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Chapter Text

The day Arthur was born is the same day he was almost murdered.

His father had taken one look into his eyes, seen the ring of gold, and thought the worst, since gold or red usually do not begin to show until presentation age, and there is the unfortunate truth of Arthur's origins.

Only, Omega gold is not quite so metallic, so brightly glowing, especially in an infant. Omega gold also does not flash in and out of existence, like magic does.

Arthur has been told, or rather, has had it mumbled to him in half-sentences from reluctant servants and nobles who still talk about such things, that it had taken the King much convincing to spare his heir. His heir, they called Arthur, not even his child, or son.

He was spared, and has been on treatments ever since. When he was younger, they made him feel queasy, like he was treading on a large body of water with only a plank on which to keep balance. He's certain the herbs he still takes were mixed into his wetnurse's milk. He was weaned late and remembers the bitter taste, still too sensitive to certain foods because of it.

Now he uses poultices, beneath his arms and around the back of his neck, below his clothes. He still drinks the concoction to stay his heat – that at least has a practical purpose, he cannot very well cause a frenzy while on patrol or during a battle, even though the medicine makes his lower belly feel awfully empty and gives him cramps like he's just spent the night vomiting up his dinner. He listens to his father rant about his weakness, his height and stature, so unbecoming of a Prince. Too small, too pale, too gentle in heart and mind. Arthur can't remember a day when his father's eyes were not old-blood-red, gleaming with vicious hate at the creature that had murdered his mate.

So he made himself big, and loud, and social as he was able. The medicines eventually dulled the gold in his eyes, suppressed them until they were barely noticeable except when he was deeply upset. He learned not to let himself get upset, not in public at least. He clung to his costume of unshakeable Alpha like his life depended on it.

Morgana knew, of course. As did Gaius, since he was the one making Arthur's poultices and medications. Leon, too, knew the truth, as Arthur had trained under him when he was still far too young and emotional to hide it. Leon and Morgana taught him how to pretend. Aside from his father, they were the only others who knew the truth of his nature:

Prince Arthur Pendragon, heir to the throne of Camelot, is an Omega.

No one was to know. It was all laid out: Arthur would be an Alpha until the day he died. He would marry and bed a noblewoman who wouldn't be able to scent the difference and would be far too proper and smart to spread gossip about his lack of knot and his ability to get slick. Arthur would never go through a heat, never get pregnant, and never reveal it to anyone. He would never let anyone touch him too much, get close enough to scent him, never show the gold in his eyes. Never, never, never.

It was all going rather well until Merlin showed up.

The Alpha is a loud-mouthed fool, just like the rest of them, standing straight and cocky despite the fact that Arthur is the Prince. It makes Arthur forget, for a moment, that he is one. The sensation is foreign and damn near welcome.

"Tell me, Merlin, do you know how to walk on your knees?"

"Nope."

Head tilted up, hands lax in front of him. There isn't a shred of red in his eyes, not like there should be, not like any other Alpha being challenged. Still, the smirk on his face, the way he neither flinches nor lunges forward, fills Arthur's mouth with saliva. This boy, idiot though he is, doesn't know how to defer. He likely hasn't seen a single fight in his life but he doesn't cower.

"Would you like me to help you?" Arthur presses, a hand on one of his daggers.

Merlin's mouth twitches, eyes dropping down to the blade and Arthur's hand upon it, just for a second. "I wouldn't, if I were you," he replies, lifting his gaze back up. Arthur has had a lifetime of training, teaching him to never break eye contact with an Alpha first. A real Alpha wouldn't.

"Why?" Arthur asks, grinning wide enough his cheeks hurt. "What are you going to do to me?"

"You have no idea," Merlin scoffs, shoulders shaking with repressed laughter. Oh, Arthur could rip into that sound. Into the sharp angle of his cheekbones, the exposed slope of his neck. Gaius had often warned Uther that prolonged exposure to Arthur's medications and no reset of heat would make him more aggressive, more prone to violent outbursts over time.

Uther had merely laughed. A temper, in his eyes, made for a strong King.

He wants to sink his teeth into Merlin's throat and rip it clean out. Wants to see the other man cower beneath blows from his sword. But more than that, he wants to see what Merlin could possibly do, to threaten a warrior as well-trained as Arthur.

"Be my guest! Come on," he purrs, holding his arms out to either side. "Come on." Merlin looks around them, noting the gathering crowd. The first flicker of unease is in his eyes. He's obviously a foreigner, not to recognize either the Pendragon red adorning Arthur and his Knights, nor Arthur's face. He will find no friends, here. "Come on!"

Merlin's jaw clenches.

"Come on…"

Merlin swings. It's sudden but uncoordinated and easily telegraphed. Comically easy to grab his wrist, twist it around, and hoist it up between his shoulder blades. Merlin snarls at him, a rough and low noise, but relents, knees bending in order to save his shoulder.

"I could have you imprisoned for that," Arthur says, delighted to have the smug Alpha bowing to him.

"What are you, the King?" Merlin hisses, glaring at him over his shoulder.

"No," Arthur replies smugly. "I'm his son. Arthur."

Merlin goes still. "…Oh," he says, dumbly. The 'Shit', is implied.

Arthur watches from one of the castle walls, as children pummel Merlin with rotten fruit and vegetables. Watches Gwen come up and speak to him. Watches them laugh together. When the children come back and Gwen moves away, he's still smiling.

Arthur's lips purse.

A shadow falls across at his right. Arthur's neck doesn't tingle, so he knows it's not an Alpha. He tilts his head just enough to catch a familiar mane of dark hair and a swath of pale skin, a purple dress and thick green cloak over it. Morgana.

"Heard you got into a bit of a tussle the other day," she says lightly. Of course she knows. She always seems to know everything. She joins him in staring down at Merlin, his head bowed and body relaxed, as though he's merely taking a nap. Completely unruffled. Arthur has seen men scream themselves hoarse and try to avoid the taunts and projectiles aimed at them until their knees gave out from exhaustion.

Well, the day is young.

"You know, if you want to stare and brood, I'd recommend a day that's less fair than this one," Morgana adds, finally drawing Arthur away from his thoughts and making him look at her. She has an arched brow, and a knowing gleam in her eye. Arthur doesn't like that look one bit. "Storms and candlelight are much more suited to that kind of thing."

Arthur's nose wrinkles. "Sounds rather romantic."

Morgana's arched brow remains.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Contrary to popular belief, I don't swoon at every Alpha stupid enough to challenge me. And lose. Badly."

"The boy's hardly a Knight," Morgana agrees, nodding and looking down at him again. "But there's a certain chivalry in standing up for whatever poor whipping boy you were torturing at the time."

"You've already taken his side, it seems," Arthur says tightly.

"I've always had a soft spot for the underdog," Morgana replies.

"Well, you can coo over and coddle him. You and Gwen. He's Gaius' new apprentice." He learned that shortly after learning he'd been released from the cells in exchange for a day in the stocks. It had caused a flicker of unease, knowing this wouldn't be the last they would see of each other. Would Merlin be taught about the poultices and medicine Arthur takes? Would he know?

"Ah, so we'll be seeing a lot of him, then." She sounds absolutely delighted by that, like a wolf spying fresh meat. Arthur can't help but smile. She'd eat him alive, poor boy. Arthur would quite like to see that – if anyone could curb that Alpha's petulant tongue, it would be Morgana.

He smells like thunderstorms, Arthur realizes. It wafts through the castle halls and the lower town. At first he had been constantly checking the skyline, sure that the scent meant a great storm was coming to herald the approach of summer's end. But the skies remained clear, and the scent lingered with not a cloud in sight.

Thunderstorms, and Gaius' workshop, and something heady that reminds Arthur of campfires gone cold in the middle of the night.

Uther doesn't let Arthur wander around unescorted, for fear madness might take him and he'd rip off his patches in the middle of town and let everyone have their way with him. Arthur is not that stupid, nor is he weak, but it would take an act of God for his father to believe that.

"How's your knee-walking coming along?" The taunt escapes him before he has a mind to stop it, goaded by the Alpha's blatant disregard as he passes through Arthur and his entourage. His scent coats Arthur's tongue and fills him with thoughts of running wild through the woods, chasing down boar and deer. Hunger, almost, but felt in his chest.

