things. It's not like she’s wrong, anyway.

“I still don’t understand,” she says after a long while when neither has said a word. “Even if her fear of Uther turned to hatred, why would she hate Arthur too? He… he’s the exact opposite of his father. Everyone knows that. We’ve always known that, even before Arthur became King. And Morgana grew up with him. She must have known him better than anyone.”

Merlin used to wonder about that. Before he’d come to one simple conclusion. “Fear makes you do strange things. She probably believes Arthur is like his father.”

“She could have stayed,” Gwen argues, sorrow mixing with anger. “If she wanted to change things in Camelot, if she wanted justice and peace, she should have stayed and helped Arthur do that. Make him see where his father got it all wrong. Arthur is a good man. He would understand.” She pauses, lowering her voice. “Maybe… maybe he would have brought magic back, and people like Morgana wouldn’t have to hide.”

It still strikes him, Gwen’s reluctant yet honest acceptance of magic. Even after what she told him yesterday it feels unreal. How many more feel the way she does but keep it to themselves? 

“Morgana is not after peace, Gwen. She’s after the throne. All she wants is power.”

“But why? When did it change? She was… Merlin, you remember, don’t you?” She fixes him with an earnest stare, brown eyes wide and hopeful. “She was so… she felt so much! And she loved so fiercely. Merlin, she risked her own life to save mine, a simple servant!” 

Merlin feels a fleeting smile tug at his lips. There had been moments when Arthur and Morgana hadn’t been so different. He wonders where those qualities stem from. The willingness to give your own life to protect someone you care about is hardly a Pendragon trait. Uther never cared for anything or anyone but his kin. 

“I understand her hatred for Uther,” Gwen continues, oblivious to his wandering mind. “I really do. And her fear. I understand why she would turn to others for help. But how could someone so loving and pure-hearted become… this? We were her family, Merlin. How could she abandon us like this?” 

She presses a hand over her mouth to unsuccessfully stifle a cry. Merlin reaches for her, tugs her into the cradle of his arms, and that’s when Gwen lets go and breaks down into a fit of choking sobs and trembling shoulders. 

“I don’t know,” Merlin says thickly, blinking the stinging sensation away. He rests his chin atop Gwen’s head, inhaling the comforting scent of lavender and myrtle. She buries her face in his chest, and Merlin holds her tighter in return. “I miss her, too,” he says, and hates that he means it.

***

“George. Hey.” Merlin blinks owlishly, watching while George fills his tray with food. 

“Hello,” George replies cautiously, peeking at Merlin from the corner of his eye. 

“Isn’t it a little late for dinner?”

George gives him an annoyed huff. “You’re incredibly nosy, do you know that?” 

“It’s one of my many qualities,” Merlin replies drily, grinning goofily when George rolls his eyes but gives himself away with a quirk of his lips. 

“I’m sure,” he retorts saucily. “Sir Agravaine ordered me to wait before serving him dinner.”

The bottom of Merlin’s stomach drops and he hastens to reply.

“He must have had some important business to attend to.”

“I suppose? Not my concern.”

“No, I guess not.” 

Not even Agravaine is stupid enough to ride out and visit Morgana at night, is he? No, that’s not it. He wouldn’t ask George for dinner at all, otherwise. 

But he just talked to Arthur. About Merlin! Arthur hadn’t seemed concerned, though, merely thoughtful, so it couldn’t have been anything bad. But Arthur must have told him something, something important, even if he didn’t think it was. 

Merlin has to talk to Gaius. They need a new plan. Obviously, telling Arthur the truth through Emrys’ lips hadn’t worked out as they’d hoped it would. He still believes Agravaine is innocent. Which means he also believes that Emrys is a fraud. 

Merlin groans, wishing he could slam his head against a brick wall. Why can’t anything be easy? 

“How are you, George?” he asks after a while. Maybe he can get George to help him. He can’t imagine how that would work, with George being the epitome of the perfect servant and all that. But even George, who minds his own business and doesn’t ask questions, must notice when something is amiss, right? 

And what if he doesn’t? Even if George isn’t going to be of help to Merlin, they can still be friends. Merlin has tentatively started to admit to himself that he was wrong about George. Yes, he’s uptight. And yes, he thinks he’s better than Merlin (rightfully so, Merlin thinks begrudgingly), but he’s a good one. And from what Merlin has gathered, he just wants to be seen, to be acknowledged. 

Merlin can do better than that.

“Excuse me?” George says, utterly confused. He looks at Merlin as though Merlin just called him the worst insult under the sun. 

Merlin huffs, shaking his head. “How. Are. You. Doing?” He repeats, purposefully making it sound like he’s talking to a simpleton. 

George glares at him, replies with a curt, “I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

“Yes!” he cries. “God, why are you being so obtuse?”

“I just care.”

“Don’t see why you would.”

“Another of my qualities,” Merlin shoots back, leaning against the long prepping table. “Why are you so defensive? I’m being friendly.”

“And I can’t for the life of me figure out why.”

“Because I want us to be friends.”

“Why?” George squints at him, suspicious. 

Merlin shrugs. “Why not?”

“Don’t you have plenty of friends already?” George grumbles, and if Merlin is not mistaken, he sounds rather bitter and maybe even a little wistful. 

“There’s no limit on how many friends one can have.”

“I’m too busy to make friends, so…”

Sweet Gods, he doesn’t make it easy. And Merlin is told that he has no social skills. 

“Well, if you ever feel like it, you could join us - meaning me and my friends - for a pint. Or something,” he offers. 

“Join you and your-” George starts, then does a rather ridiculous double-take. “You mean the knights?!” Merlin smiles, giving George a flash of teeth. “I don’t think so,” comes a blatant rejection. 

“Why not?”

There’s a flush climbing up George’s neck, turning his ears pink. 

“I- I wouldn’t be comfortable,” he stutters, staring stubbornly at the tray. 

Merlin snorts, his imagination going wild. “I’m quite sure Gwaine would make you very comfortable, very quickly.” George stares at him with the expression of a hunted deer, eyes filled with dread. Merlin raises his hands, palms facing forward. “Just a joke.” It really isn’t.

George lets out a relieved breath. “Um…”

“Look, the invitation stands,” Merlin says, realising he’s not going to get a straightforward answer. “Whenever you feel like it, okay?”

George doesn’t reply, but the fact that he doesn’t outright brush the invitation off again counts as another little victory in Merlin’s eyes. 

***

“Enter,” Gaius calls to answer the three, firm knocks. The door clicks open and Gaius looks up from where he’s transferring an extract from belladonna to individual vials from a cauldron, expecting to see Lancelot. His hands falter, nearly spilling the potion everywhere. 

“My Lord.”

“Hello, Gaius,” Agravaine greets with a wide smile that immediately sets off Gaius’ warning bells.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Sir Agravaine?” He fakes cheerfulness, managing a strained smile.

Agravaine steps inside, shutting the door. Gaius lets go of the vial and the ladle, not trusting himself.

“Ah, you see, I’m not getting any younger and my old, creaky body isn’t what it used to be.” Gaius nods in feigned sympathy. “I did something to my shoulder the other day and I’d been hoping the pain would’ve receded by now, but as you can see, I’m in need of your services.” To demonstrate, he pats his right shoulder. “You wouldn’t happen to have one of your magical tonics at hand, would you?”

Gaius eyes said shoulder, hoping his skeptical reaction isn’t obvious. He can tell just from Agravaine’s posture and the position of his shoulder that he’s in  perfectly good health.

“Certainly, my Lord,” he replies, walking over to the cabinet and locating a small jar with yellowish liquid right away. “If by magical you mean an extract from willow bark, that is.” He makes his way to Agravaine, offering him the tonic. 

“Of course, that’s what I meant.” Agravaine grins, taking the jar from him. “I fear my knowledge of plants and such ends with being able to tell a dandelion from a daisy.”

“No worries, my Lord. That’s what you have me for.”

“Indeed,” Agravaine says smarmily. He reaches forward to squeeze Gaius’ shoulder. “Thank you, Gaius. I very much appreciate it.”

Gaius fights the urge to shake the unpleasant weight of the hand off. In the end, he doesn't have to, for Agravaine retreats shortly. 

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asks stiffly. 

“I’m sure I can take it from here,” Agravaine replies, raising the jar to Gaius’ eye level. 

“Very well,” Gaius says, trying not to let his relief show. “I wish you a restful night, then.”

“Thank you, Gaius. Same to you.” 

Gaius is faint by the time Agravaine reaches the door, one hand already on the knob. 

“Actually, Gaius.” Agravaine turns around. 

Gaius inhales sharply, leans against the table, feeling his legs turn leaden.

“Yes, my Lord?”

Agravaine smiles ruefully, taking a few paces forward. “I wanted to apologise. I hope you’re not too cross with me.”

Gaius’ forehead creases on a frown. “Cross with you?”

“Yes. You see, at the council meeting,” Agravaine starts. “I know I was less than enthused by the news. It’s truly a miracle that Merlin is back. I should have shown more empathy.” He looks at Gaius knowingly. “I know Merlin is like a son to you.”

“He is,” Gaius agrees, cautious. “No need to worry, my Lord. I completely understand your apprehension.”

“You’re too kind, Gaius,” Agravaine says, saccharine. For the first time in many years, Gaius is tempted to connect his fist with someone’s face, his fragile bones be damned. “But yes. I must have seemed quite insensitive in my concern. After all, this must have been some very powerful magic. I’ve never heard of anything like it.”

Agravaine’s tone is suggestive and Gaius realises, with a sinking stomach, what the snake of a man is getting to.

“As magic is outlawed in Camelot, it’s no wonder we know so little about it,” Gaius comments diplomatically, sure he didn’t imagine the dangerous glint in Agravaine’s eyes.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Agravaine says, lips stretched in an unwavering smile. “I imagine things are different beyond the kingdom’s borders. Why am I telling you this?” He chuckles. “You would know better than anyone, seeing as you once practised magic as well.”

Gaius draws himself as tall as a man his age possibly can. “Those times are long gone.”

“Yes. Nearly three decades, is that right?”

“It is.”

“Hmm, yes,” Agravaine hums thoughtfully. “Such a long time. I was a naive, young man back then. Life was so simple, wasn’t it? If I knew what was coming, I would’ve appreciated it way more.”

“I don't think life is ever easy,” Gaius says, trying to steer the conversation into neutral territory, though he knows it’s rather futile. “But yes, things were a little simpler back then.”

“Of course, you’re right. I know magic has always been frowned upon, even before the Purge. The power some sorcerers wielded… it was unimaginable.” Agravaine eyes him inquiringly. “It’s a shame those people were feared and ostracized instead of accepted, isn’t it?”

Gaius juts his chin out, replies, “Indeed.”

“And such a shame you had to cease practising magic. Can you imagine how much you could do if you were still allowed to use magic? How many lives you could save?”

“I’ve learnt to do the best with what I have,” Gaius says truthfully. “There’s always room for improvement.”

“You set a great example for all of us, Gaius,” Agravaine says, impressed. “Truly remarkable.”

“Thank you, my Lord. But I believe you’re exaggerating.”

“Not at all.” Agravaine waves a hand dismissively. “I only tell the truth.” Gaius bites the inside of his cheek. “I’m truly happy for you, Gaius. Having Merlin back is such a privilege.”

“I’m very lucky,” Gaius says, noticing his voice has grown softer. “And very grateful.”

“I can imagine. You don’t have any relatives, do you?” Agravaine asks suddenly. “Apart from Merlin’s mother.”

Gaius hesitates, nonplussed by the abrupt change of topics. “No, my Lord.”

“That’s too bad. Must be lonely, sometimes.”

“I try to keep myself busy.”

“I don’t doubt that. There’s so much to do, isn’t there?” He makes a sweeping gesture, encompassing the entirety of the main chamber. “Well, no relatives, then. What about your friends?”

“I consider everyone in Camelot to be my friend.”

Agravaine’s grin is so wide Gaius is minutely worried it will get stuck like that. “And I’m sure they’d say the same about you. How about your friends from before the Purge? Are you still in contact with them?”

Gaius’ chest constricts. There’s no way he’s going to turn this conversation in his favour.

“I’m very old. Most of my friends have already passed away.”

“That’s very sad.” Agravaine makes a remorseful face. “How about your friends who had certain… talent? Have you talked to them since?”

Gaius grinds his teeth.

“Yes.” He watches Agravaine’s face light up. “There’s a woman. My old sweetheart. She once visited me here, a couple years ago,” he admits, figuring that the more honest he is, the better chance he has at leading Agravaine astray. “But I had to ask her to leave. It wasn’t safe for her to be here.”

“Heartbreaking. I’m sorry to hear that, Gaius.”

“It’s alright, my Lord.”

“I’m sure one day you’ll see her again.”

“I hope I will.”

“Tell me, Gaius.”Agravaine takes a step closer. Gaius remains unmoved, even as the proximity makes his skin crawl. “Were you friends with a man named Emrys?”

For a second, he’s sure his heart has stopped for good, lungs convulsing mid-breath. 

“Who?” he asks. By the look Agravaine gives him, he knows he didn’t manage to fool him. 

This is bad.

He needs to warn Merlin. Where the hell is the boy anyway?!

“Emrys,” Agravaine repeats. “I heard about him during my… travels. He should be about your age. I wondered if you knew him.”

“I’m afraid I’ve never heard of anyone with that name.”

“Interesting,” Agravaine says, the word dripping with skepticism. “But then again, I can’t be sure he ever lived in Camelot.”

“If he’s a sorcerer, he might not want to be recognised,” Gaius reasons. “Maybe he goes by a different name.”

“That’s a very smart deduction, Gaius,” Agravaine praises. “You’re probably right.”

“Is there a reason you’re asking about him?” Gaius can’t help but ask, knowing he won’t get a truthful answer. 

“Not really. I just heard he’s still alive and, well…” He chuckles. “Thought you might want to know. In case you were friends once upon a time.”

“How generous of you, my Lord. I appreciate your concern. But sadly, I’ve never met the man.”

“Hm,” Agravaine hums. He looks over his shoulder, then back at Gaius. “Well, Gaius, thank you for the lovely conversation. And the tonic. I shall leave you to it.”

“I was happy to help, my Lord,” Gaius says thinly, too exhausted to even try and fake sincerity. 

Agravaine nods and makes his way to the door. This time, he opens it. He makes it one step before he stops and calls back, “Please, do tell Merlin that I apologise for my behaviour and wish you both all the best.”

“I will see to it.” 

The door closes behind him and Gaius slumps against the table, only barely managing to drag himself to the nearest chair and fall into it like a sack of grain. 

They’re in so much trouble. 

Chapter Text

It’s only when Merlin stands in front of the door to the physician’s quarters that he remembers there’s something of utmost importance he’s meant to inform Gaius of. He mentally berates himself. He should’ve gone straight to Gaius, should’ve left Morgana’s old chambers when he found Gwen instead of Agravaine. And he definitely shouldn’t have stuck around and engaged George in a private joke. 

He doesn’t know when things had changed; why he wants George to actually like him. He’d merely meant to make George not hate him . Maybe it was when George first laughed at something Merlin said - or more likely at Merlin. It was just a simple reaction, but that small crack in George’s tough, withdrawn exterior had been enough for Merlin to make it his mission to discover the person George is hiding inside. 

Thinking of laughter has him think of Arthur’s laugh in particular and how he wants to hear it until the end of his days. How he wants to be the reason Arthur laughs like that. 

He barges inside, only mildly surprised to find Gaius slouched in a chair instead of cooking another foul-tasting potion. 

Gaius springs up with remarkable swiftness, but Merlin doesn’t waste time commenting on it.

“Gaius!”

“Merlin!”

They shout over each other. Merlin marches forward, Gaius’ expression mirroring his.

“We have a problem!”

They blurt out in unison once more. Gaius’ unnerving eyebrow quirks up questioningly.  Merlin answers with an eloquent “Um…”

“Where have you been?!” Gaius barks, uninterrupted this time. 

“Serving Arthur dinner.” 

Gaius must know that.

“You certainly took your time,” Gaius says and Merlin drops his chin guiltily, but doesn’t elaborate. “Did you see Agravaine on your way here?”

Merlin sucks in a breath. “No. Why?” 

Gaius positively glowers as he replies, “He paid me a visit.” 

“He what!” He just saw Agravaine in Arthur’s chambers. Merlin couldn’t have been gone that long! “What did he want?”

“He made up an excuse about an injured shoulder.” Merlin can practically hear the eyeroll in his voice. Do people really think the best physician in the Five Kingdoms wouldn’t recognise an authentic injury? “Then tried to distract me with a seemingly innocent conversation before he enquired whether I’ve ever heard of a sorcerer named Emrys.” 

He knows it’s impossible, but Merlin swears he feels his blood run cold. He should’ve known this was coming. This is happening exactly how it did four years ago. But Merlin has been so focused on keeping his lies under the rug that he hadn’t even thought to worry about Morgana’s plan to find and get rid of the threat Emrys poses to her.

Something isn’t right, though. Morgana could’ve put her plan in motion at any point. Why hadn’t she done it sooner? When Merlin wasn’t here. When Arthur was at his most vulnerable. 

No. This has something to do with Merlin being back. But Morgana doesn’t know Merlin is Emrys, so why would she suddenly-

“Oh, crap,” Merlin says, wrecked. Gods, it’s all his fault. He did this. “When I arrived at Arthur's chambers, Agravaine was there. He was just leaving, acted all nonchalant about me walking in on them, but I knew it could be nothing good.” 

And he did absolutely nothing. He should’ve run after Agravaine and put his hands around his throat. No tricks, no magic. Just the good, old-fashioned way while Agravaine’s meaningless life trickled out of him bit by bit. Merlin’s not a violent man, but by the Gods, he would - he will - enjoy sending that snake to the deepest pits of hell. He won’t make it easy on him, not this time. 

“You think Arthur told him about Emrys?” Gaius correctly deduces. 

“That's the only explanation,” Merlin says, bitter. “Oh, Gaius. We made a huge mistake.”

Gaius takes a moment to reply, his gaze blank as he looks at Merlin, but not at Merlin . He’s known Gaius long enough to recognise what he’s like when he’s deep in thought. 

Sure enough, Gaius says after a while, “I don’t believe Arthur would tell him about that.”

Merlin throws his hands in the air. “Well, how else do you explain it?!” Then, “Oh.” He’s such an idiot. “I’m an idiot.”

Gaius regards him impassively. Merlin scowls.

“You’re supposed to contradict me, Gaius.”

In answer, Gaius tilts his head, moving his shoulders in what could be considered a shrug. “I prefer not to resort to lying.”

Merlin gapes at him, affronted. “You’re a mean, mean old man.”

“Oi!” He harmlessly slaps the back of Merlin’s head. Merlin sticks his tongue out, earning a pinch to his cheek. He bats Gaius’ hand away, feeling the fleeting moment of joy flickering out like a burnt out candlestick. 

“Morgana thinks Emrys is responsible for my resurrection, doesn’t she?” he asks quietly, just to make sure they’ve come to the same conclusion. 

Gaius sighs, nodding. “That’s what I would assume if I were in her position.”

“But how would Agravaine know to ask you about Emrys?”

“He might think I’m covering for him. Or maybe working with him.”

“As in… he thinks you asked Emrys to bring me back?”

“Yes. Me.” He pauses, looking at Merlin with uncertainty, as though he knows Merlin’s not going to like what he says next. “Or he knows Arthur asked me.” 

“No,” Merlin disagrees fervently. “Arthur wouldn’t tell him. He doesn’t know Agravaine’s stance on magic.” Arthur can only guess what Agravaine might think about magic and sorcerers, given his less than favourable reaction at the council meeting. “He wouldn’t risk telling anyone.”  

Something clicks then, like a scene unfolding in Merlin’s mind’s eye. 

Agravaine paying Arthur a visit. Agravaine bloody apologising for his behaviour during the meeting. Arthur defending Agravaine even after all he’d been told by Emrys. Arthur asking Merlin what he thinks about magic. 

“Gaius,” he says with remorse. “Gaius, you need to be careful.”

“What are you talking about?” Gaius frowns. “I should be saying that to you. Not that you ever listen.”

“No, really, Gaius,” Merlin brushes the jab off. “I left this out when I told you what happened in my world. It seemed unnecessary to worry you with something like that.” 

He sees Gaius open his mouth, no doubt to drown Merlin in a sea of questions. He continues in a rush. 

“You were kidnapped. Morgana’s orders.” Gaius stares at him, nonplussed. “Agravaine made it look as though you committed treason and then ran away before you could face a trial.” 

A coil of rage sits heavily in his chest. His magic responds in kind, surging to the surface, almost burning in its wake. His fingers prick with its undercurrent, itching to be set free. He curls them into his palms instead. 

“Arthur believed him,” Merlin says quietly. “Even I… There were moments I didn’t know myself. I didn’t want to believe it, but…” 

He trails off, his rage giving way to shame. 

“Merlin,” Gaius says placatingly, which just makes everything worse.

“They kidnapped and tortured you to extract information about Emrys.”

Instead of being at least remotely shaken, Gaius says solemnly, “I didn't tell them, though.” 

“You did, but-” He holds up a hand when Gaius’ expression shutters, his cool composure nowhere to be found. “In the end it was a good thing.” 

Gaius is not convinced. 

“No, Gaius. It wasn't your fault,” Merlin insists. “They used magic to make you tell the truth. There was nothing you could’ve done.”

It takes a while, but eventually Gaius’ self-berating lour dissipates and he says, voice carefully level, “And you suspect Morgana will try the same here.”

“It’s already started,” Merlin says grimly. “Agravaine questioning you? That’s how it all began back then.”

“I’ll keep alert at all times,” Gaius says. It does nothing to diminish Merlin’s worries. Sometimes it feels as though the more he knows, the less control he has over the development. “We’ll expose Agravaine before he gets a chance to do any more damage.”

“How?” Merlin cries, not even attempting to be positive about this. “What else can we possibly do apart from telling Arthur the whole truth?” 

That’s the one thing Merlin had never tried. What if that's the missing piece, the answer to changing everything? What if the solution is the one thing he fears above all others, the one he's spent ten years avoiding?

“Merlin,” Gaius says - a warning. Merlin’s face must be telling.

“Maybe we should,” Merlin says, bereft. “Maybe it’s the only way-”

“Merlin. No.” Gaius grasps his shoulders with surprising strength. “It would be dangerous to do so now. Arthur wouldn't believe you.” Before Merlin can argue, Gaius says, resolute, “There must be another way.”

Merlin sighs. Gaius is probably right - this time, anyway. 

Merlin had missed his chance - several chances! If he told Arthur now, after everything that’s happened during these past few days, he’d be contributing to Agravaine's plan. 

He can’t possibly guess what Agaravine and Arthur had talked about, how many lies Agravaine had fed him. He can’t be sure that Arthur hadn’t told Agravaine about Emrys. Because if he had, there’s no way Agravaine hadn’t done everything in his manipulative power to turn Arthur against Emrys. 

If Merlin told Arthur about his magic - because he would tell him, would confess every last secret he’s guarding - chances are Arthur would have him arrested at best and banished at worst. Arthur wouldn't have him burnt at the stake, Merlin is sure of that. Not that it’s any consolation. Banishment is a far worse fate. 

Pathetic, isn’t it? Merlin had lived through this, he knows where the road leads. So how is it that he’s still completely powerless to change a damned thing!

He knows what happens next. But how can he keep one step ahead without exposing himself? He needs someone else as a mediator. But Emrys is out of the question. Who could be-

Oh. 

It’s a perilous idea, with too many loose ends and more possible pitfalls than he dares think about. But it’s still an idea. And if there’s the slightest chance that it might turn current developments to Merlin’s advantage, he sure as hell will take it.

“I have an idea,” he says tentatively. Gaius nods at him to continue. “It’s a shot in the dark. And it will probably fail.”

“Ah, well,” Gaius says, like they’re discussing the weather instead of the future of the kingdom. “That’s still better than nothing.”

Merlin doesn’t tell him that if it fails in the worst way imaginable, they’ll be facing consequences they won’t be able to run away from. 

***

A part of Merlin hopes he doesn’t run into George in the kitchens this time - for George’s sake. The odds might be in his favour, since he’s fetching Arthur’s breakfast an hour later than usual. 

Evidently, the odds aren’t enough to balance out Merlin’s inherent bad luck. 

“Morning, George."

He'd thought sleeping on it would’ve doused his doubts about his half-baked plan, but the morning turned out to be even worse. Discussing it with Gaius had helped only marginally. 

George looks up at him from where he’s disposing of dirty utensils, head cocked to the side. Merlin briefly wonders if there’s a kind of dark magic he could use on Agravaine’s saliva or something. 

“Good morning.” George’s gaze sweeps over Merlin contemplatively. “You’re late.”

“I let Arthur sleep in,” Merlin replies, grabbing a clean tray and absentmindedly filling it with anything within his reach. “He had a late night.”

“How… nice of you,” George draws out, no doubt holding back a judgmental commentary about the importance of being the King’s servant and making sure he’s ready to fulfill all his duties.

“It’s fine, George.” Merlin snickers. “Today is going to be rather uneventful.” 

“Oh.”

“But it could be an interesting night,” Merlin says suggestively. “Have you thought about joining us at the tavern?”

“Tonight?!” George balks. 

“Why not?”

George works his mouth a few times, then admits, “I haven’t thought about it, yet.”

“We don’t have to drink, you know. We can play dice.”

For some reason, George blushes. “I’ve never played.”

Merlin stares at him, mouth agape. “Seriously?!”

“I don’t like gambling,” George explains petulantly. 

“Who says it needs to be about money? It can be just for fun.”

George hasn’t stopped fidgeting, and Merlin starts to realise this might be even harder than he originally thought. 

Maybe it's a sign he should forget about this. After all, it's not just his skin he would be risking. The last thing he wants is for George to suffer the consequences of Merlin's actions.

On the other hand, he's probably just overthinking. There's no reason to assume George should be at risk. And even if something went wrong, Merlin would stand up for him. He knows Arthur would listen. 

 “I don’t know…” George says, unsure.

“That’s fine,” Merlin says breezily, though he feels anything but. “Plenty of time to make up your mind. You can drop by whenever you want.” 

“Okay,” George says. 

It’s probably the best Merlin can get right now. 

“See you around,” he says casually, shooting George a forced grin as he grabs the overflowing tray and brushes past him. 

George doesn’t look at him, answering with a noncommittal “I suppose you will.”

Merlin sighs. Maybe it’s better if George doesn't show up. He can always comfort himself with that thought. 

***

Merlin’s not prepared to witness the sight that greets him in Arthur’s chambers. Far be it from the first, or even the second, or even the tenth time he's found Arthur sprawled out on his four-poster bed on his belly, face smushed into one of his outrageously expensive pillows. There’s a dark, wet spot spreading on the red fabric where Arthur’s parted lips are squished against it. It’s kind of disgusting and absolutely precious. 

Sighing long-sufferingly, Merlin deposits the tray on the table and makes his way over to shake His Adorable Fucking Majesty awake. He lets out a high-pitched yelp as he trips. Not over his feet this time, mind you, but over what appears to be the trousers Arthur was wearing yesterday. Further down by the bedpost lies Arthur’s shirt. 

Judging from the broad expanse of Arthur's bare back and the calf sticking out from under the covers, Merlin is pretty sure that Arthur must've gone to bed naked.

He prays to all the deities that he left his smallclothes on. 

Approaching the bed as he would a group of wild geese, Merlin reaches out with one arm, intending to give Arthur a little shake. And, if he doesn’t budge, a slightly bigger one. And if that doesn’t help he can always drag him bodily out of bed .

Nope. That’s not happening! he thinks hysterically, remembering Arthur’s current state of undress. 

He huffs, this close to grasping Arthur’s arm to get on with it when Arthur mumbles a string of jumbled could-be words. Merlin can only roll his eyes - and it’s not affectionate, not at all - and then almost swallows his tongue.

“Mulin…”

Merlin outright whines. It doesn't even sound like his name, not properly, but his body doesn't seem to mind in the slightest.

Out of its own volition, Merlin’s arm changes direction and somehow, he doesn’t know how, he ends up sweeping his fingertips through Arthur’s ruffled, slightly damp fringe. The touch is feather-light, he can barely feel it, but it’s all his magic needs to wreak complete havoc, buzzing under his skin like a hive of excited bees.

He’s powerless to stop the tendril of magic that seeps out of his fingers and pours itself into Arthur, like a creek merging with a river, returning to its source. 

He doesn’t get a chance to panic adequately, freezing on the spot instead. Arthur gives a full bodied shudder that could be mistaken for a cold-induced shiver if it weren’t for the absence of goosebumps. He relaxes again, breath leaving him in something Merlin would call a happy sigh, and, Gods have mercy, he leans into Merlin’s barely-there touch. 

Merlin suppresses a whimper, together with the resolve-shattering urge to ravish Arthur right here and right now. The thread in his heart pulses madly at the thought, and Merlin can physically feel its pull, fighting it with all the control he has left. 

He could cry from relief - or is it despair? - when Arthur’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks and two blue orbs are blinking up at him dazedly.

And then, fucking hell, Arthur smiles, soft and sleepy, and it’s like the sun has come out after months, years of gloomy skies and freezing rain. 

A kind of recognition flickers in Arthur’s eyes and between one second and the next, he’s scrambling back, clutching the covers to his very much bare chest.

“Merlin!” he squeals. “What are you doing?”

Thankfully, the years of banter and mastered deflection kick in, and Merlin's mouth works before his brain or body do. “Watching you drool like a toddler.”

Immediately, Arthur’s hand goes to his mouth, and he blushes fiercely. The blush darkens when he spots the dark patch on his pillow. 

“What time is it?” he demands, avoiding Merlin’s gaze.

Merlin swallows around his dry throat. 

“Time for breakfast. And training.” He turns around to give both himself and Arthur time to regain composure, busying himself with picking up the discarded clothes. “Have you finished with the paperwork?” 

“I don’t remember,” Arthur replies after a while. “I think my soul left my body at some point. I don’t even remember going to bed.”

“Uh-huh.” Merlin clears his throat. “L-let me just… find some fresh clothes for you.” He rushes to the closet, not even paying attention as he picks a new set for Arthur, then throws it over the changing screen. “Will you be okay to…” 

He catches Arthur’s eye, pointing at him and then the clothes hanging over the screen. 

Letting out an indignant huff, Arthur grumbles, “I keep telling you, Merlin. I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself.”

Or undressing, apparently.

Shut up.

“Yeah, yeah.” His back to Arthur, Merlin rummages through the pockets of the trousers, checking each of them three times. “Arthur? I can’t find the… um…” He points at his neck. “You know.”

Arthur squints, uncomprehending. He abruptly shoots up to a sitting position, turning his head left to right. 

“Oh,” he breathes, his panic subsiding, while his shoulders stiffen. “Right.”

Merlin watches, dumbstruck, as Arthur slides a hand under one of the pillows, extracting what can only be Merlin’s old scarf. 

“Oh,” Merlin echoes Arthur’s previous sentiment. “You…”

Something lodges in his throat. He’s not sure whether it’s longing, affection, desire, or plain embarrassment on Arthur’s behalf. Whichever it is, it makes his face grow uncomfortably hot, and he sees it reflected in Arthur’s face, too.

“I told you I don’t remember what I was doing,” Arthur says snappily, although Merlin hadn’t asked him anything. “I must have been completely out of it.”

“Right,” Merlin squeezes out when he finds his voice.

There is a long, heavy moment of silence where they do anything to not look at each other. Merlin pulls on a loose thread of Arthur’s tunic, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. Playing with the tunic reminds him that Arthur’s not wearing any, and that’s so very, very bad.

Or very, very right.

He snarls at his treacherous, internal voice, and finally dares to look at Arthur. 

“So... “ He clears his throat again. “Could you…” 

And because he’s apparently forgotten to English, he lets the rest of the sentence hang in the air. Instead, he points to the left in the direction of the screen, silently begging Arthur to put some bloody clothes on before the remnant of blood in Merlin’s brain drains completely in order to rush south and pool low in his belly. 

Arthur’s eyes follow the direction, blinking at the screen like he’s forgotten it’s there. 

“Sure," he croaks. 

Merlin hungrily watches the bob of his throat as he swallows. 

“Turn around," Arthur says gruffly.

“What?” Merlin stares at him with undisguised disbelief. 

“Merlin,” Arthur says darkly, warningly. “Turn. Around.” 

Arthur must be joking. Merlin’s seen everything there is to see, for crying out loud! If he knew how to paint, he could capture every single little detail of Arthur’s body, from the first scar to the last freckle, from his memory alone. Hell, most of his dreams revolve around Arthur and though only some are of a… delicate nature, there’ve been enough of them that Arthur Pendragon in his naked glory is forever branded in his mind. So if Arthur thinks there’s anything Merlin hasn’t-

His stream of thought is cut short when Arthur fidgets on the bed, still clutching the covers to his chest like they’re his lifeline, all the while glaring murder at Merlin. Not that it has any effect, with Arthur all but flushed to the tips of his ears and down the chest he’s unsuccessfully trying to hide. 

Well, fuck.

Merlin pointedly does not let his gaze drop to Arthur’s lap. He spins around, taking the opportunity to hide his own raging blush (among other things), and tells himself over and over, like a mantra, not to peek at Arthur as he bolts from the bed and marches towards the screen.

Sweet Gods, this is going to be a long, hard day. 

Pun absolutely not intended. 

***

For once, Merlin wishes Arthur’s training would never end. He’d suffered and survived through putting armour on Arthur, but he’s not sure he’s going to survive taking it off with Arthur all… worked up, and sweaty, and tousled, and gorgeous-

Dammit, he will need to prepare a bath for him, too. There’s no way he’s getting out of this alive. Well, maybe if he just drags the bathtub to Arthur’s chambers and leaves him to… deal… with the rest. Arthur claims he can dress himself, he might as well learn how to wash himself. Yes, that’s reasonable. That’s exactly what Merlin’s going to do.  

He’s slightly more put together by the time Arthur announces that training is over. Merlin dutifully makes his way over, taking Arthur’s sword when Arthur holds it out for him without looking, engaged in what looks to be an extremely deep conversation with Leon.

“Merlin!” Merlin jumps, then chuckles when he spots Gwaine sauntering towards him with spread out arms. “Come here, my love. Give me a hug."

Gwaine's already taken him hostage before he has a chance to process the situation. He makes a gagging sound, trying to dislodge Gwaine’s hold. “You reek, Gwaine.”

“You say the sweetest things.” Gwaine laughs, and almost buries Merlin’s face in his armpit. Merlin shouts his complaint, taking a lungful of fresh air when he’s finally released. Gwaine, the animal, just chuckles and ruffles Merlin’s hair. “When are you letting me drag you to the tavern, again?”

Oh, wow. Could it be that something actually works in Merlin’s favour today? Not that convincing Gwaine - and thus letting Gwaine convince the rest - to go to the tavern would take much effort. 

“Tonight?” he suggests, barking out a laugh at Gwaine’s flabbergasted expression. 

“That easy?! Bloody hell.” Gwaine shakes his head, his smile ridiculously wide. “Tonight it is!” 

Merlin does an internal fist pump. It’s hardly a victory, but after the emotionally (and physically) draining morning, he’s entitled to celebrate small miracles. 

Gwaine takes off to bully Percy who looks like a defenseless puppy. 

Merlin snickers to himself, startling when a large hand lands on his shoulder.

“How is it going?” Lance is smiling at him, eyes sparkling, and Merlin immediately returns it. “I hear we’re going to the tavern tonight?”

Merlin nods, his smile fading away. “I need to tell you something.” Lancelot’s smile falls as well. “Can you come by after lunchtime?” 

“Of course,” he agrees easily, tilting his head in worry. “Is everything okay?” 