Merlin visibly sighs, but keeps walking.

"Aw, don't run away!" Stay and play with me! The voice in his head is an excited little purr, a golden-eyed animal wagging its tail, eager to play with this new toy that stumbled into its pen.

The Alpha stops, and straightens.

"From you?" he asks.

"Thank God. I thought you were deaf as well as dumb."

"Look, I've told you you're an ass," Merlin says, turning to face him. "I just didn't realize you were a Royal one." Arthur is giddy with glee, eager to square up against this disrespectful boy who has far too much Alpha pride, just begging to be taken down a peg or two. Arthur has never seen it before, not directed at him.

Merlin's eyes flash, his smirk widening as his gaze darts between the Knights around Arthur. "Oh," he laughs, "what're you going to do? Get your daddy's men to protect you?"

Arthur bristles, but hides it with a laugh. "I could take you apart with one blow," he challenges.

That smirk doesn't fade. "I could take you apart with less than that."

Oh, Arthur wants to break him. An instinct he too-often shoves down rears its head, the desire to chase and snarl and challenge this Alpha, to see what he's really made of. There isn't a man alive worthy of Arthur's Omega, and he itches to prove that, again and again. Even when no one knows that is what they're fighting against.

The Knights behind Arthur laugh, louder when Arthur tosses Merlin a mace. "Come on then, big man," Arthur taunts, swinging his own above his head as he watches Merlin fumble with the weapon, holding it in front of him like a shield. "I warn you, I've been trained to kill since birth."

"Oh? And how long have you been training to be a prat?"

Still, not a trace of fear in his eyes. Not a hint of red. Arthur could eat him alive. "You can't address me like that," he says, fighting back his laughter.

"Sorry," Merlin says. His head dips in a little bow. "How long have you been training to be a prat, my lord?"

Have it your way, then.

Arthur swings, laughing when Merlin shies back, his eyes widening as though he didn't actually expect Arthur to attack him. He stumbles, and flees, his eyes on Arthur the entire time as he tries to find cover in the market stalls. It's pitifully easy to get a few teasing swings in, Arthur grinning as Merlin keeps dodging away, more and more panicked as Arthur surely, effectively, corners him.

"Oh God," Merlin mutters, ducking yet another swing.

Arthur laughs, swinging again, only to see Merlin looking behind Arthur, a split second before his mace gets tangled in some hanging meat hooks. Arthur curses, untangling it and giving chase again, only to trip over some rope and go stumbling. Not before he catches, so briefly, a hint of gold fading from Merlin's eyes.

It makes him pause. No, he thinks. Merlin can't be…

Like him?

Arthur had been so sure he was an Alpha. He holds himself like one, but that gold is undeniable. Does he wear patches as well? Is that why he's training with Gaius, to learn how to make his medicine?

His distraction is enough for Merlin to take up his dropped mace, the tables turned, making Arthur dance back to avoid a swing.

"Do you give up?" Merlin challenges, voice rough.

"To you?"

"Do you?"

He sounds panicked. Does he know Arthur saw? Suddenly the game isn't as fun anymore. He must be an Alpha, but then why the gold…? Merlin freezes, his eyes on the crowd that has gathered, abruptly very aware that he's threatening the King's son with a weapon. It's enough time for Arthur to grab a broom and promptly knock him to the ground, weapon discarded. The fight is over. Arthur tries to control his breathing.

The Knights grab Merlin and haul him upright, likely ready to throw him back in the jailcells. "Wait," Arthur calls. "Let him go." They look at him in confusion. "He may be an idiot, but he's a brave one." Braver than they know, if what Arthur suspects is true.

Merlin shrugs them off, straightening his shirt and neckerchief. Hiding his scent glands, covered with patches perhaps. Arthur desperately wants to know. He would have the right, to untie it and inspect for himself. He holds himself back.

He, of all people, knows what it's like to want to hide one's true nature. Merlin must have a reason, confusing though it is. Arthur would never expose an Omega in hiding against his will.

"There's something about you, Merlin," he murmurs, frowning. Merlin watches him with wide eyes, breathing hard still, head slightly tilted. Showing his neck. It feels so odd, his scent is powerful, sharp with sweat and panic. Thunderstorms, Alpha.

Arthur's head spins.

"I can't quite put my finger on it."

Merlin presses his lips together, nostrils flaring. He looks at Arthur like there's something to look at, some secret behind Arthur's face, welded into his skin like clothing. He says nothing.

So he does know how to hold his tongue. Good.

Arthur is still shaking off cobwebs, confused and bewildered, when strong hands grip his shoulders and haul him out of the direction of the blade aimed straight for his chest. Arthur gasps, staring wide-eyed at the knife buried where his heart would have been. A groan draws his attention to the woman – the sorceress­ – as she collapses beneath the weight of the fallen chandelier.

The hands are still gripping him. Arthur turns, eyes widening further when he realizes how close Merlin is standing, holding him like he's not certain whether it's safe to let Arthur go. Merlin's eyes are wide as well, terrified even. He's standing so close and Arthur can't speak.

"You…" Merlin recoils, releasing Arthur immediately. Uther stands. "You saved my boy's life."

"I… Well…" Merlin smiles sheepishly, ducking his head and stepping back.

"A debt must be repaid!"

Arthur can't think. He's still stuck on the fact that Merlin saved him. Of all people. He wasn't even close enough, was he? Arthur can't remember. His mind is foggy with the enchanted sleep. His shoulders are warm where Merlin touched him. Heat radiates from the other man like a summer breeze.

"That's not necessary, Your Majesty," Merlin croaks.

"No, absolutely. This merits something quite special."

Arthur jolts as Uther claps a hand on his shoulder. Immediately, the heat of Merlin's touch fades like he's been thrown into an ice bath. He misses it, so fiercely it aches in his chest.

"You shall be rewarded a position in the Royal household. You shall be Prince Arthur's manservant."

"Father!" His protest is lost amidst applause from the Court. They're all smiling. Arthur can't believe what he heard. His manservant? Is his father mad?

Arthur doesn't get to speak his thoughts until much later, when they're alone. "Father, you can't -. Merlin is an Alpha," he protests, voice low so that no one might overhear him, even though they are alone and no one would dare eavesdrop on the King and his son on pain of death.

At least, he thinks Merlin is an Alpha. He must be. No Omega would be that cocky, that foolhardy, that prone to picking fights. Unless he takes medicine like Arthur does, that makes him more aggressive. There is the gold, but perhaps that was a trick of the light?

"Arthur." Uther's kind smile belies the sharpness of his gaze. "If you cannot control yourself around that gangly servant, then perhaps you are not truly suited to the weight of ruling." Arthur's throat goes tight, jaw clenching as he bites back his retort. Uther touches him again, hands squeezing his shoulders. Arthur hates that. "He saved your life," Uther reminds him. As though Arthur needs to be reminded.

"I am aware," he says tightly.

"Good." Uther pats his shoulders, the closest he has ever come to giving Arthur a kind touch, and moves away. "That settles it."

Arthur knows when he's been dismissed. He bows, jaw still clenched hard enough his teeth grind together, and stalks back to his chambers.

"He's quite gentle, for an Alpha," Gwen notes, as she tends to do when she knows something is on Arthur's mind but he won't be the one to talk first. Arthur admires that about her – she is a steadfast and loyal friend, one he cares for deeply. In another world, they likely could have been more than that, but he is damned by his biology, and she by her station.

So he is an Alpha. That's the only thought Arthur registers.

"Incompetent, lazy, defiant…"

Gwen laughs warmly, eyes crinkling as she smiles wide. "That, too."

Merlin is without a doubt the worst manservant that could have possibly been foisted upon Arthur. He makes too much noise, talks far too much, and has developed a penchant for thrusting open the curtains and letting the harsh light of day blare Arthur awake. No matter how many times Arthur yells at him or how many things he flings at Merlin's head, the other man takes it in stride. His smirk has been replaced, most often, by a fond annoyance, as a mother would when seeing their son throw a tantrum.

At least, he assumes. He never had a mother to compare it to. The closest would have been Leon. Yes, they certainly share that longsuffering but fond look.

"I'd have him in the stocks every day if my father didn't insist he be rewarded for saving my life," Arthur mutters. Another thing he chafes against; being saved by an Alpha. Not even a Knight. He shouldn't feel all warm and happy when he remembers how tightly Merlin had held him. He fights the thought away.

"He is quite entertaining in that aspect," Gwen agrees with another cheeky smile.

Arthur rolls his eyes, sighing down at the papers on his desk. More reports, more treaties, always more things. When he is King he will be able to foist these on someone else, but until that time, it's his duty to handle all the busywork too small for Uther and the Council.

Another thing Gwen is good at sensing is when Arthur is done talking. She gives a little curtsey and takes her leave, while Arthur remains alone in his rooms, with his thoughts and these damn papers. He scratches absently at the patches under one arm, huffing when it continues to irritate him. He'll have to change them soon – morning and night, every day, he wears them. It's a wonder his skin hasn't taken on a permanent stain from the herbs.

He will need to go train soon; the tournament is coming up. Unbidden, a smile crosses his face, as he remembers that he, quite conveniently, has a new servant just perfect for sparring practice.

The problem is that Merlin is endearing, like watching a colt take its first stumbling steps into the world. He's ghastly with timing and his first attempt at helping Arthur put on his armor was laughable. There is absolutely no filter between his brain and his mouth, but Arthur likes that.

The Knights like him. The servants like him. Arthur wants to dislike him, simply because having an Alpha as a manservant means he must be more careful about his medicines and how he disposes of his patches, and he can no longer risk having his shirt off because Merlin does not ever knock.

He…is growing quite fond of Merlin, he'll admit. Merlin doesn't treat him like a Prince except when he's reminded to. Rather, it's like they're old friends, like they grew up together. Arthur is learning how to read the various meanings in the angle of Merlin's smile. Merlin knows how hot Arthur likes his bathwater and what his favorite sweets are that he can swipe from the kitchens on occasion.

He's getting used to the scent of thunderstorms. He feels oddly bereft whenever Merlin leaves him his breakfast and scurries away to do his chores or work for Gaius. There is a strange feeling in the material of his bones, as though it was primed to accept Merlin in his general vicinity. The Alpha is in a constant state of motion, whether it's his hands or his mouth, a seemingly endless font of energy that Arthur feels in the base of his skull whenever Merlin is near him.

Sometimes, Merlin gets this look on his face, or rather in his eyes. Some deep, fathomless thing as though he is an ancient creature that has slept for so long that the regular, common-sense dealings of humans these days deeply confuses him. As though there is something on the tip of his tongue, hidden beneath miles of ocean water.

The tournament's approach is a welcome distraction from thoughts of his new, confusing manservant. Training takes his mind off anything else but becoming better, stronger – the Alpha his father so desperately wishes he was. He is in command on the training field. These men would fight and kill and die on his word. It is an honor and burden he would never abuse.

Arthur performs as he always has, and feels a little lighter whenever he looks across the training field and sees Merlin watching, puffed up and proud whenever Merlin laughs or grins at a well-timed blow. It takes everything he has not to preen under Merlin's attention, to smile when he smiles, to swallow his words of thanks and praise whenever Merlin pleases him.

God forbid he allow his emotions to cloud his judgement. That would be such an Omega thing to do.

Arthur's underarms are so chafed that the mere act of standing there and letting Merlin unfasten and remove his armor makes him want to wince. He bites the inside of his cheek instead, sucking in a slow breath, and instantly moves out of reach once Merlin has removed every piece of metal. The act of undressing and changing into his sleepshirt is going to be torture, but he can't allow Merlin to help with that. If Merlin gets too close, he'll see the patches under Arthur's arms and around the back of his neck, he'll smell what they're hiding.

Arthur doesn't allow himself to think beyond that. Merlin is, without a doubt, one of the only people Arthur would even consider telling, in this day and age. But he is a servant, and servants are prone to gossip. He is an Alpha, and Alphas are known to act on instinct. He hasn't been here that long, aside from saving Arthur's life there's no reason that Arthur should trust him.

He is…

He is someone that Arthur considers a friend, and Arthur would never risk screwing that up because he has some soreness. He doesn't allow Merlin to wash him, he dismisses Merlin or goes behind the screen so that Merlin can't watch him change and apply or remove the patches.

Merlin turns away to settle the armor in a pile to polish. He's quiet, which is unusual for him and does nothing for Arthur's nerves. He can't think of a reason Merlin might be upset – he's spent the day with Arthur and the Knights in the training fields, fetching weapons and helping with injuries and sharpening swords. Basic busywork Arthur never technically told him to do, but Merlin does anyway, all with the usual jesting quips and warm, lopsided smiles he reserves just for Arthur and the Knights, like they are children he has adopted one by one and taken it upon himself to care for.

He seems unnaturally capable of making himself busy so that he doesn't have to leave Arthur's side. Which is clever of him – Arthur is a demanding liege lord, he won't deny that. But the longer it goes on and the sillier Merlin's excuses get, the more it feels like the Alpha is…guarding him. Watching him with that goofy, fond grin and those incredible eyes that seem to see far too much. Sometimes, when Merlin looks at Arthur, Arthur feels as though he is a canvas, made of many layers and shades of paint, and Merlin can see every single brushstroke that made him. Whereas Arthur can only see the lake as deep as the light goes, Merlin knows every stone and dark creature at the very depths.

He is looking at Arthur like that now, head slightly tilted, eyes focused on Arthur's chest. Arthur tenses. Can he smell the patches? He sweated a lot today, hence the chafing, and it might have overpowered the herbs inside.

"After you've fetched my dinner, that'll be all," Arthur says, resisting the urge to cover himself or cross his arms. He's proud of himself for coming up with an excuse to get Merlin to leave him long enough to check the patches that doesn't sound ridiculous, and for keeping his voice even.

Merlin nods absently, as though he didn't even register it. Wouldn't be the first time Merlin has been off in dreamland, ignoring Arthur's orders. But when he lifts his eyes, they are sharp as a blade and make Arthur pitifully aware of how much more vulnerable he is without his armor on.

"I have something for you," Merlin says, after another so, so tense moment. Arthur frowns at him, watching as Merlin takes a vial from his pocket and holds it up to the light. It's a familiar pale green, like lichen or sun-bleached moss, and Arthur immediately knows it contains the same materials as his medicines.

Merlin holds it out to him. Arthur tenses. Why does Merlin have this?

"It's stronger than what you're using now," Merlin continues, with a smile far, far too benign and empty. Not a single thought going on in his head, that's what he'd like Arthur to think. "Lasts longer, too. And it'll help with…muscle soreness."

His eyes drop to Arthur's chest again. "Do I drink it?" Arthur asks, stepping out to take the vial. Even that action makes his underarms ache so badly. He's not sure he hides the wince well this time.

Merlin shakes his head. "Just a few drops, wherever you need it. Only a small amount; it's quite potent."

Arthur knows this is not some draught for soreness, given the shade of the ingredients and the strange instructions, and he's almost positive that Merlin knows as well. He lifts his eyes to find the Alpha watching him carefully, still with that cheerful construct of a dumb, clumsy, almost completely incompetent servant. It's a mask Arthur has seen often. Has fallen for, often.

"Merlin," Arthur says quietly, "what exactly is this?"

Merlin smiles. "It's a version of the poultice you use. You'll need less of it, and no patches to keep it in place – it can go straight on the skin." Arthur's eyes widen. "Like I said, it'll also last longer, won't get sweated off, and will work much better. Enough for you to let loose."

Arthur's frown deepens. "Let loose?"

Merlin's smile softens, just a little. He lets the vial go, careful not to let their fingers brush. Uther would have his head if Merlin touched his son in any way beyond what was strictly necessary. Still, the nearness of his fingers makes Arthur clutch the vial so tightly his knuckles go white.

"I want there to be a world where you don't have to live in constant anxiety over showing your…red."