Merlin’s initial impulse is to say Yes, of course, then he remembers it’s Lancelot he’s speaking to. 

“Not really. Later,” he promises when Lancelot wants to ask more questions. 

Although unhappy, Lancelot nods. Merlin almost hugs him right there for being so absurdly amazing all the bloody time. 

“Merlin!” Arthur shouts, voice laced with familiar irritation. 

Merlin and Lancelot share a look, shaking their heads in unison, too used to Arthur’s dramatics. Lancelot laughs in sympathy, patting Merlin’s shoulder before he makes his way over to save Percy from Gwaine’s ambush. 

“Merlin!”

“Coming!” Merlin yells back, letting his annoyance bleed through, then mutters in not-quite a whisper “Prat.” 

Despite himself, he’s smiling while he approaches His Grumpy Majesty, only to have his stomach twist into knots, watching with growing dread as Agravaine rides out through the gates. 

He knew this was coming. He just hopes he hasn’t figured it out too late. 

***

“Sister."

Morgause's smile is like a gush of warmth on a winter’s day, her eyes like two lanterns showing a way through the dark.

Morgana laughs through her tears and lets herself fall into Morgause’s open arms. It feels like an eternity since she last experienced the warmth of her embrace, her only salvation. 

Morgause threads a hand through Morgana’s hair, running her fingers through the locks like one would do to a child. Morgana lets herself be comforted by it, until the world melts away and the only thing that remains is this moment. 

She reluctantly pulls away, tongue burning with words left unsaid. She wants to say them now, put all the pain and sorrow and love behind them. Tell her sister how much she misses her, how lost she is without her.

Morgause’s hand turns into a claw, jerking Morgana’s head back. The last thing Morgana sees is a twisted face that looks nothing like her sister, mouth stretched open to reveal two long, poisonous fangs that in the next moment sink into Morgana’s exposed neck like a knife through butter. 

The words remain unsaid. What comes out instead is an anguished scream. She feels her control over her body slip, her mind following suit, until the only thing left is darkness and despair. 

Morgana jerks awake, heart racing so fast and loud it’s nearly impossible to hear beyond the deafening pounding in her ears. Her hand goes to her neck on reflex, finding smooth, unharmed skin. 

Nightmares aren’t a novelty to her by any means, however she hasn’t had such a bad one in a long time. And naturally, magic is utterly useless against them. 

The door squeaks as it opens, Morgana’s magic awaking in a sudden burst. She’s not sure whether to sigh in relief or chop Agravaine’s head off.

“My Lady,” he greets, oblivious. Morgana is ready to unleash her rage when Agravaine blurts, “You were right.” 

The complaint dies on her tongue.

“Emrys,” she says venomously, scrambling off the bed. 

She doesn’t need confirmation, but Agravaine still says, “I’m quite certain.”

“Arthur, Arthur.” Morgana clicks her tongue. “Like Father, like son. Resorting to consorting with sorcerers when it benefits you.” 

“Not quite,” Agravaine disagrees, apprehensive. “I believe Arthur doesn't know Emrys. But Gaius does.”

“Gaius,” Morgana echoes, slightly bewildered and mostly irritated she hadn’t figured that out on her own. “Gaius, of course!” She fixes Agravaine with a firm look. “Tell me what you know.”

“I spoke to Arthur,” Agravine starts. “He admitted he’d been willing to use magic to bring Merlin back. He asked Gaius to do it, but Gaius refused. Or so he told Arthur.” 

Morgana snickers bitterly. If there’d ever been a question about how much Arthur resembles his father, the answer is right here. 

“And then, he went and sought out Emrys,” she concludes, the name coming out more like a sneer. 

“I still don’t understand,” Agravaine says, brows drawn together in question. “Even if he and Gaius were friends, would he truly do something like this for old-times' sake? Without getting anything in return?"

What would he get, indeed? All Morgana knows about Emrys is that they’re arch enemies. Though the reason as to why is still beyond her. They’re both magic, they’re both oppressed by Camelot, both hunted like animals. And yet, Emrys has chosen to betray his own kind and…

And what? 

“No, you’re right,” she says. “Emrys wouldn’t do this out of the goodness of his heart. This is part of something bigger.” 

“But what?” 

An absurd idea prickles in the back of her mind. 

It seems impossible. If this is what Emrys is hoping to achieve, he must know how laughable the idea is. This could never work. Arthur wouldn’t allow it.

Magic will never be welcomed in Camelot. Not unless Morgana takes her rightful place on the throne. How can Emrys not see that?

“Merlin is Emrys’ puppet now, completely under his control,” she says. “And he must know how fond Arthur is of the boy. With Merlin as his tool, Emrys could destroy everything I’ve worked for. Very, very clever.”

How did she not think about this? With Merlin under her influence, she could’ve carved a smooth path leading her straight to the throne. If Emrys is using Merlin to turn Arthur’s stance on magic around, Morgana could’ve easily used the boy to dispose of Arthur. No one would notice until it was too late. Arthur wouldn’t even see it coming, too blinded by his own feelings. 

“My Lady, if I may…” Agravaine says, reluctant. “I don’t think Merlin is just a puppet. He doesn’t seem-”

“You said before that he’s looking at you like he knows something,” Morgana reminds him.

“Emrys must have told him about me,” Agravaine reasons. “About us. Given Merlin’s loyalty to Arthur, he wouldn’t think twice about doing as Emrys asked.”

“Do you remember what I said about using magic to bring someone back to life? Really bring them back?”

Agravaine pauses, thoughtful. “You said you’d never heard of anything like it.”

“Precisely. Because it’s impossible. I was right.”

Not even the powerful Emrys could bring someone’s soul back. It was foolish to even entertain the possibility. 

“But you said-”

“Do you have any idea what you can do with someone who doesn’t have a soul?” Morgana snaps, getting impatient. “They’re just an empty vessel. You can fill them with anything you want, mould them into anything. You shape them with your ideas, beliefs, knowledge… What you order them to do becomes their life’s purpose. They are nothing but a physical manifestation of your mind, nothing but an executioner of your plans.” 

Agravaine stares, speechless. He releases a shaky breath. “Wouldn’t Arthur notice if something was amiss? With all due respect, my Lady, it’s been a while since you were around to… witness the development of their relationship.” He scrunches his nose in distaste. “How would Emrys be able to imitate the real Merlin so… authentically?”

She doesn't even need to think about that one. “Gaius.”

Luckily, Agravaine catches on, understanding dawning on him. His confused expression morphs into one of determination.

“What do you want me to do?”

She should have Gaius and Merlin killed, get rid of the problem right away. But how many steps ahead is Emrys? What are the chances he’s not keeping a watch on the two? There’s no doubt Gaius is keeping him informed. Which means Emrys knows Morgana is on to him and will be extremely alert and protective of his little minions. 

There’s only one way to turn this around.

“I want you to tell Arthur the truth.” Agravaine’s shock doesn't come as a surprise. “Tell him who Merlin really is. Arthur will take care of the rest.”

Because Arthur Pendragon won’t put a blind eye to dark magic, not even for his precious servant. 

“H-how do I tell him?”

Morgana walks to the table, picking up one of her grimoires. She opens it on the relevant page, letting Agaravine see. 

“Let evidence speak for itself.” She thrusts the book forward.

Agravaine’s eyes rake over the page, windening with sinking understanding. He reaches out, taking the book with trepidation. 

“Yes, my Lady.”

Chapter Text

“What’s with you today?” Arthur snaps when Merlin tries and fails to unbuckle one of the armour fastenings for the fourth time. 

“What?” 

“You’re even more clumsy than usual, and that’s saying something.”

“Then stop fidgeting,” Merlin orders grumpily. It’s not Arthur’s fault that his fingers refuse to cooperate, but he’s not going to admit that, of course. 

Still, Arthur stops squirming. Merlin goes for the fastening once more, unsuccessfully trying to push the leather strap through the tiny loop. He curses, narrowing his eyes at Arthur when the prat just grins smugly at his struggle. 

“Shut up,” Merlin grunts. “I’m just distracted.” 

If he thought that taking the armour off Arthur would be nothing but plain suffering, then adding burgeoning anxiety (because screw you, Agravaine ) to the simmering arousal is pure disaster. How is he expected to concentrate? 

“Yeah. I’m sure Gwaine is very distracting.”

“Huh?” Merlin says, frowning. He looks up just in time to see Arthur turn his gaze away, staring at something incredibly fascinating on the wall.

“Nothing."

Merlin takes in the tight clench of his jaw, the bob of his throat. He can hardly hold back the bubbling laugh threatening to burst free. 

“You know,” he says casually. “Jealousy isn’t becoming of a king. Of anyone, really. But a king especially.”

Arthur’s blue eyes turn to him, positively appalled. “I’m not jealous!”

Merlin has to bite the inside of his cheek. “Of course,” he says, knowing that his attempt at sounding composed seriously failed. 

“I’m only making sure you’re on top of your duties, that’s all,” Arthur blurts out, sounding ridiculously petulant. 

“So you won’t mind if I go to the tavern tonight after I’ve completed all my duties and tucked you in,” Merlin says light-heartedly, enjoying it all too much when Arthur looks outright scandalised at the notion of anyone tucking him in (although that’s exactly what Merlin does). 

Judging by the way Arthur’s dismay morphs into annoyance, he must have registered the rest of the sentence. 

“Again?!”

Shrugging innocently, Merlin grins. “I was missed terribly.” 

It’s meant to be teasing, and he almost expects Arthur to retort with something about everyone enjoying a break from Merlin’s constant prattle. Instead he watches, bereft, as Arthur’s indignation disintegrates like smoke, his delightful blush melting away. 

“Whatever,” he huffs, looking at his boots. “But you better be here first thing in the morning.”

Feeling strangely out of place, Merlin busies himself with undoing the rest of the armour. He progresses fast now that the unacknowledged tension between them has eased off, replaced by something more solemn and just as heavy. 

“You could join us, you know. I still need that jacket.” Merlin smirks. “And you promised.”

“I promised no such thing,” Arthur argues, but the mischievous twitch of his lips gives him away. 

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Well, either way, you’re invited.”

“How generous of you, letting your King join your little social gathering,” Arthur retorts with a sardonic smile, stretching his arms overhead when the armour finally comes off, then shrugs off the gambeson himself. 

Making a mocking face, Merlin informs His Prattishness that he’ll be back soon with a hot bath, leaving a disgruntled Arthur to his devices. 

He takes his time in the kitchens, reflecting on the utter mess that’s his life and feeling sorry for himself.  

Why couldn’t it be my destiny to be a farmer? he thinks desperately. A bunch of chickens, a half dozen cows, maybe some goats and pigs. What a nice, uncomplicated life. No cryptic prophecies, no evil, mentally unstable witches, no unfairly gorgeous, insufferable, loveable kings. 

But then he thinks of Arthur’s laugh, how his hair shines in the sun, the annoyed yet fond way he shouts Merlin’s name when he’s fed up with him. How, sometimes, he looks at Merlin with the same yearning Merlin has seen in Lancelot when he looks at Gwen. 

He groans, frustrated with himself. Who is he trying to fool? There’s nothing that could make him give Arthur up. Not even life on a farm. And anyway, Merlin hates mucking out the stables. He wouldn’t last a single month on a farm  before crawling back to Arthur and begging him to take him back just so he could polish his armour and wash his stinky socks again. 

“What took you so long?” Arthur complains when Merlin drags the bathtub through the door. 

“The water doesn’t heat itself, you know?” 

Nope, a farm sounds much more appealing. I can always use magic to do all the chores!

And because he can, Merlin takes even longer carrying the buckets of hot water up the stairs. He fills the tub, then makes his way back to the kitchens, unhurried, to repeat the process. Four times. That’s how long it takes for Arthur’s (rather admirable) patience to evaporate and snap at Merlin to just leave it as it is. 

Merlin takes a clean rag and a bar of soap, leaving it on the rim of the tub so Arthur can easily reach it (because Merlin is absolutely not staying). As per usual, he adds a couple of drops of lavender and sage oil to the water, suppressing a shiver when the scent triggers an inappropriate body response. He curses the day Gaius presented him with them, because of course Arthur absolutely loved it and required that Merlin add it to his baths from then on. And now Merlin can’t smell bloody flowers without tenting his pants. 

Gaze turned downwards, he makes a beeline for the door and calls back, “So, shall I leave you to-” only to hear the unmistakable sound of clothes dropping to the floor. 

Against his better judgement, he looks up, regretting it immediately when the sight of Arthur wearing nothing but his smallclothes greets him. 

“Merlin! Where do you think you’re going?!” Arthur barks, utterly perplexed. 

“I-I thought I’d leave you to it?” Merlin stutters, sheepish, turning back to the door in desperation. “I have something really important to-”

“Yes, you do,” Arthur cuts him short. There’s a shuffle, a splash, then another, then a thud as Arthur presumably climbs into the tub and sinks down. “I need shaving.”

“W-what?” Merlin squeals, feeling faint from all the blood that has accumulated in his head. Well, maybe not all of it...

“It’s been days, Merlin,” Arthur says, like Merlin should know. Yeah, okay, so maybe he should. “A couple more and the stubble will turn into a scruff.” 

Merlin most definitely does not think about the burn that stubble - or even that awful, haggard-looking scruff - would leave around his mouth, or between his th-

“Can I do it later when-”

“Absolutely not,” Arthur says resolutely, and Merlin whines - for multiple reasons. “You want to go to the tavern and drink yourself stupid? You need to attend me first.”

Praying to the deities to have mercy on his poor soul when he dies from the effort to keep himself in check, Merlin ambles over to the cupboard like a man who just signed his death warrant. He nearly trips over Arthur's discarded clothes, muttering useless complaints . He even has to use magic to will his fingers to stop trembling when they curl around the razor. Arthur probably wouldn’t appreciate bleeding out, naked, in a bathtub. 

Naked! Merlin thinks hysterically. Just think about something disgusting. Gaius’ potions, the cook’s pies, Gwaine’s sweaty armpit, Arthur naked-

He must make an alarming noise, because Arthur asks him if he’s alright, which Merlin only barely manages not to laugh at like a maniac. Of course, sire, I’m perfectly fine. Would be even better if I could bend you over the-

“Fine,” he replies, voice tight, stubbornly keeping his gaze on the floor as he slides a stool next to the tub, placing two separate bowls of warm water and lather on the floor. He can feel Arthur’s gaze on him, feels himself grow hot, nearly out of his mind with desire as he smears the foam over Arthur’s illegally perfect face. With one last command to his magic, he holds his breath as he glides the razor over Arthur’s right cheek in one, swift move. 

He knows Arthur hasn’t taken his eyes off of him, can feel the weight of his gaze like a brand etching itself to his very soul. At some point, his own eyes flutter shut in a desperate attempt to quell the fervid ache. 

“Merlin!” Arthur squeaks. Merlin snaps his eyes open, finding Arthur staring at him, furious. “Can you not close your eyes while holding a razor to my throat?!”

Running through all possible retorts, Merlin goes with, “I’ve done this so many times I could do it blind.”

“You’re doing no such thing!”

Arthur’s fuming, but there’s the now familiar blush gracing his cheeks that Merlin knows has nothing to do with the water temperature. He’s been acting bizarre since they came back from training, unabashed and taunting - the complete opposite of how coy he was mere hours ago. 

Merlin swiftly replays the events of that morning - Arthur’s uncharacteristic shyness and obvious embarrassment, his eagerness to dress himself without help, his irritation (though that’s not uncommon, maybe even inherent to Arthur) when Merlin talked to Gwaine and Lancelot…

And just like that, Merlin's frustration-deprivation turns into glee. 

“You’re so petty,” he says. “Lancelot is coming over after lunchtime. Are you going to be jealous of him, too?”

Arthur swats Merlin’s hand away. “I’m not-” he starts, then grunts. He turns his head away, arms crossed over his chest. “Lancelot doesn’t worry me in the slightest. He has manners and sound judgement. And he’s an honourable man.”

A teasing comment dies on Merlin’s tongue. He could keep winding Arthur up, would love that, in fact. But they’ve never talked about what happened between Arthur and Gwen, and although it’s none of Merlin’s business, it feels like it is. He already knows how Gwen feels, but Arthur’s feelings on the matter are what truly bugs Merlin. 

“So is Gwaine,” Merlin points out briefly, just so he can enjoy the indignant huff coming from Arthur. Then says, serious, “You’re really okay with this. Him and Gwen.” It’s a statement, though he says it like a question. He knows he doesn’t need to specify that by him he doesn’t mean Gwaine. 

He sees Arthur tense, an array of conflicting emotions flickering across his face. He relaxes again, angling his head in a way that lets Merlin know Arthur wants him to resume the shaving. 

“It’s… a bit of a relief, to be honest,” he says eventually. 

“Oh?”

“I treated Gunievere terribly.”

"It’s not your fault. You did your best, given the circumstances. You’d been through so much and-”

“That’s no excuse,” Arthur says, closing his eyes. He complies when Merlin takes him by the chin and nudges him to expose his neck for easier access. “I should’ve been honest with her. It’s the least she deserved.” He sighs. “I know I hurt her. I pushed her away.”

Merlin wonders if there might have been more to it. If Arthur did it on purpose. 

“Did you know?”

A pause. “Kind of.”

“You hoped they would find their way back to each other.” Another not-question. 

“I always felt like I was standing in the way of their happiness,” Arthur admits. He sounds ashamed, almost guilty, and that Merlin won’t allow. 

“Arthur.” He pulls the razor away. “Gwen chose you. Despite her feelings for Lancelot, she made her choice and the choice was you.” 

“That doesn't mean it was the choice she wanted to make,” Arthur says, staring blankly ahead. 

“Arthur.”

“Merlin,” he says with yet another sigh, finally looking at Merlin. “I know. I know Gunievere cared for me dearly. She still does. And I for her.” 

Merlin presses his lips together, a reaction he cannot control, and Arthur rushedly adds, “But it’s not the same…” He gives Merlin a weak smile. “Everything is as it should be. They’re happy.”

“And you?” Merlin asks, afraid of the answer. 

But Arthur’s frail smile changes into something bolder, surer, reaching his eyes. 

“I’m exactly where I want to be.” 

And this, Merlin thinks, should be the moment he cracks a joke to cut through the charged air wrapped around them like a cocoon. He could say many things to do just that, but instead he hears himself say “Me too.” And watching Arthur’s figurative armour fall off, leaving his heart and soul as bare as his body, he can’t bring himself to regret it.

Arthur’s still looking at him with the same bewildered and hopeful expression when Merlin wipes the foam off his face, letting his pinky linger and trace the smooth edge of Arthur’s jaw as he does so. 

But Merlin’s always had a penchant for making himself suffer, and it’s probably that bothersome inclination that makes him ask.

“Arthur?”

“Yeah?”

He stands up, moving the stool and the bowls away, his back to Arthur. “What would you do if, one day, I weren’t the same person? Would you still want me around if I changed?”

There’s a moment of silence before Arthur’s exasperated voice says, “What are you babbling about?”

Merlin deflates. “Nothing. Forget it.”

“Merlin.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Merlin,” Arthur repeats. It doesn’t sound irritated, but rather remorseful. “I know I said- well, implied, I didn’t want you to change. But I’m not an idiot, despite what you might think,” he adds with a hint of mirth, which prompts Merlin to turn around. “We all change, Merlin, whether we want to or not. It’s life. It’s inevitable. We’ve both changed over the years.” He laughs, sounding remotely bitter. “Just look at me.”

Merlin’s really trying not to.

“You’re still as much of a prat as when I first met you,” he tries for a joke, but it falls flat.

Arthur still chuckles, not even protesting. “Some things, as you see, never change.”

Merlin lets out a breathy little chuckle of his own, then asks grimly, “What if I change so much I’ll be unrecognisable?”

Arthur studies him for a minute. “I’d recognise you by your ears alone,” he says with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Not what I meant, prat,” Merlin grunts, though he can’t stop the fleeting smile tugging at his lips. “What if… what if I change for the worse? What if, one day, I’m just a bitter, angry man? Compassionless and cold.”

What if he already is that man? 

“Merlin, you forbid me to kill spiders in my room. You catch them and put them outside before I get to them.”

“But-”

“Look. One day, we’ll both be cranky old men, complaining about the silliest things and snapping at everyone who’s unfortunate enough to cross paths with us after we've slept miserably.”

Merlin arches an eyebrow. “Are you describing your present self?”

“Shut up,” Arthur says, laughing. Merlin’s heart stutters against his ribcage. “I’m saying,” he continues more solemnly. “Everyone changes. Life isn’t easy, and it’s tiring, and it’s messy, and there's no way we’re getting out of it unscathed. Of course we’re going to change. Some of these changes will be small and some will be huge.” He pauses briefly, licking his lips. “But whatever happens, I’m still going to suffer through your insolence and you’re going to have to live through my unreasonable demands even when we’re eighty. So don’t even try to get out of it.”

Merlin has a feeling Arthur meant for it to sound all authoritative and gruff, but all he can hear is underlying, poorly hidden affection and a vague promise of forever.

“Quite sure of yourself, aren’t you?” Merlin retorts, but it comes out breathless. “I’m not scrubbing your floor when I know I won’t be able to get back up.”

Instead of going for the bait, Arthur replies with heart-stopping sincerity, “I said nothing about scrubbing the floor, Merlin.” 

And this is it, Merlin concedes. This is when he throws caution to the wind and starts making good on that promise of forever right here, right now. He feels his magic surging, pulling him forward, screaming at him to close the distance. 

“But I’ll still have you mucking out the stables."

And Merlin wants to cry from both unbearable despair and knee-buckling relief. 

“We’ll see about that,” he shoots back when he regains control of his mouth, though his body will take a while. 

“Merlin.”

“Yeah?”

“You need to wash my back.” 

***

Lancelot is well aware he must look like a simpleton, judging by the concerned stares he receives from Merlin and Gaius.

“Okay,” he says in high-pitch. “Okay,” he repeats, more composed. “Let me… revise. That prophecy of yours speaks of the most powerful sorcerer to ever live,” he begins, unsure, getting a nod from each of them. “Long beard, pointy hat-”

“No, there’s no hat,” Merlin interjects.

“-and his name is Emrys. You are this Emrys.”

“The beard and long hair and stuff don’t matter,” Merlin insists, and Lancelot would laugh if he wasn’t struck dumber than Percy when he’s drunk. “That’s just a disguise.”

“Which you’ve used multiple times already. By casting an aging spell on yourself.”

Another nod. “Only twice in this world, though."

“And you used it to tell Arthur about Agravaine.” Which Lancelot isn’t sure is genius or suicidal. “But it didn’t work.” He’ll go with suicidal.

“It looked like it might. I could see it in Arthur’s eyes, you know?” Merlin says, voice soft. “The seed of doubt.”

“But Agravaine spoke to Arthur about something,” Lancelot continues, worry twisting his stomach. “And now we’re back at the beginning.”

Merlin blinks at him, a little surprised. He smiles, small but real. It takes Lancelot a few seconds to realise Merlin must have been taken aback by the notion of we, as if he hadn’t known there’s never been a time he couldn’t count on Lancelot. 

Lancelot wants to say something, to berate Merlin for thinking for just a second Lancelot wouldn’t be there for him, especially in a time like this.

“Worse,” Merlin says, the smile long gone.

“Because Morgana found out about your connection to Emrys,” Lancelot assumes. “And she thinks that Emrys is the one who brought you back.” 

Merlin makes a face, and that’s all the confirmation Lancelot needs. 

Learning that Arthur asked Gaius for a "favour" wasn’t half as shocking as it should have been. After all, Merlin and Arthur are the only people who’re oblivious to how much they mean to each other. Magic might be outlawed, but Arthur’s never been the most reasonable person when it comes to matters of the heart. It’s one of his best qualities, if Lancelot says so himself. He might be a bit biased, though, for he’s quite sure he would do the exact same if he were in Arthur’s position. 

It’s most unjust that, once again, Arthur had opened his heart, and once again he’d been taken advantage of for that. 

“And you think that what happened in your world is going to take place here as well?” Lancelot asks. 

“That’s what everything points to,” Merlin says, eyes dark. 

This is, indeed, a proper mess. Lancelot appreciates Merlin confiding in him with such a delicate matter. If only he didn’t feel so useless. 

“So what is Agravaine going to do next?”

Merlin’s face falls further, making him look years older. 

“He’s going to try to falsely accuse Gaius of treason. And possibly kidnap him.”

Lancelot starts, pulling his shoulders back. “We won’t let that happen.” He may not be helpful when it comes to revealing the truth about Agravaine - after all, if Merlin hasn’t been able to, Lancelot doesn’t stand a chance - but he’s going to protect his friends if it costs him his life. He doesn’t share the sentiment, doubtful that Merlin would appreciate it.

“No,” Merlin agrees, resolute. “And I need you to keep an eye on Gaius when I’m not here.”

“Oi!” Gaius yelps, speaking for the first time. “I’m not a child, Merlin.”

“But you’re vulnerable on your own,” Merlin points out, then turns to Lancelot, doe-eyed. “I know you have your own responsibilities. But if there’s a chance you could-”

“Of course,” Lancelot agrees hurriedly. “Anything you need.”

“Thank you,” Merlin breathes, voice shaky with gratitude. 

Lancelot smiles tenderly, hoping that Merlin will get the message - You’re my best friend, I’d do anything you ask, as well as Don’t be an idiot, Merlin. 

“You mentioned a plan?” he reminds him, curious as to what the next course of action entails.

Merlin grimaces, which doesn't do anything to banish Lancelot’s woes. “Not… really a plan.” 

***

“Really, Merlin?” Lancelot says, incredulous. “George?” Merlin obviously wasn’t joking when he said it wasn’t really a proper plan. 

“It’s the best I could come up with,” Merlin replies defensively.

“Sorry,” Lancelot says, chastised. Merlin needs him to be supportive, not critical. And who says it can’t work? Granted, it probably won’t, but they’ll never know until they try.

“No, you’re right.” Merlin’s shoulders slump. “It’s terrible. I don’t even know if he’s coming.”

Lancelot’s not proud to admit he hadn’t known who George actually was until Merlin described him. Sure, he’d seen the guy around, occasionally offered an acknowledging smile (as he does to everyone, servant or noble), but it’s not like they’d ever exchanged pleasantries, let alone names. 

He doesn’t know George at all, but what had led Merlin to think the man could be of use - apart from being Agravaine’s manservant for the time being - is still beyond him. From what Lancelot has seen, George is dead serious about his servant duties. He wouldn’t be surprised if George was giving lessons on how to become a servant in the royal household. 

And that’s another thing - how on earth does George tolerate Merlin, not to mention hold an actual conversation with him?! Lancelot trusts Merlin with his life, but he wouldn’t trust him with his laundry for anything. 

Merlin’s mood has tangibly soured by the time they stand in front of the tavern, and he looks as defeated as Lancelot has ever seen him. 

Lancelot bumps their shoulders together, pleased when it draws a small smile from Merlin. Their gazes meet, and with one last, resigned sigh, Merlin pushes the door open. 

A blast of hot, saturated air hits them before they even set a foot inside. He sees Merlin sweeping his eyes over the place, and does the same. He spots Percy first, his large frame rather striking among dozens of regular-sized mortals. For once, Percy doesn’t look completely miserable and like he’s fearing for his life. On the contrary - he’s hiding his smile in his pint, shoulders shaking from what Lancelot guesses is amusement. 

Bumping Merlin’s shoulder again, he points in Percy’s direction. 

“Found them.”

They push past a group of men yelling over each other, and then the whole table comes into view. Leon is nowhere to be seen, but it’s impossible to overlook - or overhear - Gwaine. It also becomes clear why Percy is clutching his stomach, nearly choking on his ale. 

“George?” Merlin says, positively stricken. 

George’s wide eyes snap up, fixing on Merlin with a combination of panic and despair. 

“Merlin! Thank God!” he cries, shaking Gwaine’s arm off his shoulders and springing up from the bench.

“You came,” Merlin says, blinking owlishly.. 

Then George is in his face, fuming like a chimney. 

“You told me it would be fun! This-” He points erratically behind himself where Gwaine is chortling, probably in response to his own joke. “Isn’t fun!”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says sheepishly, but the spark that suddenly lights up his eyes takes away from the apology. “I’m glad you’re here. Let me buy you a pint.” 

Grabbing George by the arm, he leads him back to the table, ignoring his protests that he already has one and placing himself strategically between him and Gwaine. He lets Gwaine suck a wet kiss to his cheek, grimacing and wiping his cheek with his sleeve. 

Lancelot shudders in sympathy.

He takes a seat next to Percy, holding his hands up when Gwaine spreads his arms and makes to pay the same attention to him. Gwaine rolls his eyes, adopting a mock-hurt expression, before he’s back to ambushing Merlin, practically sitting in his lap.

Lancelot would give anything to see Arthur’s face.

***

Three pints, a tankard of mead, and eight brass jokes later, Lancelot has decided that George is possibly the funniest person he’s ever had the pleasure of meeting. The question is whether he will think so when he sobers up. 

Percy is basically under the table, hiccuping through his tears of joy. 

George, of course, looks downright smug, chest puffed out. It's a testament to how relaxed he is after his two pints that he lets Gwaine sit to his left with Merlin on his right, even allowing Gwaine to lean on him for ‘support’ while he laughs his lungs out. 

For a moment Lancelot worries Merlin’s had too much and forgotten all about his not-quite-a-plan. He has buried his head in the cradle of his folded arms, shaking so hard it’s shaking the table. 

To his Lancelot’s relief, Merlin seems to be alive, wiping his eyes and cheeks. He catches Lancelot’s eyes, and they simultaneously succumb to another laughing fit. 

“I think I need some water,” Merlin says, his speech slightly slurred. 

“Good idea.” Lancelot looks around the table. “Let’s get some for everyone.”

“Absolutely.”

At the counter, Lancelot waves down the barmaid and asks for a big jug of water. He’s rewarded with a raised eyebrow. The barmaid gives them both a judgemental look, eyes shifting briefly towards their table, and rolls her eyes. She fills a jug and hands it over, all the while muttering grumpily abou stupid kids who can’t hold their liquor. 

They both jump at the thundering voice behind them.

“You invited George?!”

Merlin spins around with surprising grace, smiling so big it nearly splits his face in half.

“Arthur!”

Narrowing his eyes, Arthur glances at Lancelot before resting his gaze on Merlin. He scowls. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

“I’m not!” Merlin argues. Lancelot can only snicker. “Just in a good mood.” He leans back against the bar, smiling cheekily. “Can’t wait to take all your money.”

Lancelot is pretty sure he’s missing something.

Arthur huffs. “You wish.”

***

“Go, Merlin, go!” Gwaine chants, slapping Merlin’s back encouragingly. 

Merlin swirls the cup in circles, grinning at Arthur pompously. 

Lancelot shakes his head. As much as he doesn’t approve of cheating, he can’t deny it’s quite amusing to watch His Majesty huff and grunt in indignation whenever Merlin rolls the right number.

“Eight,” Merlin says, blowing into the cup. There’s a faintest flicker of gold before he sends the dice rolling.

“Yes!” George yells when a five and a three face up. 

Arms crossed, Arthur gives him an unimpressed look. George sputters, ducking his head. “I’m so sorry, Your Majesty.”

Lancelot reaches over, patting George’s shoulder. The ale must have started to wear off. 

“Again,” Arthur demands gruffly. 

Merlin quirks an eyebrow, corners of his mouth twitching. “Are you sure?”

“One last game,” Arthur says. “The winner takes all.”

Merlin sighs, like it’s a hardship. “So be it.”

Next to Lancelot, George is literally vibrating on his feet, eyes like saucers as he follows every movement of Merlin’s hand.

If only they all knew.

Swirling the cup again, Merlin calls twelve this time, earning a chorus of impressed ahh’s. Another flicker of gold, and then the dice are rolling, ending up on two perfect sixes. 

George has apparently forgotten himself again because he screams himself hoarse, clapping his hands even louder than Gwaine and Percy put together. 

“You see, sire? Fortune favours the brave!” Merlin shouts over them.

Arthur purses his lips, glaring at Merlin like he’s hoping the power of it will make him disintegrate. 

Merlin gathers the coins in his hands, throwing one to Percy, Gwaine and George who catches it with a bewildered expression. Lancelot shakes his head when one is offered to him too. Merlin just shrugs, chuckling. 

“I hope that jacket is going to be worth it,” Arthur mutters mockingly, although it’s obvious to everyone (maybe with the exception of George) that he’s not really mad. 

“Oh, God,” George says suddenly. “It’s so late. I need to be up early.”

Merlin jumps to his side, poking his arm. “I’ll walk you home.”

“What?” George blurts at the same time Arthur yelps in horror, “What?”

“You said you don’t drink,” Merlin explains. “I’ll just make sure you make it back in one piece.” 

“You don’t have to-”

Next to them, Gwaine manifests as if  summoned out of nowhere. “I’d be happy to take him home if you want to stick around for a bit, Merlin.”

Making a noise like a dying boar, George grips Merlin by the sleeve of his jacket. “Actually, would you mind?” 

The ale has definitely worn off. 

Pressing his lips together, Merlin replies, “Of course.” 

Gwaine makes an affronted sound, and Lancelot decides to make himself useful and drag him away. He shoots Merlin an encouraging look which is answered with a faint, lopsided smile. 

George pulls on Merlin’s jacked frantically, keeping an alarmed, cautious eye on Gwaine. Finally, Merlin laughs and walks out with George hot on his heels. 

Gwaine sighs in disappointment and takes off to cry his heart out - presumably on Percy’s shoulder. 

When Lancelot looks at Arthur, he finds His Majesty glaring at the door with such ferocity that would force a lesser man to his knees in fear. It only makes Lancelot chuckle. 

Two sides of the same idiot, more likely.

***

“Are you scared of Gwaine?” Merlin asks as George leads them to his house. 

“I’m not!” 

If it wasn’t dark, Merlin’s certain he would find George’s face flushed darker than his tunic. 

“It’s okay if you are,” Merlin says breezily. “He’s a bit… intense.”

“You don’t say.”

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

“I did.” George sighs, like it’s painful to admit it. “Thank you. For inviting me.”

“I was happy to.”

They walk for a couple more minutes in silence until George comes to a sudden stop. 

“I live here.”

“Oh.” Whatever was left of the pleasant buzz is promptly replaced by stomach-turning anxiety. “Anyone home?”

“No. I lived with my mother and my little sister. My mother passed away four years ago,” George says, sounding strangely hollow.

“I’m sorry. Your sister?”

“Doesn’t live in the city. She got married and moved to a village on the outskirts of the kingdom.”

“You must miss her.”

George shrugs. “I visit when I can.”

It hits Merlin then how little he actually knows about George and how much he would like to change that. Maybe he’ll still get his chance when this utter mess is over. 

“You could request time off when Harold comes back to work.”

“Maybe.”

George takes a deep breath, and Merlin recognises he’s meaning to bid him goodnight. 

“George,” he says hastily. “There’s something I wanted to speak to you about. I know it’ll sound strange, but… do you remember how I asked you about Agravaine?”

George frowns, but doesn't berate Merlin for his informality. He's probably given up. “What about him?”

Do it, do it, do it!

“I’m worried… about Arthur,” he starts vaguely. “I fear his uncle isn’t being truthful with him.”

George’s frown only deepens. “What are you talking about?”

“I think Agravaine is planning something. To hurt Arthur.”

“What-”

“I wanted to ask a favour.” He takes a step forward. George grows taut like a bow. “I know it’s a lot. I know you’ll think I’m crazy.” He laughs humourlessly. “But right now, you’re the closest to Agravaine, apart from Arthur. You have access to his chambers at all times and-”

“I’m not going to spy on a lord!” George whisper-shouts, eyes filling with fear. 