He doesn't hesitate on the word. It's not an accidental slip up. It is purposeful and calculated and Arthur knows, in that exact moment, that Merlin understands exactly what he's doing, exactly what he's offering. He knows Arthur is not the Alpha he claims to be, but he's letting Arthur pretend. These patches, after all, could just as easily be stifling his stronger Alpha urges as they are hiding his true nature from everyone in his life.

Panic flutters like a performative thing in his chest. He has never been afraid of Merlin, and finds it foolish to think he would have kept this secret forever from the man who quite literally spends every waking moment with Arthur. He does wonder if it was something he did in public, if someone else might have figured it out, or if it's just because Merlin is always so close and always watching so carefully.

Merlin doesn't press. He lets Arthur take in his words, merely standing and staring, like he's just made a comment about the weather, that same faint smile on his lips. His eyes, though – those damn endless eyes that hold far more wisdom than they should, in the right light – never waver.

Arthur clears his throat. "I'm not like my father. I'm not..." a tyrant, he doesn't say. Pretending, for a reason he cannot name, that Merlin truly meant red when he said it. He thinks of Uther, those awfully mean eyes, the little shiver he gets whenever one of his Knights shows red and can't help thinking, just for a second, of them turning on him.

"I know, Arthur."

It's said in a voice so soft and sweet, Arthur is sure he imagined it. He's never heard an Alpha talk to him like that. Alphas are loud, bold, they take up all the room they like and usually leave Arthur's ears ringing and nerves unsettled. No one gentles their tone with him because no one knows he needs it.

But not that voice. That voice promises reward, sanctuary, everything, if Arthur would just obey. Just trust. Blindly. He wants to trust Merlin. He has no reason not to trust Merlin.

He clears his throat. "How do you know it works?"

"Here, try it on me." Merlin takes the vial and uncaps it, pressing his thumb to the rim and tipping it over so a small amount coats the pad of it. He hands the vial back, and smears his thumb in a single, glistening line down his neck. Arthur watches, eyes wide, mouth suddenly full of saliva. Merlin tilts his chin up, baring his neck, an Alpha baring his neck, who would have thought, and says, "Smell the difference?"

Arthur can't think of anything but shoving his nose to Merlin's scent glands and taking a greedy inhale. He manages to restrain himself, to merely lean in a little and take a shallow whiff, lips parted so the sensitive scent palate on the roof of his mouth gets it all.

Immediately, Arthur is awash in his scent, but it blows past him and through him like a strong breeze. Instead of a pending thunderstorm, Merlin now smells like a forest fresh with new rain. Wet and alive and warm, he smells of liquid metal, polish, horses, everything that Arthur calls home.

It is, Arthur thinks with a damning amount of clarity, what Merlin would smell like fresh from a rut, warm and solid and sated. Gods above and below, he wants to sink his teeth into that scent and never let go of it, to claim it for his own.

"Well?"

Arthur clears his throat, proud that at least he has kept control of the whine in his mouth and the sturdiness of his knees. "I can still smell you," he says. "It's different, but -."

"Of course, it's still me," Merlin teases. He doesn't move away. His eyes are back to that careful shallowness, just a boy helping his friend, a servant to his Prince. A physician's assistant experimenting with new medicine. It's calculated, tactical, and Arthur hates it so vehemently he almost snarls. "I'm probably not a good example, since you're so used to my scent. We can call a guard -."

"No." He won't call Merlin's bluff. Merlin knows Arthur can't have the guards wondering about hormone suppressants and scent blockers. Another careful victory, set into the angle of Merlin's smile; this Alpha can be cunning when he wants to be. Arthur's mouth waters.

"I trust you," he says. Merlin's eyes darken, deepen, unwittingly showing Arthur a glimpse of satisfaction and longing that settles in Arthur's stomach like a hot stone, before he smiles, nods, and steps away. It feels like Arthur won at least a little something, for that.

"Just a small dab is enough, but you won't be harmed if you go overboard," Merlin says, casually returning to the mundane tasks of picking up Arthur's laundry and armor as though they hadn't just been mere inches away and scenting each other like animals.  "It takes time to make more, so let me know when the vial is half empty."

Arthur should bristle at the orders. He should remind Merlin that he is the Prince and Merlin cannot boss him around. Instead, he swallows, and nods, and says, "Alright."

Merlin smiles, back to that goofy grin of his. "Is there anything else you need, Sire?" he asks, breezy as anything. Arthur hates that, sharp and brief. He wishes Merlin was as affected by this as Arthur is. He wishes this confusing Alpha didn't have such iron-clad control, the thing Arthur has spent his entire life trying to attain swept out from under him by a single inhale at Merlin's neck.

"No," he rasps, turning away, clutching the vial like a lifeline. "That will be all."

Merlin bows his head. "I'll return shortly with your dinner," he promises. Oh, that. Arthur merely nods, his eyes on the changing screen. "And perhaps a bath, it'll help with the soreness as well."

Arthur clenches his jaw, breathes in. The room reeks of Merlin's scent. "Very good."

It occurs to him, as well, once Merlin is gone, that he didn't mention Gaius at all during that exchange. Which means it's possible that he took it upon himself to ease Arthur's discomfort and provide a new, better solution for his poultices. The thought warms him and terrifies him all at once, that Merlin could be so observant, and so casually eager to take initiative.

Always protecting him, in these small ways. Like a perfect Alpha would.

Arthur sucks in a breath, and hides the vial where no one will happen upon it. He pushes all thoughts of Merlin away, for all the good it does – they never tend to stay gone for long, just like the man himself.

Chapter Text

Morgana has chosen to show the boy favor. Arthur notes this absently, in the fond smiles she sends Merlin whenever he is by Arthur's side, dutifully keeping his wine cup full or clearing away empty plates piled high with crumbs and bones from the meal. In this, Merlin is not wholly incapable – whether he puts in more effort in the King's presence, Arthur could not say. He likes to think it is one of the ways he has recognized the Alpha takes special care in tending to him. It is no secret that Alphas delight in providing their pack with food, care, and comfort. Though Merlin is not the one who hunted the meat or gathered the vegetables, he clearly enjoys seeing Arthur eat and drink his fill.

Of course, Arthur steadfastly disallows thoughts of why Merlin might, in particular, want to feed him. He's almost certain Merlin knows the true nature of Arthur's potions and the poultices, now replaced with that ointment Merlin gave him. He does not allow himself to think that Merlin is caring for an Omega in his pack, or that Merlin's behavior is in any way different because of Arthur's secret nature.

Not that Arthur would particularly care. It takes more than the bare minimum of food provision for his Omega to be won over.

He has observed it with others; another reason Arthur does not think Merlin's attentiveness during meals is because of Arthur, specifically, but more telling of the Alpha's nature. He always smiles when the Knights feast during expeditions and hunts, praising his cooking skills and respectfully keeping their distance whenever Merlin is crouched over a cooking fire. He had calmly and thoroughly claimed the duties of tending to the horses, lighting the fires, setting up camp, feeding them all. Things that are mere chores for a servant bring a new light to his eyes during these acts of service.

Arthur has noticed that Merlin smiles a little wider whenever it is Arthur himself who praises the food, but that is neither here nor there. Merlin should desire his approval. It is the natural way of things.

It occurs to Arthur that he has spent most of dinner thinking about Merlin and not paying attention to his father at all, which becomes painfully obvious when he realizes that Uther is watching him expectantly. Across the table, Morgana has an arched brow and a smug twist to her mouth.

"I apologize, father," Arthur says, clearing his throat and meeting his father's eyes. "I was thinking of the upcoming tournament."

An unimpressed hum meets his declaration. "That is what we were discussing," Uther replies mildly, though there is an edge of steel in his voice. "At least, what I was discussing while you were off in dreamland."

"It's been a while since Arthur was able to truly wallop some visitors without mercy," Morgana says, earning her a glare but also a bloom of gratitude, for it makes Uther chuckle and his smile turns much more pleased.

"Yes, I'm sure you'll do well. I've seen you in your training, much more dedicated as of late."

Behind him, Merlin clears his throat.

"I have a new punching bag," Arthur says cheerfully, knowing that's the reason Merlin made such a noise. He has not been gentle with the Alpha, still stinging over the initial show of brazen disrespect that coated Merlin the first few weeks of knowing each other. It is still there, certainly, but more playful. The kind of gentle ribbing that comes with familiarity and, dare he say, friendship.

It is a nice feeling, Arthur realizes, to think of Merlin as his friend. Even more so considering the irony. Arthur does not have the luxury of true friendship, soiled too heavily by rank and reputation. Merlin doesn't give a toss about any of it – despite being Arthur's manservant, he staunchly refuses to be cowed. Arthur likes that very much about him.

Merlin is quiet when dinner is done and they return to Arthur's rooms. He dutifully launches into his regular tasks; tidying up and starting the fire so the oncoming cool night will not rouse Arthur from sleep; turning down his bed; clearing away papers and notes for him to address in the morning. Arthur will wait for him to leave to get dressed into night clothes, and Merlin will collect all the laundry come morning after he is roused and Merlin leaves to fetch breakfast. Arthur dresses for the day during this time, to prevent Merlin needing to make two trips.

Arthur has almost forgotten what it feels like to have the poultice patches irritating his underarms and chafing the skin at the base of his neck. No one has noticed or commented on a change in his scent, leading him to believe that Merlin's medicine is doing its job. Uther would have certainly commented if he'd noticed that Arthur was smelling more Omega of late.

Arthur watches Merlin, a wave of fondness overcoming him at the sight of him; skinny, gangly, coltish from head to toe, stumbling around the room as though he's trying to make so much noise on purpose. So unlike a servant, but Arthur appreciates it. Omegas are prone to startle, and even with all of Arthur's training, he sometimes has lapses in his self-control. Merlin never sneaks up on him.

There must be many Omegas in Ealdor, he thinks. They are less seen in the Capitol, Arthur cannot remember the last time he saw one inside the castle walls. Though they are naturally gifted for service roles, too often has he heard of them being married off on the eve of presentation, whisked away with a new husband or wife and forced to stay within the confines of their own homes, never to venture out without escort.

That much, at least, Arthur can sympathize with intimately. He does not know if it's a law, but even if it is merely a common practice, when he is King he will make sure such standards of life are not to be expected. Even if his own Omega nature is never revealed – and it won't be, he's certain, if his life plays out the way it is meant to – he doesn't want everyone else cursed like him to suffer similar fates.

"I can hear you thinking," Merlin says, drawing Arthur's attention. His voice is quiet, so as not to startle him – like being coaxed to wakefulness from a deep, dreamless sleep. Arthur blinks, frowning at his manservant as Merlin fixes him with an expectant look. "Something on your mind?"

Arthur laughs. "I'm the Prince, Merlin," he reminds him. "There are a lot of things on my mind."

Merlin's mouth twitches at the corner, before giving up and splitting to a wide grin. "Well, careful, I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself." Arthur snorts, rolling his eyes in a very un-Prince-like fashion that would earn him a stern word from his father. "Is it…something I can help with?"

Arthur regards him.

"I just mean… I know I'm just a servant, but I'm pretty clever when I want to be. Maybe I can help," Merlin offers.

Yes, Arthur thinks. You are, aren't you? Very clever, behind the stumbling idiocy and mouthiness. A predator by nature that has learned to mimic the bleating of sheep. Omegas are not prey, Arthur himself won't allow that thought, but Alphas have certain advantages Arthur never will. He doubts Merlin could best him physically, but that's not the only weapon at his disposal.

He wouldn't hurt you. The thought is swift and powerful. It makes Arthur feel ill at ease.

"Do you know much about tourneys, then?" Arthur challenges, pleased when Merlin laughs sheepishly and shakes his head. "Do you even know how to help me with my armor?"

"Gwen's been teaching me," Merlin says, eager and chipper. "After the last…attempt."

A pitiful attempt it had been. Arthur allows himself a smile at the memory. Merlin matches it.

"Well I know she at least knows what she's doing," Arthur murmurs, prompting Merlin to nod. He doesn't move, except to shift from foot to foot. Normally Arthur dismisses him at this point, so he can ready himself for bed and turn in for the night.

He is silent.

Merlin tilts his head, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. Then, he clenches his jaw, and nods to himself. "You do, too, you know," he says. Arthur blinks at him. "Know what you're doing. I mean, you're the reigning champion of the tournaments, right?"

"…Yes," Arthur murmurs, frowning.

"So I don't think you'll have anything to worry about. Camelot's Knights are the finest in the realm, and you're the best of them, so."

Arthur's frown deepens. "Are you…? I'm not nervous," he snaps, offended.

"Of course you're not, Sire," Merlin replies with that infuriating grin and playful light in his eyes. "Who said you were?"

"You did!"

"I'm sure I didn't."

"You…inferred it," Arthur snaps.

Merlin's grin widens. "Yes, well, God forbid I see a little humanity in you, my Lord."

And that's the whole crux of the matter, isn't it? Merlin sees Arthur as a person. Not a Prince or an Omega or a Knight, or the heir to the throne. Just a man, with faults and flaws and merit. The novel feeling is equally painful and welcome.

In that same train of thought, that humanizes Arthur, Merlin just appears more not of this world. Something Other, something Else. Arthur considers his servant, and asks; "How do you do it?"

Merlin blinks at him, tilting his head again. "Do what, Sire?" he echoes, confused.

"Hide your red." Merlin doesn't reply. "I yell at you all day, throw things at you, insult you. I'm sure I'm not the only one." Merlin smiles. "I haven't seen a single flicker of red in your eyes. How do you do it?"

"I control it," Merlin replies simply, as though it is as simple as that. What a marvel. "It's never been difficult."

"But…why?" Arthur presses, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees. "It's hardly a punishable offence, to show emotion."

Merlin gives him a look, as though begging him to see the irony of that statement. Arthur sees the irony. He ignores it, like he ignores a lot of things that hit too close to home and bring him dangerously close to self-awareness. "It's not always emotion, though, is it?" Merlin says, so quietly it's almost impossible to hear him. "Losing control can be frightening to others."

"Are you afraid of losing control?" Arthur asks.

Merlin worries his lower lip again, and then looks away with a small sigh. "Sometimes," he admits. "When I was younger, I didn't control myself as much as I should have. Nothing…untoward happened. I never hurt anyone."

No, Arthur thinks, I don't think you're capable of hurting anyone.

"But my best friend in Ealdor is an Omega. And I would see it, sometimes, how frightened he was whenever another boy got too loud or too aggressive. I'd see people stare down enraged animals, rabid dogs, with less fear than an Alpha with too much red in his eyes. So," he looks back to Arthur, "I vowed I would never be the reason someone flinched."

Arthur tilts his head, marveling at it all. "I wasn't aware country folk were capable of such refined thinking," he says, earning a snort of derision.

"Well, I imagine it's hard to realize things you were never taught to experience," he says.

"What was what?" Arthur asks, brows rising.

"…Nothing, Sire."

"No." Arthur stands, and approaches, putting a hand on Merlin's arm. "Tell me." This close, the air stinks of thunderstorms, enough that Arthur has a stray thought of the fire growling and crackling in a lightning storm, the anger of the sky and burning wood combining into something mythical and awful. He breathes in the humidity like his lungs came from the desert.

Merlin swallows, his arm flexing under Arthur's grip. Their eyes meet again. "There are more than two sides to everything," he tells Arthur. "Even a coin has edges. The place between North and South, where everything else falls."

"You're terrible at riddles," Arthur teases.

Merlin smiles thinly, his eyes dark and giving nothing away. His eyes look like storm clouds too, Arthur notices absently. The deepest ocean where something yet undiscovered has made its home.

Arthur sighs, and releases him. "Then perhaps I could benefit from listening to you more often," he concedes. "You can show me all these edges you're blathering on about."

He turns away, but not soon enough to miss Merlin's wide, excited grin. "I'd like that, Arthur," he says to the Omega's back, his voice warm and pleased. Has an Alpha's happiness ever smelled so nice? So…soothing? Arthur can't recall.

"But not tonight. You're relieved for now. Thank you, Merlin."