“I don’t want you to do that. Not exactly. Just… if there’s something suspicious, if you see something that doesn’t seem right, could you let me know?”

“You’re mad,” George hisses, then lower, “You’re talking treason.”

“It’s not treason. George, you know that I would never-” He stops, running a hand over his face. “Arthur is my closest friend. I only want to keep him safe.”

“You are crazy,” George agrees, staring at Merlin in disbelief. “And if anyone found out about this, they would have us both locked up. And possibly executed!” 

“George…”

“Look. I can’t help you even if I wanted to. Which I don’t!” he hastens to add. “Harold has been getting better and he’ll be back in a couple of days. If you want help with your crazy ideas, you ask him.”

So this is it, Merlin thinks. This is when the last spark of hope flickers out. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, resigned. “I didn’t mean to… I’m just scared for Arthur.”

For a long while George simply looks at him, irritation mixing with disappointment. It’s been a long time since Merlin felt this crappy about himself. And to think that George of all people is the one to invoke that feeling in him...

Eventually, George sighs, and when he says “Good night, Merlin,” it feels final. He turns around, already halfway through the door. 

“George!” Merlin calls, hating the way George’s back stiffens. “You know you can join us again any time, right?” It doesn’t matter if George won’t help him. Merlin might have deceived him to a degree, but he meant it when he said he wanted them to be friends. “I’ll protect you from Gwaine.”

George makes a sound like a snicker, and Merlin could hug him. 

“Much appreciated,” George says sardonically. He’s still wary, Merlin can see it in the way he holds himself, looking at Merlin with caution. Merlin knows he deserves it.

“Good night, George,” he says softly, trying not to pout when George doesn’t say it back. 

***

“Arthur?”

To say that Merlin is surprised to find Arthur leaning against the wall outside the physician’s chambers would be the understatement of the century. 

Startling, Arthur springs upright. “Hey.”

“Um…”

“I wanted to make sure you got home safe,” Arthur answers the unspoken question. “I would’ve waited inside, but Gauis is asleep. I knocked, but there was no answer.”

Merlin fights the dopey smile with all he has. “Thank you. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Arthur snorts. “I hope you’re proud of yourself, winning by cheating.”

“Oh, sod off,” Merlin whines, insulted despite it being a completely reasonable - and justified - accusation. “You’re such a sore loser.”

“Whatever you say.”

“So,” Merlin starts tauntingly. “Apart from having been beaten by your simple-minded manservant, did you have fun?”

“It wasn’t terrible,” Arthur says, voice flat. “I still can’t believe you invited George.”

Merlin feels his smile fall. He’s such an idiot, as Arthur always reminds him. Why did he have to go and ruin one good thing that could’ve come out of this chaos. 

“He needs friends. He’s a good man.”

“I thought you didn’t like him.”

“I didn’t really know him. I just knew he was uptight and way too serious about his job.” He thinks back on all the brass jokes and can’t believe Arthur had called George boring. Boring! “I mean, he is, but he’s also quite funny.”

“Uh-huh,” Arthur says, doubtful. “You can admit you were jealous of him.”

“What?! You are the one who kept shooting us the stink eye whenever we talked!”

“That wasn’t jealousy! I knew you were plotting against me.”

“You’re paranoid.”

“You’re a poor liar.” 

Merlin glares at him, making him laugh. 

“You see?” Arthur says, leaning back against the wall. “You’ll never be a bitter, cold man. You’re befriending bloody George because you feel sorry for him.”

“That’s not true. I actually like him, you know. And I believe everyone deserves a chance. Or two.”

“Yeah. I know,” Arthur says quietly. He licks his lips, and if Merlin didn’t know better, he’d say he looks nervous. “Merlin, when I said… When I said I didn’t want you to change, I didn’t mean that I would stop- um… I wouldn’t stop wanting to have you around if you did.” 

Merlin holds his breath, staying quiet and praying Arthur doesn’t hear his heart hammering in his chest.

“When I say I don’t want you to change, what I mean is that I… that I want you to be you. Always.” He seeks out Merlin’s eyes, his own scared and earnest. “Do you understand what I’m saying? I know that I don’t-”

“No. I mean, yeah. I… I think I do,” Merlin says, breathless. Arthur might have as well ripped his pounding heart out and stuffed it into his pocket. He keeps looking at Merlin like a scared, little boy, ready to flee any second. And it’s probably for that very reason, this need to give Arthur anything and everything he asks for without actually asking, that Merlin says, “Same to you.”

As if waiting for permission, Arthur pushes away from the wall, swaying forward like he’s not in control of his body. As though it’s the pulsing thread in Merlin’s chest that pulls him closer. 

Looking at Arthur is like looking in the mirror, having all the longing and affection stare right back, suffocating in its intensity. 

Eyes glued to Merlin’s lips, Arthur sways forward once more, before his dazed expression turns frightened. He staggers back. 

Merlin doesn’t throw himself at his King. Never wants Arthur to be scared in his presence. But he can’t let Arthur leave like this either. 

It’s the easiest yet hardest thing ever to step into Arthur’s space, answer his dismayed expression with a comforting smile and open his arms. 

They never do this - not like this, not just because - and Merlin hates the fact with the power of a thousand suns. 

He thinks Arthur might hate it too, if the way his defenses fall at once is any indication. There’s not a trace of fear left when he steps into Merlin’s arms, letting out a breath against the naked skin of Merlin’s neck. 

Merlin makes an unidentifiable noise, grateful when Arthur doesn’t mention it, and buries his nose in the gold of Arthur’s hair, smelling lavender, and sage, and Arthur. 

There’s no way Arthur doesn’t feel Merlin’s still pounding heart while pressed tight against him, but for once it doesn’t matter, for Arthur’s heart joins his, the two almost beating in sync. 

For a moment, nothing else matters. For a moment, Merlin doesn’t give a damn about ancient prophecies, and treacherous uncles, or that he isn’t who he’s supposed to be. 

Maybe he’s not who he’s supposed to be, but here is where he’s supposed to be. Always. 

Their cheeks brush as they pull away, slow as you please. Arthur shivers momentarily when Merlin’s slightly stubbly skin slides against his clean-shaven one. 

And because he doesn’t want them to part yet, Merlin asks, “Do you want me to walk you to your chambers?” 

He should’ve known how it would sound, whispered low and hoarse right into Arthur’s ear. It’s only when Arthur gasps sharply against his neck that Merlin realises, and Arthur’s reaction sends something hot and dangerous down the column of his spine. He’s two seconds away from shoving Arthur against the wall and drawing that delicious sound from his lips with his own. 

So it’s a good thing when Arthur steps away, delivering a pinch to Merlin’s side. “I’m not a girl, Merlin.”

He should make a joke, tease Arthur about the ‘girly’ habits they both know he possesses. But the scorching flame making him dizzy with want hasn’t died, and instead he says, rough and suggestive, “I know.” 

Arthur’s mouth falls open, and for a second, Merlin sees that flame reflected in Arthur’s eyes. 

Taking pity on both of them, he says, “I suppose this is a good night, then.”

“Yeah,” Arthur replies gravelly. “Good night, Merlin,” he says, making no move to walk away.

Summoning all the strength left in him, Merlin’s the first to move away, the growing distance between them physically painful.

“Good night, Arthur,” he whispers before he disappears into his chambers, fully knowing he’ll never forget Arthur’s gorgeous, wanting face as he watches Merlin go.

Chapter Text

Merlin wakes with a hiss of pain-pleasure, gasping into his pillow and grinding his hips into the mattress. The brightness of the room hurts his eyes, chasing away the remnants of his dream. Or not a dream - a memory. 

Annoyed, Merlin flops onto his back, throwing an arm over his face. He wrinkles his nose when he gets a whiff of his tunic, the distinctive smell of the tavern mixed with his own sweat hitting him and successfully waking him up. 

He knows he should have bathed before he went to sleep, or at least cast a spell, but he just hadn’t been able to do it. Arthur’s scent had still clung to him after Merlin had said good night, even when he had stripped off his jacket and trousers and fallen into bed only in his smallclothes and tunic. 

It had clung to him as he pulled the covers over himself and curled into a ball on his side, pretending Arthur was behind him, his chest pressed seamlessly to Merlin’s back, lips grazing Merlin’s nape, peppering tender kisses over the sensitive skin until they'd both fall asleep. 

Merlin imagines what would’ve happened if he hadn’t said good night, if instead he’d asked Arthur to stay, to follow him to his room. He imagines Arthur saying yes, taking Merlin’s offered hand and following him; nervous, but without hesitation. 

He thinks about spending the night learning every curve, every dip, every scar of each other’s bodies. Of making his dreams come true and drawing every little sound of pleasure from Arthur’s lips, watching his beautiful, breathtaking face as he falls apart under Merlin, until Merlin puts him back together with endless kisses and whispered praise. 

With a guttural groan, he kicks the covers off, his skin ridiculously hot in the chilly air. He doesn’t trail his hand down his chest and over his stomach until he reaches the hem of his smallclothes. He doesn’t waste time with teasing touches that would make him quiver with anticipation. 

Instead, he shoves his hand rather unceremoniously beneath the fabric where he’s already hard and leaking. He bites down hard on his lip when the first touch to his cock punches a loud, desperate moan out of him, sending a violent shiver through his body. 

He can’t even remember the last time he’d indulged himself. Not because he hadn’t wanted to - Gods, he’s Arthur’s manservant, he always wants to - but even without the imminent threat of death and being too busy defying the prophecy, it had felt wrong. It had felt wrong for years, possibly since Gwen had become Queen. 

Whenever Merlin’s resolve had shattered and he’d succumbed to his desire, the short-lived relief and the fleeting moment of pleasure had been spoiled by tremendous guilt and burning shame. He knows he hadn’t been harming anyone, always making sure to keep his true feelings carefully tucked away at all times. But he’d never been able to shake the stomach-turning sensation that he was doing something wrong, for his thoughts had revolved around someone whose heart had belonged to another.

It all seems so far away now, as though it’s part of a different life. It occurs to Merlin it probably is.

There’s no guilt this time as he imagines that the hand wrapped around him belongs to Arthur. That his large, blue eyes are boring into Merlin’s as he leans over him, watching with rapt attention how Merlin’s face transforms with each stroke and twist of his hand, smiling ridiculously wide when Merlin breathes his name.

There’s no shame when he rolls his hips upwards, picturing what it would be like to  chase the tight, calloused feel of Arthur’s hand. No shame when he imagines Arthur’s raspy laugh, calling Merlin impatient and greedy but obliging anyway, then dipping down to steal the next moan straight from Merlin’s lips. 

Of all things, it’s with that, with the ghost of Arthur’s lips on his own, warm and loving and perfect, that Merlin stifles a hiccuping whimper into his palm as he comes, spending all over his hand and the trail of hair leading to his groin, soaking the fabric of his smallclothes. It feels like he’s coming for ages, though it can’t be more than a few seconds; a few, agonising, spectacular seconds when everything feels so good, so right, that a single stray tear spills from the corner of his eye, as though something inside him just broke in the best way possible. 

Blood is still rushing in his ears as he cleans himself up with a simple thought, then rubs the back of his hand over his temple, wiping the wetness away. 

The whole world might be crashing down, and it probably is, but the way Arthur held him, the way he looked at him last night, like he never wanted to look at anything else, will stay with Merlin forever. And no matter what he does, he can’t shake the feeling that he’d seen that look before. 

He wonders, thinking back on Arthur’s last words before he’d died in Merlin’s arms, if, maybe, Arthur had been looking at him like that for longer than Merlin remembers. And if, maybe, Merlin had just been too blind to see it. 

He wonders how long it had been there.

He wonders if there had ever been a time when Arthur hadn’t looked at him like that. 

***

Merlin bursts through the door to Arthur’s chambers like a whirlwind, sending a subtle blast of magic into his hands when the tray nearly slips. 

He’s outrageously late, having let himself get carried aways after he woke up, rushing through his bath. 

“Good morning,” he says breathlessly, seeking out Arthur’s presumably stormy face. 

Instead, he finds the King staring back with wide but soft eyes, sitting on the bed and leaning against the headboard.

“Hey," Arthur croaks, sheets rustling as he shifts. 

Recovering from his initial shock of not being yelled at, Merlin walks to the table, placing the tray there.

“How did you sleep?” he asks, his back to Arthur. There’s no way Merlin can look at him without his face giving him away. 

There’s a moment of silence, as though the question takes Arthur by surprise. As though he can hear the underlying meaning of it. 

“I should be asking you that.”

Arthur’s evasiveness awakens something inside Merlin, something that causes his more primal, less cautious side to take over. Merlin equally loves and hates that part. Hates, because it always gets him in trouble. Loves, because it has no interest in pretending. 

“Then ask.” He turns around with a challenging smile. 

Arthur scowls at him in annoyance, which only makes Merlin’s smile bigger. Still, Arthur doesn’t ask, whether it’s due to plain stubbornness or something else. 

In a raspy voice, Merlin says, unprompted, “I slept very well.” 

Arthur shifts again, the headboard creaking as he does so. 

“Sure,” he says mockingly.

“What? 

“You seemed to be a bit out of it last night.”

Merlin swallows his protest. 

Arthur could easily just be messing with him. But something in his voice catches Merlin’s attention. It could be the absence of the usually unmistakable teasing note, or the way Arthur is avoiding Merlin’s eyes, staring at his lap instead.

Whatever it is, it sounds a lot like resignation. And Merlin absolutely can’t allow that.  

“I was perfectly aware of everything that was going on. Or what I was doing.”

It’s like watching the sun pierce through the clouds. Arthur’s face, when he dares a look at Merlin, opens like a flower in full bloom, devastatingly beautiful in its vulnerability. His chest expands and falls with uneven breaths, his throat working as though he wants to say something but is unable to get it past his lips. 

“Oh,” he says after an endless moment. “Y-yeah, I guess you had to be. Given you took all my money.”

It’s a pitiful joke and they both know it. But Merlin recognises it for the desperate attempt it is, serving nothing more than to let Arthur preserve some sense of control.

So Merlin laughs, a short, hoarse noise that sounds jarring to his own ears. “Yeah. That.”

Arthur presses his lips together, and it feels like they’re sharing something private. 

Releasing a breath, Merlin does something he’s never done before. 

“Do you feel like having breakfast in bed?”

Far be it from Merlin to care about propriety and good manners. The only reason he’s always made Arthur eat at the table is the pleasure he gets from dragging Arthur kicking and screaming out of bed, listening to his murmured insults and complaints while begrudgingly following Merlin’s orders. 

But he’s reluctant to disrupt the curious, fragile spell hanging in the air, making this stretched-out moment feel almost sacred. He can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from Arthur (which is a recurring phenomenon, to be honest), not when the prat looks all soft and ruffled. 

Especially since he’d turned into a blushing maiden since Merlin had entered the room, playing coy and driving Merlin to the brink of his sanity. And self-control. 

Merlin’s tremendously resilient self-control that only slips further away  when he finally notices Arthur’s state of undress, reminiscent of yesterday morning. It’s taken him longer this time around, because unlike the other day there are no clothes scattered around and Arthur’s not trying to pull the covers up to his chin to hide…whatever he thinks Merlin hasn't seen before. Not that it matters - if given a chance, Merlin would gladly take another look, a thousand looks, in fact. 

Today, the clothes are neatly folded and arranged into a pile at the foot of the bed. To his dismay, Arthur had done a better job than Merlin ever could. Why Arthur would fold clothes that are meant for washing is beyond him. 

Arthur blinks at him owlishly, then looks around himself. “I’ll make a mess.”

And dear Gods, how can such a simple thing sound so wonderfully filthy coming from Arthur’s mouth?

Turning his gaze heavenwards, Merlin sends a silent prayer to anything and anyone who’s willing to listen. 

“I’ll be taking the sheets for washing anyway, so you might as well.” There. That sounded natural, right? 

“Oh. Okay, then.”

Merlin only takes the plate to Arthur, not bothering with silverware since it’s only bread, sausages and apple crescents. Arthur doesn’t even mention it, offering Merlin a gentle smile as he takes the plate from him. To Merlin’s surprise, he goes for a piece of apple first, then stops. He looks at Merlin, then at the plate, raising it towards him. 

“Do you want some?”

Merlin knows he’s gaping like the idiot Arthur always accuses him of being, but how can he not? He squints at Arthur, suspicious, looking for a sign of mockery.

But Arthur’s expression is nothing but sincere and, dare Merlin say, nervous.  

“I’m fine, thanks. I had a big breakfast,” he lies. 

His stomach is cramping from emptiness due to forgoing breakfast. Not only was he late already, but Gaius started asking questions about last night the second Merlin exited his room. So Merlin had fled. Naturally. 

His stomach doesn’t grumble unhappily, but Arthur still senses the lie. He rolls his eyes, basically pushing the plate under Merlin’s nose.

“Go on. I know you like them.”

And if that doesn’t steal the wind from Merlin’s sails, nothing ever will. 

He couldn’t have mentioned his preference more than once, years and years ago. For Arthur to remember such a meaningless thing…

It’s laughable, that something so small brings tears to his eyes, but Merlin has been under a lot of stress lately (give or take ten years) and thus shouldn’t be too shocked by his emotional reaction. 

Blinking rapidly, Merlin reaches for a piece of apple with trembling fingers. 

“Thanks.”

His eyes are still burning and he hastily turns around, making a beeline for Arthur’s wardrobe to pick a fresh set of clothes for him while chewing on the apple. The juicy sweetness is wonderfully soothing, helping Merlin focus on something other than the love of his life naked in bed, remembering stupid shit about Merlin like his favourite food. 

He doesn’t even make it to the wardrobe before Arthur’s agitated voice calls, “Can you not run around while you eat?” 

Merlin spins around just in time to witness Arthur’s exasperated, incredulous head shake. 

“Just sit down,” he says, shoving a chunk of bread in his mouth and chewing angrily. 

Sighing at Arthur’s sudden, but not uncommon change in mood, Merlin walks back to the table. 

“Not over there, you pillock,” Arthur barks when Merlin pulls out a chair. 

Fed up with His Majesty’s temper, Merlin snaps, “Shall I sit on the floor by your bed, then?”

“Not on the floor, you-” Arthur trails off, taking a deep breath. “Whatever. Forget it.”

It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to decipher what Arthur’s trying to say. It’s not Merlin’s fault anyway, but the whole situation is so incredibly surreal that if it weren’t for his aching stomach, he would think he’s still dreaming. 

Since he’s not, he makes his way over, watching Arthur’s irritation melt away with each step that brings Merlin closer. Standing by the side of the bed, nervous and expectant, Merlin sits himself gingerly at the edge, painfully aware of Arthur’s proximity. 

When Arthur does nothing but to keep staring at him like a baby deer, Merlin starts to think he got it all wrong, that this isn’t what Arthur’d had in mind at all. But before he can scramble back and offer a string of apologies, the perplexed expression has disappeared, and Arthur is offering him the plate again. 

Merlin takes another apple only because he needs something other to focus on than the miniscule distance separating them. 

“So, how did you sleep?” he asks, since Arthur gracefully avoided the question the first time around. 

Pausing mid-chew, Arthur replies stiffly, “Good.”

“Had any nice dreams?”

Arthur chokes on a sausage. “I- I can’t remember.”

Now, that’s a big, fat lie, Merlin’s sure of that. 

“Shame. I had really nice ones.”

It’s nearly impossible to hold in the giggle itching at the back of his throat as he watches Arthur squirm, a fierce blush climbing up his neck, turning his ears a dark shade of pink. 

“About?” Arthur asks, voice rough. 

“Last night.”

Arthur lets out a curse as he only barely manages to catch the plate when it starts to topple over. 

Merlin snorts, earning a scathing glare. 

“You dreamt that you humiliated me in front of my knights even more, or something?” Arthur asks, laughing meekly.

“Or something,” Merlin says vaguely, suggestively. 

Arthur’s throat bobs as he swallows, turning to look at Merlin. He has that startled deer look again, but there’s something else too. Something deeper and raw, like he’s begging Merlin to understand what he doesn't dare say out loud. 

Merlin thinks he knows what that might be. He just doesn’t think he can acknowledge it, let alone act on it with this ever-present shadow hovering over them. 

He thought there was nothing he wanted more than to make all his dreams involving Arthur come true. Only now he realises that what he wants more than anything is for Arthur to know everything. To finally know him .

“Arthur. There’s something I want to tell you.” 

The words come out of nowhere, making Merlin’s heart race. He’s about to do it. Gods, he’s about to do it. He knows now how Arthur really feels. There’s no other way to explain what happened yesterday, no way to ignore what’s going on at this very moment.  

It’s there, on the tip of his tongue, begging to be released. He can almost taste it, bittersweet and burning. 

And Arthur’s watching him, expectant and attentive. He doesn't have any idea what Merlin wants to say, but the way he’s looking at him makes Merlin feel like the most important thing in the world. 

So it shouldn’t feel like a punch in the gut, it shouldn’t make Merlin want to cry when what comes out is, "Thank you. For joining us yesterday. I missed spending time with you.” 

The words are no less true than what he’d meant to say, but the fact that he’d once again chosen to give in to cowardice makes his stomach roll for a different reason than hunger. 

Arthur - oblivious, sweet, naive Arthur - smiles as if Merlin just made his day. 

“We don’t always need to go to the tavern to do that, you know,” he says, huffing out a laugh. 

It should be alarming, how easily Merlin puts on a mask and summons the most sheepish smile he can, even though he’d like nothing more than to curl himself into a ball and curse the mess he’s made of his life.

“I just like it. It feels like there are no ranks, no expectations or responsibilities. Just two men, having a drink together. Or playing a game.” 

“Well, my point still stands. We don’t have to go to the tavern to do that.” Arthur bites his lip, a single frown line forming between his brows. “We could both take a day off. Go… somewhere.”

Merlin gives him an unimpressed glare. “Like a hunting trip?” Arthur should know by now how Merlin loathes those.

“No.” Arthur shakes his head. “Just go somewhere. Take a break from all the madness." 

Is Arthur saying what Merlin thinks he’s saying? 

He tries to imagine it. Just the two of them, together. No knights, no distractions. Just the two of them. Going somewhere and forgetting, if only for one day, that they are a king and his servant. 

He wants to scream Yes! Yes, I want that, let’s do that! but instead says, “You say that but we both know I would be expected to organise everything and be at your beck and call,” 

“That’s not-” Arthur starts, disgruntled and pouting. “If that’s what worries you, maybe you can ask George to tag along.” 

“Oh, stop it.” Merlin swats his arm, laughing. “It’s getting ridiculous.”

“You’re getting ridiculous.”

“I thought I already was.” He laughs some more at Arthur’s growing pout, fighting the sudden urge to kiss it away. “Arthur,” he says solemnly, poking Arthur’s side when he refuses to look at him. “I would love to. Wherever you decide you want to go, I’ll follow.”

It must have been the right thing to say, because the pout is gone (Merlin misses it only a little) and he peeks at Merlin from the corner of his eye, shy and thoughtful. 

“Okay,” Arthur says after a while, quiet. “Looking forward to it.”

He busies himself with shoving another chunk of bread in his mouth, then offers the plate to Merlin without looking. 

Merlin notices Arthur hasn’t had a single piece of apple. 

He should probably just throw himself off a cliff. At least that way his suffering would be short-lived.

***

Something shifts that morning. Merlin can feel it in his bones and in the air in the room, like a string stretching itself to enormous measures while no one knows how far it can go before it snaps. 

He can feel it when he prepares Arthur for training, a sense of calmness and rightness settling over him as he tightens the fastenings of Arthur’s armour.

It follows him as he walks with Arthur to the training field, as he watches Arthur knock his knights to the ground one by one. He feels it when Arthur turns to him with a ridiculously big smile, all proud and happy, and Merlin smiles back with an even sillier one, because he can’t not. 

He feels it even when Lancelot catches his gaze, a question written on his face, which Merlin answers with a shake of his head, mouthing Later , then follows Arthur back to his chambers.

He feels it when he prepares a bath for Arthur, nearly suffocates on it when Arthur asks him to wash his hair. 

He feels it as he brings Arthur lunch, then obeys Arthur’s order to join him when his treacherous stomach finally makes itself known. He feels it as he steals Arthur’s cheese, expecting a lecture but receiving an eyeroll and another of those rare, precious smiles. 

He feels it as he leaves Arthur’s chambers with a pile of laundry in his hands and thinks of how much he wants to feel it for the rest of his life. 

It might just be wishful thinking, but something keeps telling him that against all odds, despite everything that has gone wrong, they’re going to be okay. 

It might have taken him ten years to realise, to accept, to really believe , but now that he’s seen it, he can never unsee, never wants to forget what it feels like to look at someone he loves and see them look back the exact same way. 

***

One more day, George thinks blissfully as he dips the rag into the bucket, starting to scrub another section of the floor. One more day and he will be a free man. Well, not a free man, really, but free to do whatever he’d been doing until he’d been assigned as Sir Agravaine’s manservant. And it’s not like Sir Agravaine is difficult to work for - if anything, the man cares about very little beyond having three meals a day and clean clothes, apparently too busy with… lordly duties. 

So George can’t really complain. And he’s not! He just misses his routine, the simplicity of it. Being a servant to a noble can often be unpredictable - because people are unpredictable. 

George doesn’t like unpredictable. 

And yes, he had been excited about becoming the King’s manservant, but he’d soon learnt his lesson. King Arthur must be the most unpredictable man George has ever encountered. 

Except for Merlin. No wonder he and the King get on like a house on fire. 

And maybe there’s the tiniest possibility that George had enjoyed Merlin’s company, had foolishly believed they could be friends. That is, before Merlin turned out to be a lunatic. Maybe coming back from the dead has some undesirable side-effects.

He dips the rag in again, inching to the right, closer to the bed. He grunts under his breath as he spots a trail of red dust left behind by Sir Agravaine’s boots. Not dust - soil. Again. For the second time in just a week. Would it be too bothersome to wipe the mess off before entering the chambers? Evidently, yes. 

He pushes the boots aside, dusting them off and wiping away the mess from the floor. He reaches under the bed to get any remnants of the dust when his hand bumps into something cool and hard. With a frown, he lowers his chest to the floor, baffled when he finds a small chest under the bed. 

He’s quite sure that wasn’t there earlier in the week when he was cleaning the floor. Not that it’s any of his business.

He shakes his head and resumes scrubbing. He carries on for about half a minute before a little voice in his head - that sounds suspiciously like Merlin - starts nagging.

He groans, throwing the rag into the bucket angrily. What is he even thinking?! Merlin had talked utter nonsense, must be completely delusional. 

But George remembers what Merlin had looked like as he asked him for help, desperate and pleading, and try as he might, he can’t forget his devastated face when George had told him no. Merlin actually believes what he was saying. 

Sighing, he peeks under the bed again.

No one has to know. He can just have a quick look, to ease his mind. No one will know.  

It feels so wrong, touching someone’s private possessions. This is all Merlin’s fault anyway. He’d made George doubt his own sanity. 

Shooting a quick look towards the door, George pulls the chest to himself, hands shaking. He tugs at the lid. Please, be locked, pleasebelockedpleasebelocked.

The chest opens. Oh, fuck.

There’s only one thing - a book, judging by its shape - covered in a piece of black cloth. George reaches for it before he knows what he’s doing. 

He feels something’s wrong even before he pulls the cloth off.

Oh my God. 

He’s hallucinating, there’s no other explanation.

But the book in his hands is solid and heavy. Definitely there. He doesn't dare open it.

Heart in his throat, he wraps the cloth around the book hastily, placing it back into the chest and slamming the lid closed. He pushes the chest under the bed, trying to remember how exactly he found it. 

He shouldn’t have done that. He should never have touched that thing. He should never have listened to Merlin.

Merlin.

He needs to talk to Merlin.

***

The door swings open, but instead of Merlin he’s looking at Sir Lancelot. 

“George,” Sir Lancelot says, but it sounds more like a question than an actual greeting. It’s hard to say which one of them is more surprised to see the other.

“Sir Lancelot,” George says. He sees Gaius sitting at the table and offers him a short nod.  

“Is something the matter?” Sir Lancelot asks. 

“I…Is Merlin here? I need to speak to him.”

“I believe he’s attending Arthur. It’s lunchtime, after all," replies Gaius.

Damn. He keeps bumping into Merlin all the bloody time, but the one time he actually needs to see him, he’s not there. 

“Right. Of course.”

Great. Bloody amazing. Maybe it’s a sign - he shouldn’t stick his nose into something that doesn’t con-

“George?”

He spins around towards the sound, and there stands Merlin, and George has never been more glad to see him, while wanting nothing more than to punch Merlin straight in the nose for destroying his simple, peaceful life.

“Merlin!”

“What are you-”

He grabs Merlin by his jacket and tugs him inside, shutting the door behind him with a slam. 

“There’s- There was-” he stutters, the words getting stuck in his throat. He looks over his shoulder, finding Sir Lancelot and Gaius watching him like he’s a madman. He probably is. “I need to tell you something,” he whispers to Merlin. “In private.”

Looking behind George, Merlin says calmly, “You can speak in front of Gaius and Lancelot. It’s alright. I promise.” He must notice George’s doubtful expression, because he says, “George. Tell me. Whatever it is.”

He still thinks Merlin’s crazy, even more so now, daring to speak of something like this in a knight’s presence. But if George doesn't say something, he will go mad, truly. 

“I… found something. In Sir Agravaine’s chambers.” 

Merlin’s eyes go wide, his shoulders stiffen. He gives George a small nod, urging him on. 

“A book.”

Merlin barely blinks, asks, “What kind of book?”

George hesitates again, though he knows there’s no going back now that he’s opened Pandora's box. “A book of s-spells. I think… I think it was dark magic.”

He expects to hear a shocked gasp, to see an alarmed expression, any sign of panic at all. But Merlin doesn’t look panicked; he hardly looks surprised. For their part, Gaius and Sir Lancelot wear identical worried expressions, exchanging a look with one another.

But not Merlin, who closes his eyes briefly and takes a deep breath. When he opens his eyes, his gaze is firm, determined. 

“George, listen to me.” Merlin grabs him by the arms, squeezing a little too tightly. “I need you to tell Arthur.”

“What?!” George yells, horrified. Does Merlin want to get him killed?! “I can’t just-”

“George! You must tell him.” Merlin’s eyes are pleading, but fierce. “I’ve tried to warn him, I’ve tried, believe me. But he won’t listen.”

“And you think he’ll listen to me?!”

“He needs to hear it from someone else. And this time, you have physical evidence.” 

“Merlin. I c-can’t. Please, don’t make me do this.”

Merlin’s face falls, as though seeing George have a mental breakdown hurts him somehow. His voice, when it comes next, is much softer. 

“No harm will come to you,” he says solemnly. “I promise. Arthur won’t expose you to Agravaine. He knows better. But you need to tell him . Something terrible is going to happen otherwise.”

And that’s not fair, George thinks. He’s never wanted to have anything to do with any of this. Why does Merlin have to make it sound like the King’s life is in George’s hands? He’s just a simple servant - a good servant, the best, in fact, but just a servant. 

Suddenly, Sir Lancelot is by Merlin’s side. “I’ll see you to Arthur’s chambers, if you’d like,” he says, earnest and sympathetic, a stark contrast to Merlin’s urgent, pleading look.

This is a bad idea. The worst idea. 

“Okay,” George says weakly. The idea of something terrible happening if he doesn’t do this wouldn’t let him sleep for months. “I- I’ll do it.”

Merlin’s shoulders sag with relief, as if someone has cut the strings. He whispers a shaky “Thank you.”

George already knows he’s going to regret this. 

***

Arthur quickly schools his no doubt dopey expression when there’s a knock on the door. He hasn't been able to get rid of it since Merlin left his chambers. He needs to pull himself together. He’s got work to do. 

“Enter.”

And then, the person he’s never expected to see in his chambers again - unless it was for some major spring cleaning - appears in the doorway. 

“Your Majesty,” George says, shaking like a leaf in the wind. “I’m terribly sorry for interrupting…”

“Not at all. Come in.”

George hesitates, rooted to the spot. Arthur prompts him with a tilt of his head, and finally George listens. He steps inside, shutting the door quietly behind him.

“Is something the matter?” Arthur asks. 

George is such a strange man. Even stranger than Merlin, and that’s saying something. Maybe that’s why Merlin wants to be friends.

“I’m sorry,” George says, not making any sense. “I don’t know how to say this.”

“Whatever it is, you may speak freely,” Arthur promises. He’s sure George must be overthinking whatever it is he wants to say. “No harm will come to you here.”

There’s a long pause, long enough that Arthur starts thinking George will utter another apology and flee. 

“It’s Sir Agravaine, Your Majesty,” George blurts out, rushed, staring at the floor. 

Arthur’s chest constricts with worry. “Has something happened to him?”

“No,” George says and Arthur sagswith relief. “No, I… I assume you know his manservant has been ill, and I’ve taken over his duties for the time being.” George looks up, awaiting confirmation which Arthur gives with a stiff nod. And then George starts mumbling. “I swear, I wasn’t invading Sir Agravaine’s privacy, I was only doing the general cleaning before Harold comes back tomorrow and-”

“George. Hold on. Take a deep breath,” Arthur instructs, seeing as George has worked himself into a panic. “Now speak.”

Another deep breath and then, “I found a book under his bed.” He holds Arthur’s gaze. “A book of spells.”

Arthur stills. A hysterical laugh escapes him. “What?”

“I haven’t opened it so I don’t know what was inside, but… I believe that’s what it was.”

Arthur’s initial reaction is to, naturally, dismiss the idea. Scold George for even saying something like this. But George hasn't stopped shaking, eyes wide and fearful, and Arthur cannot, in good conscience, call him a liar. Not after he promised him he could speak freely in his presence. 

So instead, he asks, “Are you absolutely sure?”

George sniffles and nods. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Arthur barely hears him over the white noise rushing in his ears. Not, not a noise - voices. 

Merlin's voice, asking him to be careful. Telling him he doesn't want to lose him.

Emrys' voice, warning him. Speaking of a future Arthur's always wished to create.

Agravaine's voice, understanding, comforting. Telling him Arthur reminds him of Ygraine.

There must have been a mistake. 

Arthur spends a few more moments searching George's face for any sign of dishonesty, of deceit. Finding none, he says hollowly, “You may go.” 

George is practically halfway outside before Arthur finishes speaking. 

“Yes, sire. My apologies, sire.”

“George,” he calls. George instantly freezes. “Thank you. For bringing this to my attention.”

George mutters something, it might be Of course, and runs away, leaving Arthur bereft, overcome with feelings he doesn’t know how to face.

Chapter Text

Arthur watches his uncle stop in the middle of the courtyard, engaging in a conversation with Geoffrey. Agravaine tips his head back, laughing, and pats the man on the shoulder, then saunters towards the castle. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Arthur rests his forehead against the cool stone of the wall. 

Everything about this feels wrong on so many levels. But he can’t afford to ignore the signs as he has been doing all along. He’s sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this. There must be . But he’ll never know until he looks for it.

He starts for the door, stopping in front of it. He spares a fleeting glance towards the stand behind his desk where he keeps his sword.. 

No. He can’t. He won’t carry a sword to his uncle’s chambers. 

But what if George is right?

Opening the door, he turns to one of the guards. 

“Follow me,” he orders, spinning on his heel and taking off without further explanation. 

The guard, of course, follows him, unquestioning, and Arthur hates that his presence makes him slightly less anxious. He shouldn’t be feeling like this, not when nothing has been confirmed. 

Nothing has been denied either.

Standing in front of Agravaine’s chambers feels a lot like what Arthur imagines standing at the gallows would be like; final, with no escape in sight. 

A huge part of him hopes Agravaine hasn’t yet returned, but that hope goes up in smoke when Arthur’s knock is answered almost immediately. 

“Enter.”