"Of course. Good night, Arthur," Merlin says, and takes his leave. Arthur dresses for bed and slides beneath the sheets, the fire happily crackling and popping away as though it, too, was energized by Merlin's careful tending to it before he left.

That night, Arthur has dreams of golden-eyed Alphas and a suspiciously familiar voice in his ear, purring and so achingly soft. He doesn't wake up remembering any more detail than wide, callused hands all over his back and thighs, and the scent of thunderstorms. His clothes are more damp than he's used to when he wakes. Merlin doesn't comment.

"Knights of the realm, it's a great honor to welcome you to a tournament at Camelot. Over the next three days, you will come to put your bravery to the test, your skills as warriors, and of course, to challenge the reigning champion: my son, Prince Arthur. Only one can have the honor of being crowned champion, and he will receive a prize of 1,000 gold pieces."

Arthur doesn't look at the gold pieces, his eyes are on the field. It rained the night before – something he noted with surprise, since he's so used to the scent of storms without any proof of cloud or rain – and the grass is streaked already with mud from servants and squires slipping too fast through it.

"It is in combat that we learn a Knight's true nature, whether he is indeed a warrior or a coward. The tournament begins!"

The crowd cheers, and Arthur leaves with the gathered Knights. He has been in enough tournaments to know a potential threat to his position on sight: men who are too large or too scrawny, too young, too untried, he mentally discards. The ones with a glint in their eyes that speak of experience and drive he keeps close to mind.

A hand stops him. Arthur looks into the red-ringed eyes of his father.

"I trust you'll make me proud."

He's not nervous. Nerves are a luxury he cannot afford to have. He stands with Merlin on the side of the arena after some of his fights, the Alpha his ever-faithful second shadow, and watches some of the Knights compete. One of them, Sir Valiant, is among those Arthur makes a mental note to keep track of. He will go far in his bracket.

"Knight Valiant looks pretty handy with a sword," Merlin notes.

Arthur presses his lips together and hums.

The bout ends quickly, Valiant the victor. He grins at Arthur and approaches, bowing his head. "May I offer my congratulations on your victories today?" he asks.

"Likewise," Arthur replies.

Valiant's smile grows, and turns somewhat suggestive when he looks between Arthur and Merlin. "I hope to see you at the reception this evening."

Arthur's spine crawls. His jaw clenches as Valiant walks away with his servant, brought to heel like a dog.

"Creep," Merlin mutters behind Arthur's shoulder, making him snort out of sheer surprise. When he turns, he sees Merlin grinning, and another wave of fondness overcomes him. He's not used to feeling this kind of closeness with anyone but his Knights. It's unsettling. It's welcome.

Arthur clears his throat, then walks towards his tent. "For tomorrow, I need you to repair my shield, wash my tunic, clean my boots, sharpen my sword, and polish my chainmail."

He can practically hear Merlin's eyeroll. "Of course, Sire."

Merlin is an utterly baffling character. Arthur finds himself frequently speechless, though he considers given that the Alpha has just dropped a beheaded snake the likes of which Arthur has never seen in front of him in the middle of dinner, he can be allowed a moment to collect his thoughts.

"You…chopped its head off," he says skeptically, looking up at Merlin. The other man seems frantic, sweating like he sprinted his way here from God knows where.

"Ewan was bitten by a snake from the shield when he was fighting Valiant. You can talk to Gaius, you can see the puncture wounds in Ewan's neck where the snake bit him. Ewan was beating him, he had to cheat."

It all comes out in a rush, in one breath. Arthur can see the desperate desire to be believed in Merlin's eyes. He tries to think of a time when Merlin has lied to him, and cannot think of a single time. The Alpha is stubbornly honest and forthright. His eyes never lie.

"He wouldn't dare use magic in Camelot," he says.

"Ewan was pinned under the shield. No one would have seen the snake."

Arthur scoffs. "I don't like the guy either, Merlin, but that doesn't mean he's cheating."

Merlin pauses. Those wide, wild eyes skirt around, as though more proof might spring into existence if he looks hard enough. "…Gaius is preparing an antidote to the snake venom. When Ewan's conscious, he'll tell you what happened. If you fight Valiant in the final, he'll use the shield. It's the only way he can beat you. Look at it!" He gestures to the snake head.

It is unlike anything Arthur has seen before, he must admit.

"Look, I know… I'm just a servant, Arthur, I know that. I know my word doesn't count for anything. But I wouldn't lie to you. I wouldn't!"

Arthur regards him, emotions held like a knot at the back of his throat. He's so dementedly earnest. Arthur stands. "I want you to swear to me that what you're telling me is true," he says.

Merlin doesn't blink. "I swear it's true."

Arthur nods, looking down at the snake head. "Then I believe you," he says. Merlin's relief coats his tongue like honey.

The first time Arthur sees Merlin raise his voice is in the confrontation with Valiant and his father. Still, not a flicker of red stains his eyes. Arthur wishes he could say he would have exercised the same control were it not for his medicine forcibly tamping down his stronger instincts.

His instincts feel wild and out of control, now. He could spit fire, he's so angry.

"I trusted you," he snarls, whirling on Merlin once the doors are closed. "I believed you! And you made me look like an utter fool!"

"It…didn't go exactly to plan," Merlin concedes.

"Didn't go to plan?" Arthur echoes. Oh, he could rip Merlin's throat out with his teeth. He bares them at his servant. "My father and the entire court think I'm a coward! You humiliated me!"

"Arthur -."

"Merlin."

Merlin stops, swallowing harshly. His shoulders are hunched up, eyes averted, as though he's expecting a blow. Ready to flinch. Arthur thinks back on what Merlin told him and wonders if he's half the monster a trueborn Alpha must be, to make Merlin look like that. It causes the anger to shed its skin, forming something insidious and venomous and hurt.

"I need a servant I can trust, Merlin," he hisses.

"You can trust me!" Merlin says, harsh and earnest. Arthur wants to believe him, so desperately. He never thought Merlin prone to flights of fancy like this. Nothing that would ruin Arthur's reputation.

He would never hurt you.

But there are more ways to hurt someone than physical pain.

"Leave me," Arthur snarls. "I don't want to see you until this tournament is over. Maybe not even at all."

"You're… You're sacking me?" Merlin demands, incredulous.

"Get out of my sight, Merlin," Arthur says, because the thought of actually firing Merlin causes his insides to twist themselves up in knots and he can't get the actual words out, so he swallows them back and lashes out as an Omega would – move in quick, get out fast. Hide. Cower in a safe nest and wait out the storm.

Arthur hates Merlin for making him feel like this. He hates that it isn't the Alpha's fault. He hates that, despite what just happened, he still believes Merlin.

Merlin clenches his jaw, gives Arthur a small bow, and takes his leave. Arthur fights against every instinct in him to chase after the Alpha and call him back. Merlin's displeasure, his hurt, stings the back of his tongue like acidic wine.

Thunderstorms. Arthur breathes easier for the first time in a day, since he sent Merlin away.

He tenses his shoulders and hardens his voice; "I thought I told you to get out of my sight."

Merlin steps forward. Arthur whirls on him, warning him away with a sharp look. "Don't fight Valiant tomorrow," Merlin whispers. He looks bent in on himself, as though he would fall to his knees and beg if Arthur demanded it of him. It's so strange to see an Alpha without iron in his spine to keep his head high. "He'll use the shield against you."

Arthur sighs. "I know."

"Then -." Merlin gasps angrily, gesturing around them wildly. "Then withdraw! You have to withdraw."

"Don't you understand?" Arthur hisses. "I can't withdraw. The people expect their Prince to fight. How can I withdraw if I -. How can I lead my men into battle if they think their Prince is a coward?"

Merlin stares at him, one thousand retorts on his tongue. He swallows them all back. Does he feel the knot in his neck like Arthur does? "Valiant will kill you," he whispers, hoarse and harsh. He's been yelling, or perhaps praying himself rough-mouthed. "If you fight, you will die."

"Then I die."

"Arthur." How can one man hold so much in a single word? In a single name? Merlin takes another step forward. They're within lunging distance of each other. The feeling of lightning on his spine grows tenfold. Arthur suppresses a shiver. "How can you fight like that?"