Arthur turns to the rather perplexed guard. “Don’t come in unless I call for you,” and with his heart stuck in his throat, he walks in.

“Arthur,” Agravaine greets with a wide smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

There must be an explanation. There must be one.

“Hello, Uncle.”

Agravaine’s brows drawn together in concern. Arthur can only imagine what he looks like. “Are you alright, Arthur?”

You’ll never know unless you look.

“No. I’m rather disturbed,” he replies carefully, stepping further into the room. He can’t not notice that Agravaine’s standing strategically in front of the bed, following Arthur’s every move. 

Only because I’m acting strangely.

“By what, may I ask?”

Arthur’s eyes shift to the bed, then back to his uncle. Agravaine doesn’t seem perturbed, doesn’t try to stop Arthur when he comes up to him. 

“Excuse me,” he says calmly, pushing Agravaine out of the way gingerly and approaching the bed. Agravaine doesn’t stop him, and Arthur prays that’s just further proof that George had it all wrong. 

Sinking to his knees, Arthur bends down to look underneath the bed frame. There’s no book, but there’s a chest. Arthur reaches for it with a trembling hand, pulling it towards himself. 

“Arthur?” Agravaine says, shifting on his feet. Arthur ignores him.

He opens the chest, finding something large wrapped in black cloth. He takes it out, knowing by the shape and weight it must be a book. 

It’s just a book. Just a book.

He pulls the cloth off. 

Tears spring to his eyes. He presses a fist to his mouth, stifling whatever sound is trying to tear itself from his throat. . 

He doesn’t dare open it. Doesn’t need to.

The Art of Necromancy

He wipes at his eyes and rises to his feet.

“How do you explain this, Uncle?” 

It might have sounded more threatening if he wasn’t shaking uncontrollably

He expects Agravaine’s expression to turn alarmed, to sputter his way through excuses. Or beg Arthur for forgiveness.

But Agravaine’s eyes are only slightly wider than usual, and he looks at Arthur with something akin to pity. 

“Oh, Arthur.” He sighs, shaking his head regretfully. “I was hoping I had more time.”

“More time?” Arthur asks, uncomprehending. 

“Yes.” Agravaine sighs again, looking at Arthur with glistening eyes. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I’ve been looking for a way to break the sad news to you in the most gentle way possible.”

“Sad news,” Arthur echoes, letting out a snarl. “The news that you betrayed me.”

Agravaine looks positively appalled. “Arthur, I would never! But I can see why you would think that. This book-” He points to the cursed item in Arthur’s hands. “I found it in Gaius’ chambers.”

“What?”

“I’m afraid it’s true,” Agravaine says wistfully. “And the reason I didn’t come to you immediately is that I didn’t want to upset you. You’ve been through so much. The last thing I wanted was to break your heart like that.”

No. Something’s not right. None of this makes any sense. 

“You’re lying,” Arthur growls. “You know better than anyone to come to me with information like this. You never hold back when you disagree on something.”

“You’re right, of course,” Agravaine agrees easily. “But I saw how my reaction to Merlin’s resurrection upset you. You were so happy to have your ma- to have your friend back. And to think I would have to be the one to take that away from you…”

Arthur balks at the mention of Merlin’s name. “What does Merlin have to do with anything?”

“Everything, I’m afraid. Arthur, I’m so sorry to tell you this.” Agravaine hesitates, lips set in an unhappy line. “But Merlin is not who you believe him to be. Dark magic brought him back. He’s but a puppet in the hands of someone very powerful. He’s a Shade.”

Although Arthur’s never heard the word before, he can sense the darkness of it. “A Shade?”

Agravaine nods. He steps closer, and Arthur fights the irrational instinct to put distance between them. “A powerful sorcerer can use necromancy to bring back the dead. Except it’s never the actual person that comes back, only the body.” 

He takes the book from Arthur’s stiff fingers, leafing through the pages until he finds what he’s looking for, then hands it back to Arthur. 

“Merlin isn’t a Shade, ” Arthur hisses, spitting the word out like it’s poison. The pages glare at him, confirming everything Agravaine has said. “He’s not… He’s not just an empty vessel.” 

There’s nothing empty about Merlin. He’s the most vibrant person Arthur’s ever met. So bright and full of light, leading Arthur through his darkest times, showing him the way like the North Star. 

“That’s how it appears, because the one who brings back the dead person in question has complete control over them. Can make them do anything they wish.”

Denial and rage surge inside Arthur like a tidal wave. “How do you know about this stuff?”

Agravaine gives him a rueful smile. “I have a confession to make. When Merlin came back I had this…feeling something wasn’t right. I hoped I was wrong. But my worst suspicions have been confirmed.” He fixes Arthur with his gaze. “When Merlin came back I started…researching.”

“Researching?”

“I sought out people who know magic.”

Alarm bells resound in Arthur’s head. “How would you know where to look?”

“You’re forgetting, Arthur, that I was around before the Purge took place. Did you know I had friends who had magic? I don’t fear it like your father did.”

“I’m not my father,” Arthur defends instantly. How ironic that he resents being associated with his father after spending his whole life trying to be like him. “You could’ve told me. You should have told me.”

Arthur has no interest in persecuting sorcerers, nor the Druids, nor anyone else who practices magic. He has no interest in fighting magic unless it’s to defend his kingdom. Agravaine knows this. He’s stood by Arthur’s side long enough to know. Why wouldn't he trust Arthur?

“I didn’t want to alarm you in case I was wrong about Merlin,” Agravaine explains. “But then I learnt about necromancy, and how it was the only way to bring the dead back. Naturally, I suspected Morgana might have been behind this. After all, it would have been an excellent way to get close to you, to manipulate you.” He pauses, a shadow falling over his face. “And then I heard the rumours.”

Arthur already knows he won’t like the answer. “What rumours?”

“About a sorcerer who’d forged an alliance with Morgana. A man named Emrys.”

“What did you say?” Arthur says, nearly forgetting to breathe. 

“Have you heard of him?” Agravaine asks, and for the first time since Arthur started questioning him he looks taken aback. 

Arthur bypasses the question. “What connection does he have to Merlin?”

Agravaine takes a moment to reply, as though he’s weighing his next words. 

“I thought about you. You’re always so cautious, Arthur, so responsible when it comes to your duty as King. Yet, you didn’t seem to be interested in investigating the matter. I suspected you might have resorted to drastic measures.”

It takes Arthur a while to understand that Agaravine’s referring to the circumstances of Merlin’s return, but when he does, he’s reminded of the conversation they had two days ago.

“You thought I’d asked a sorcerer for help.”

Agravaine nods. “Or that a sorcerer had approached you, seeing as you had been at your most vulnerable.” Arthur wants to protest that statement, but Agravaine keeps going. “But then you said the only person you had sought help from had been Gaius. And it all started to come together.” 

Arthur nearly laughs. “Gaius might have been using magic once upon a time, but he’s far from a powerful sorcerer.”

“Yes, that’s very much true. But he, too, has been around since before the Purge. He used to consort with other sorcerers. He could have asked one of them for help.” He tilts his head. “Didn’t you find it peculiar that Gaius, who knows about magic more than anyone else in Camelot, didn’t seem deterred by Merlin’s inexplicable resurrection, despite claiming he wasn’t the one responsible?”

“Gaius would never do anything to put Camelot in danger,” Arthur argues without hesitation. Apart from Merlin and Agravaine, there is no one Arthur trusts more than the old physician who’d served the kingdom even before Arthur was born. 

“No, of course not.,” Agravaine says placatingly. “Unless he didn’t know there’s a danger to be aware of.” 

“You said you found this in his chambers.” Arthur raises the book with unconcealed disdain. “That implies he would know about necromancy.”

“Yes. But I doubt he knows about Emrys’ true intentions. If my assumptions are correct, Emrys is an old friend of his. Gaius would have no reason to suspect any ill will.”

There’s very little Arthur wants more in this moment than to drop to the floor and scream himself hoarse, only to tune out the deafening, jumbled noise in his head. He can barely follow the direction of the conversation, losing himself in the sea of separate events that have formed a perfect, inescapable web, and Arthur’s caught in the middle of it all.

“Why were you in Gaius’ chambers in the first place?” 

“After we spoke, I went to talk to Gaius. I know you said Gaius denied his involvement in the matter, but…after everything I’d learnt, I couldn’t just let it go. I asked Gaius about Emrys. He said he’d never heard of him.”

“You think he was lying.”

Dropping his chin, Agravaine says, “I’m not proud to admit I invaded Gaius’ privacy, but I did that with your best interests at heart. I searched the chambers, not really knowing what I was looking for. Then I found this.” 

Arthur snaps the book shut, glaring at Agravaine defiantly. “Why should I believe you? There’s nothing that would suggest that what you’re saying is true.”

Agravaine huffs. “Isn’t there? Isn’t it rather convenient that Merlin doesn’t remember how he came back? Or how about the fact that Merlin has come back, but your knight hasn’t.”

“Elyan didn’t die,” Arthur says, gripping the book until his knuckles turn white. “He disappeared in the Veil.”

Agravaine looks at him as though Arthur’s explanation is merely a futile attempt to win a battle that’s already lost.

“How about your father, then?” He raises an eyebrow, as if to challenge Arthur to contradict him. “Think about it, Arthur. Why would Emrys find it advantageous to bring only Merlin back?” He goes on before Arthur can think of a reply. “He knows how close you are. He knows how much you rely on Merlin’s-”

“Merlin hasn’t acted any differently since he came back,” Arthur snaps. “I- I would know if he wasn’t himself.”

“Hasn’t he? I’ve noticed Merlin’s not exactly fond of me. The way he looks at me. Like he knows I’m a threat.” He pauses, looking at Arthur inquiringly. “He might have even said something to turn you against me. Maybe started manipulating others to work with him.”

Arthur stills, unable to reply. 

Merlin had never expressed any concern in relation to Agravaine before...before he died. It all started after he'd come back.

And Arthur hadn't listened to him, had dismissed the mere notion that his uncle could be a traitor without a second thought.

And then Emrys appeared.

Because Arthur hadn't taken Merlin's warnings seriously.

At the lack of response, Agravaine says, “I’m right, aren’t I?”

No. Nonono. Merlin hadn’t tried to turn Arthur against his uncle. He’d only been concerned for Arthur’s safety, no matter how unreasonable he’d been acting. Arthur has long since given up on trying to figure out Merlin’s quirks and strange tendencies. He’s just accepted it as something that’s inherent to Merlin. 

I can’t lose you.

“Merlin wouldn’t-”

“No. I know, Arthur,” Agravaine says placatingly. “He was so loyal to you. But this isn’t Merlin. He probably doesn’t even know he’s not…Merlin. He’s but a puppet awaiting his master’s next orders. Arthur,” Agravaine says solemnly, taking a moment before he asks, “How do you know Emrys?”

Your mind is open and your heart is pure.

You’re like no king that’s ever ruled. And there will be no other like you . 

I only wish to keep you safe.

“He paid me a visit a few days ago,” Arthur says hollowly. “He said you’re working with Morgana.”

Instead of balking at the allegation, Agravaine only nods, remorseful. “I wish I could say that I’m surprised. I imagine I stirred the waters when I went looking for answers.” He exhales tiredly. “I’m so sorry, Arthur. A part of me wishes I’d never started digging. But your safety is my priority. Even if it means breaking your heart in the process.” 

I can’t lose you.

I believe in you. Always have.

Wherever you want to go, I’ll follow. 

Agravaine’s hand on his shoulder startles him. “Camelot needs you to be strong, Arthur. Your people need you.”

Arthur knows this. He knows what’s at stake.

But he thinks of Merlin’s easy smiles, about the promise they hold when they’re directed at Arthur.

He thinks of Merlin’s touch and how it always lingers, no matter if he’s dressing Arthur up, or taking off his armour, or washing his hair. 

He thinks of what it feels like to be held in Merlin’s arms - like arriving at a safe haven, like dreams coming true. Like home. 

He thinks of the way Merlin looked at him last night. How Arthur hadn’t dared put a name to it, knowing well that if he had, there would be no going back. 

He thinks of how liberating it’d been to finally allow himself to feel everything he’d spent years fighting to keep contained. 

He thinks of how foolish he’s been, believing for even a second that Merlin - his Merlin - could ever feel the same. 

He hates himself for wishing George had been right about Agravaine. 

***

Merlin has bitten nearly all of his nails off by the time Lancelot comes back.

“Well?” 

To his left on the cot, George is sickly pale, looking as though the weakest breeze could knock him over. He’s looked like that since he returned after having delivered the upsetting news to Arthur, but Lancelot hadn’t been with him. George had explained Lancelot decided to hover and had instructed George to go back to the physician’s quarters on his own.

Merlin gives Lancelot a scrutinizing once-over, the pressure on his chest releasing somewhat when he doesn’t detect any sign of panic. That being said, he doesn’t look happy either, but Merlin doubts there’s anything to be outright pleased about.

“I followed him to Agravaine’s chambers,” Lancelot says. “He had a guard with him.”

Instead of relief, Merlin feels a surge of protectiveness and worry wash over him. A guard will be no help if Agravaine snaps after being exposed. He could do anything and Arthur would be helpless! No matter how good a warrior he is, his feelings for his uncle would hold him back from inflicting harm.

“We need to help him,” Merlin blurts, his legs already carrying him to the door.

Lancelot stops him with a gentle hand to his chest. 

“Merlin, it’s alright.” Before Merlin can voice his protest, Lancelot continues. “I didn’t leave right away; I stayed behind for a while. I heard voices, but there was no shouting, no signs of fight.”

“Did you-” Merlin swallows over his tight throat. “Did you hear anything?” 

Lancelot’s brows furrow slightly. “No. They weren’t talking very loudly.” He gives Merlin a sympathetic look. “I can go back if you’d like. Make sure he’s safe.”

Merlin feels his face soften with affection. How did he get so lucky?

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but…”

Lancelot quirks an eyebrow in mock offense, but the twitch of his lips belies his indignation. “I’m just a man, huh?”

Merlin laughs, though it sounds a bit forced to his own ears. 

“I’ll go.”

“Merlin,” Lancelot says tiredly. “What would you do if it came to it?” He spares George a quick look. “Arthur doesn’t know.”

As if Merlin could forget.

“I think it’s time I tell him,” he says, momentarily blown away by how good the idea feels. He looks over his shoulder, expecting to find Gaius frowning in disapproval. He’s taken aback when he finds the man looking rather contemplative. 

“You might be right, Merlin.” 

Merlin can hardly conceal his dismay, and to his surprise it’s Lancelot this time who is less enthused by the idea.

“Merlin, I… I fear it could be a little too much for Arthur. Especially so shortly after learning his uncle is a traitor.”

Merlin instantly deflates, hating that Lancelot’s reasoning makes sense. Will there ever be a right time?

There has already been one and you let it slip through your fingers. 

“Excuse me,” George croaks irritably. “Would someone mind explaining what you’re all prattling on about?”

Merlin’s only a little guilty for keeping George in the dark like this, but it’s for his own good. Judging by the blatant resentment for anything that defies the rules, the less he knows the better. 

Merlin’s just about to dismiss George’s inquiry in some gentle manner when the door flies open, making all of them jump.

George shoots up from the cot with remarkable speed. “Your Majesty!” 

“Arthur!” Merlin practically yells, feeling stupid with relief at seeing Arthur unharmed. The relief is quickly replaced by paralyzing dread as Arthur steps inside, only for Agravaine to appear behind him, followed by the two guards who’d been keeping watch at his chambers earlier in the day.

“Arthur, what-”

Something lodges in his throat at seeing the look in Arthur’s eyes, as though someone’s robbed them of all their light. His jaw is clenched so tight it must hurt and he’s regarding Merlin like he’s a stranger. A stranger who’s committed some inexcusable crime.

Arthur’s gaze sweeps over the room in one quick glance before it settles on Merlin again. 

“Lancelot. George,” he says in a dead voice. “Step away.”

Lancelot doesn’t so much as shift to the side, never leaving Merlin. George, for his part, only sits back down, shaking so violently Merlin’s sure he’s going to pass out if someone just breathes in his direction.

“Arthur, what are you doing?” Merlin asks when he finds his voice. “What’s going on?”

Arthur shifts his gaze to Gaius. “That’s what I’d like to clarify.” He holds out a hand and Agravaine obligingly places a thick book into it. Arthur throws it carelessly on the table in front of Gaius. “Do you want to explain how this book came into your possession?”

Merlin reads the title upside down, blood freezing in his veins. Oh no. This isn’t supposed to happen. This isn’t what had happened in his world. 

Gaius rises from his chair, seemingly unperturbed. “I don’t understand, sire.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Arthur barks, shaking almost as violently as George, and Merlin wants nothing more than to comfort him. 

Gaius juts his chin out. “Indeed I’m not.”

Agravaine makes a snorting sound that Arthur thankfully ignores.

“Uncle insists he found this in these chambers.”

“I’m afraid there must be a misunderstanding.”

“You don’t know what this is, then?”

Gaius pretends to read the title, not looking particularly impressed. “It’s a book of dark magic, I believe,” he says matter-of-factly.

Merlin only realises he’s shivering himself when Lancelot places a discreet hand at the middle of his back.

“Arthur-” 

“Quiet,” Arthur hisses at him. 

Merlin nearly cries at the venomous tone.

“Arthur,” Agravaine speaks for the first time. “May I suggest we search the quarters. In case I’ve missed something.”

“You,” Merlin snarls, bile rising in his throat just from looking at the sorry excuse for a human. “You bloody-”

“Merlin,” Lancelot says warningly in a whisper, and although Merlin knows he’s trying to help, he’d prefer if Lancelot shoved his unwavering composure up his arse.

Arthur hesitates at first, eyes jumping all over the place until they settle on Merlin for a fleeting moment. He quickly averts his gaze, and says to the floor, “Do it.”

The guards move quickly, flipping the place upside down. One moves dangerously close to Merlin’s room, but Merlin doesn’t dare look for fear of attracting even more suspicion. 

“Sire, is this really necessary?” Gaius asks, strikingly calm but letting his annoyance bleed through. 

“You tell me,” Arthur replies coolly.

“Tell you what, sire?”

“How do you know Emrys?”

Next to Merlin, Lancelot makes a choking sound, exchanging a look with Merlin now that he knows Arthur’s not looking. 

Merlin can only imagine what he looks like, body frozen in shock that hasn’t quite worn off, probably as white as snow.

“He’s an old friend of mine,” Gaius replies, apparently sensing that telling Arthur the truth without telling him the truth is the best way to expose whatever lies Agravaine has fed him. 

What could have possibly happened, what could Agravaine have possibly said to turn this around to his advantage? What could have made Arthur believe him? 

“How interesting,” Agravaine says mockingly. “I clearly remember you denied ever hearing about him.”

Gaius gives him a slightly patronising look. “I’m sure you understand, my Lord, that I’d be hesitant to speak of a sorcerer to a knight of Camelot.”

“And yet, you’re admitting this to the King.”

“My loyalty to the King is absolute.”

“Is it.”

“Uncle. Gaius,” Arthur says through clenched teeth, successfully putting a stop to the exchange. He asks, a bit calmer, “What did Emrys do?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, sire. I haven’t spoken with him in a very long time.”

Gods, Merlin really needs to learn to lie like that. 

“So he didn’t give you the book?”

“I’ve never seen that book before.” 

“Sire.” One of the guards says from behind Merlin, making his way to Arthur. Merlin’s knees nearly give out when he sees what the man’s holding. “We found this in your manservant’s room.”

Oh Gods. He’s so stupid. Why hadn’t he at least tried to hide it when he still thought Agravaine would attempt to kidnap Gaius? Idiot, idiot, idiot!

For a moment, Merlin is distracted from Arthur’s reaction by the obvious look of surprise on Agravaine’s face. He doesn’t know then? He might have been able to figure some things out, but he has no idea what’s actually going on.

Arthur’s steel-sharp voice pulls Merlin back from his thoughts. “Is this yours?” 

Merlin opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. 

“It’s mine, sire,” Gaius says, steering all the attention to himself.

“So you admit it?” Agravaine asks with way too much glee. 

Merlin’s going to be sick. 

“I admit this book belongs to me, yes. Although I must say, it’s rather peculiar that you didn’t find it the first time you searched these quarters.” There’s a short, tense pause, then Gaius says, “My Lord.”

Merlin can practically see smoke coming out of Agravaine’s ears, his lips stretching into a snarl.

Before he can say or do anything, Arthur asks, “Why do you have this?”

Gaius lets out a short, humourless laugh. “Excuse my boldness, sire, but how else would you expect me to help you fight off all the magical attacks Camelot has suffered through the years? I’m sure you know of my past, Arthur. I’ve never kept that a secret from you.”

A weak flame of hope lights up inside Merlin at witnessing Arthur’s face go through a myriad of conflicting emotions, one of them being doubt. Not at Gaius - at Agravaine. 

Then the expressionless mask is back, and the hope flickers out at once. 

“How is he here?” Arthur asks, turning to Merlin without waiting for an answer “How are you here? Are you a Shade?”

Oh, fuck. Is this what Agravaine had told him?

“What’s a Shade?” Lancelot speaks for the first time. Merlin is grateful, stunned into silence by the revelation. 

“A result of dark magic,” Agravaine answers, watching Merlin as though he’s a bug stuck to his shoe. “That’s what comes back when you try to bring someone from the dead.”

“No!” Merlin cries, his vision blurring with stinging tears. Lancelot holds him in place before he can charge at Agravaine as he intends to.

“Sire, I assure you,” Gaius says. “Merlin’s not a Shade.”

“Then what is he?” Arthur’s gaze is a heavy weight, almost suffocating as he stares Merlin down. “How are you back?”

He’d made a huge mistake. He never should have lied, he should’ve told Arthur right from the beginning. Should’ve told him every single thing the moment they were reunited and Arthur cupped Merlin’s face in his hands, looking at him like he’d never seen anything more amazing. 

And now it’s too late.

“I don’t rem-”

“Stop lying!”

“Sire,” Lancelot interjects with impeccable timing, right when Merlin bursts into actual tears. “Arthur. With all due respect, I’ve spent a lot of time with Merlin since he came back and I can confirm that-”

“You wouldn’t know, Sir Lancelot,” Agravaine cuts in. “Dark magic is cunning like that. A perfect illusion that everyone falls for.” The last part seems to be spoken to Arthur. 

“I’m not an illusion,” Merlin shouts, hating how his voice breaks. “I’m not a Shade!”

Arthur watches him with an emotionless expression, as though he’d numbed himself to even be able to be here. 

“Then who are you?”

And Merlin wants to tell him, of course he does. And he knows that Arthur doesn’t know any better, that he understands close to nothing about magic, let alone dark magic. Let alone Shades. 

But Agravaine must have told him something, must have explained at least to a degree. And if Arthur can’t tell the difference, if he can’t see that Merlin, despite not being who he claims to be, is the furthest thing away from an empty shell…

Then maybe there’s nothing Merlin can do. 

All the fight leaves him and his whole body sags, as though someone had pulled a rug from under his feet. Lancelot is there, steadying him, the only thing Merlin can hold onto right now. 

“I’m just Merlin,” he says, and it sounds as defeated as he feels. 

Of all things, this is what makes Arthur waver, makes his impenetrable proverbial armour crack, and for a fleeting moment Merlin can see yearning and despair flash in his eyes. 

But Agravaine is there, sly as a snake, feeding Arthur poison as he’s been doing since he’d come into his life.

“Remember what I told you, Arthur. He may not know he’s under Emrys’ control.”

Merlin finally shakes himself from his stupor. “Arthur, don’t listen to him. He’s working with Morgana!”

Instead of defending himself, Agravaine just huffs incredulously. “See, Arthur?”

“How do you know?” Arthur asks, though he seems unfazed by the accusation. 

It occurs to Merlin how deep Agravaine’s fangs have sunk into Arthur, making him blind to the truth.

“I just know.”

“Did Emrys tell you that?”

Merlin can’t tell him. Not now, not in front of Agravaine. Not when he and Morgana are looking for Emrys. 

“I don’t know Emrys.” 

Arthur’s eyes slide closed, and it feels final somehow, as if a line had been crossed. 

Arthur’s eyes open, and the hollowness of them punches all the air from Merlin’s lungs. 

“Take him to the dungeons.”

“No. Arthur,” Merling begs, but the guards are already moving towards him, shoving Lancelot to the side and grabbing Merlin by both arms. 

Lancelot tries to fight them, Merlin can tell, and gives Lancelot a single, warning shake of head. This is not Lancelot’s fight. There’s nothing he can do. He’d only get himself in trouble. And Merlin needs him to look after Arthur.

“Arthur, please,” Merlin tries again, but Arthur isn’t even looking at him as Merlin passes by him, staring blankly ahead. 

He sees Gaius move from the corner of his eye. 

“Sire, don’t-”

“Stop it, Gaius,” Arthur says, leaving no room for argument. “Or you’ll go with him. Lancelot, stay here. You too, George.”

Merlin doesn’t look back to check on George, but he’s surprised the guy is still conscious.

Merlin ceases struggling, and after that the guards are guiding him rather than dragging him. Merlin is grateful. He looks at both men, strangely touched that they look unhappy taking Merlin to the dungeons. There’s no doubt they are utterly confused about the development. 

He doesn’t look behind him, but knows that both Arthur and Agravaine are following. If only Agravaine got lost, Merlin could talk to Arthur.

They pass by another confused pair of guards in the dungeons, though no one dares ask questions. Merlin is led to a rather large cell in a mostly empty part of the complex (it’s not like there’ve been many arrests since Arthur’d become King). He walks into the cell willingly, receiving a particularly pitying look from the guard who locks him in.  

“No one is allowed here without my permission,” he hears Arthur say to the two guards they’d just passed.

“Yes, sire.”

Then Arthur’s there with Agravaine in tow. And Merlin can’t stop himself.

“Arthur, please. Please, don’t do this.”

“Don't listen to him, Arthur,” Agravaine speaks straight into his ear, like a treacherous little voice leading him astray. “It’s not really Merlin.”

“I am! I am.” And suddenly, just as Arthur lets Agravaine turn him around and usher him away, an idea strikes him. “I can prove it!”

“Arthur, don’t-” Agravaine starts, obviously irritated, but Arthur’s already turning back, stepping towards the cell. He looks almost eager, like he’s desperate for proof that Merlin’s telling the truth. 

Merlin holds his gaze as he reaches into the pocket of his trousers, relaxing a little as his hand closes around the familiar shape. Eyes never leaving Arthur’s, he pulls the sigil out, offering it for Arthur’s inspection. 

Arthur’s face drains of all colour. “How did you get this?”

Merlin swallows the lump in his throat, the memory of the night in the woods both painful and warming to the core. 

“You gave it to me.” 

Arthur recoils as if slapped. “You stole it!”

“I did not! You gave it to me! That night before…”

Arthur stares at him like a cornered animal, confused and scared. Then something in his face shifts and the cold mask is back, eyes hard and unforgiving. He reaches through the bars (to Agravaine’s chagrin), palm up.

“Give it to me,” he demands. 

Merlin hesitates, knowing that if he does, he’ll lose the one thing he has left of his Arthur. 

At Merlin’s lack of response, Arthur snaps, snarling, “Give it here!"

The imminent loss makes Merlin’s heart ache. He offers it to Arthur, reluctant, and can’t stop the tears when Arthur immediately snatches it away. 

He brings the sigil to his eye level, moving to stand under a torch, studying it intently. It’d belonged to his mother, of course Arthur would recognise it anywhere. 

Agravaine comes to stand behind him, mouth agape as he too recognises the object. “Arthur, that’s-”

Arthur’s back at the cell, as furious as Merlin’s ever seen him. 

“I’ll ask you one more time. How did you get this?”

The tears keep coming. Merlin doesn’t try to stop them. “I just told you.”

Arthur’s eyes are wide in the yellow light of the fire. Maybe under different circumstances, Merlin would find the play of light beautiful. He always finds Arthur beautiful.

But the way Arthur’s looking at him now is nothing short of loathsome. Merlin can hardly recognise him. 

“Liar,” Arthur hisses, and Merlin thinks that this might be the worst thing to have ever happened to him.

At least when Arthur had died, he did so with a smile on his lips, knowing he’d been safe in Merlin’s arms. 

Not in his worst nightmares had Merlin imagined he could ever see Arthur like this, stripped of everything that makes him Arthur.

Not in his worst nightmares had Merlin imagined he’d be the cause. 

It’s almost a relief when he’s finally left alone.

Maybe Arthur dying hadn't been that bad. Because breaking his heart is so, so much worse.

***

“I’ll go by myself,” Arthur says when his uncle intends to follow him back to Gaius’ quarters. He has better chances of extracting the truth from Gaius if it’s just the two of them. He knows he hadn’t imagined the physician’s reluctance, dare he say even hostility towards Agravaine. 

“Arthur-” Agravaine starts, his tone clearly disapproving.

“I’ll meet you in your chambers,” Arthur cuts him off, giving him a stern look.

Agravaine hovers, as though he wants to argue further, but eventually relents. “Very well.” 

With an acknowledging nod and his heart in his throat, Arthur heads back to Gaius’, momentarily taken aback when he’s reminded of Lancelot and George’s presence.

Three pairs of eyes snap up to him in various states of distress. Arthur wonders what he himself looks like. 

“Arthur,” Lancelot speaks first. 

His eyes are red-rimmed, his expression one of devastation. Arthur’s stomach twists with guilt.

“I’m…sorry. That you had to see that.” He shifts his gaze to George, who still hasn’t moved from the cot, staring blankly ahead. “George? George.” 

George finally reacts after his name has been called the second time, springing to his feet. 

“Your Majesty.”

Arthur feels sorry for him. How had someone like George got into this mess?

“I need you to tell me a few things,” Arthur says calmly,  but George still looks like he’s about to crumple to the floor. “What were you looking for in Sir Agravaine’s chambers?”

“I wasn’t looking for anything! I was cleaning and-”

“And you thought it’d be appropriate to go through a Lord’s belongings?”

George pales even further. “I… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I know it was wrong. I should’ve never touched anything. I was just curious.”

He’s lying.

“George.” Arthur steps closer. “Did someone ask you to do this?”

For a long moment, the air in the room is so thick and eerily quiet you could hear a pin drop. 

George looks like he’s in the middle of making the most important decision of his life, and it feels like eternity before he says, “No one asked me to do this. It’s all my doing.” His expression is suddenly determined when he looks Arthur in the eye. “I know Sir Agravaine is your kin, Your Majesty, but I felt responsible for informing you nonetheless. I apologise for the trouble it caused.”

Arthur sighs. Something doesn’t add up - Agravaine had warned him about Merlin - or whatever he is - manipulating other people. This can’t be a coincidence. George is the last person who would invade someone’s privacy. Christ, the man would probably have a mental breakdown if someone told him he hadn’t cleaned their clothes properly. 

However, Arthur has no proof to determine whether George is telling the truth. And to be honest, he has no interest in making the man’s - or anyone else’s - life miserable.

“You’re free to go.”

George looks utterly taken aback, as though he’d expected to be dragged to the dungeons as well. He shoots a quick look to Lancelot and promptly bolts for the door. 

“You too, Lancelot,” Arthur says. “You may go.”

Lancelot doesn’t move. “I’d rather stay if that’s alright with you.” A pause. “Sire.”

Arthur closes his eyes. Why is everyone watching him like he’s the enemy?

“It’s not,” he says curtly. “Go. Now!” he adds snapily when he sees Lancelot wants to protest.

“It’s alright, Lancelot,” Gaius says from his chair, calm as ever, if significantly more worn out. “I’ll be alright.”

Lancelot still hesitates, and on his way out he graces Arthur with a meaningful, almost warning look. Arthur tries not to scowl.

Once alone, he lets out a deep sigh and makes his way over, pulling out a chair and sitting down across Gaius.

“I know you’re not telling me something,” he starts. Gaius doesn’t correct him. “But I was hoping that now that my uncle is not here, you’ll be more amenable.”

“What do you wish to know, sire?”

“Everything.”

“In that case, I’m not the right person to ask.”

Arthur grits his teeth. “How do you expect me to trust someone who’s not who he claims to be? Someone who’s lied to me, to all of us, all this time.” Gaius opens his mouth, and Arthur asks, “Did you know?” 

Gaius regards him coolly, but his expression softens. “Yes.”

The confirmation stings more than it should. “How could you not tell me? You let him near me! You- You know how much Merlin- How I-” He chokes, squeezing his eyes shut when they start to burn.

A cold hand wraps around his wrist. “Arthur. Merlin’s not a Shade.”

The sigil burns through the fabric of his trousers. Maybe Merlin’s not a Shade. But he’s not Merlin .

“Then who is he? What is he?”

Gaius gives him a sad smile. “You need to ask him that.”

Arthur snatches his hand back angrily.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, Arthur,” Gaius continues. “But your uncle has got it all wrong.”

“Has he,” Arthur laughs deprecatingly. “What about Emrys?”

“He’s a friend,” Gaius repeats. “He means no harm. Quite the opposite.”

“Did he bring Merlin back?”

Gaius sighs tiredly. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s a straightforward question.”

Gaius makes a face, like he just tasted something bad. “No one brought Merlin back.” He holds Arthur’s gaze. “It’s not possible.”

“But the book-”

“Merlin’s not a Shade,” Gaius repeats, a sharp edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. 

Confused beyond measure and lost for words, Arthur reaches for the sigil, showing it to Gaius.

“Your mother’s sigil,” Gaius recognises immediately.

“Any idea how it ended up in Merlin’s hands?”

Gaius’ eyes widen a fraction, the first sign of surprise he’s expressed that evening. “I had no idea Merlin had it.”

And against his better judgement, Arthur believes him. 

Which makes everything so much worse. 

“Arthur,” Gaius says when Arthur hasn’t said anything for a while. “I do want you to understand, to know. But it’s not my place to tell the story.”

“I can’t trust him,” Arthur repeats. He needs to keep reminding himself. He has no idea what will happen if he lets his guard down. He cannot risk that.

Gaius regards him with utmost pity, but doesn’t try to stop him when Arthur stands up and leaves without a word, not bothering to confiscate either of the bloody books.

It hardly matters now. 

***

It’s been a while since Arthur was here. When Merlin had died, Arthur had promised he would visit as often as possible. But the tremendous guilt and soul crushing grief he’d felt every time he stood in front of Merlin’s resting place had only made everything worse. In the end, he hadn’t visited more than three times in all those months. 

This is the fourth.

Arthur’s not proud to admit he’d been relieved when Hunith had expressed her wish for Merlin to be buried in Camelot. 

Merlin might have grown up here, but Ealdor hasn’t been his home for a long time, she’d said, and there had been something in her tear-filled eyes that Arthur hadn’t dared give a name to.

Arthur had known immediately where he’d wanted Merlin to rest. Merlin had taken him here only once, years and years ago. But Arthur remembers. He would never forget these things about Merlin. His favourite food or this peaceful, almost magical place at the edge of the woods where he’d retreat to whenever things had got too overwhelming. 

I find the sound of water soothing, he’d said. Arthur hadn’t particularly understood, but he’d still chosen this nice, private spot just by the creek and put Merlin’s ashes in the ground himself. 

Arthur knows that many people have visited and have been bringing flowers or small gifts, though now that everyone believes Merlin has come back they probably see no reason to anymore. So Arthur’s not surprised to find the place void of flowers, though the gifts people have left behind are still here. Like the garland Gunievere had made from dried flowers and ribbons. Or Gwaine’s necklace. 

He swallows down the acrid taste on the back of his tongue and sinks to his knees, fingers digging into the ground. 

“I’m so sorry,” he croaks. “I didn’t- I don’t-” He takes a stuttering breath. “God, I miss you.” 

With one last whispered apology, he buries his fingers deeper into the soil, his other hand joining the first. He doesn’t have to dig too deep, but the reality of what he’s doing makes his stomach turn with nausea. 

There’re no signs of disruption, nothing that would suggest that someone had come here and disgraced Merlin’s grave. So Arthur shouldn’t be shocked when the familiar Pendragon red peeks out from the ground, the edge of the fabric embroidered with an imitation of gold. 

His hand closes around the round shape covered in the silk cloth which Arthur unwarps with trembling fingers. 

Tears are running down his cheeks in rivulets by the time he reaches into his pocket, raising both hands in front of himself, two identical sigils staring back at him. 

There’s no way for him to know what this means. 

What he knows is that Merlin’s gone. And none of this has been real.

Chapter Text

The door swings open before Arthur’s finished knocking.

“Arthur! I thought you weren’t coming.”

Arthur keeps his head low as he walks past Agravaine into the room. His uncle must already know what a sorry excuse for a king Arthur is, even without witnessing his red-rimmed eyes. 

“I had to take care of something first.”

The sigils in his pocket are a heavy weight, impossible to ignore. 

“Arthur, I understand how difficult this must be for you,” Agravaine says, placing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and prompting him to turn around. “But this…situation must be addressed at once.”

“What do you propose?”

How can this mess possibly be resolved? The more Arthur searches for answers, the more entangled in the web of lies and secrets he becomes. How does he know who to believe anymore?

“This is very dark magic, Arthur,” Agravaine says solemnly.

Is it? Arthur doesn’t know the first thing about dark magic, but this isn’t what he’d imagine it would be like. And Gaius had insisted that Merlin isn’t a Shade. But the book, the lies…

“I’m afraid our options are limited,” Agravaine finishes gravely.

Arthur’s lungs convulse on an inhale. He stares at Agravaine with disbelief as the meaning sinks in. “Execution?”

No way. Shade or not, that cannot happen. Arthur won’t allow it.

“This…imitation of Merlin has been set to destroy you. And the kingdom,” Agravaine explains, irritatingly calm while discussing killing someone - killing Arthur’s best friend. Or whatever it is that looks like him. Acts like him. 

Feels like him.

“Since we don’t know yet how to get to Emrys, the only thing we can do is-”

“No.” Staggering backwards as if slapped, Arthur shakes his head. “I… I can’t.”

Agravaine sighs. “Arthur-”

“No.”

Holding Agravaine’s gaze unwaveringly, Arthur doesn’t even care anymore if his uncle spots the evidence of the tears Arthur had spilled at Merlin’s grave. 

There hasn’t been a single execution since Arthur’s become King and he’ll wrap the rope around his own neck first before sentencing M- someone who looks like Merlin to death. 

“Well, if that’s the case…” Agravaine starts, expression disapproving. “There’s only one option left.”

Arthur knows very well what option that is. And while it’s preferable to execution, it doesn’t change the fact that it reopens the gaping hole in his heart that appeared when Merlin died. And that started to shrink when Merlin ca- When Arthur thought he had Merlin back. 

And now he’s lost everything again.

“Arthur?” 

Agravaine is watching him expectantly, awaiting the verdict. There’s a hard set to his eyes, as though he’s challenging Arthur to disagree again, only to remind him of the gravity of the situation. 

But Arthur can’t in good conscience contradict Agravaine’s reasoning. Not when his own mind is a tangled mess and he doesn’t even know which way is up or down. 

When he finally gives a short, painfully reluctant nod of assent, it doesn’t feel much different from what he imagines sentencing someone to death must be like. 

Agravaine releases a ragged exhale, smiling at Arthur tightly, like he's proud. “I suggest we don’t stall. No one must know about this. If word spread that you almost fell for…this charade, it would make you appear weak, easily gullible.”

What would you do if, one day, I weren’t the same person? Would you still want me around if I changed?

“I shall send for someone to deliver the news,” Agravaine announces, turning towards the door. Arthur’s hand shoots out, stopping him instinctively.

“No,” he says in an answer to Agravaine’s baffled expression. “I’ll go.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Agravaine asks, enunciating each word. 

He most certainly isn’t. Especially not now that his emotions are a whirlwind. Who can tell what talking to Merlin will do to him?

“No,” Arthur admits. “But I’ll be the one to tell him.” As he sees Agravaine getting ready to protest, he adds, “You should get some sleep, Uncle. It’s been a long day.”

Though not completely satisfied judging by the unhappy downturn of his mouth, Agravaine takes the dismissal for what it is. 

“Likewise, Arthur.”

Arthur gives him a polite nod, seeing himself out. 

“Arthur.” Agravaine’s voice stops him when he reaches the door. There’s a long, heavy pause, long enough that Arthur considers slipping out. And then, “That was Ygraine's sigil.”

Arthur closes his eyes, feeling them burn anew. “Yes.”

“Arthur…”

“Good night, Uncle,” he says curtly, fleeing the chambers before his uncle can lose all the remaining respect he has for him. 

***

Merlin rouses from his restless slumber at the sound of approaching footsteps. He stumbles to the bars drowsily, trying to push his face through to see better. He’s equally relieved and disappointed when he doesn’t see Arthur. 

"George!" he calls, a wide smile stretching his lips. "George, what happened? Is everyone-"

"I'm not allowed to talk to you,” George snaps irritably, looking more upset than Merlin’s ever seen him. “I'm supposed to deliver your dinner." 

To demonstrate, he bends down to place the small tray consisting of a cup of water and a surprisingly generous portion of bread and cheese on the ground in front of Merlin’s cell. He turns around without sparing a single glance towards Merlin and makes his way out of the dungeons. 

"George! Wait!" Merlin calls, pushing an arm through the bars uselessly. But for some reason, George listens, stopping in his tracks. Then he’s whirling around, a stormy expression on his face as he steps forward to stand directly in front of Merlin.

"Do you know how much I risked by helping you?” he presses through gritted teeth, making the words sound like a drawn out hiss. “It nearly cost me my life!"

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Merlin had promised him he would be safe. He’d been sure Arthur would never blame George for any of this. 

"George-"

"You lied to me,” George continues with growing outrage. “You used me. 'Poor, boring, stupid George, easy to fool.’ You never wanted to be my friend. You never cared until you learnt I was Sir Agravaine's manservant."

"That's not true!” Merlin cries, although he can’t say George is completely wrong. It’s not as if Merlin hadn’t cared , he’d just never thought to care, too preoccupied with fighting off imminent threats to Arthur’s life or pining for him. “George, I… Maybe in the beginning I thought you could help me, but I already genuinely liked you back then."

George scoffs, causing Merlin’s heart to clench painfully. "Yeah, I liked you too,” he admits ruefully. “And look where it got me."

"I’m sorry. I never meant to-"

"Save it,” George bites out, turning to leave. He takes a couple of steps, then stops again, hesitant. He doesn’t turn around, giving Merlin a full view of his tense back as he asks, softer, “Are you really what they say you are?"

"No,” Merlin says weakly. “I'm not a Shade." 

"So no magic made you do any of this,” George concludes, voice cold and unforgiving. “This is all your doing." 

The words settle heavily in Merlin’s chest, hurting more than he’d expect coming from someone he's 'known' for less than a week.

He lets them hurt, knowing that’s what he deserves. Because George is right. He’s caused nothing but pain since he’d arrived here. 

Gaius had been right. Merlin doesn’t belong here. 

He should’ve never come to this world.  

***

The next time Merlin wakes, it’s not to the sound of footsteps, nor any sound at all. There’s a pleasant buzz running through his body, warm and soothing, like wrapping yourself in a thick blanket on a cold night. The thread in his chest pulses, gently at first, then flutters erratically, forcing him to open his eyes.

The first thing he notices is that the cell is brighter than when he dozed off. He looks through the miniscule window, seeing the dawn approaching, the sky turning light purple. 

The thread pulses again, startling Merlin with its intensity. From the corner of his eye, he notices a figure standing in front of the cell. He whips his head around, heart thudding madly. 

Arthur stands unmoving, watching Merlin with an odd combination of longing and apprehension, hands twitching intermittently at his sides. 

The thread screams at Merlin to reach over and through the bars, intertwine their fingers, tell Arthur how sorry he is, how much he loves him. 

"I sent George down with dinner,” Arthur says out of the blue, voice fragile and tired, speaking to his shoes. There are shadows under his eyes and he’s wearing the same clothes he did yesterday. Arthur’s always been the kind of person whose worries kept him up at night, but it’s been a very long time since Merlin’s seen him so worn out. 

He scrambles to his feet, stepping towards the bars on shaky legs. He comes to a halt when he sees Arthur stiffen, as though he’s ready to flee if Merlin comes any closer despite the barrier between them.

"Y-yeah. He was here,” he says raspily, even though Arthur can easily see the tray to his left. “Thank you."

He knows it’s just his mind’s desperate attempt to cling to a ghost of something that’s already dead, but the knowledge that Arthur cares enough to have sent him food, even after all Merlin’s done, makes something inside him come alive. Although he hadn’t been able to stomach more than a few bites of bread and drink the water, the gesture is still highly appreciated. 

The silence that follows is suffocating, but Merlin tells himself not to be the first to break it. Give Arthur a chance to ask...anything. He can ask anything and Merlin will tell him everything. 

But Arthur doesn’t ask. Instead he reaches into the pocket of his trousers. 

Merlin’s eyes water as Arthur holds up the sigil, reminding him of everything he’s lost.

"I gave this to y-” Arthur clears his throat, never lifting his gaze above Merlin’s chest. “I gave this to Merlin when we rode out to fight the dorocha."

The correction nearly has Merlin crumple to the floor in a hopeless heap. 

"Yes,” he says meekly. 

"I buried him with it,” Arthur says, stealing all the breath from Merlin’s lungs. He seeks out Merlin’s eyes. "You didn't steal it."

"No."

Arthur had buried his Merlin with the sigil. His Merlin had only had it for a day before he died. And Arthur had still wanted him to keep it. 

The tears spill over, and for a short moment Arthur looks taken aback. Then his gaze darkens, and he asks, "How did you get it? Did Emrys give it to you? Is it… Is it fake?"

Merlin can’t tell what answer Arthur’s hoping for and it doesn’t matter anyway. From now on, he’ll tell nothing but the truth.

"No. No, it's real.” He dares to take another step. “And so am I."

As he’d feared, Arthur’s flight response takes over and he’s staggering backwards immediately. Merlin chases after him uselessly, crying out when Arthur starts walking away briskly.

"Arthur! Please, just give me a chance to explain. I'll tell you everything, I swear!"

The hope flares up again when Arthur falters, returning slowly.

"Okay,” he says, sounding defeated. “Tell me this. Are you him?"

The words get stuck in Merlin’s throat. Of all things, why did Arthur have to ask like that? If he’d asked who Merlin is, Merlin would tell him. Tell the whole story right from the beginning. 

But the question Arthur’d asked has only one, very specific answer, and Merlin can’t, no matter how much he wishes he could, lie about this. 

It turns out he can’t answer either, not when Arthur’s silently begging him to say yes . 

In the end, the silence is an answer in itself, and it’s obvious that Arthur understands, for he turns away just as Merlin sees his face fall. 

"Arthur..."

He reaches through the bars. Arthur’s so close, close enough to touch, but Merlin doesn’t dare. He retreats his hand, pressing his forehead against the cold metal. 

"Agravaine wants to have you executed.”

It's a testament to how defeated he is that Merlin doesn’t even stir at the idea. 

Maybe it would be for the best. 

“I don't want to see you dead,” Arthur continues, making Merlin’s heart flutter weakly. “But I don't want to see you."

Oh Gods, no. Not that.

"Arthur, no, please-"

"You're banished from Camelot. Upon pain of death,” Arthur recites, emotionless. “You'll be released shortly. Go straight to Gaius' chambers. Say your goodbyes.” He gives Merlin a sidelong glance, but doesn’t linger. “I want you gone by midday."

Too astounded to speak, Merlin can only watch Arthur go, the thread tearing his insides like a knife. 

"It wasn't real, was it?” Arthur says suddenly. “None of this was."

Merlin shouldn’t answer. There’s nothing he can say that would ease Arthur’s pain, only fuel it. But if there’s one thing he’ll never allow, it’s for Arthur to believe for even a second that Merlin isn’t completely, heart-wreckingly, stupidly in love with him.

“It was real. It always has been."

He hates himself a little more as he watches Arthur bring his hand to his face, most likely to wipe away tears, and tells himself it’s for the best when Arthur leaves without a response. 

It’s better for him to be as far away from Merlin as possible anyway. 

***

The sun’s already broken through the horizon by the time Leon appears, wearing a confused, regretful expression Merlin wouldn’t expect from the man. 

“I…” he falters, fiddling with his keyset. “Arthur’s sent me to release you and accompany you to your chambers.”

Accompany you to your chambers. 

It’s obvious Arthur doesn’t trust him, and Merlin can hardly blame him. But having Merlin under supervision as though he expects him to be a danger to anyone hurts on a whole new level.

“Merlin, I have no idea what...what’s going on,” Leon continues, finding the right key and putting it in the keyhole. “But-”

“Let me see him, Leon,” Merlin blurts. “Let me talk to him. Please.”

Of all the knights, Leon’s been in Arthur’s service the longest. If anyone can change his mind, it would be him. 

But Leon shakes his head, dropping his chin as though he’s ashamed. “It’s not up to me, Merlin.”

The door unlocks, and Leon steps aside, opening it wide for Merlin to walk out. 

Merlin waits dutifully for Leon to take his arm and lead him upstairs - the last thing he wants is to cause any trouble. But Leon never takes his arm. He simply gestures for Merlin to make his way out, trailing closely behind him and only catching up to him and placing a hand at his back when they pass the two guards at the staircase. 

Merlin understands that it’s to keep up appearances, but the brief yet firm contact is comfortingly grounding rather than humiliating. Leon might understand too, for he occasionally brings his hand back up until they’ve reached the physician’s chambers. 

Merlin’s not prepared to get an armful of Gwen upon entering, only barely managing to stay upright. 

“Merlin!” she cries into his shoulder, and while Merlin reflexively hugs back, he scans his gaze over the room, rendered speechless. 

He cranes his neck, shooting Leon a questioning look.

“I had to tell them,” Leon says, smiling sadly. 

Gwen lets out a sobbing sound, pulling away. “Merlin, what- how-”

“Is this some kind of a sick joke?” Gwaine interrupts angrily, and if Merlin didn’t know him, he’d be afraid. 

Before Merlin can answer, Lancelot’s in front of him, ushering Gwen away gently.

“Are you alright?” he asks, giving Merlin a once-over and frowning. Merlin’s probably looked better.

“No,” Merlin says truthfully. “Not really.”

Suddenly, Gaius is at his side, taking Merlin’s face in one hand and urging him to look at him. “Are you hurt?”

Merlin shakes his head wordlessly. “Gaius, he…he hates me.”

“He just doesn’t understand,” Gaius argues, rubbing Merlin’s shoulder. 

“Then you have to make him,” Lancelot says resolutely. 

The bitter laugh is impossible to stop. “He won’t talk to me.”

Lancelot’s gaze darkens. “We’ll see about that.”

“Lancelot,” Leon says warningly. “The King explicitly ordered us to-”

“Oh, sod it!” Lancelot barks, no doubt surprising everyone in the room. Gwen is staring at him with open disbelief and Merlin imagines he doesn’t look much different. “Are you really going to let Merlin be banished, because Arthur is a stubborn arse?! You know he’ll regret this when he comes to his senses.”

“Would anyone mind explaining what the fuck is going on?!” Gwaine snaps, already surging forward and stopping only when Percy grabs him by both arms and pulls him back, earning a rather nasty look for his efforts. 

“Yes,” Lancelot says exasperatedly. “But not before someone explains it to Arthur.” 

“Done. Give me ten minutes,” Gwaine says gruffly, already stomping forward.

“Not you, Gwaine,” Lancelot says. “You know nothing to begin with.”

“And whose fault is that?!”

“Lancelot is right,” Gaius says, turning to Merlin. “You need to tell him, Merlin.”

“But-”

“There’s nothing to lose. The worst has already happened,” Lancelot reasons. And that, Merlin has to begrudgingly admit, is true. “Merlin, he needs to know. Everything.”

“He won’t see me,” Merlin repeats, the memory of how Arthur’d looked at him twisting itself deeper.

“He will,” Lancelot replies. “I’ll make sure of that.”

“But-”

“For God’s sake, Merlin! What do you think will happen if you leave? Agravaine will destroy everything.”

“Lancelot,” Leon interjects again. “Arthur said-”

“I’ll go in first. He hasn’t said anything about me, has he?” At Leon’s lack of response, he turns to Merlin. “One last chance, Merlin.”

Maybe there’s a different way. Maybe Merlin could make it work even if he were banished. He could stay close by, keep an eye on Arthur. On everyone. Or he could disguise himself, pretend he’s new in the city. Become a regular servant. 

Yes, that could work. 

But none of that would change the fact that he’s lost Arthur and everything they could’ve become. And to be completely truthful, he's not sure he could live a life where he doesn't get to see Arthur every day. Wake him up, all sleep-ruffled and adorable, then steal fleeting touches as he dresses him, listen to all those insults spoken way too softly to sting. 

He answers Lancelot with a tentative nod, earning a relieved, proud smile. 

“I’ll go with you,” Leon says, looking a bit sheepish. “Technically, Merlin isn’t supposed to leave his chambers unsupervised.”

It takes them a few tries to leave the chambers without Gwaine attempting to follow, succeeding only when Percy finally steps in and bodily restrains him. 

It doesn’t sit well with Merlin to keep everyone in the dark, especially when they’ve sided with him without explanation, assuming that it’s Arthur who’s at fault. He hopes Gaius will tell them at least something while Merlin is busy trying to rectify the biggest mistake of his life.

It’s hardly a surprise when the guards at Arthur’s chambers immediately turn alert upon seeing Merlin approach, but that doesn't mean it's not hurtful. 

Merlin will never not be fascinated by Lancelot’s impeccable diplomatic skills. It doesn’t take long before the guards are exchanging contemplative looks and giving Lancelot a tentative nod in assent. 

“Stay with him,” he says to Leon, gives Merlin a tight-lipped smile and knocks on Arthur’s door. It takes ages before Arthur’s voice comes through, and then Lancelot’s slipping inside, holding the key to Merlin’s future in his hands. 

“It will be alright,” Leon says, but Merlin can easily tell from the tone that he doesn’t really believe it. 

They can’t hear anything except for low, muffled noises, and while Merlin’s not proud of eavesdropping - especially because it never bodes well for him - he covers his face with his hands under the pretense of hiding tears and mutters a very soft, quiet “ Gestrenge. ”

Hearing Arthur’s voice sends his heart racing for multiple reasons, but the fact that he’s at least willing to discuss this with Lancelot counts as a small win regardless. 

“I thought I made myself clear-”

“Arthur,” Lancelot interrupts gently. “You have no idea what’s at stake. You have no idea what consequences your decision will lead to.”

There’s a long pause, and at first Merlin optimistically thinks that Arthur’s coming around, actually listening to Lancelot. But then he speaks again, louder and angrier.

“You knew. You knew!”

“Arthur-”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have you locked up?”

“Lock me up if you want,” Lancelot says, unfazed, and Merlin has to resist the urge to barge in and tell him to shut up, because no one, least of all Lancelot, should pay for his stupid mistakes. “But please talk to Merlin.”

“He’s not-”

“He is! For God’s sake, he is , Arthur! And you know it.”

Another pause, even longer than the previous one, but this time, Arthur doesn’t sound angry, only resigned and broken as he says, “I don’t know anything anymore.”

“Then let him explain,” Lancelot suggests. There’s a shuffling sound, maybe Lancelot moving closer to Arthur. “I promise you everything will make sense if you do. ”

“Are you alright?” Leon suddenly asks, and Merlin startles, breaking the spell. He answers with a noncommittal shrug, briefly negotiating whether he should renew the spell when, finally, the door opens. 

Lancelot’s face is bright with hope, a small smile playing on his lips. He keeps the door open a crack as he cocks his head, signalling that it’s Merlin's turn. 

Swallowing around his parched throat, Merlin smiles feebly at Leon as the man delivers a series of encouraging pats to his shoulder and makes his way over to Lancelot. They share a look, and, at Merlin’s unspoken question, Lancelot replies, “Everything.”

Right.

For a second Merlin wants to ask “How do I look?” then thinks better of it and gives Lancelot a grateful smile before he steps into Arthur’s chambers. 

The sound of the door clicking shut is deafening in the eerily silent room. If Merlin didn’t feel utterly miserable in the first place, one look at Arthur would have him done for. 

Arthur’s face is void of emotions as he stares Merlin down, almost like he’s watching an enemy, waiting for an attack. At least when he’d spoken to Lancelot, he was angry. Getting yelled at would be preferable to being looked at with cold indifference. 

Merlin has half a mind to spin on his heel and leave before Arthur witnesses his complete breakdown. Just as he starts to think it’s not such a bad idea to flee, Arthur speaks.

“What do you want?” 

And no, Merlin thinks, he was wrong. He’d rather take ominous silence over the venomous tone. 

“I told you I didn’t-”

“I know,” Merlin hastens to say, afraid of Arthur’s next words. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Arthur barely blinks. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“I know. But I have to say it. You have to know, Arthur.” 

Because even if Merlin is past saving, he owes Arthur this much.

“Whatever you want to say means nothing to me,” Arthur says in a hiss. “So save us both the time and get out of my sight.”

Merlin’s vision blurs and he staggers back. “You don’t mean that.”

Arthur huffs humourlessly. “Don’t I? I don’t even know who you are! Why should I care?”

“You do!” Merlin shouts, wiping his cheeks with the hem of his sleeve. “Arthur, it’s...it’s still me.”

“No. My Merlin is dead. And you-” He points at Merlin accusingly. “You lied to me. Pretended to be him.” As if talking to himself, he adds quietly, “And I believed you.” 

He turns away, like he can’t stand looking at Merlin anymore. 

One last chance, Lancelot had said. One last chance.

“I come from a world where you died.”

Arthur goes impossibly still, slowly turning back. “What?”

“I’m not the same Merlin who died in this world,” Merlin admits, watching the frown on Arthur’s face grow deeper. “But I’m still Merlin. Just...let me,” he pleads when he sees Arthur wants to argue, and for some incredible, unfathomable reason, Arthur stops. And waits. 

“Let me explain and when I- If you-” He wipes at his eyes, forcing himself to hold Arthur’s gaze. “You can decide afterwards if you want me gone.” 

Something disapproving flashes in Arthur’s eyes, and Merlin would like to think it’s at the mention of him leaving. It’s probably just wishful thinking.

But Arthur doesn’t say anything, and that, Merlin thinks, is the only permission he’s going to get. 

He takes a deep breath, knowing there will be no going back. But Lancelot was right - there’s nothing to lose. 

“In my world,” he begins. “I’d been in your service for ten years. There was a big battle. You were wounded. By a sword that was forged by magic.”

Arthur’s mouth falls open. He regards Merlin with suspicion, eyes narrowed into slits.

“Gaius told me I had to take you to Avalon. That's a…it’s a lake. He said only its magic could save you. And I… I was too late.” He covers his mouth with his hand as the memories rush back, just as intense and painful as the day Arthur died in his arms. “I didn’t- I was too late, Arthur. I failed you. I failed everyone.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says softly. He sounds like himself, and he’s addressing Merlin by his name, and it makes Merlin cry harder. 

“And I couldn’t- I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t s-say goodbye. Not to you. I begged the lake to save you. To bring you back. Or to let me follow you.” He takes a moment to breathe. “The Lady of the Lake heard me. She said she couldn’t change the past, nor bring you back. There was only one thing she could do. She didn’t tell me what it was.”

He remembers Freya saying he had no idea what he’d be leaving behind. He remembers himself thinking how none of it mattered, how he’d been willing to give up everything and everyone, not really knowing what it’d entail. 

And even now, though the guilt is still there, burning fiercely, he can’t bring himself to regret it. He might’ve not changed anything, but at least he got to see Arthur again, to hold him again. 

“I didn’t care as long as I got to see you again,” he says out loud. “As long as I got a chance to save you.”

To his dismay, Arthur looks outright horrified, eyes wide with panic. “Merlin, tell me you didn’t-”

“I said yes. And she cast the spell and then...then I woke up. Here. In this world. And…there you were." He feels the expression in his face melt into something tender, almost dopey. "I found you.”

He knows he must look like an idiot, smiling at Arthur toothily while his cheeks haven’t even dried yet, but he can’t not. Not when he remembers the feeling when he saw Arthur standing in Gaius’ chambers, with that messy hair and horrendous beard. 

“That’s...that’s impossible,” Arthur says unconvincingly. “What are you- Another world?”

“I know how it sounds. But it’s the truth.”

“Even...even if it were true,” Arthur starts, his reluctant acceptance making Merlin’s heart jump. “It doesn’t change anything.”

Merlin recoils. “How can you say that? Arthur, I’m the same person! I’m still your friend! I crossed worlds for you!”

“No, Merlin,” Arthur says, voice strained. “In this world, you died. He died. And I didn’t- I didn’t even tell him- Tell you. God, Merlin, I never told you.” 

It takes a while for Merlin to make sense out of Arthur’s babbling. The thread soars, forcing him to take a step forward, to close the distance. 

“But you did.”

Arthur looks at him uncomprehendingly. “What?”

“You told me when you- when you were d-dying,” Merlin stutters, overwhelmed with the surge of memories, Arthur’s last words echoing in his ears. “And I was holding you. I held you the whole time. You asked me to hold you, and then you...then you told me.”

“Merlin.” 

Arthur sways forward, and Merlin takes another step, as if to catch him.

“You do, don’t you?” he says, thinking back on all those small, unforgettable moments they’d shared in the past few days. “Still. Even though you’re not- And I’m not-” He swallows heavily. “You still do.”

Arthur looks like a cornered animal with nowhere to run and he sounds just as scared when he says, “Merlin. This...This doesn’t make any sense. You- He was-”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“How can it not matter?!”

“Because it’s us. Because you are you. And I am me. And this is who we are.” 

“Merlin,” Arthur says anxiously as Merlin takes another step, hands balling into fists, but he doesn't try to put distance between them.

“I know I don’t belong here. Not really. But it doesn’t matter. Because you are here. And I belong with you, Arthur. Always have.”

“I’m not him. I’m not your Arthur,” Arthur reasons, but Merlin can tell he doesn’t truly believe it. 

“Yes, you are.”

“Merlin.”

“This may not be my world. But you are still mine. And I am yours.”

“Don’t,” Arthur says, desperate, as though hearing Merlin speak like that is costing him something. 

“And I will take you in any way I can have you. As much, or as little as you’re willing to give me.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” He takes a step back when Merlin takes another forward. “You can’t really mean that. Merlin, I’m not-”

“You’re everything to me.”

“Stop.” He holds up a hand when Merlin’s nearly in his space. “Just...please.”

“I need you to know,” Merlin insists. “You must know, Arthur. It would always be like this. I would find you in a hundred different lives, in a hundred different worlds. I would find you. And I would choose you.” 

He reaches for Arthur’s raised hand, faint with relief when Arthur allows it, although it might be because he’s just too shocked to react. 

He curls his fingers around Arthur’s, sending a small, soothing rush of magic through.

“And I would love you.”

Making an indescribable sound, Arthur squeezes Merlin’s hand in return. It almost looks like he wants to say something, but now that Merlin’s started, it’s impossible to stop. 

“I don’t know how many worlds there are, but what I know is that no matter where we are, there’s not a single version of me that doesn’t love every version of you.”

As though driven by an external force, Arthur pulls Merlin against himself, making them both gasp at the contact. His other hand uncurls, fitting perfectly as it cups Merlin's face. 

He takes a stuttering breath, licking his dry lips. “I’m scared, Merlin. I don’t... I don’t know what to do.”

Merlin's heart nearly breaks all over again. “Just stay here. With me. Let me stay with you. Let me take care of you.”

Arthur clenches his eyes shut, shaking his head. “I can’t... I can’t lose you. Not again.”

“You’re not going to lose me. There’s nothing that can keep me away from you.”

“Merlin.” 

It sounds like a plea, and then Arthur's fingers are sliding through Merlin's hair, and the feeling is so inexplicably familiar, that Merlin only barely manages to press his hand against Arthur's chest, stopping him when he makes to lean forward.

Arthur's eyes shoot open, confused and betrayed.  

“I need to tell you something first.”

Brows twitching, Arthur groans, annoyed. “Can’t it wait?”

Merlin laughs, secretly pleased by the eagerness. It takes all of his self-restraint to not give in, let Arthur take whatever he wants, whatever he needs. But he’d made a promise and he can’t allow anything to happen before Arthur truly knows everything.

“It can’t. I don’t want to keep secrets from you. Not anymore. Not ever again.”

Arthur frowns, waiting for Merlin to continue. 

“After I’ve told you,” Merlin says haltingly. “If you decide that you hate me, that you can’t forgive me, I’ll understand.” He’ll be heartbroken, but he’ll understand. “But please don’t be scared. It’s still me. It’s always been just me.”

Arthur gives him a look like Merlin’s being silly and brushes away the wetness from Merlin’s cheek. “I could never hate you, Merlin.”

Merlin prays with all he has left that it’s true. 

He takes his hand off Arthur's chest, tracing the length of his arm until he's fitting his palm over Arthur's hand on his cheek. 

He nuzzles into the touch, reveling in the rough skin of Arthur's palm, callused by years, decades of training. 

The scratch from when he cut his hand on a broken link in the chainmail the other day is still there, scabbed over, but slightly inflamed. It would have healed by now if he'd let Merlin put some ointment on it and bandage it instead of scolding him for not noticing the fault in his armour (but it wouldn't be Arthur if he had). 

Merlin remembers thinking how easy it'd be if he could just reach over, take Arthur's hand and let magic do its work. 

And now he can.

“Remember what I said, okay?”

He turns his head so he can press his lips to the reddened skin in a small, gentle kiss. He feels Arthur’s pulse quicken under his fingers.

“ Gelacna. ”

He knows when his eyes flash gold, because Arthur’s breath hitches. There’s a moment when his eyes widen in fear before he turns them to his palm, watching, perplexed, as the skin mends itself with no sign of injury left. Then the fear is gone, replaced by confusion and hurt. 

“You...” 

“I was born this way,” Merlin says, still cradling Arthur’s hand, not letting him pull away. “It’s always been inside me. It is me . And it belongs to you. Just like I do.

“I’m so sorry for not telling you sooner,” he carries on when Arthur doesn’t say anything. “I only ever wanted to keep you safe. As much as I wanted you to know who I really am, protecting you was more important.”

He knows it doesn’t make sense. Arthur knows nothing about the prophecy, nothing but what Emrys told him. And given the events of the past couple of days, Arthur’d probably forgotten all about it. 

Merlin can only hope there will be enough time to explain everything. That is, if Arthur doesn’t send him away. 

“Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you. I would do anything for you.” He lets go of Arthur’s hands and slides to his knees, bowing his head. “I know magic is outlawed. I know I could be sentenced to death. I know you must resent me for all those lies.”

Arthur doesn’t respond and Merlin doesn’t dare look up.

“My life is yours, as is the rest of me. You can do anything you want with me. But whatever you do, please don’t send me away,” he begs, beginning to shake. “I’d rather spend the rest of my life locked in the dungeons if it meant I could stay close to you. Please don’t make me leave you.”

He's sure Arthur must hear the pounding of his heart, getting louder and faster with each second that passes without Arthur having said anything. He's almost sure Arthur will leave any second now, or order him to get out and never come back. 

He really regrets that he hadn't let Arthur kiss him. At least this once.

And then Arthur is dropping to his knees in front of him, taking Merlin’s face in his hands and urging him to look up.

“A sorcerer,” he says, more bewildered than accusing. 

“Yes.”

“All this time.”

“Yes.”

“You are my servant.”

“I’m your friend,” Merlin corrects. “I use it for you, Arthur. Only for you. Always for you.”

Briefly, Arthur's gaze drops to Merlin's lips, then flicks back to his eyes just as quickly. “Show me again.”

And this is it, Merlin thinks. He's gone completely delusional. He's imagining things.

But Arthur's expression is determined, maybe a little curious, and it's all Merlin can do not to throw himself at him and show him everything . But that would definitely be more than Arthur's asking for.

He brings his hand into the small space between them, turning his palm up as in offering. He doesn't break eye contact, letting Arthur see, as he says, “ Upastiye draca. ”

Harmless flames grow in his palm, gradually taking shape until the clear image of a dragon dances in the air. 

Arthur gasps, watching the dragon with an alarmed expression. It occurs to Merlin he doesn't know the fire won't burn him and that the dragon isn't real. 

Pulling one of Arthur's hands away from his face, he nudges him to try and touch, gripping his wrist firmly when Arthur makes to snatch his hand away.

Merlin gives him a meaningful look, hoping to convey that it's alright, that he's safe. And miraculously, Arthur believes him, for he offers his hand for the dragon to climb into. 

His mouth falls open at the first contact and he watches, intrigued, as the dragon moves in random patterns before he slowly loses form, turning back into a shapeless flame until it disintegrates completely. 

There are tears in his eyes by the time he takes his gaze off his hand and seeks out Merlin's face, as though asking a question.

Merlin doesn't really understand, but he smiles and says, “For you.”

Suddenly, Arthur laughs, a short, bright sound ridding his face of shadows.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks, confused by the reaction, although he can’t tear his eyes away from Arthur’s prominent laugh lines and the small crow's feet adorning his eyes. 

“I knew you cheated,” Arthur says scoldingly. “There’s no way you’re better at dice than me.”

Merlin blinks, nonplussed. But Arthur’s smiling, as faint as it is, and he’s not going away or demanding Merlin leave right now. 

“I can give you your money back,” he jokes weakly. 

Arthur shakes his head, like Merlin is a child. And then he’s moving, dropping his hand from Merlin’s face to his shoulder and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug.

Merlin yelps, colliding with Arthur’s chest and nearly kneeing him in sensitive places, but Arthur doesn’t seem to mind. Reluctantly, he wraps Arthur in his arms, trying not to be embarrassed when he starts to tremble. 

“So I’m not banished?”

Arthur grunts, mumbles, “Idiot.”

Merlin holds him tighter. “Your idiot.”

“Yes,” Arthur says, pulling back. Merlin has a moment of panic, but Arthur only shifts, closes his eyes and touches his forehead to Merlin's.

Into the space between them, he whispers, “Always.”

Chapter Text

Arthur’s hands are holding his face with unexpected gentleness, brushing away the tears that haven’t stopped coming for what seems like ages. Merlin'd be embarrassed if he hadn’t cupped Arthur’s face in return only to find his cheeks damp as well. 

He lets out a watery laugh. They’ve both gone through a dozen different emotions in the span of minutes. And now they’re kneeling on the floor of the royal chambers, cradling each other’s faces with their foreheads pressed together and crying themselves stupid. 

Merlin doesn’t dare open his eyes, afraid it would imminently lead to breaking the fragile bubble enveloping them like a warm, safe cocoon.

Arthur lets out a soft grunt, sounding vaguely annoyed and probably wondering what could’ve possibly made Merlin laugh.

They’re dangerously close, treading the precipice of something they’ve been slowly, so maddeningly slowly, heading towards for years, maybe since they’d first met. At times, it’d been heart-stoppingly scary, nearly paralyzing in its intensity. 

But none of that can compare to this moment, in this room. Nothing can compare to the feeling of Arthur’s breath, hot and moist, on Merlin’s lips, like a shadow of the kiss that will inevitably come. The very same kiss that’s been bound to happen since the thread in Merlin’s heart had found the person it’s connected to. 