Arthur, suddenly, wants nothing more than to draw Merlin closer. To put Merlin's nose to his neck and soothe him with fingers in his hair, for the Alpha to see how strong he is, how capable. How he doesn't need people to defend him like Merlin so clearly wants to. No matter how much he might crave it in his weaker moments, Arthur does not need to be protected.

He doesn't. He shoves the thought away like he does everything else. "I have to," he says. "It's my duty."

"You Royals," Merlin snarls, jaw clenched. "You're all bloody mad for 'duty'."

"Careful, Merlin," Arthur warns. "I'm in no mood for your insolence on what might be my last day on Earth."

Merlin stares at him, eyes brimming with tears. How novel, Arthur thinks, to see an Alpha that allows himself to openly weep.

"Arthur!"

The scream cuts through the ringing in his ears. Merlin. He shoves Valiant off him, ignoring the press of the Alpha's strength seeking out his neck and the blunt force of his shield knocking into Arthur's own. He springs away, boots sleeping in the mud. He stumbles, and looks up at the sound of hissing.

"The snakes…"

"He is using magic!" Uther yells.

"What are you doing?" Valiant hisses to the snakes. "I didn't summon you!"

"And now everyone sees you for what you are," Arthur says, panting. Valiant fixes him with a look of pure fury, lunging at him with broadsword and hissing shield and all. Arthur is only saved by his own quick reflexes, decapitating the snakes with the first swing of his sword, before losing the sword to a vicious kick, then catching Valiant's swing on his shield. It's a concussive blow and Arthur's shoulder aches terribly from the force of it.

"Arthur!"

Morgana.

Arthur grunts, stumbling to one knee. He looks up to see Morgana throwing him another spare sword. He barely catches it, and then twists in the mud, aiming his sword up for Valiant to fall upon. The Alpha's eyes are all red, and widen as Arthur's blade pierces his mail and through him. Arthur manages a thin grimace of a smile, hauling himself up to his feet with another grunt and shoving the other man off his sword, where he falls to a heap on the ground.

"Looks like I'll be attending the feast after all," he tells the fading light in the Alpha's eyes, shaking blood off his sword.

A blur of red and brown to his left draws his attention, moments before Merlin himself swims into focus, his expression distraught as he paws at Arthur's chest and injured shoulder, checking to see that none of the blood is his own. Arthur grimaces, allowing Merlin to extract his shield. His wrist is tender and his shoulder hurts terribly from the blow.

Merlin meets his eyes, searching for confirmation that Arthur is unhurt. Arthur smiles. Still, not a single fleck of red. Some gold, though, from the sunlight. Merlin's bottomless-dark eyes are wild with worry and pride.

"See?" Arthur manages, above the roar of the crowd. "Nothing to worry about."

Merlin gasps a laugh, shaking his head. "Quite right, Sire," he breathes. Arthur is so, so warm wherever Merlin touches him. Arthur spies Morgana where she was on the sidelines, her eyes wide and expression showing such stark relief, as though she, too, knew to expect Arthur to die. She smiles at him when he passes, and Arthur doesn't miss the way Merlin and Morgana grin at each other as well, as though saving his life was a group effort.

Perhaps it was. He files it away to ask Merlin about later.

"Merlin," Arthur says, a little floaty and loose from wine and more than happy to let Merlin manhandle him into his rooms. Merlin hums, depositing Arthur by his dining table before going through the usual nighttime process of calling for bathwater and stoking the fire. "Do you think I'm a fool?"

"A fool?" Merlin parrots.

"Mm."

"Oh, absolutely not. You have a terrible sense of humor, I'd never have you as a fool in my Court."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "That's not what I meant."

"Oh, well… I think you can be a prat, an absolute dollophead, an arrogant ass -."

"Merlin."

"- Too wrapped up in your own head and startingly willing to toss aside the person whose sole purpose in life is to keep you alive -."

"Merlin!" Arthur insists, ignoring the little flare in his head at those words. Another thing to interrogate the Alpha about, later. Soberly.

Merlin turns to him, and smiles with the firelight painting half his face in a gentle orange glow. "No, Arthur," he says softly. "I don't think you're a fool." Arthur nods to himself, humming again. Merlin stands, content to let the fire bring itself to life from the small flame he managed to coax into the world. "You should learn to trust your instincts, though. Not reputation."

Arthur frowns at him. "I'm not allowed to be in touch with my instincts," he says. He is not pouting, except Merlin only gets that look on his face when he is pouting, so Arthur has no idea what's causing him to look at Arthur like that. "Not the ones I'd listen to over diplomacy, anyway."

"I know," Merlin says, still so gentle, so fond. "That's what I'm here for though, isn't it?"

Arthur blinks. "What?"

Merlin steps close to him, and crouches so they're at eye level. "I'm the eyes and ears you're not allowed to use. Until you can use them. You…trust me, don't you?"

It should send alarm bells ringing in Arthur's head. No one wants his trust except as a tool to twist and exploit. Omegas are too trusting, his father always says. Everyone just wants to take advantage of him.

Except Merlin has never lied to him and never would, and he was right about the medicine and the snakes, and he doesn't want to take advantage of Arthur, and he's helped Arthur with his poultices and kept his secret, and he yelled Arthur's name so loud at the first sign of danger, and -.

"I do," Arthur admits, blinking in shock. "You've…never given me a reason not to."

Merlin smiles. The scent of thunderstorms is everywhere. "I never will," he vows, and Arthur, damn him, believes it. Because either Merlin never lies, or he is the best liar in all the realms that has ever existed, and Arthur doesn't want to believe that.

Merlin allows the moment to linger, his eyes searching Arthur's face, until the quiet calm threatens to drive Arthur mad. He straightens, wincing when his shoulder aches terribly in a way even the wine cannot dull.

Merlin notices. "I'll get you some salve for that bruise," he promises, pushing himself to his feet. He hesitates. "Do you…need help applying it?"

Arthur eyes him.

Merlin doesn't press. He waits, perfectly braced for rejection or acceptance. He wouldn't care, because he knows Arthur's body is not his right. Arthur's trust is not his right. Arthur should be used to these Earthshattering revelations by now, but he just isn't.

Merlin knows, after all, what Arthur is. He knows the Prince is an Omega. He is trustworthy. He is trusted.

"I can manage," Arthur says, because he is a coward when it comes to certain things. He is not afraid of fighting, or death, or pain; he is afraid of losing. Of ceding ground. Of proving his father right and failing his lifetime of repressive instructions.

Merlin smiles, and nods. "I'll be right back with it, then," he promises, before taking his leave. At some point during his absence, the servants come in to fill his bath. Arthur waits until Merlin brings the salve and checks the bath before taking his leave for the night, before Arthur undresses and applies the salve, wincing and twisting, and then steps into the bath.

Despite it no longer being fresh, the water is perfectly warm.

That doesn't strike Arthur as odd until he's halfway to slumber, with thoughts of Merlin applying the salve and praising his victory lulling him to dreams that dampen his sheets and fill his stomach with a terrible ache that breakfast has no hope of soothing, come morning.

Chapter Text

The ache in Arthur's stomach is far worse when he wakes, cramps that feel like he's been stabbed radiating pain right up to the base of his skull and down to his twitching toes. He rolls over, groaning into one of his pillows, hunched in on himself as he grits his teeth and tries to rub the feeling out of his lower stomach.

The door opens without a knock, telling Arthur that Merlin has arrived to wake him. Unbidden, a whimper slips out of him, and he clenches his eyes tightly shut when Merlin's scent washes over him, powerful and heady. The cramps get worse for a moment.

"My lord?" Merlin's voice is hoarse from sleep and full of alarm as he approaches Arthur. Arthur opens his eyes just in time to see Merlin reaching for his sweat-stained brow. The Alpha hesitates, biting his lower lip, his eyes dark. "Are you alright?"

"I need the medicine Gaius makes me," Arthur growls, in too much pain to bother with pretending Merlin doesn't know what he's talking about. "It'll…help."

Merlin's face pales. "He's been absent the last three days, Arthur," he says. "I don't know how to make it."