A violent shudder rips through Merlin’s body, making him gasp as the tense anticipation sets the thread on fire. If it weren't physically impossible, Merlin would think it’s trying to tear itself out of his chest, having gone crazy with want. 

Under his hands, Arthur gives a full-bodied tremor, taking a gasping breath of his own, like he can feel the intense pull. The mere thought makes Merlin’s heart sing. 

Arthur’s breathing has picked up, has become shallower and sharper, each exhale caressing Merlin’s lips like the ghost of the kiss they both yearn for but neither is brave enough to initiate. 

There’s no limit to the number of scenarios Merlin’s love-struck mind has conjured up over the years. Some of them disgustingly romantic, some...not so much. 

Arthur kissing him after returning from his quest to find the Mortaeus flower, demanding Merlin never do anything so stupid ever again.

Merlin kissing Arthur when Arthur said he believed Merlin had been telling the truth about Valiant.

Arthur kissing Merlin when Merlin turned out to be alive and healthy after he’d got stuck in the room with the Fisher King.

Merlin kissing Arthur to break the enchantment that’d made Arthur believe he was in love with Lady Vivian. 

Arthur kissing Merlin when he gave him the sigil.

Merlin kissing Arthur before he'd jumped in front of the dorocha for him.

Arthur kissing Merlin when he survived the dorocha. 

Merlin kissing Arthur…

There’s probably never been a time when Merlin hadn’t wanted to kiss Arthur. But despite all those scenarios, he’s always suspected that it would be Arthur who makes the first move. Told himself that he needed to give Arthur space and the freedom of choice. Let him set the pace and boundaries. And to be completely honest, Merlin would take anything, as long as it makes Arthur happy. 

Not once in all those years did he imagine he’d be tackling Arthur to the floor as he surged forward and latched himself onto Arthur’s lips like a starving man. 

Not once did he imagine that Arthur wouldn't so much as let out a surprised, breathless yelp as his back hit the floor with a low thud, before wrapping his arms around Merlin’s waist and crushing him to his chest. 

Not once did he imagine that his first kiss with the love of his life would nearly knock their teeth out and possibly result in a split lip or two. Nor that there’d be salty waterfalls and…yeah, a small amount of snot.

He definitely never imagined that something like this would be the best kiss of his life. 

The absurdity of the situation dawns on him gradually, then at once, and he can’t stop the bubbling, body-shaking laugh from escaping, lips never leaving Arthur’s. 

Arthur huffs, annoyed, attempting to deepen the kiss, to make Merlin cooperate, which only makes him laugh harder, fresh tears springing from his eyes, but this time from sheer, undiluted happiness. 

Giggling at yet another exasperated huff, Merlin pulls slightly away and lets his eyes flutter open. He nearly swallows his tongue at the sight that greets him - Arthur's face flushed and tear-streaked, hair in utter disarray due to Merlin’s relentless fingers (Merlin hadn’t even realised he’s been doing that). And his eyes, already open but dazed, blue almost completely drowned out by black. 

Arthur’s shiny, swollen lips start to move, forming what looks like the shape of Merlin’s name. But Merlin’s diving in again, stealing the taste of it straight from Arthur’s mouth. If possible, the kiss is even messier and more uncoordinated than the first, their lips spit-slick and tender. 

Arthur makes a little sound, like he’s in pain. Merlin’s heart comes to a sudden stop, panic rising at the thought of having hurt Arthur. But Arthur’s parting his lips just as Merlin’s about to pull away and apologise. The tip of his tongue, hot and wet, licks tentatively over Merlin’s sensitive lower lip, drawing a stuttering gasp from him. Arthur does it again, as if encouraged by the reaction, and then he’s letting his mouth fall open, and Merlin instinctively pushes his tongue inside, Arthur already meeting him halfway. 

Gods, never in his wildest dreams has Merlin dared think it would feel like this. That he would get to have Arthur like this, so wanton and devastatingly beautiful, letting Merlin take anything and everything he wants.

It should be the other way around. Arthur’s supposed to be the one to get whatever he wants, the one to take whatever he wants. And Merlin would give it to him without hesitation, without having to be asked. 

But Arthur doesn’t take anything, doesn’t even ask. He opens up to Merlin like a flower, trusting and gorgeous, and Merlin is utterly, irrevocably lost. 

Never separating his lips from Arthur’s, he uncurls one hand from the disaster of Arthur’s hair to prop himself up as he shifts, straddling one of Arthur’s thick thighs and stretching himself out on top of him. 

Arthur doesn’t protest - it’s not like Merlin could squish him even if he wanted to - and practically purrs as Merlin’s hand returns to tangle through his hair. Unable to help himself, Merlin sinks his fingers deeper through the golden locks and tugs . 

Underneath him, Arthur thrashes, almost throwing Merlin off with the sheer force of it. His own fingers tighten around Merlin’s waist, no doubt leaving bruises (Merlin can’t wait to see those), and trying to pull Merlin closer even though there’s not a hair of space between them. He bucks up, hips grinding against Merlin’s in a desperate, frenzied motion.

All the coherent thought Merlin has left flies out of the window with the first press of Arthur’s cock against the top of his thigh. He can feel him grow harder with each push and thrust of his hips, and because Merlin is a weak, weak man, he answers Arthur in kind. He grinds down, feeling his own cock twitch and swell rapidly as it rubs against the soft skin of Arthur’s belly, moaning into Arthur’s mouth. 

Immediately, Arthur’s hands drop from his waist to grab his arse, urging him to faster, harder, and Merlin nearly passes out from the simple need to oblige. 

It’s insane, and messy, and a bit painful, and so fucking good Merlin is sure he’s managed to get himself killed somehow and this is what the afterlife is like. And if not the afterlife, then at least the most amazing fever dream.

So of course that’s when reality comes barging through the door. 

And screaming.

“If he hurt him I swear-”

“Gwaine, don’t!”

Merlin’s instincts take over without his conscious decision and he tears himself away from the comforting warmth of Arthur’s body under him, already feeling cold and bereft. 

Almost instantly, the voices stop, the silence that’s fallen over them filled only with his and Arthur’s panting breaths. His heart is hammering against his ribcage, threatening to jump out as his gaze falls on the audience that has gathered in the chambers. 

There’s a huge, ridiculous and entirely inappropriate smile on Gwaine’s dumbstruck face despite being restrained by the guards and Percy. 

Leon and Lancelot are both wearing identical, shell-shocked expressions, but recover quickly, and although they’re not as obviously gleeful as Gwaine, Merlin can see the subtle twitching of their lips as they’re no doubt doing their best to suppress a grin. 

For their part, the guards are conveniently looking anywhere but the self-explanatory scene in front of them, pretending that nothing out of the ordinary is happening. 

Similarly, Percy looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.

Clinging to the last shred of lucidity Merlin scans the group in front of him quickly, releasing a small, relieved exhale when he doesn’t see Gwen among them. That would be awkward. 

Reluctantly, he dares a look at Arthur, bracing himself to see a carefully neutral expression and maybe hear some desperate, improvised excuse.

But Arthur hasn’t moved an inch, staring up at the ceiling blankly, eyes wide and unfocused. Merlin’s stomach does a strange little somersault at seeing him so debauched, mussed hair and flushed cheeks, hands hanging midair as if clinging to the ghost of Merlin’s body.

He briefly entertains the idea of resuming their previous activity regardless of their audience, then blushes, alarmed by his own thoughts. 

Show some restraint, you wanton!

Gwaine’s boisterous laugh brings him back. 

“Bloody took you long enough!” 

Merlin gapes, staring at Gwaine’s disturbingly smug face. 

There’s a collective hum as if in approval, and then Leon covers his mouth and coughs, muttering something into his palm that sounds suspiciously like “To put it lightly.” 

Arthur chooses that moment to come back to the land of the living, shooting up into a sitting position. He chokes on air as his eyes sweep over the small crowd in front of them, then turns to stare at Merlin with an unfairly adorable, frantic expression. 

Merlin summons a tense, sheepish grin, giving a small shrug. 

Instantly, Arthur’s vulnerable face closes off, mouth settling into a tight line. He turns his attention back to the others and snaps, “I don’t remember telling either of you to come in.”

“Of course not. You were otherwise occupied.”

“Gwaine!” Lancelot says in a hiss 

Gwaine sticks his tongue out, making Merlin hide his face in his hands despairingly.

Next to him, Arthur lets out a gruff, disapproving sound and scrambles to his feet. 

“Is there a reason why you stormed into my chambers uninvited? I…” He pauses. “I was in the middle of something.”

Snorting loudly, Gwaine says, “By something you mean Merlin?”

Merlin feels blood rush to his face at once. He looks up just in time to see Arthur move, charging forward. He reaches out, meaning to stop him, but Lancelot is faster, putting himself bodily between Arthur and the still grinning Gwaine.

“Arthur,” he says placatingly. “Just ignore him. He’s only trying to wind you up.”

“Well done, then!” Arthur barks, glaring at Gwaine over Lancelot’s shoulder. And because Gwaine obviously can’t help himself, he blows Arthur a kiss. 

“What do you want?” Arthur asks instead, voice tense and harsh.

“Apologies about the...um... interruption, sire,” one of the guards says, gaze downcast. “We were trying to stop your knight from entering.” 

“I see you’ve done a tremendous job at that,” Arthur says drily. 

“Please,” Gwaine says. “As if that could stop me.” Then solemnly, “I was worried about Merlin.”

“Huh?” Merlin says, shifting onto his knees. 

“You’ve been in here for ages!” Gwaine says. “What was I supposed to think?!”

“What did you think?” Arthur asks darkly. “That I would hurt him?”

Gwaine laughs again, but there’s no humour in it. “You already have.” 

Arthur visibly stiffens, faltering under Gwaine’s accusing stare. 

Merlin hurries to stand up, reaching out to touch Arthur’s arm, to tell him it’s okay, they’re okay . But Arthur’s already whirling around, eyes wild and more than a little scared.

“Merlin…”

“Don’t,” Merlin says, gently but resolutely. He steps into Arthur’s space, heart fluttering when Arthur allows it despite the six pairs of eyes on them. Then again, they've seen worse. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know.” He hastens to continue when it seems that Arthur will protest. “ I’m the one who hurt you. With all those lies… I’m so sorry, Arthur. For letting it go this far.” 

“Bollocks!” Gwaine shouts. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Merlin! You were trying to warn him about his smarmy, treacherous uncle and-”

“Gwaine,” Merlin says tiredly. It's not that he doesn’t appreciate the concern, but the last thing either of them needs is for the guilt to settle even deeper.

Gwaine's words make him falter momentarily. Gaius must have said something, then. But how much do others actually know? 

“He’s right,” Arthur says quietly, defeatedly. “I’m sorry, Merlin, I-” He cuts himself off abruptly, face draining of colour. “Agravaine.”

Oh, right, Merlin thinks. They’re not out of the woods yet. He might’ve been able to make Arthur come around on this ‘other world, other Merlin’ business, but Agravaine’s still out there and Arthur hasn’t yet accepted what a snake his uncle is.

“I know this is all very hard to take in, but…” He swallows dryly. “You must be careful, Arthur. He’s dangerous.”

Arthur’s face darkens considerably, but for the first time he doesn’t jump to Agravaine’s defence. He studies Merlin’s face, as if looking for another lie, and Merlin does his best not to fidget.

“I need to speak with him.” 

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Gwaine says mockingly. 

“What?”

“I already paid him a visit-”

“Gwaine!” Arthur gasps, horrified. “What did you-”

“Nothing, sadly.” He makes a regretful face. “Bumped into his servant - some haggard looking fellow. Apparently, your dear uncle had business so urgent he didn’t even wait for breakfast. And where’s George, by the way?”

Ignoring the question, Merlin and Arthur share a look. 

Merlin hesitates, unsure how far he should push.

“Arthur,” he says ruefully. “I think I know where he’s gone.”

The implication isn't lost on Arthur, judging by the way he curls in on himself ever so slightly. He licks his lips, a habit Merlin knows is a sign of nervousness. Or deep contemplation. 

“He might be in Camelot," Arthur suggests, voice weak. "Is his horse still at the stables?” he asks Gwaine.

Gwaine shrugs. “Haven’t had time to check.” I was too busy making sure you're not murdering Merlin, goes unsaid.

“Do you want me to go, sire?” Leon offers diplomatically, eyes earnest as he waits for a reply.

Arthur gives a curt nod. “Please.” 

Answering with a nod of his own, Leon doesn’t stall as he leaves the chambers, seemingly aware of the graveness of the situation. 

Arthur watches him go with a look of someone who knows something terrible is unfolding but is powerless to stop it.

Merlin’s hatred for Agravaine burns anew and he wants nothing more than to make the man suffer for all the pain he’s caused Arthur, in both worlds, and for everything that has yet to pass. 

Taking a step forward, he gently touches Arthur’s elbow, drawing his attention to himself. Arthur jumps slightly under the unexpected touch, frowning a little.

“Arthur, I’m sorry-”

“It’s not your fault,” Arthur cuts him short, voice firm but not unkind. His gaze moves to his elbow, expression unreadable. 

It’s impossible for Merlin to guess how Arthur feels about the public display, but the fact he hasn’t shaken Merlin’s hand off yet counts as a small victory in his books. With that thought, he slides his hand up from Arthur’s elbow to his upper arm, letting his thumb brush reverently over his bicep.

“It’s not your fault either.”

To Merlin’s dismay, Arthur’s face falls further, and Merlin frantically searches for something else to say that would wipe the crestfallen look from his face. 

“Listen to him, Princess,” Gwaine says, earning a baffled look from Arthur. The change in Gwaine’s mood must have thrown him off because he doesn’t even berate him for the embarrassing - though fitting - nickname. “You have your moments, but this isn’t your doing.”

Merlin watches with wonder as Arthur’s expression softens, lips parting on a surprised exhale, but it’s gone as fast as it came, replaced by solemn determination. 

“Out,” Arthur orders without raising his voice. “All of you,” he adds when no one has moved, looking around as if trying to gauge whom Arthur had spoken to. 

The guards scramble away first, seemingly relieved to have been dismissed. Lancelot hesitates only for a second before he, too, makes his leave. 

Gwaine is stubbornly standing his ground and holding Arthur’s gaze unwaveringly. Behind him, Percy reaches for his arm, giving it a firm tug. Gwaine ignores him, staring Arthur down. He only seems to relent when he shifts his gaze to Merlin, raising his eyebrows in question. Merlin sighs, disappointed by the sudden change in mood, but obediently leaves Arthur’s side and makes his way over to Gwaine and Percy. 

He comes to a sudden halt when Arthur grips him by his jacket, pulling him back. “Not you, Merlin.”

“Oh,” Merlin peeps, confused but grateful, and shoots Gwaine what he hopes is a reassuring smile. It must work, for Gwaine lets out a much more dramatic sigh and turns to leave, not bothering to conceal his dislike at the development. 

The door shuts behind him and Percy, but Merlin doubts anyone has left the hallway, probably listening intently for any sound. He shakes his head, equally fond and incredulous. He has yet to process how he’s come from nearly being banished to ravishing Arthur on the floor - and being caught - and being defended by the whole of the Round Table. 

He doesn’t know what to expect when he looks at Arthur, but the business-like aura around him is still like a small punch in the gut. 

“How do you know all this?” Arthur asks. He doesn’t sound accusing, not like he’s calling Merlin out on another lie. He’s genuinely curious, eager to understand, but the nature of the conversation is daunting all the same. 

“Because it happened in my world, too,” Merlin says, relieved when Arthur doesn’t so much as flinch at the reminder that Merlin doesn’t come from this world. 

Although the notion doesn’t seem to disturb Arthur - not anymore, at least - he’s not completely unaffected. There’s something in his eyes, an odd combination of cautiousness and curiosity, and it’s with that look that he takes two long, swift steps forward, until he’s in Merlin’s space, nearly sharing the same breath. 

Merlin’s heart threatens to jump out of his chest when Arthur raises a hand to trail his fingertips over Merlin’s face, featherlight but making his skin break out in goosebumps. 

“Ten years.” Arthur says it like a question. It only takes a moment for Merlin to connect the dots.

He nods wordlessly, mesmerised by the look in Arthur’s eyes as he traces the movement of his fingers as they glide over Merlin’s cheek. 

Merlin briefly wishes he could see what Arthur sees when he looks at him like that. 

“I didn’t want to see it before. Didn’t want to question what it might mean,” Arthur confesses, and before Merlin can ask what he’s talking about, he says, “But you’re different.” He smiles lopsidedly. “You have wrinkles.”

Merlin gasps in indignation - it's only half-faked - and gently swats Arthur’s hand away. “Can you blame me? After a decade of slaving for you?”

It’s meant to be a harmless joke, but Arthur doesn’t laugh. Instead, he cradles Merlin's cheeks in both his hands, like he’d done not long ago, raking his gaze over Merlin’s face so thoroughly it makes Merlin self-conscious.

Does he really have wrinkles? How many? Are they really that noticeable? 

“You never left,” Arthur says with wonder. “You stayed.”

Merlin wants to laugh. The mere idea seems bizarre, and it’s rather disturbing that a thought like this has ever had the audacity to cross Arthur’s mind. 

“Where would I go?” He curls his fingers in Arthur’s tunic, pulling steadily until Arthur gets on with the program and closes the miniscule distance between them, their chests pressed together. “You’re my home.” 

“I almost made you leave,” Arthur says, sounding angry - at himself, Merlin realises - and ashamed. 

“It’s not your fault,” Merlin repeats, giving Arthur’s tunic another tug as if to prove his point. “And if you think you can get rid of me that easily, you’re an even bigger prat than I thought.”

It earns him a soft huff that’s far from convincing, but Merlin still appreciates the effort.  

“Possibly,” Arthur replies, thoughtful. 

Merlin’s immediately disappointed that his attempt to initiate the familiar and comforting banter has failed. 

And because he can only think of one other thing that could steer Arthur away from his self-loathing thoughts, he says, “But I love you anyway.”

The words feel both utterly foreign and undeniably right on his tongue. He still can’t believe he gets to have this, gets to actually say this, and the world doesn’t stop spinning, the sky doesn't fall.

Arthur makes a small, desperate sound low in his throat, and leans in to rest his forehead against Merlin’s just like he’d done before, eyes clenched shut. He’d have Merlin believe he’s in pain if it weren’t for the way he’s uselessly trying to hide a goofy grin by pressing his lips together.

“You really have to stop saying that,” he murmurs, voice as low and dark as Merlin’s ever heard it. 

Merlin's body reacts with embarrassing speed, has him straining against his trousers regardless of the graveness of the situation. 

Obviously, his stupid, over-heated brain doesn’t get the message, because instead of at least aiming to cool his body down by conjuring up a series of disgusting, arousal-killing images, he asks, shameless and suggestive, “Or else?”

He doesn’t even have time to berate himself for losing his composure, because the words are barely out of his mouth before Arthur lets out a guttural growl and swallows Merlin’s (pleasantly) shocked gasp, cradling Merlin’s face like he’s precious and fragile. 

The gentleness makes Merlin want to weep as he’s once again reminded of how truly powerless he is when it comes to Arthur - when it comes to his feelings for Arthur, all-consuming and eternal. He can’t even remember the last time he still naively believed he could put a stop to the raging tempest of emotions if he really tried, the last time he thought his life was his own. 

But Merlin’s far from naive now, having long ago accepted there’s no escaping this. Not because of destiny, nor the damned prophecy. Simply because he’s made his choice. And he’s chosen Arthur. Not once but dozens - hundreds of times. Over and over, every day. Always and without hesitation. 

He stifles a quiet sob against Arthur’s lips. Maybe it’s not as quiet, given that Arthur starts pulling away, a question in his eyes, and Merlin rushes to stop it, surging forward and claiming Arthur’s lips himself. Arthur falls back into it, like it’s the easiest, most natural thing ever. And it probably is, Merlin thinks, because despite the novelty of it all, he can’t shake the feeling that this is the furthest thing from new. It makes him wonder if he'd been closer to the truth than he'd thought when he told Arthur he would love him in all the lifetimes there are. And he wonders in how many lifetimes he gets to have this. 

All too soon, Arthur is pulling away again, sucking in a deep breath. His hands haven’t left Merlin’s face, fingers pushing a few stray curls behind Merlin’s ears. 

“Merlin,” he says, biting his lip, brows drawing slowly together. “I… You know that I…” 

If it weren’t for the blush high on his cheeks and the shy way he keeps flicking his gaze to Merlin’s eyes but always settling it on his lips, Merlin would have a hard time trying to decipher what got him all flustered and troubled. 

But Merlin recognises that look - or something very similar to it. In fact, he’s spent years living off that look whenever Arthur'd bestowed it upon him.

“I do,” he says, unable to stop the smitten grin. But the reassurance does nothing to banish the frown from Arthur’s face. “Hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs, snaking his arms around Arthur’s waist and pulling him to himself so tightly there’s no telling where one ends and the other begins. “We’re okay.”

They are more than okay, because for all Merlin’s dramatic, heart-felt confessions, he doesn’t need Arthur to do the same. Not only because he knows, better than anyone, that Arthur prefers to let his actions do the talking, but because he can feel the intensity of Arthur’s love pouring from him, enveloping Merlin in a warm blanket of invisible light. It makes him feel breathtakingly safe and he wonders if this is what his magic feels like to Arthur. That is if Arthur can feel it at all. 

Leaning in again, Arthur only manages to brush their lips together in a ghost of a kiss, before a slightly frantic knocking on the door makes them both jump.

“Yes?” Arthur calls, annoyed, clearly regretful as he slides his hands from Merlin’s face. It makes Merlin laugh and press a quick, chaste kiss to the corner of Arthur’s mouth, making him blush once more. 

“Sire,” comes Leon’s voice, hushed and urgent. 

The mood sours instantly, the air filling with tension. Arthur’s posture goes rigid in response, his jaw tightening. Turning around, Merlin takes in Leon’s solemn expression, lips pulled thin in an unhappy line.

“Bloody knew it,” Gwaine barks as he pushes past Leon into the chambers, furious and slightly manic - although the latter isn’t out of the ordinary. Leon gives him a scolding glare which Gwaine doesn’t see, then throws his hands up as Lancelot and Percy nearly flatten him to the door as they squeeze past him, just as uninvited. 

“Arthur?” Merlin turns to him, worried and unsure. It doesn’t matter how much proof Arthur’s presented with, Merlin can’t imagine how hard it must be to accept-

“I need to see it,” Arthur says, resolute. Merlin’s face falls and Arthur notices. “It’s not- I do believe you,” he reassures, and he looks so earnest that Merlin has no choice but to believe him. “I do, I just…”

“No, you’re right.” He has a point, Merlin can see that now. “You need to see it with your own eyes.” 

He deserves it, too. Agravaine’s not the only one who’s been lying to him, so it’s no wonder that Arthur is completely lost when it comes to choosing what to believe. And while Merlin would love for Arthur to trust him unconditionally, he knows very well he hasn’t earned that trust. And honestly, it’s time Arthur starts demanding blatant proof instead of relying on people’s solemn words. 

Relaxing marginally, Arthur gives Merlin a dumbfounded look, as though he hadn’t expected the easy acceptance. He smiles at Merlin gratefully, right hand twitching at his side as though he’s tempted to reach for Merlin’s face again (Merlin’s starting to suspect Arthur might have a fetish). Merlin returns the smile, although he probably just ends up looking like the love-sick idiot he is, but he doesn’t even care, not when it makes Arthur at least a little less miserable. 

“Ready when you are,” Gwaine announces, clasping his hands together. 

Shaking himself, Arthur scowls at him. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Gwaine bristles. “You’re not going alone!”

“He won’t be alone,” Merlin says, standing by Arthur’s side to make a point.

Rolling his eyes, Gwaine retorts, “No offense, Merlin, but what exactly are you planning to do, huh?”

Well, at least now he knows Gaius hadn’t said anything about his magic. 

“You don’t need to worry.”

“Too bad, I already do!”

Merlin can’t stop the exasperated sigh. “Look, I… I’ll explain everything when we’re back, yeah? I promise.” 

And he will. Arthur isn’t the only one who deserves the whole truth. Especially after the unshakable display of loyalty his friends had just shown him. 

Gwaine shakes his head. “That just won't do."

“Gwaine. Enough,” Lancelot orders, and by Gods, Merlin could kiss him. But he won’t. Obviously. Because…reasons. 

“But-”

“This is not our fight.”

Gwaine sputters, hair sweeping through the air as he whips around to stare at Lancelot. “Not our fight-”

“This isn’t negotiable,” Arthur cuts in, all authoritative, and… Merlin might be in trouble. 

“I’ll get the horses ready,” Merlin croaks, already sneaking towards the door. 

“I’ll go with you,” Arthur calls, walking behind his desk and reaching for his sword. “Just need to get some stuff.”

“Me too,” Merlin realises, a last minute plan already forming in his mind, successfully steering his thoughts in the right - and appropriate! - direction. "I’ll meet you at the stables?”

Arthur nods and gestures for everyone to get out. 

“Keep an eye on him,” he says to Percy, tilting his head in Gwaine’s direction and ignoring his affronted face. 

Percy huffs, a bit hysterical. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do this whole time?” Then realising what just came out of his mouth, he chokes, wide-eyed. “Apologies.”

Under his breath, Merlin giggles as he rushes from the chambers, patting Gwaine’s shoulder briefly and shooting Lancelot a grateful smile on his way out. 

He’s surprised to see Gwen has stayed with Gaius, the two of them sitting close and discussing something, by the looks of it, incredibly important. Merlin doesn’t need to guess what that is. 

“Merlin,” Gwen jumps up from her chair. “What-”

He holds up a hand. “No time to explain. I’ll tell you when I’m back.”

"Back from where?” he hears Gaius ask as he disappears in his room, grabbing his bag and stuffing in it whatever he thinks he might need. 

“Agravaine’s gone to Morgana,” he explains as he reemerges, the bag thrown over his shoulder. “Arthur wants to go, and I’m going with him.”

There’s a short moment of surprise and sheer joy on Gwen’s face, before the words finally get to her and she exclaims, horrified, “Merlin! You can’t go alone, just the two of you!”

“We’ll be fine, Gwen. I promise.”

Gaius only rolls his eyes, like he hadn’t expected anything less suicidal.  

“But-”

“Sorry, I have to go.” He reaches for Gwen’s hand, squeezing it briefly in both reassurance and apology, then hurries towards the stables. 

To his complete befuddlement, Arthur’s got there first, currently securing the saddle of his own horse while Merlin’s is already good to go. Warmth spreads in Merlin's chest, making his heart ache in a pleasant way.

Feeling strangely out of place, he walks over and starts tightening the billets on the other side to help. Arthur peeks at him over the horse’s back, eyes growing soft as if in a lieu of a ‘hello’. 

“I’m sorry about Gwaine,” Merlin finds himself saying. He can’t not feel touched by his friend's concern and the burning determination to protect Merlin at all cost - even if it means to defy the King. But despite that all he can focus on is how devastated Arthur looked when Gwaine accused him of hurting Merlin (not that he’d been wrong about that). 

Arthur’s hands on the fastening cease their movement, then pick it up in the next second. 

“I’m not,” he says coolly. “He was right.”

The urge to protect, to soothe, rises inside Merlin like a wave. “Arthur-”

“You know he was right.”

“I don’t blame you,” Merlin says, gentle but firm. 

Arthur catches his eyes. “I don’t blame you.”

A hiccuping sound tears itself out from Merlin’s throat. The swell of blazing emotions is unexpected and impossible to stop. 

They haven’t had time to talk about it and the few, pathetic apologies Merlin had spouted will hardly make up for years of deceit and secrets. And yet here Arthur is, wonderful and forgiving as ever, and Merlin has absolutely no idea what to do with himself. If he had his way, he would throw himself at Arthur’s feet and profess his undying love over and over again, until the whole of Camelot has gathered to witness how absolutely, hopelessly he aches for this man. 

In the end, he settles on a simple, “That’s…good.”

They will talk about this. Even if Arthur decides to be as stubborn as the Arthur in Merlin’s world, Merlin won’t let him off that easily. He has amends to make. And he’s going to make this right, however difficult it proves to be.

Speaking of difficult… “Are you sure you want to do this?” 

“I don’t,” Arthur says honestly, pulling a wry smile out of Merlin. “But I have to.”

“What will you do when…”

Arthur might have started to reluctantly accept Agaravine’s betrayal, but acting on that knowledge is something completely different. After all, Arthur hadn’t been able to order Merlin’s execution even when he believed that Merlin was a product of dark magic, soulless and dangerous. 

“I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it,” Arthur says, voice carefully neutral.

“We will,” Merlin corrects, because whatever may come he’s never leaving Arthur’s side. 

“We will.” Arthur smiles at him, then turns confused.  

"What is it?"

Arthur shakes his head. "Why would he be so reckless? Going to Morgana the same day you-"

"Because they both truly believe I'm a Shade." Merlin has asked the same question and although he can’t be completely sure, everything Agravaine had said points to this. “And they both truly believe Emrys is behind all this. My guess is they're hoping I'll lead them to him."

Which raises the question of why Agravaine had thought it better to have Merlin executed. Surely, even as a Shade, Merlin would be more useful alive. 

Maybe they’re more scared of Emrys than Merlin had thought. 

Suddenly, Arthur’s in front of him, having moved so fluidly Merlin hadn’t even noticed. 

"Who is Emrys?” he asks, and it dawns on Merlin they have a lot to talk about. 

Hopefully, Arthur will be as accepting as he has been so far. Not that Merlin's worried about being banished anymore. But he’s not sure how long he could take being ignored if Arthur decided to sulk. 

“What role does he play in all this?” Arthur continues. “You said it was… the Lady of… Avalon? That she brought you here."

"Her name is Freya,” Merlin says, a fond smile finding its way to his lips. A part of him wishes she and Arthur had met. Well, properly met. Something tells him they would get along. “And yes, she did. Emrys is…you could say we're close." He grimaces at his own wording. "It's complicated. I'll tell you everything, I promised I would. But you're already confused and I don't want to make it worse."

Withstanding Arthur’s scrutiny has never been easy, but right now it makes Merlin almost tremble with anticipation of the worst. 

Arthur surprises him again, letting out a tired sigh and says, "That's fair."

Merlin stares, mouth agape. "You won't…push?"

Arthur shrugs, giving the horse’s neck an affectionate caress. "You weren't wrong. I'm not sure I can take any more revelations right now." 

The guilt rears its head again, and with an acknowledging nod Merlin makes his way to his horse, gaze downcast.  

Arthur grabs his arm. “Wait,” he says, more like a plea than an order. Intrigued, Merlin turns to him, watching as Arthur reaches into the pocket of his trousers. “I believe this belongs to you.” He takes Merlin's hand and puts the sigil into his open palm. 

His throat gone dry, Merlin can only flick his disbelieving gaze between his own palm and Arthur’s face, unable to form words. His vision blurs, and he's thrown back in time to the night Arthur had given him the sigil, insisting Merlin take it. 

It doesn't feel too different from this moment.

“Thank you,” he whispers, voice raspy and raw. 

“No,” Arthur says, closing Merlin’s fingers around the sigil. “Thank you. ”

Sniffling, Merlin lets out a watery laugh. “For what?”

“Everything.” He looks at Merlin apologetically. "I had no right to take it from you. I'm sorry."

"You didn't know."

"Because I didn't listen," Arthur says bitterly. " He gave it to you and I-"

"There's no difference," Merlin cuts in, squeezing Arthur's hand when he wants to argue. "There's no difference to me. "

Merlin will never forget the Arthur from his world, will never stop hating himself for letting him down. 

If he thought about it, he might be able to find differences. If anything, there are four years of experience setting the two Arthurs apart. Four years of ruling Camelot, on top of that. Even Merlin himself had changed during that time.

But standing in front of this Arthur, watching his face transform with each individual emotion, feeling the warmth of his body seeping out of him and into Merlin, he can't for the life of him distinguish between the two. His heart definitely doesn't. 

“You…” He clears his throat. ”You’re not mad at me? For…”

“Oh, I am. You don't even know.” Arthur gives him a pointed, slightly chastising look that has Merlin biting his lip. 

Arthur sighs again, running a hand through his hair, making it even more disheveled than Merlin had left it. Merlin barely manages to hold himself back from reaching out and adding to the mess.

“But it’s you and I… And I’m kind of…” He laughs breathlessly. “Pathetically in love with you and… it’s hard to feel anything else right now.”

Merlin’s not proud of the sound he makes - he would compare it to a dying stoat - but it’s hard to care when his ears keep ringing with Arthur’s words, melting Merlin’s insides into a useless pile of goo. He’s pretty sure even that goo is gazing up at Arthur with the most adoring expression. 

“Lucky me,” he says intelligently, because apparently it’s Merlin who doesn’t know how to handle emotions. 

“Oh, you have no idea,” Arthur says with a dark promise that has Merlin’s knees buckle.

“Ready?” he asks shakily, hoping Arthur won’t notice the ridiculous state of him. Ten years of this…whatever it is and now Merlin’s treacherous body decides it doesn’t want to wait anymore. 

“No,” Arthur admits, the obvious pain in his voice sobering Merlin somewhat. 

“Me neither.” 

He’s not afraid of Morgana, definitely not afraid of Agravaine. Agravaine’s already tried to hurt him, tried to take Arthur away from him - or take Merlin away from Arthur. He can’t do any worse. 

No, Merlin’s not afraid of him. He’s only afraid of how the loss of his uncle will change Arthur. 

“Arthur, whatever happens out there…” 

He lets the rest of the sentence hang in the air, almost expects Arthur to scold him for being a giant ‘girl’, like he always does. 

But he must have underestimated how far they've crossed the line - if there's a line left at all - because Arthur doesn’t joke, does no such thing at all. Merlin only gets a split second of the breathtaking look Arthur fixes him with, before the last semi-coherent thought leaves the mush of his mind and he’s being kissed within an inch of his life. Arthur’s lips are soft and dry as they steal every single gasp and moan straight from Merlin’s mouth. 

The urgency is gone, but the heat is not, and Merlin is grateful when Arthur wraps him in his arms and holds him close, laughing against Merlin’s lips when his knees give out momentarily and he sags into Arthur’s chest with a little hmpf sound. 

Pressing one last, lingering kiss to Merlin’s bottom lip, Arthur pulls away but doesn’t let go. Instead he tightens his hold and draws Merlin into the most amazing hug of his life, nose buried in Arthur’s hair and Arthur’s face burrowed in his neck. 

It’s here, right in this moment, being wrapped in Arthur’s arms, feeling safer than ever, that Merlin realises with a shocking clarity that the prophecy isn’t what he’s been led to believe for all these years. 

This has never been about saving Arthur’s life - which is what Merlin's been doing since he'd arrived at Camelot. 

It’s been about saving Arthur. 

And finally, after a decade of wrong roads and missed turns, it’s blindingly obvious that the only way to save Arthur is by loving him. 

And finally, after a decade of trying not to, Merlin’s going to do exactly that. 

Chapter Text

“You’ve known where she’s been all this time.”

It’s not a question, but Merlin still replies. “Yeah.”

Arthur didn’t say anything when Merlin set a swift pace from the get go. He’s obediently been following Merlin’s lead and didn’t question it when Merlin gradually slowed down to a steady trot. 

Morgana’s hut lies deep in the Valley of the Fallen Kings and they’d eventually had to steer away from the path, now only a short distance from their destination. The atmosphere seems heavier and thicker, although that might be just a projection of Merlin’s anxious mind. 

He can feel Arthur’s searing gaze on him. Part of him is ready to jump into a jumbled explanation, listing countless reasons for why he hasn’t told Arthur or taken matters into his own hands and dealt with both Agravaine and Morgana on his own. 

But Arthur’s silence feels more contemplating than judgemental, as though he’s genuinely curious about what had led Merlin to remain passive despite knowing what’s at stake. 

So Merlin waits, lets Arthur process the fresh realisation, and it’s not long before Arthur speaks again. 

“And you’ve never tried to…”

“She’s not the one I’ve been worried about,” Merlin replies with a twisting sensation in his gut. “Killing her would only solve so much. I needed you to… I needed you to know .”

Killing Morgana, and by extension Agravaine, would only cause Arthur more pain, making him no wiser about the true nature of his uncle. It’s not unlikely that Arthur would draw the conclusion that magic was involved, consequently dousing any hope of changing the laws.

If that had happened, Merlin could’ve kissed the mere idea of ever telling Arthur the truth about himself goodbye.

So, no. Merlin’d been willing to do this the hard way - he has done this the hard way - if it meant that the lies would be revealed. His own included.

If nothing else, Merlin keeps telling himself, at least Arthur knows the truth now. Which means Merlin can stay with him, just as he is, no more secrets. He can be there for him as Arthur fights his way out of another pit of misery. 

“I know now,” Arthur tells him, a hard edge to his voice that belies how much he wishes he didn’t.

Tentatively, Merlin turns to look at him, surprised to find him already looking back. There’s something guarded yet affectionate in his gaze, as though he’s trying to tell Merlin he understands why things had to be done this way.

Merlin gives him a wry smile, resisting the urge to reach over and take Arthur’s hand. “It’s far from over yet.”

The image of cool, blue eyes and a pale face flashes in his mind, making him grip the reins as hatred rages inside him. 

“Was it Morgana?” Arthur asks. “Was she the one who…”

“She might as well have,” Merlin growls. 

They’d been so close. They could have made it, Merlin could have made it, if only he’d had a little more time, if they hadn’t lost their horses-

Merlin shakes his head, forcing himself to remain in the present. “But no. He’s still out there. And I need to stop him.”

Arthur drifts closer, makes a displeased, almost disapproving sound. “When you say stop him…” 

In lieu of an answer, Merlin gives him a hard, cold stare.

Arthur’s face blanches, his mouth opening and closing a few times. “Who is he ?”

And no, Merlin’s not ready for this. He can’t talk about losing Arthur when he’s just got him back.

“Can we talk about something else?”

He shifts under Arthur’s intense scrutiny, but to his immense relief Arthur replies with a simple and slightly resigned, “Sure.”

But then a long moment passes, and another, and one more, saturated with tightly coiled suspense that can only mean one thing.

“Just ask,” Merlin says with a tired sigh. 

“Why did you never tell me ?”

There are a million possible answers to that, each as truthful as the next. Many of them no longer apply, though, so he goes with the one that will always, no matter the circumstances, remain unchanged. “I didn’t want you to have to choose.”

He doesn’t want to sound presumptuous, doesn’t want to compare his worth to that of a kingdom. But Arthur loves him, and Merlin knows it, has probably always known somewhere deep under all the doubt and self-deprecation.

It’s barely above a whisper, but Merlin hears it so loudly and clearly Arthur might as well have shouted it, “I would choose you.” 

A helpless sound lodges in Merlin’s throat, making it difficult to breathe. Arthur’s presence is almost tangible, like he has magic of his own that’s reaching for and interlacing with Merlin’s, creating something brand new and too big to grasp.

“I think I knew.” He might have, now that he thinks about it. “And I couldn’t bear the idea of how much that choice would cost you.” 

“That would be my burden to bear, not yours.” 

Arthur sounds cross, which isn’t entirely unexpected. He’s too pig-headed and noble to let anyone share the weight of his responsibilities. And while Merlin finds the stubborn determination inconveniently endearing, he doesn’t want Arthur to have to fight every battle on his own.

“There’s no difference to me.”

Miraculously, Arthur doesn’t have an appropriate retort, and Merlin tries his best not to gloat at the small victory. 

“Did he know?” Arthur asks suddenly. “The other…me?” His voice is small, making it hard for Merlin to determine which answer he’s hoping to hear.

“Not until it was too late.” 

“How did he take it?”

Leave me.

It doesn’t change anything.

“Let’s just say you win this one.”

“Merlin…”

“It’s okay.”

“Stop saying that!” Arthur barks. Merlin startles at the sharp tone, turning his wide eyes on Arthur. “It’s not okay! It’s so not okay.”

Merlin suffers conflicting feelings of being blissfully warmed by Arthur’s distraught reaction to… well, the other Arthur’s less than pleasant reaction and the instinctual need to defend him. 

He swallows down the whirling emotions and says, trying to sound diplomatic, “We found our way back to each other. Eventually.” 

Arthur answers with an ambiguous grunt.

“I didn’t tell him, you know,” Merlin says as the memories flood back now that the gate’s been opened. “He told me before he-” 

I love you.

He swallows the lump in his throat, a hollow ache spreading in his chest. “But I didn’t.”

“You said you were holding him,” Arthur says after a while, a little unsure. Merlin makes a small, humming noise in confirmation. “You know, as a king- Well, as a warrior,” he corrects. “You think about death often. So often, in fact, that in time you stop fearing it. You just accept it.”

He must have, Merlin muses, for he scarcely hears someone speak about death so nonchalantly.  

“I’ve been trying to imagine how I might die since my first battle when I was 14. There were…so many possibilities.”

Merlin’s heart goes out to him regardless. He tries to picture it - Arthur, a boy, having just started to come of age, heading into a battle alongside grown men , knowing full well he may not return. 

“That’s a strange hobby to have,” he says, the words scratching his already dry throat.

Arthur lets out a small, light-hearted laugh. “It helps, actually. Coming to terms with the fact you might just… not be in the next second.”

Merlin’s heart seizes at the mere thought, tears rushing to his eyes. He blinks them away. 

“I used to fantasize about going out in a blaze of glory, worthy of a Prince, of a future King,” Arthur continues. “As I got older, my idea of a good death changed and suddenly I just wanted to die for something...bigger. Or for someone I cared about. The last thing I wanted was to be killed by a boar on a hunting trip like an idiot.”

Merlin chuckles despite himself. “That would be my job.”

Arthur snorts. “You’re not wrong.” He ignores Merlin’s mock-indignant huff. When he speaks next, his voice is startlingly softer and vaguely nostalgic. “And then my father made this babbling dollophead my manservant and he proceeded to follow me into every battle, never left my side even though he didn’t know how to so much as throw a punch. 

“I don’t know when it happened, but somehow, somewhere... it no longer mattered how I’d die, or for what cause. I just wanted it to be by your side.” His eyes glimmer with hundreds of unspoken words and feelings too heavy to share, making Merlin’s breath catch. “If I could choose, I would choose exactly that. So dying in your arms? I can’t imagine a better way to go.”

Inside him, Merlin’s magic roars, searing and unhinged. There’s absolutely nothing he can say without inevitably unleashing the havoc. The thread awakens, as if answering to a call, and it’s all Merlin can do to not set the whole forest ablaze. 

And because the Fates evidently like to see him lose his mind, they let Arthur speak again.

“Merlin?”

Merlin doesn’t manage so much as a helpless noise that could be considered an acknowledgement, but it’s apparently all Arthur needs.

“There’s no difference to me, either.”

***

Merlin brings his horse to a halt. “We’re almost there,” he says at Arthur’s inquiring look, swinging one leg over and sliding off.

Arthur follows suit and ties their reins to a nearby, low hanging branch.

Merlin uses the time to dig through his bag, pulling out a bunched up, red robe. He takes off his jacket and unties his neckerchief, rolling them into a messy ball and stuffing them into the bag, then tucks the cloak under his arm. 

Arthur raises an eyebrow at him, but Merlin waves the unspoken question away, jerking his head for Arthur to follow him. He pauses, meaning to ask if Arthur’s okay with going in blind, relying solely on Merlin’s word that he knows what he’s doing. 

Arthur beats him to it, says, “Lead the way,” and follows without hesitation. 

The familiar clearing comes into view shortly, revealing Morgana’s hut - though it looks more like a cave with a piece of battered wood as a door. Agravaine’s horse is nowhere to be seen, but Merlin suspects he left it on the other side of the hut.

“What now?” Arthur asks hushedly, joining Merlin behind a thick tree trunk. 

“ Gestrenge, ” Merlin whispers.

Next to him, Arthur jerks in surprise as Morgana’s voice suddenly rings out, mid-sentence.

“-were you thinking?!”

“My Lady-” comes Agravaine’s familiar, oily voice, but Morgana doesn’t seem to be in the mood.

“What good would he do to me dead?!”

“He’s dangerous. He’s already caused enough damage, I couldn’t risk getting exposed.”

“So you thought it smart to have him executed?”

“It doesn’t matter. Arthur refused to do it.” Agravaine sounds resigned. 

Morgana scoffs.“Of course he did. What did you expect? He’s always been strangely attached to him.”

Merlin chances a glance at Arthur and they share a look. Arthur averts his gaze quickly, looking almost bashful.

“Which is something Emrys has been able to figure out on his own and use to his advantage. Unlike you.”

“My Lady, all I did was-”

“Incredibly stupid,” Morgana says sharply and Merlin only barely suppresses a snort. For the first time he wishes he was able to see as well as hear. He can only imagine the brow-beaten look on Agravaine’s face. Morgana continues, “You’re lucky Arthur’s useless, love-sick puppy that he is, and didn’t follow through with your brainless idea.” 

There’s an indignant sound from next to him and Merlin looks back at Arthur, finding him scowling and adorably flushed. It brings a grin to his face, despite everything. Arthur shoves him, albeit far gentler than in the past.

“I-” Agravaine says, clearly desperate.

“Go,” Morgana cuts him off again. “I need you in Camelot. You’ll follow Merlin from the moment he sets a foot outside the city.”

Agravaine, who clearly has a death wish, protests, “I can’t simply leave. Arthur will get suspicious.”

“Oh, because he’s been so perceptive until now, huh? Arthur will be too busy pining and licking his wounds. I need you to-”

Merlin decides that’s about enough. He’s been getting rather irritated himself and as much as he enjoys seeing Arthur blush, he’d rather it were for a different reason.

He releases the spell. 

Arthur’s eyes are a little wide and he’s giving Merlin a peculiar look which takes him a moment to interpret.

“Oh. Sorry,” Merlin mumbles, ducking his head. It’s always hard to remember what his eyes actually do when he can’t see them.

“No,” Arthur says hurriedly. “No, it’s…it’s fine. Just…”

“Unusual,” Merlin supplies. He chuckles fondly, reaching for Arthur’s hand and squeezing it briefly. 

Arthur smiles at their joined hands.

Merlin swallows, unsure how to say this bit but also unable not to say it. “Arthur,” he starts, hesitant. “I know he’s your uncle, but…”

Gods, how does one say ‘Uncle or not, I’m going to rip his throat out’?

“Can we…can we just not…” Arthur says pleadingly, expression heart-rendingly earnest and still clutching tightly to Merlin’s hand. 

How’s Merlin supposed to deny him anything?

“I can knock him out,” he offers, aware of how resentful it sounds. “And there’s a spell that can make him…docile.” 

He’d much rather prefer running Agravaine through, or, as he’s been dreaming the whole time, squeeze the life out of him with his bare hands. He doubts he’ll be able to do either with Arthur looking at him like a kicked puppy. 

Arthur nods stiffly, but gives Merlin what could be a grateful smile. 

“What about Morgana?” Arthur asks, still apprehensive.

Merlin has absolutely no idea. “I’ll take care of her.”

It might’ve not been the best thing to say, judging by Arthur’s unimpressed frown. 

“How are we going to do this? They don’t know you have magic.”

“And they won’t find out.” This, at least, Merlin knows how to do. “Remember how I told you there are many things we need to talk about?”

“Yes…” Arthur replies, expression guarded. He’s not going to like this, Merlin can tell.

“I promise I’ll explain when we’re back in Camelot,” he says placatingly. He really should start making a list. “For now, please don’t freak out. You can bite my head off later, yeah?”

Arthur gives him a rather unimpressed glare and huffs, exasperated. “Unbelievable.” 

He stares confusedly as Merlin unwraps the robe and throws it over his shoulders, tying the laces. His gaze flickers with faint recognition and he tilts his head, as though trying to figure out why something about this looks so familiar. 

Taking a deep breath, Merlin recites his least favourite spell. 

“Miht dagan, beþecce me. Adeadaþ þisne gast min freondum ond min feondum .”

A dull ache settles gradually in his bones, muscles growing rigid with tension. 

“You!” 

“Shh,” Merlin hisses, ready to cover Arthur’s mouth if necessary. 

Thankfully, Arthur’s self-control is better than Merlin would’ve thought,  although he graces Merlin with a look of utter betrayal. 

“Told you we were close,” Merlin says with a sheepish smile, which only makes Arthur glare harder. “Arthur…” He reaches for him, but Arthur snatches his hand away, recoiling from Merlin’s touch.

He’s helpless to hide the hurt expression at Arthur’s reaction, though he knows it’s well-deserved. He lets his hand fall back to his side, dropping his chin dejectedly. 

“I knew I’d seen you somewhere,” Arthur says, his tone betraying nothing. 

Merlin’s heart flutters at the faint memory of Arthur recognising him solely by his eyes. “It’s still me.”

Arthur lets out a long sigh, regarding Merlin critically. 

“The beard doesn’t suit you.”

A heavy weight lifts off Merlin's shoulders. He chuckles meekly, his chest swelling with buoyant affection. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Arthur shakes his head, either a dismissal of Merlin’s apology or because he’s decided there are more pressing matters to be addressed, and simply says, “Let’s do this.”

The lump is back in Merlin’s throat as they make their way (hopefully) inconspicuously towards the hut, stopping in front of the door. 

Agravaine and Morgana are still talking, although they’ve quieted down enough that it’s impossible to make out specific words. Merlin reaches for the handle, freezing halfway there when Arthur grabs him by the shoulder, pulling him back.

He pushes himself in front of Merlin, making a series of silly hand gestures that Merlin’s never been able to understand but thinks might mean Arthur wants to go first and have Merlin wait.

Merlin shakes his head resolutely, mouthing Are you out of your mind?! Judging by Arthur’s scowl, he doesn’t appreciate the concern. 

Eventually Merlin relents, telling himself that if anything happens he can put a stop to it with a flick of his wrist. If he’s fast enough. He gives Arthur a pleading look which earns him an exasperated yet fond smile.

Adjusting the grip on his sword, Arthur opens the door and steps inside. 

Immediately the conversation ceases and Agravaine’s startled voice follows. “Arthur!”

“Hello, Uncle,” Arthur replies coldly, knuckles turning white as he grips the hilt of his sword a little tighter. 

Scratch his earlier musings, this beats any possible expression Agravaine could’ve worn before.

“What are you- How did you-” Agravaine splutters, pale and almost comically wide-eyed.

“Well, well, well,” comes Morgana’s breezy voice. “What have we here.”

She sounds pleased, and Merlin feels his heart nearly burst out of his chest with the force of its pounding. 

“Hello, Morgana,” Arthur says calmly.

“What brings you to my humble lair?”

Merlin can hear the poisonous smirk in her voice, but Arthur seems undeterred.

“Unfinished business.”

“And…you think you can finish it.” 

Her tone is mocking and she might be moving forward, closer to Arthur, because there’s some shuffling, and Merlin’s had enough. 

“With a little extra help,” he replies and comes to stand next to Arthur.

Morgana’s reaction isn’t unlike the first time Merlin appeared uninvited in her hut. Her sneer turns into a terrified gasp and she staggers backwards, knocking a few things off the table behind her.

“Morgana,” Agravaine exclaims worriedly, seemingly torn between reaching for her and keeping an eye on Arthur and Merlin. 

“It’s him!” Morgana yells, voice shaky and panicked. 

Agravaine’s eyes land on Merlin, wide with incredulity. “ This is Emrys?”

“Pleasure is all mine,” Merlin retorts, bowing his head mockingly. 

It all happens quickly. Merlin barely registers the energy shift in the air, before a blast of magic barrels into him, throwing him against the wall behind him. His vision swims from the impact, but he notices a blurry movement to his right as someone runs outside.

Shaking himself, he sees Arthur moving towards him, Agravaine right on his heels.

“Arthur!” he cries out.

Arthur spins around, sword already aloft and blocking Agravaine's blow. 

Merlin rises to his feet with a grunt, sparing a worried glance for Arthur , before going after Morgana. 

It's okay, Merlin tells himself. Arthur’s got this. 

He sees Morgana making an escape up the stairs, presumably to get to Agravaine's horse.

“Not so fast," he mutters under his breath, reaching out a hand. 

His magic wraps around Morgana,pulling her back. She lands heavily at the bottom of the stairs, letting out a cry of pain as she tries and fails to get up. 

Merlin makes his way over on unsteady legs, vision still slightly unfocused. He stops at her feet, the familiarity of the scene stealing his breath as he raises his hand to finish what he'd started four years ago. 

Morgana blinks at him dazedly, her expression glazing over with both hatred and resignation. For a split second, the memory of the girl she used to be has Merlin falter, chest swelling with grief and old loss. 

He pushes it down, buries it deeply with all the things he’s done and never stopped regretting. His magic swells like the tide and-

“No, don’t!”

A sickening feeling spreads in his gut at Arthur's panicked voice. He turns around, but Arthur's unharmed, watching the scene unfold with growing dread. 

The fleeting moment of distraction is enough for Morgana. The only thing Merlin hears is Arthur's distressed cry, then he’s crashing to the ground, the world spinning around him. Morgana’s on him in a heartbeat, sneering victoriously and sliding a dagger from her boot.

Run, Arthur, he thinks despairingly. 

Merlin will get out of this, he always does, but if he's knocked unconscious or injured he can't protect Arthur. And Arthur doesn't stand a chance against Morgana.

“Not so powerful now, are you, Emrys?” she taunts, the blade of the dagger gleaming as she raises it. “Guess you won’t be my doom after all.”

He catches Morgana’s wrist in a tight grip just as the dagger descends. 

Morgana lets out a frustrated growl, pushing the dagger down with both hands. 

He calls for his magic, feels it surge forth in a rush as though recognising the urgency and-

It stops. He feels something dark and heavy wrap around the tendrils of his magic, seeping into his hand like poison where it’s still curled tightly around Morgana’s wrist. It makes him want to recoil, to withdraw his magic and keep it safely tucked inside him. 

He ignores that need, calling for his power again, urging it to push through, to pour out of him and into Morgana. 

“ Āsċūf !”

The spell sends Morgana flying through the air, the dagger dropping dangerously close to his face. He rolls onto his side, pushing himself up with a groan. 

Arthur’s striding towards him with a frantic expression just as Agravaine bursts out of the hut behind him. 

“Arthur!” 

Arthur stops and whirls around, but Merlin’s magic is faster, tearing itself out of him without his conscious decision and barreling into Agravaine with a force that throws him back against the hut. He drops to the ground with a pained groan, attempting to shift onto his knees.

“ Nslæpaþ, ” Merlin orders, and Agravaine falls flat on his face.

Merlin flops back, breathing heavily and feeling utterly drained. 

Arthur hurries towards him, dropping to his knees. 

“Are you hurt?” He takes Merlin by the shoulders and helps him sit up. “I’m so sorry, Merlin, I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine,” Merlin says curtly, berating himself for the sharp tone when he sees Arthur wince. 

“But-”

Merlin doesn’t have the energy for this and cuts him off, senses still on high-alert. “Where’s Morgana?” 

“Oh.” Arthur looks around, brows drawing together. “She’s gone.” 

It’s hard to tell if he’s relieved or disappointed, and Merlin hates that he can relate.

He was so close. He could’ve ended it right here and now. 

“Bloody brilliant,” he curses, immediately regretting it when he sees Arthur’s guilty look. “It’s not your fault.” 

Arthur drops his gaze, licking his lips. “You know it is.”

Yeah, it probably is, but Merlin doesn’t have it in him to be cross.

And what exactly had happened there? Why had his magic recoiled as it came into contact with Morgana’s? It hadn't been like hitting a wall, not really. It hadn’t been painful either. It’d just felt like…drowning, like falling into an endless pit. 

“She almost killed you because of me,.” Arthur says quietly.

“That’s not true. I’m a lot stronger than her.” At Arthur’s raised eyebrow, he adds, “Hey, just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’m useless.”

“I know,” Arthur says, unexpectedly tender. “What did you do to him?” He turns around to look at Agravaine lying limply next to the hut.

“Put him to sleep. It will wear off shortly. We’ll wait until it does and then I’ll use the other spell.” Speaking of spells. “ Edniwe min geoguð.”

He lets out a blissed out groan as he shifts back, feeling his joints crack as they’re restored to their previous condition. 

Arthur’s watching the transition with a look of complete befuddlement, mouth dropping open. 

“You’re…really good at this,” he says raspily, clearing his throat. “You were born with it?”

“Made objects float before I learnt how to walk.”

Arthur’s mouth creates a little ‘o’ shape. “You must have been insufferable.”

Merlin snorts. If only Arthur knew how much his mother had to deal with. Not to mention his coming of age. Those had been a few long, wild years, driving his mother to her wit’s end.

“As you can see, some things never change,” Merlin says wryly, then groans.

“Are you alright?” Arthur asks, concerned.

“It’s draining. The aging spell. I really do feel like I’m 80.”

Arthur gives him an overly thorough once-over. “Not looking bad for a grandpa.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, hoping he’s not blushing. “Thanks.”

“Wait,” Arthur says suddenly. “Agravaine can’t know-”

“He won’t. He won’t be entirely conscious. It’s a...controlling spell.”

Arthur looks anything but happy. “How long will it last?”

“About a day.”

Merlin is rubbing at his aching back, trying to stretch his limbs and loosen his stiff neck. 

Arthur purses his lips, still dubious as he asks, “And he won’t remember?”

Merlin grimaces as he rolls his head from shoulder to shoulder. 

“No.” 

“You’ve used it before?” 

Merlin stills. He raises his gaze slowly, voice hesitant even to his own ears as he answers. “Yes.” 

Arthur gives him a funny look, his frown deepening. “On whom?”

Merlin is just contemplating his best tactic for evasion when he’s saved by the sound of Agravaine rousing from his induced slumber.

Tensing up, Arthur reaches for his sword.

“Let me.” Merlin grabs Arthur’s shoulder just as Agravaine rolls onto his side with a hiss. “ Mod wæs cræftleas. ”

Making a small, unidentifiable sound, Agravaine flops onto his back.

Arthur shoots Merlin an apprehensive look, then trots over to Agravaine when Merlin gives him a nod in reassurance. Merlin follows, untying the robe and sliding it off. 

Agravaine’s eyes are unfocused, staring dazedly up at the sky. He blinks a couple of times as Merlin and Arthur’s shadows fall over him, gaze sharpening gradually as he flicks it between them. 

“Arthur,” he says, slightly bewildered. “You look…troubled.” 

“Um…” Arthur gives Merlin a dismayed look, which under different circumstances would make him laugh. 

“Oh. Hello, Merlin,” Agravaine says with unusual cheerfulness, smiling at Merlin almost goofily.  

“Hey,” Merlin says awkwardly. Gods, this is even more bizarre than when Arthur was under the spell. 

Pushing up onto his elbows, Agravaine makes an effort to lift himself up into a sitting position, grunting as he does so.

“Uncle.” 

It must be instinct that has Arthur crouching down to help Agravaine sit up properly. He freezes mid-motion, as if realising what he’s doing, and scrambles back to his feet. 

Agravaine doesn’t seem to have noticed the awkward tension, scratching his head as he looks around himself with a confused frown. 

“I feel like…I’ve forgotten something. Something I wanted to do.”

Betray your nephew to Morgana so she can take over the throne, Merlin thinks darkly, part of him itching to say so out loud.

“You hit your head. Fell off your horse,” Arthur offers, then grimaces, probably realising that Agravaine’s horse is nowhere in sight. 

But the spell works its magic and Agravaine doesn’t pick up on the obvious lie, blindly eating up the half-baked explanation.

“Oh. We better return to Camelot, then. Maybe I should have Gaius look at my head.”

Arthur does a double take, looking utterly lost. 

“Yes, that’s… let’s do that.” He clears his throat, mumbles, “Just a moment, Uncle.” Then he’s rounding on Merlin, scowling openly. “Are you serious?!”

Merlin makes a face, rubbing the back of his still twinging neck. “I know it’s not ideal, but…at least he’s harmless.”

“Couldn’t you have kept him unconscious the whole time?!” 

There’s a rustling sound coming from the trees in front of them just as Merlin’s preparing a colourful retort.

“Who’s there?!” Arthur calls, putting himself in front of Merlin as though Merlin’s a damsel in distress. 

Merlin’s not impressed but also not surprised when Gwaine emerges from behind the tree where he and Arthur had been hiding before. 

“Merlin! Arthur!” he greets with a huge grin that promptly turns into a vicious snarl as he notices Agravaine. “You…”

“Gwaine, don’t!” Merlin jumps in front of Gwaine’s sword, hardly believing what he’s doing. “He’s not a threat.”

Gwaine barks out a humourless laugh. “Not a threat, my arse. He almost got you killed. Banished. Whatever.”

“Hello, Gwaine,” Agravaine says, completely clueless as he beams at him. 

Gwaine makes a disgusted face. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I hit my head,” Agravaine supplies, pointing at his head like that’s supposed to clarify it. 

Staring for a long moment, Gwaine shakes his head, turning his attention to Merlin and Arthur. 

“Where’s Morgana?”

“She fled.” Arthur sighs. “And what are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” Gwaine repeats, incredulous. “How could you be so stupid?! Both of you! She’s a damn witch, for crying out loud!”

“And I’m a sorcerer,” Merlin says casually, stunned that the confession isn’t accompanied by the familiar sense of dread. 

“Merlin!” Arthur yelps, horrified. 

Gwaine’s face is blank as he stares at him, then huffs a little nervous laugh. “Come again?”

Merlin sighs, too tired to go over this again. “Sǣġ, ” he says and Gwaine’s sword flies out of his hand. Gwaine barely notices, too busy staring at Merlin’s eyes.

 “Surprise,” Merlin says sheepishly, spreading out his arms.

Next to him Arthur is wound tight as a bow, pulling himself to his full height as though he’s expecting Gwaine to do something to hurt Merlin. Oh, the irony.

After a long moment of unattractive gaping, Gwaine’s gaze shifts to Arthur. “You knew?”

“Not until this morning.”

Gwaine makes a surprised sound, then hums thoughtfully. “I guess I can live with being the second to know.”

Merlin chuckles, the tightness in his chest dissipating with Gwaine’s easy acceptance. Really, what had Merlin expected from the man who’d been willing to defy the King for him. 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Arthur relax, though he doesn’t leave Merlin’s side. 

“Actually,” Merlin says, shifting on his feet. “Gaius knows. And Lancelot.”

Gasping loudly - and definitely way too dramatically - Gwaine presses a hand over his heart, adopting a hurt expression. “So you like Lancelot better?!” 

At the same time, Arthur shouts, “Lancelot knows?!”

“I didn’t tell him!” Merlin defends. “He found out!”

“How?!” 

“Well, clearly, he’s smarter than the two of you together.”

“Oi!” Arthur cuffs him behind the ear. 

Gwaine makes a contemplating face, shrugging noncommittally. “You might have a point.”

“Oh, no. You’re both very smart men,” Agravaine chimes in, turning his doe-eyes on Arthur. “Especially you, Arthur.”

“This is so very creepy,” Arthur says despairingly, sending Merlin a glare which Merlin pointedly ignores.

“Agreed,” Gwaine says, scrunching his nose. “Shall we…”

“Yes.”

***

“You’re very quiet, Princess,” Gwaine points out when Arthur hasn’t said anything for the better part of an hour. 

Arthur doesn’t dignify Gwaine’s comment with a response, simply keeps staring ahead, the muscles in his jaw working as he grits his teeth. 

Leaning towards Gwaine as far as he dares without falling out of his saddle, Merlin half-whispers, “I don’t think he’s talking to me right now.”

“That’s fair,” Gwaine says, giving Merlin a sympathetic look. “He’ll come around, though.” 

It’s not like Merlin doesn’t know. Arthur just needs a bit of time to process and sort out his thoughts and feelings. That being said, the silent treatment bothers Merlin more than he’d expected.

“In the meantime, how about you fill me in?” Gwaine suggests. 

Merlin can’t see why not. This is as good a time as any. Yes, he will need to do it all over again with the rest of the Round Table, but considering Gwaine’s temper it’s better if he deals with it now, just the two of them.” 

“How much did Gaius tell you?”

“Not nearly enough,” Gwaine grunts. “He said Agravaine’s working with Morgana and that they set you up, made it seem like you’ve betrayed Arthur.”

Merlin releases an exhausted sigh. He’d hoped there would be more so he didn’t have to go through everything himself. 

“Yeah, that’s pretty much what happened.”

“He didn’t mention your little talent,” Gwaine comments playfully. He doesn't seem upset and his initial reaction hadn’t been bad either.

Just get it over with.

“And I guess he didn’t mention that I’m not from this world, either.”

Gwaine’s horse comes to an abrupt halt as he pulls on the reins too harshly. “What?”

Sighing again, Merlin gestures for him to keep going and waits until Gwaine catches up with him.

“I’m not the same Merlin who died here,” he begins, eyes on the path ahead. “I never came back from the dead, because I never died. I’m from a different world.”

When Gwaine stays silent too long for Merlin’s liking, he chances a look at him. 

Gwaine’s face does a strange thing, like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or make a fuss. “You're serious.”

Huffing out a small laugh, Merlin asks, “Does that freak you out more than magic?”

“Well, of course!” Gwaine exclaims. “We’ve all seen magic! I’ve never seen-” He trails off. “How did you get here? Why?”

Merlin tells him, hoping it gets easier the more he repeats it.

It doesn’t.

“So,” Gwaine draws out when Merlin’s wrapped the story up. “Merlin is…”

Merlin shakes his head, speaking to his hands. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t know when it happened, but at some point Arthur’d drifted closer, only a couple feet away now. 

“You’re not too bad yourself,” Gwaine says after a while, the undertone of his voice betraying how strongly he feels about the revelation despite trying his best to appear unaffected. 

“Well, Merlin, tell me then,” Gwaine says, overly cheerful. “In that world of yours have we ever explored this…” He waggles his eyebrows, the action both ridiculous and vaguely disturbing, but not unlike Gwaine. “Little thing between us?” 

Of all things, this finally gets a reaction from Arthur after what feels like hours of silence. “Shut your bloody mouth, Gwaine!”

Gwaine answers with a boisterous laugh. “Look who’s jealous.”

“I’m not-” Arthur sputters, face turning bright red in the span of a second. He huffs, indignant, steering his horse away once more and muttering under his breath.

“You sound a little jealous, Arthur,” Agravaine says solemnly.

Merlin doesn’t stand a chance. He breaks down in a fit of giggles, shoulders shaking so hard he can barely keep his horse in a straight line. Naturally, Gwaine’s there with him, wiping tears from his eyes and succumbing to an even louder laugh when Arthur’s disgusted, aflame face glares at them both. 

It takes ages before they calm down enough to speak without being thrown into another laughing fit simply from seeing the expression on each other’s faces. 

“Well?” Gwaine asks when they’ve managed to remain civil for a full minute.

“Actually,” Merlin says, already smiling at what he knows he’s going to say. “In my world, you and Percy eloped to live on a farm.”

Arthur lets out a choking sound, and Merlin snickers.

Gwaine makes a thoughtful face, then his lips stretch into a ridiculously wide grin. “Huh. A farm,” he muses, pursing his lips. He adds quite dreamily, “Yeah. Yeah, I can see that. Percy could put those muscles to good use.”

“Oh my God,” Arthur cries, urging his horse to speed up. 

The dramatic reaction successfully sends them into another giggling fit. 

By the time they’ve managed to calm down, they’ve reached the edge of the Darkling Woods, Camelot rising in front of them in all its glory. 

Warmth spreads in Merlin’s chest, knowing he’s back home. 

Arthur appears next to him, closer than before. “They didn’t really elope, did they?” he asks hushedly, leaning into Merlin’s space.

Pressing his lips together, Merlin shakes his head subtly. They might have not eloped, but it’s not hard to imagine.

“And you didn’t…” Arthur says, voice hoarse and raw. “Explore...anything?” 

It takes all Merlin’s willpower not to laugh at Arthur’s blatant display of jealousy, especially considering it’s far from the first time. If they were alone, Merlin would get down from the horse, drag Arthur with him and show him exactly where he stands when it comes to exploring anything. Or anyone. 

“No exploring,” he says with an indulgent smile. It earns him a relieved sigh, and when he turns to Arthur, he finds him beautifully flushed. 

Red has always been his colour.

Seeing as Gwaine is a few paces in front of them and Agravaine still blissfully out of it, he ushers his horse as close to Arthur’s as possible and whispers almost right into his ear, “You’re adorable.” 

Arthur makes a wonderfully appalled sound, shooting Merlin an incredulous look even as his cheeks burn brighter. He sputters through a few incoherent sounds that vaguely resemble actual words, then gives up and steers his horse several yards away. 

Throwing his head back and laughing to his heart’s content, Merlin lets him go, leaving Arthur flushed, muttering colourful curses and looking anywhere but at Merlin.

“What got you so giddy?” Gwaine says, having slowed down to ride alongside Merlin.

Merlin shrugs, a goofy grin plastered probably permanently to his face. “I’m just happy.” He looks over at Arthur, heart melting at his failed attempt to look inconspicuous while peering at Merlin from the corner of his eye and panicking at having been caught. “Really, really happy.”

Chapter Text

Arthur doesn’t know what exactly he’d expected to happen upon entering through the city gates. Maybe uncomprehending looks, or people whispering suspiciously among themselves. If nothing else, he’d expected people to at least notice that something’s amiss. 

So who can blame him for being a little dumbstruck when everyone seems to be blissfully oblivious to what’s been going on behind closed doors. Not only that - people are outright beaming as they greet him and his companions, curtsying briefly before carrying on with whatever they’d been in the middle of and smiling knowingly.

Arthur nearly suffers a heart seizure when Gwaine manifests next to him out of nowhere. 

“Look at them, so happy to have their King back,” he comments, his grin wide and not as uncomfortable as Arthur usually finds it.

“What do you mean ‘back’? I never left.”

Surely, no one’s missed him just because he unexpectedly took off this morning.

“Ah, you see, that’s not completely true.” Gwaine’s still smiling as he catches Arthur’s eyes, but it’s different now, wistful and a little guarded. “Until last week you’d basically disappeared, hadn’t shown your face for months.”

Arthur’s instinctual reaction is to deny it - he’s the King, of course he hadn’t just hidden in the castle and locked himself in his room. What about all the council meetings, the Round Table meetings, the morning drills... The list is endless. 

As if reading his mind, Gwaine asks, “When was the last time you set foot outside the city? The last time you organised a stupid hunting trip?”

Arthur stares, a little gobsmacked.

He doesn’t say I visited Merlin’s grave. 

He doesn’t say I went to Ealdor to tell Hunith. 

He doesn’t say I haven’t done another hunting trip, because Merlin never liked them.  

Alright, so for once Gwaine might have a point. That doesn’t mean Arthur has to verbally acknowledge it.

“What’s with the sullen face?” Gwaine laughs. “This is a good thing!” 

“They wouldn’t be so happy for me if they knew what finally made me get out of Camelot,” Arthur points out, swallowing down the bitterness left behind. 

He spares Agravaine a brief glance, finding him oddly peaceful and smiling at his surroundings as though being back in Camelot is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. 

Bile rises in Arthur’s throat and he stiffens as a hand lands unexpectedly on his shoulder. 

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again,” Gwaine tells him hushedly, voice thick and solemn. “This isn’t your doing.” 

Gwaine’s words from this morning resound in his head, incongruous with his current demeanor. Arthur’s dismay must be obvious. For a moment, Arthur suspects Gwaine has magic too, given how he once again seemingly read Arthur’s mind.

“I’m not saying you haven’t done some stupid shite,” Gwaine goes on, possibly having picked up on Arthur’s dismay. “You seriously fucked up back there, but…you know. No harm no foul. Although it was a close call and I was ready to hand your arse over to you.” 

Arthur gives him an unimpressed glower. Is this supposed to make him feel better? 

Letting out a wry chuckle, Gwaine goes on, even quieter. “What I mean to say is you can’t hold yourself accountable for other people’s actions. It’s not your fault how other people treat you. No, listen,” he says firmly when Arthur snorts, dubious. “You have to stop living under this archaic belief that just because someone is your blood they will be loyal to you. That’s not how it works.”

“How does it work?”

Gwaine’s lips twitch, a cheeky smile blooming on his face. There’s a gleam in his eyes, both suggestive and uncharacteristically fond. He looks over his shoulder where Merlin’s following behind them. 

“You know how it works, Arthur,” Gwaine tells him without looking, instead sending Merlin a grin and a wink. 

The familiar sensation of something hot twisting uncomfortably in his gut has Arthur punching Gwaine’s shoulder, not feeling even a little apologetic when Gwaine makes a wounded sound.

“Will you stop?!” he growls, gripping the reins tightly. His chagrin grows when instead of looking rightfully chastised, Gwaine throws his head back, shoulders shaking as he laughs, boisterous and unbridled. 

“This will never get old,” he says with glee, urging his horse to step aside when Arthur attempts to shove him, laughing even harder. 

“I have to agree,” comes Merlin’s bubbly voice as he takes Gwaine’s spot, eyes twinkling with something that makes Arthur’s heart race. “Winding you up is one of my favourite things to do to pass time.”

Arthur gives him a dirty look, hoping the heat that’s suddenly risen to his face will be passed up for indignation. 

“Maybe you’d like to pass time in the stocks.”

There’s no reason for Merlin to look pleased about that.

“I would use the time to think about how cute you are when you’re jealous.” 

Arthur closes his eyes, breathes deeply in and out, willing himself to keep it together seeing as his annoyance only serves to amuse everyone.

He doesn’t expect Merlin to speak again, definitely not from so close, definitely not so husky. “I would use the time to think about other things, too.”

Arthur jerks his horse away, nearly colliding with Agravaine’s. He sputters through a few incoherent complaints, then gives up and does his best to ignore Merlin’s delight at making him lose his composure. 

I’m still angry with him, Arthur reminds himself, recalling the events of this morning. It works for about ten seconds, ten amazing seconds when Arthur’s sure he’s going to give Merlin a piece of his mind and tell him exactly where he can shove his remarks about Arthur being cute or adorable (which Arthur is not! ). Ten seconds before he makes the mistake of peeking at Merlin from the corner of his eye and finds him already looking, smiling so wide it nearly blinds him, and just like that the annoyance bleeds away until there’s no trace of it left, a gush of warmth taking its place.

“You look a bit flushed, Arthur. Are you alright?” Agravaine says suddenly, eyes big and concerned as he scans Arthur’s face. 

“I’m fine,” he replies curtly as he comes to a halt in front of the stables, Agravaine following suit. He grows tense when it seems Agravaine’s about to say more, but is saved by the appearance of one of the stableboys.

“Your Majesty!” the boy greets excitedly. He glances quickly at Agravaine, then at the rest of the party behind them. “May I take care of your horses for you?”

Arthur wants to refuse, wants to put off the inevitable for as long as he can. He finds himself nodding regardless, if only because he doesn’t have a reasonable explanation for doing otherwise. Also, he doesn’t think Merlin would appreciate the cowardice, and then Arthur would have to see that chastising look. 

He slides off, handing the reins over. “Thank you, Charlie.”

The boy does a double take, staring at Arthur like he’s grown a second head. The look of bewilderment is short lived, and then the boy is nodding eagerly, smiling from ear to ear as he leads Arthur’s horse inside. 

There’s a dull thud as Gwaine and Merlin dismount, grinning at Arthur like idiots.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Gwaine says too quickly, raising his hands in the air and taking his horse inside. 

“What?” Arthur repeats impatiently, prompting Merlin to answer with what he hopes is a threatening glare.

Merlin shakes his head, as though banishing a thought, grin still firmly in place. He steps closer to Arthur, too close, and for a moment Arthur thinks he’s going to kiss him, wants Merlin to kiss him, right here, where everyone can see. His eyelids are already fluttering close as Merlin’s breath caresses his lips, warm and sweet, and-

“Adorable.”

Arthur staggers backwards, glaring fiercely at Merlin’s blatant amusement. It’s only because Charlie is back and prompting Merlin to give him the reins that Arthur bites back a retort and turns to Agravaine instead.

He regrets that decision immediately, acutely reminded of the reality that exists behind Merlin’s easy smiles and cheeky remarks.

Agravaine hasn’t got off his horse, as if waiting for Arthur to instruct him to do so. He seems content, unaware of Arthur’s inner turmoil, and evidently unaware of what he’s done. 

It’s just the spell, Arthur knows, and yet he isn’t able to see past it.

“Hey, Princess,” Gwaine calls, sounding almost worried. “I can take him to his new accommodation if you’d like.”

The mindfully worded implication isn’t lost on Arthur, and while he knows that Gwaine’s only trying to be sympathetic, he can’t not hate the reminder of what’s to follow. 

“I appreciate it,” he says in a strained voice. “But I’d rather do it myself.” He wouldn’t, not really, but in the light of recent events it might be the right time to take a proper stand. 

“Of course,” Gwaine says, squeezing Arthur’s shoulder. He gives him a tight smile, then turns to Merlin. “Come here, you,” he demands, spreading his arms wide and pulling Merlin into a, by the pinched look on his face, crushing hug. 

Arthur huffs, turning his gaze heavenwards. Fortunately, Gwaine lets go shortly, taking Merlin by the shoulders. 

“I don’t care where you’ve come from. Just make sure you don’t die on me again, yeah?” 

Merlin’s expression is painfully affectionate as he holds Gwaine’s gaze, chuckling weakly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

One last squeeze to his shoulder, and then Gwaine is twirling around, smirking as he no doubt takes in Arthur’s death stare.  

“You too, Princess,” he says, dragging Arthur into a hug so firm it nearly knocks the breath out of him. “No dying any time soon.”

“Okay,” Arthur peeps, searching out Merlin’s eyes despairingly over Gwaine’s shoulder and mouthing traitor when Merlin merely giggles at his dumbstruck face. Gwaine isn’t showing any signs of relenting, so Arthur resigns himself to returning the hug, patting Gwaine’s back briefly. “Gwaine?”

“Hmm?” 

“Can you maybe…let go?”

Gwaine makes an affirmative sound and his hold on Arthur slackens. Just before he lets go completely, he turns his head and murmurs, “Hurt him and I’ll disembowel you.” And then, Lord have mercy, he kisses Arthur’s cheek with a loud and wet smack. 

Arthur makes an appalled sound and bodily tears himself away, wiping his face with the sleeve of his tunic.

“What the-”

“Gwaine!”

They all turn towards the shout just in time to see Percy’s large frame striding in their direction. And fuming. 

“Oh, would you look at that,” Gwaine perks up. “Miss me already.”

Merlin lets out a nervous chuckle. “I don’t think that’s why-”

“Percy!” Gwaine spreads his arms, stepping forward. “My darling-”

“I’m going to bloody kill you!”

“Oops.” Gwaine’s face falls, a mildly frightened look in his eyes. “Well, fellas, it’s been a pleasure. Now, if you excuse me…” And he takes off, running towards the castle with Percy hot on his heels. 

Arthur watches the chase with growing disbelief, Gwaine’s elated laugh carrying across the courtyard. 

“How did I never see it before?” 

“You probably had other things on your mind,” Merlin says, and Arthur wouldn’t think much of it if it weren’t for the blatantly teasing tone.

“My Lord.” Charlie appears again, speaking to Agravaine, and once again saving Arthur from having to respond. “Would you like me to take your horse?”

Agravaine looks down at Arthur questioningly. Arthur’s heart seizes, the warmth from before dissipating and leaving him cold. 

Arthur can’t do much but give a tense nod, stepping back as Agravaine slides off. letting Charlie take the horse. He looks at Arthur expectantly, as though awaiting further instructions. 

As always, just when Arthur feels himself fall, Merlin’s there, a strong, unwavering presence next to him. 

“I’ll go with you,” he says, his voice washing over Arthur like a breeze on a hot day.

“Thank you.” In a moment of bravery, he bumps their arms together, the backs of their hands brushing against each other. Merlin gets the message, doesn’t hesitate to slide his palm against Arthur’s, fingers intertwining.

“Uncle?”

“Yes, Arthur?” Agravaine says, unsuspecting. 

Arthur’s stomach churns. “Would you follow me, please?”

Agravaine smiles. “Of course.” 

Never letting go of Merlin’s hand, Arthur takes Agravaine gently by the arm, leading him towards the castle. He ignores the few surprised looks they receive. 

Maybe under different circumstances it would leave him unsettled. He knows people will talk, and God, there aren’t many things Arthur hates more than gossip, but for once he couldn’t care less. Not when Merlin’s the only thing preventing him from losing it right here and now.

“Are you not taking me to Gaius?” Agravaine asks when they’ve started their descent to the dungeons.

“Not yet,” Arthur says through gritted teeth. “There’s something I need to do first.”

“Oh. Alright then,” Agravaine says breezily. “Whatever you say, Arthur.”

He clenches his eyes tightly shut when he feels them sting, aware that the way he’s gripping Merlin’s hand must be uncomfortable.

But Merlin doesn’t complain, doesn’t let go. He leans into Arthur’s space, squeezes his hand back, just as tight, and whispers, “I’ve got you.”

By some miracle they make it to the dungeons without Agravaine asking any more questions. It’s not until they stand in front of the two guards that Arthur realises he ought to have prepared an explanation beforehand. 

“Sire,” the guards greet, rising from their respective chairs. There’s a brief moment of confusion as their gazes land on Merlin, no doubt trying to figure out how the man who was brought in as a prisoner last night is free to roam the castle and accompany the King. 

Neither of them ask questions, of course they don’t, but Arthur finds himself stepping forward and saying quietly, “There’s been a…situation involving Sir Agravaine. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t speak to anyone about what you see here.”

The guards nod vigorously. “Of course, sire.” 

One of them reaches for Agravaine’s arm, and Arthur puts himself bodily in front of him, extending his hand for the guard to hand over the keys. The guard falters for a second before shaking himself and tentatively dropping them into Arthur’s palm. 

It feels like a different life, remembering how he walked the same path yesterday as he led Merlin into the cell, his whole world reduced to ruins. The familiarity of it is nauseating, the sickening sensation intensified when Agravaine turns his wide-eyed stare on him.

“Arthur? What’s going on?”

Arthur remains silent, dropping his gaze as he takes Agravaine by the elbow and nudges him inside. He doesn’t fight Arthur, doesn’t try to escape, and somehow it makes everything so much worse. 

Merlin’s arm brushes his as he squeezes himself in front of Arthur, giving him a tight-lipped smile. He grabs Agravaine’s shoulder, leading him to one of the benches. 

“It’s going to be alright, my Lord,” he says, voice strained. “Everything will make sense soon.” 

Agravaine turns his eyes on Arthur, as if seeking guidance.

“He’s right, Uncle,” Arthur manages, his tongue heavy and sticking uncomfortably to the roof of his mouth. 

“Why don’t you sit down, my Lord?” 

The words are hard to say, Arthur can tell. The pinched expression on Merlin’s face each time he says my Lord would be amusing in a different situation. Arthur can only watch, awestruck, as Merlin handles Agravaine with unexpected gentleness, even though he must want nothing more than to do the exact opposite. 

“ Ûphêah slæpan ,” Merlin suddenly chants, and although the words are nothing but a jumbled mess to him, Arthur casts a panicked glance around himself. When he looks back, Agravaine’s eyes have slid shut and he’s slumping to the side. Merlin’s hands are on his shoulders, steadying him until he ends up lying on the bench in a strange position with his feet on the ground. 

“That should last until tomorrow morning,” Merlin explains. “He should be back to himself when he wakes up,” he adds with a frown, wiping his hands on his trousers. 

“Thank you,” Arthur says simply, although he’ll never be able to express how much everything Merlin’s done means to him. He doesn’t know what he looks like, but it must be nothing short of miserable, given that Merlin seems to be ready to jump forward and wrap him in a hug. But that can’t happen, not here and now, not if Arthur wants to preserve some vague sense of dignity and not turn into a sobbing mess.

“You should probably go to Gaius, let him know you’re alright,” he suggests, voice carefully neutral.

Of course Merlin, the stubborn oaf, only gives him a berating look and says, “I’d rather come with you. How about lunch? Have you eaten anything since yesterday?”

He hasn’t, and truth be told food is the last thing on his mind right now. As he’s about to decline, it dawns on him he’s not the only one who’s gone hungry this whole time, and Christ, Merlin could definitely use putting some more meat on his bones. 

“Lunch sounds good.”

***

Arthur had been sure that being alone would be the best thing to do. Ten minutes into waiting for Merlin to bring lunch to his chambers, he’s definitely changed his mind. 

Trying to think clearly and process the revelations he’s been exposed to since yesterday might have been difficult in Merlin’s company, seeing as Arthur’s unable to control not only his emotions, but also his more...basic needs. 

That being said, attempting to sort out the mess in his head is outright impossible when he’s left alone with just his thoughts for company. 

Everything had seemed so simple with Merlin. Well, maybe not simple, but focused, solid. Everything he’d thought he’d known had started to crumble, but at least Merlin had been there, showing him the way out. And it had been so easy, so natural to just follow, to let himself be led out of the dark. 

But nothing about this is easy. For God’s sake, Merlin had lied to him, about so many things, for so many years. How many more lies are there? So Merlin had promised they would talk, but does Arthur even want to know? Is it even necessary to talk about it? Merlin might not be from here - and how the hell is this Arthur’s life?! - but he’s Merlin, and Arthur loves him, and-

Of course you need to talk about it, you idiot! he berates himself instantly. No matter how uncomfortable that particular conversation is going to be, Arthur needs to put his feelings aside and face this like a man. 

In fact, he’s going to do this the second Merlin walks through the door. They're going to sit down, share Arthur’s lunch, and talk about this like the two sensible, responsible people they are and-

The door flies open as Merlin strolls inside, balancing the tray as he makes his way to the table without sparing Arthur a glance.

“So, I got a little carried away and got a bit of everything. You have plenty to choose from! I have drumsticks, roasted vegetables, some sausages- Oh, I even found pie!”

Merlin’s hands are flying wildly over the tray as he carries on, speaking so fast the words almost blend together. 

Arthur’s not even listening. His entire focus is on the dimples in Merlin’s cheeks as he smiles, how his eyes create cute, little half-moons, the way his lips shape around the words Arthur doesn't hear.

Yes, they need to talk about it, about so many things, but this is Merlin. Merlin who’d kept his magic secret, because he hadn’t wanted to leave Arthur. Merlin who’d followed him everywhere, would follow him to the mouth of hell. Merlin who’d crossed worlds for him, abandoning his life so he could be with Arthur. 

Merlin who loves him.

It's his Merlin, and he’s here, alive and real, and God, Arthur has missed him. 

He’s moving before he knows he’s doing it.

“-but I wasn’t sure. What do you fancy? I can go back to the kitchens and-”

The rest of the sentence is muffled against Arthur’s lips as he swallows Merlin’s surprised gasp. His hands find their way to Merlin’s waist, sliding under his jacket as if he’s done so countless times. Merlin arms wind around him almost instinctively, fingers twisting into the back of his tunic, pulling him closer, holding him tighter. 

He blinks up at Arthur disorientedly as they part, eyes glazed over and tender. 

“Is this an option?” Arthur asks raspily, not recognising his voice. 

Merlin’s eyes widen a fraction, mouth falling open on a small, sharp inhale before it curls into a wicked grin. 

“Definitely,” he breathes, and then he’s spinning them around and pushing Arthur backwards and down. 

Arthur falls into the chair with a slightly undignified yelp, but doesn’t dwell on it. Not when Merlin’s holding him down, throwing his arms around Arthur’s neck and sliding into his lap with remarkable grace Arthur wouldn't in a million years associate with him. 

He’s a comforting weight and so bloody gorgeous as he gazes down at Arthur with half-lidded, dark eyes, his breathing loud and laboured as though he’s just finished a sparring session.  

Arthur lets out a contented sigh as Merlin’s fingers sink into his hair. He tilts his head up just as Merlin leans down, meeting him halfway. The kiss is slow and sweet and not at all urgent, but somehow the heat that had been simmering in Arthur’s belly turns into a scorching flame, burning away the doubt and grief, until all that remains is the irrefutable sense of right.  

This is where he belongs. In this moment, with Merlin well and safe in his arms, kissing the pain away, and it’s so good, so perfect, and-

Merlin starts pulling away, Arthur’s lips chasing his instinctively. 

“Arthur,” Merlin mumbles, then again when Arthur fails to respond. “Arthur, I- Are you sure this is a good idea?” He sounds remorseful, but the subtle rejection has the effect of being doused with ice cold water. 

“Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t- I thought- ” Arthur deflates, feeling his cheeks burn. What had be been thinking? If this isn’t the most inappropriate time ever, then he doesn’t know what is. He’d just locked his uncle up, for crying out loud, and there are still so many things to do, so many things to say. Of-bloody-course Merlin’s not in the mood. “It’s okay if you don't want to-”

Merlin throwing his head back and laughing is not the reaction he’d been expecting.

“Gods, you’re such a prat.” He shakes his head, eyeing Arthur scoldingly. “Don’t want to? Arthur, all you need to do is look at me the right way and I’ll drop to my knees.”

Arthur’s not proud of the squeal that escapes him when the mental image floods his brain and successfully wipes away any semi-coherent thought. He almost takes Merlin up on it, wants to give him a look that couldn’t be mistaken for anything but a shameless invitation when a small, nagging voice in the back of his head pushes forth. 

Merlin seems uncharacteristically confident, and not in a cocky, don’t-really-care way. It doesn’t sit well with Arthur and the possible implication dampens some of his arousal.

“I thought…” he starts, clearing his throat. “I thought you didn’t know how to walk on your knees.” 

He even takes the effort to make it sound teasing, but Merlin, ever so annoyingly perceptive when it comes to Arthur’s habit of disguising the true meaning of his words, picks up on the change in mood. 

His glazed over eyes clear up, a faint, unfairly endearing line appearing between his brows. Then his face relaxes, and Arthur gets to witness one of those breathtaking, indulgent smiles as Merlin’s thumb brushes over his jaw, then continues upwards, swiping over his bottom lip. 

“I don’t,” he says like it’s a secret. Voice dropping impossibly lower, he adds,  “But I’m a quick study if properly motivated.” 

Arthur shouldn’t be happy at the prospect of Merlin spending the last six years- No, ten years, Jesus Christ, Merlin’s spent a fucking decade hiding how he’s really felt and never once has he chosen the easier way to soothe the heartache, to erase the longing in the arms of another. He shouldn’t be pleased that Merlin had chosen loneliness, patiently waiting for Arthur to get his act together without knowing if it would ever happen. 

It shouldn’t make him feel this relieved, learning that they’re on even ground.

But he gets to see Merlin like this, no one else gets to see him like this, and fuck, the knowledge is disarming.

It’s only when Merlin shuffles backwards and starts sliding to the floor that Arthur shakes himself. 

“Wait,” he says a little too sharply. Merlin freezes, face open and vulnerable as he looks up at Arthur with worry. “Just- Can we just-” He huffs, frustrated with his inability to produce a coherent sentence. Instead he reaches for Merlin’s arms, hoisting him up and back into his lap. “Can we… Like this?” When Merlin’s eyebrows shoot up, he says, “I want to kiss you.” 

Merlin lets out a little breathless oh , regarding Arthur almost shyly. Then it’s like watching a storm brew on the horizon. Everything about Merlin transforms, any sign of bashfulness vanishing like it’s never been there, replaced with unhinged determination. The air around them shifts, getting thicker, making it nearly impossible to breathe. 

If Arthur didn’t know better, he’d say it’s magic. But he’s never felt magic like this, making the hair on his neck stand in a not-at-all unpleasant way, the atmosphere in the room charged with something akin to lightning, about to be unleashed any moment. 

It feels a little like magic, but mostly it just feels like Merlin.

It’s always been part of me. It is me.

His next breath is stolen from him, Merlin’s lips insistent and hungry as they cling to Arthur’s with fervid desperation. Arthur’s powerless to do anything but open up to them, let Merlin take and take, anything he wants, all that Arthur has. 

And then it’s not just lips. It’s Merlin’s hands, grasping Arthur’s shoulders, wrapping around his neck, threading through his hair as though looking for an anchor.

It’s Merlin’s chest, pressed against Arthur’s so firmly there’s no telling whose heart it is that’s currently trying to beat its way out.

It’s Merlin’s thighs, straddling Arthur and keeping him in place, like he fears Arthur would disappear if he let go. 

It’s Merlin’s cock, already hard and pressing relentlessly into Arthur’s stomach, sending a tendril of untampered arousal through his body with each roll of Merlin’s hips. It pools low and deep in his belly, having him swell and strain against the tight constraints of his trousers. 

It’s everything and it’s too much and Arthur wants more and-

His hips thrust upwards of their own volition, a hoarse gasp torn out of his throat with the first, firm tug on his hair. The sudden, wild movement nearly throws Merlin off and he squeezes Arthur between his thighs harder, effectively trapping him in place. His fingers tighten and twist in Arthur’s locks, his grip slightly painful and sending Arthur into a lust-filled frenzy, growing more out of his control with each pull. 

Merlin’s mouth curls into a shark-like grin. Arthur can almost taste it, the giddy satisfaction of having discovered something new and secret, something Arthur himself hadn’t known about.

“Gods, Arthur,” Merlin moans wantonly, the sound bordering on pained. “You have no bloody idea, do you?” 

No, Arthur has no idea. No idea what Merlin’s gibbering about. If only he’d shut up and do it again. 

“About?” he asks against his better judgement, even though there are better things Merlin could be doing with his mouth.

Merlin slows the sinuous, tantalising roll of his hips, causing Arthur to cry out in protest. 

“I want to give you the world.”

It’s this, the sudden, breathless confession whispered reverently against his lips that  has Arthur believe there’s nothing in existence, be it armies or the Fates themselves, that could ever keep him from Merlin.

It’s still so bizarre, so utterly unbelievable that he gets to have this, after years of crushed hopes and heartbreak and loss, he gets to have something that’s only his. He’d never ask for it himself, never believed he’d be worthy, that he’d deserve something so beautiful and pure. And the thing is he doesn’t have to ask, doesn’t have to do anything at all. All he’s ever wanted is right in front of him, freely given and just waiting to be taken, to be accepted. 

“You already have.”

Merlin lets out a choked sound, mutters “Fuck” as he shudders in Arthur’s arms, and then it’s just madness.

There’s no air left in Arthur’s lungs by the time Merlin’s hands have released their hold and traveled down, smoothing his tunic over his chest and tugging it up, one of them burrowing under the fabric to palm at Arthur’s stomach which jumps under the unfamiliar touch. Merlin’s fingernails scratch teasingly and Arthur giggles, ticklish. He feels Merlin smile against his mouth, can almost taste the sunshine on his lips. 

Merlin’s hand continues its ascent, leaving warmth and comfort in its wake which promptly unfurl into scorching desire as his thumb flicks over Arthur’s left nipple. He bucks wildly under Merlin’s weight, throwing his head back on a stuttered moan. Merlin must like the sounds he makes, because he repeats the action, his other hand snaking between their bodies to press against Arthur’s cock. 

Arthur sobs into the next kiss, gripping Merlin’s hips with bruising force which he’ll probably apologise for later, but right now he doesn’t really care, can barely think. He doesn’t want to think, doesn’t want to do anything but give himself over completely to whatever Merlin’s planning on doing with him. 

Merlin’s rubbing his palm against Arthur’s crotch in small, maddening circles, whispering words of encouragement and reducing Arthur to a babbling mess. His only thoughts are yes and please and more, playing themselves on repeat like the most desperate prayer. At some point he must have started talking, because Merlin answers him, saying “Anything”, and it’s all the permission Arthur needs.

He wills himself to let go of Merlin’s hips and goes straight for the laces of his trousers, heart pounding in his ears as his knuckles brush the impressive bulge trying to tear a hole through the front. Merlin jolts at the unexpected touch, pressing harder on Arthur’s cock and making him see stars. 

Arthur nearly cries in relief as he manages to get the laces open, the only thing separating him from Merlin’s pulsing length the thin, worn fabric of his smallclothes. 

“A-Arthur,” Merlin sobs, burrowing his face into the crook of Arthur’s neck, puffing out small, watery gasps against the sensitive skin. 

Arthur hums his approval and without wasting another second he shoves his hand under the loose waistband of Merlin’s smalls, his vision whitening as his fingers curl around the hot flesh, the feeling both foreign and right.

Merlin’s hips snap forward, and Arthur’s helpless to oblige the silent request, tightening his grip and twisting his wrist on an upward stroke. It’s awkward and a little scary, and undoubtedly one of the most amazing things Arthur’s ever done. 

Merlin’s utterly pliant and desperate as he all but slumps against Arthur, abandoning the quest his hand had taken on his chest. Arthur feels a grin forming on his lips and presses a kiss into Merlin’s hair to hide it, holding Merlin steady with one hand to his back while the other resumes its ministrations on Merlin’s cock.

It comes as a shock when Merlin’s own hand closes around Arthur’s cock, and it takes him an embarrassing amount of time to realise Merlin must have used magic to get his trousers open, the sneaky bastard. Instead of voicing his indignation at the unfair game, Arthur lets out a guttural moan as Merlin strokes up and down his cock, somehow both tentative and determined as he does so. 

The sound of blood rushing in his ears turns into a buzzing noise, tuning out everything but Merlin’s breathless moans and whispered praise that Arthur can’t distinguish, only vaguely registering a few, broken off words like so long and no one else and never let you go . 

The knot of desire that has been getting tighter since the first touch of Merlin’s lips starts to uncoil, slow and sweet, spreading inside him like warm honey. 

And then it’s not slow anymore, but wild and urgent, unfolding like an upcoming tempest with no chance of being stopped. He wants to chase it, wants to fall apart in Merlin’s arms, knowing he’s safe there, he’s always safe with Merlin. But he also wants to drag it out, wants to stay like this forever, in a moment where there’s nothing but bliss and love.

In the end it doesn't matter what he wants, because Merlin captures his mouth in the filthiest, most desperate kiss and breathlessly gasps out, “Gods, I love you.”

And Arthur had warned him, told him to stop saying that, because Merlin has no fucking clue as to what the three, little words that feel larger than life do to him. What they do is that they make him cry out, a loud, helpless noise that could be a curse or a plea, liquid fire running through his veins. 

He hadn’t even realised he’d closed his eyes, but he lets them flutter open, trying to regain the feeling of his body while Merlin peppers kisses all over his face. 

“Hey. Hey, look at me,” he orders gently as he kisses Arthur’s lips. “Are you okay?” 

Arthur’s first thought is how the hell does he sound so composed?! , then registers the sticky wetness splattered over his hand, his stomach and hem of his tunic soaked in his own release. He groans, disappointed that he didn’t get to see Merlin come apart, because he was too busy fainting. And that’s just so unfair, after years and years of imagining what Merlin would look like.

Merlin chuckles, like he knows what Arthur’s thinking. And he probably does, given that he leans in and whispers right into Arthur’s ear, “If you keep looking so morose, I’m going to tie you to the bed and make you watch.”

And Arthur doesn’t whimper, absolutely not. And he doesn’t squeal as Merlin’s eyes turn golden, making the stickiness disappear. Merlin’s thumbs are rubbing soothing circles into Arthur’s hip bones. He looks rather ridiculous with his cock still out. He blushes, then feels his face grow impossibly hot when it occurs to him he’s still gripping Merlin’s cock, now soft and just as perfect as before. He releases his hold, earning a low whine from Merlin.

Determined to preserve some of his scattered dignity, he squashes the embarrassment  down and asks, “Did you- Is this how you do my laundry?”

Merlin blinks at him, bites his lower lip. “Not always.”

“Why not?”

Lips curling into a sheepish grin, Merlin catches his gaze and says, like sharing a secret, “Your clothes smell like you.” 

“Oh,” is the best Arthur manages, which is quite remarkable given that Merlin’d just shagged his brains out. 

“Wipe that grin off your face,” Merlin grunts, pinching Arthur’s cheek. 

Arthur hadn’t even realised he’d been smiling. Always one to seize the opportunity, he squares his shoulders, puffs his chest out and says, “Make me.”

Maybe the dangerous, dark glint in Merlin’s eyes should make him run for the hills, but he can only feel a brand new coil of arousal and excitement unfold in his gut.

Merlin’s hand finds its way back to Arthur’s hair, not pulling, just resting with a promise of more. He leans in, brushes his lips against Arthur’s in a ghost of a kiss, making him vibrate with poorly disguised anticipation. 

“Just so you know,” he starts, voice dark and lewd. “Your socks could kill a horse.”

Chapter Text

Arthur stares as Merlin cuts off a rather big chunk of apple pie and pops it in his mouth before he’s even finished chewing the last one. He catches Arthur’s gaze, cheeks bulging as he gives him a closemouthed smile. Arthur’s heart comes to a sudden, staggering halt, skipping one or two beats before it picks up again, thumping frantically against his chest. He feels his face burn and hurriedly averts his gaze, intently studying his still mostly full plate. He shifts in his chair, crossing his legs in what is hopefully an inconspicuous manner. 

God, he’s sitting in the same chair he was sitting in when Merlin unabashedly slid into his lap, pinned him down and had his wicked way with him - not that Arthur had protested. 

The vivid memory stirs a deep ingrained need inside him, making it impossible to concentrate on anything at all, least of all food. His stomach is still fluttering like a swarm of butterflies, and no, Arthur doesn’t find it romantic, only highly inconvenient. 

What is he supposed to do now? They’ve crossed a line which there’s no coming back from. And it’s not like Arthur would choose to go back if he could, not at all. But the phantom feeling of Merlin’s weight pressing him down, the ghost of his breath against Arthur’s neck and the echo of the sweet, nonsensical words whispered into the sacred space between them is branded into his mind forever. He can already feel his body responding, just by remembering small, scattered details - like the taste of his name on Merlin’s lips, or the way his eyes sparkle whenever he’s up to no good. 

“Stop being weird, Arthur,” Merlin mumbles through a mouthful, jarring Arthur from his thoughts.

“I’m not!” 

Merlin giggles, laughing out loud when he’s finished chewing. “You’re cute.”

Don’t engage, Arthur tells himself, knowing it will only serve to fuel Merlin’s glee. “Shut up and eat your lunch.”

“You mean your lunch.”

Narrowing his eyes, Arthur says warningly, “Don’t make me revoke my generosity.”

There’s a screeching sound as Merlin draws his chair closer to Arthur, placing one hand on his knee, the touch searing even through the fabric of his trousers. He leans into Arthur’s space, licking his lips. Arthur’s eyes reflexively follow the action and he runs his tongue over his lips in response. He swears he can detect Merlin’s lingering taste.  

Merlin smiles, sharp and a bit dangerous, like he can tell where Arthur’s mind just went. He inches his hand higher, climbing up Arthur’s thigh, leaving goosebumps behind. “I could always make it up to you.”

Letting out an unmanly squeal, Arthur grips Merlin’s wrist firmly, just as Merlin reaches the seam at his crotch.  

“Show some restraint, will you?” he grunts out, aiming for authoritative but ending up sounding rather desperate.

“I’ve been doing that for a decade,” Merlin points out, fingers brushing the outline of Arthur’s cock. “Don’t you think I deserve some compensation?”

Fair enough, Arthur concedes. It hasn’t been a decade for him, but he wouldn’t dream to count the number of times he’s got himself off to his Merlin-centred fantasies, muffling his gasps and moans into his pillow so the guards wouldn’t hear. Out of his mind with fear that Merlin would barge into his chambers, unannounced as he tends to, and walk in on Arthur with a hand between his legs and the desperate call of Merlin’s name echoing in the room. 

No, Arthur knows very well what it’s like to constantly control his most demanding urge to tackle Merlin to the ground in some dark, abandoned corner of the castle and ravish him until he forgets his own name. He doesn’t dare imagine all the things Merlin has pushed down and stored away in some dark, shameless corner of his mind. 

“A decade is a long time, especially when you’re trying to make up for it,” he says raspily, feeling himself grow hot at the endless list of possibilities Merlin might have reserved for him if Arthur ever allows him to run wild. 

Merlin waggles his eyebrows, looking utterly ridiculous as he does so. “The sooner I start…” 

A little more and he’ll end up in Arthur’s lap again, and Arthur knows, with dreadful certainty, he won’t have the strength to stop him. 

A higher force intervenes in the shape of someone knocking on the door. Arthur jerks away, shouts “Yes!” He takes a much needed breath when Merlin pulls away with a dramatic sigh and an entirely too smug grin. 

“You’re lucky,” Merlin mutters darkly just as the door opens, revealing a beaming Gwaine. 

Arthur’s almost happy to see him. 

“Oh, hello, lovebirds,” Gwaine sings suggestively, promptly causing Arthur to regret his thought. 

“What do you know, you’ve learnt how to knock,” he says sardonically. “Maybe you could teach Merlin.”

Merlin sends him a glare.

“Nah,” Gwaine retorts, stepping inside. “I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t interrupting anything.”

“Well, you kind of-”

“Merlin!” Arthur barks, earning another giggle. Arthur ignores him, turning to Gwaine. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. Well, no.” Gwaine frowns, pursing his lips. “Not that there’s an issue per se, but everybody’s getting a bit nervous, with all that Agravaine business and…well, just this morning everyone thought Merlin was about to be banished so…” 

The reminder works like a charm, clearing Arthur’s lust-fogged mind and causing the heat to recede, leaving him uncomfortably cold. He can’t believe it’s been less than a day.

He looks at Merlin, taken aback by the determination staring back at him.

“We need to tell them,” Merlin announces, voice firm and serious, no trace of teasing or desire left.

“About what?”

“Agravaine. And me.”

Arthur doesn’t like where this is going. “What about you?”

Merlin sighs, shoulders dropping. “Everything.”

Arthur’s instantly out of his seat. “Have you gone mad?!”

“They deserve to know, Arthur,” Merlin says calmly. “ Look, the only ones in the dark are Gwen, Leon and Percy. How bad can it be?”

Is Merlin serious? It doesn’t matter they’re all his friends, Arthur can’t risk Merlin’s safety. 

“What about Elyan? He died because of magic.” 

“Because of Morgana,” Merlin corrects, voice stern. “Gwen knows this. Percy’s family was Morgana’s doing too.”

“And Morgana has magic!”

“I’ll just have to explain.” Merlin shrugs. “And tell the truth about where I come from.”

“Why? What difference does it make?”Arthur pushes. 

Why is it that Merlin’s trying to get himself in trouble? There are so many things going on. Will they ever get a break? Now he wishes he hadn’t been so set on dodging Merlin’s advances. Who knows when they’ll get a chance again without an imminent threat hanging over their heads.

“As I said, they deserve to know,” Merlin insists. “They should know that your Merlin is not coming back. And if we’re to tell the truth about Agravaine and Morgana and explain what went on this morning and last night, we will need to tell them about how I knew all that.”

“He’s right, Princess,” Gwaine says, giving Arthur a sympathetic look. 

Arthur’s not in the mood to appreciate it. 

“Arthur,” Merlin says, a little softer. “You don’t have to worry about me.”