A string of very un-Princely curses roll through Arthur's head. "Then give me what he gives you!" he snaps. "Whatever helps you control your red. I'm sure it'll work the same."

Merlin is already shaking his head. "It doesn't work that way. I don't take anything."

"Merlin." It barely comes out as a name, just a formless groan of pain as another wave of exhaustive agony rips its way through Arthur's lower stomach like a wayward boar tusk. He can't remember being in this much pain in his life. He's soaked through, sweaty and slick, oh God, this is agony. "Please. You have to have something, surely?"

"I…" Merlin clamps his jaws together when Arthur whines again, burrowing deeper into his blankets and pillows like if he nests hard enough the pain will go away. His hand withdraws and it takes every ounce of strength Arthur still possesses not to reach for him and bring him back. "Of course. I'll… I'll think of something. I'll return shortly."

Arthur grunts, and tries to straighten out as the first wave of pain fades, leaving him breathless and strung out like he's just marched for four days straight. By the time Merlin comes back, he's managed to get himself into a sitting position. His nightshirt clings to his body from sweat and there's a damning amount of fluid between his legs that he refuses to think about. His eyes burn as well, and for a terrifying moment he wonders if he's going into heat.

There's no way. Gaius assured the King that Arthur's medicine would suppress such a thing, aside from the occasional bad cramps when it was supposed to happen. He hasn't been this slick in his entire life. The guards outside will smell it.

Merlin will smell it.

And there he is, as though summoned by Arthur's thoughts. Arthur watches him with wide eyes as he pours out a thick, gelatinous yellow substance through a cheese cloth, squeezing it out into a paste, which he then mixes with water from a pitcher on Arthur's table. Arthur watches him, tense and nervous.

If he is in heat, he trusts himself not to do anything foolish, should Merlin try. He wouldn't try, would he? He's always so in control, there's no red in his eyes at all – how the Hell does he do that?

Arthur frowns at the cup as it's pressed into his hands, for a moment unaware of what exactly he should do with it. "Drink," Merlin says quietly, tilting the cup upwards. Arthur drinks it without any further hesitation, nose wrinkling as the thick herbal mixture slides down the back of his throat and settles in his stomach.

It tastes different than the regular bitter potion and goes down worse than cold porridge, but almost instantly, a cooling balm spreads throughout his body, starting from the back of his throat and worming its way down as he swallows. He chugs the entire potion, wincing at the sweetness of whatever herbs Merlin put in, like he’s drinking sweet-water wine, the kind he used to have as a child before he could hold his drink.

He finishes with the cup, gasping as his trembling muscles stiffen and settle, his stomach no longer feels gouged open. He’s not dry, but there’s not much that can be done about that. Merlin takes the cup from him and squeezes out another mouthful through his cheese cloth, handing it back. Arthur doesn’t protest, just drinks it down, eager for more of the soothing balm of whatever this draught is that seems to quiet and calm him so effectively.

Merlin’s apprenticeship is clearly not going to waste.

“Better?” Merlin asks, standing a respectful distance away and only coming close enough to pluck the empty cup from Arthur’s hands, returning it to the table in his chambers along with his breakfast tray. Arthur clears his throat and swallows, the sweet, thick concoction still lingering right behind his tongue. There’s a pleasant feeling there, like a warm compress on an aching bruise. Every time he swallows, the cooling balm wavers a little in his chest, sending out a renewed pulse to ease his cramps and render his body as comfortable as he normally is, minus the sweat and slick.

He'll need a bath, certainly. He can’t go out into the castle smelling like this. His own scent is foreign to him, truthfully he doesn’t even know what his own slick or Omega scent should smell like, but there’s something rich and warm in the air, that smells like a hearth or perhaps a baker’s oven, promising a full stomach and sated sweet tooth to whoever indulges in its contents.

He exhales heavily and frowns down at his knees as Merlin busies himself with absolutely nothing at all, not leaving the room nor coming closer to Arthur until he’s calmer. He skirts the bed widely on his way to open the curtains, and doesn’t even come within lunging distance of Arthur’s bed.

Arthur watches him, a confusing bloom of appreciation and gratitude mixing with the lingering terror of waking up in such a state. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and hates how foreign the words feel coming out of his dry mouth.

He swallows again, that cooling flavor and feeling answering him in kind, like a gentle embrace.

Merlin stops by the table and looks to Arthur, expression lost, eyes far away. Arthur looks at the wadded cheese cloth and the cup by his breakfast tray, inconsequential beside the steaming cuts of pork and the modest bread roll, the mound of rice and fresh apple. Gaius had told Uther that the potions would burn a lot of Arthur’s calories as his body tried to submit to the bindings around its nature, that he would always need to eat well so as not to become too weak to train, scout, hunt, or even walk.

He considers that small, inoffensive cup, the nervous curl of Merlin’s fingers at his sides, the strangeness of this new potion and how effective it is – surely, if Gaius taught Merlin how to make it, then Gaius would have made it for Arthur before? It tastes better and works wonders on Arthur’s insides. He doesn’t feel chained up, restrained and muzzled, pressed to the ground like a creature beyond any ability to comprehend. The normal medicine makes his Omega mind feel sluggish and slow, but this is…different.

Lighter, somehow.

Arthur is not, despite his father’s tireless claims to the contrary, stupid. Nor is he cavalier about symptoms. His draught had to be altered as he aged, as he packed on muscle, as puberty ravaged his internal organs, priming him for a purpose he would never serve. The patches had to be adjusted when he trained and sweated more often, when his scent changed as he matured.

All his life, he’s worn those patches and taken that medicine. All his life, he’s been okay – senses dull, more prone to violence, hungry all the time, but okay. And now Merlin is here, giving him alternatives to the patches. Now Merlin is here, with an alternative.

Arthur’s eyes narrow on Merlin’s face. He’s returned from wherever his thoughts have taken him, and looks somewhat nervous. “What did you give me?” Arthur demands roughly, his voice still hoarse. He swallows and that gentle thing spread throughout his muscles and stomach squeezes gently in return, a comforting embrace. He’s never felt anything like it.

Merlin clears his throat, a surprisingly dainty gesture, and says, “In Ealdor, there was a healer who used to make it for the Omegas whenever they were…” He trails off, a sudden blot of color landing high on his cheeks.

Arthur is too tired, too distraught, too impatient to glean even a little bit more about Merlin’s strangeness, to let him linger. “Whenever they were what, Merlin?” His voice is hard, steel without any scabbard.

Merlin flinches, and Arthur wants to flinch in turn. He hates it when Merlin does that.

“When they were going into heat,” he says quietly, all in a rush. He flinches again, maybe expecting Arthur to react with explosive denial, or some other anger- and fear-based reaction. Arthur doesn’t have the energy for that, though his stomach tenses with dread at the words. The potion has no answer for him; he’s right, it seems to say, with the same soothing assurance of a mother over her child’s sickbed. He’s right, and it’s alright, I won’t let anything happen to you.

“I’ve never…” Arthur trails off, troubled beyond words. He knows that the patches didn’t do anything to prevent heat, that’s what the medicine was for. The patches were just for scents, nothing internal. So replacing them with Merlin’s ointment shouldn’t have done anything with that. There’s no reason for his body to have suddenly thrown itself into haywire. Arthur has been around Alphas all his life and never reacted like this.

Until…

Merlin looks like he’s already come to that conclusion. His mouth twists in guilt and his eyes are dark, fixed on some space between Arthur’s feet and his own. Even still, Arthur cannot seem to connect the two ideas. Merlin is unlike any Alpha he’s ever known, he doesn’t even show his red, he’s not overbearing and aggressive like Alphas are. There’s no reason.

Arthur stands, swaying slightly. Merlin tenses, as though he’s fighting down the urge to reach out and steady him. “It smells,” Arthur says lamely. “I’ll need a bath. Probably need to burn these clothes. And the bedding.”

He winces.

“I’ll take care of it,” Merlin says quickly, nodding to himself. His fingers curl into determined fists at his sides.

“Does this thing work like Gaius’ draught?” Arthur asks, marveling once again at this feeling. It’s as though he has spent all his life crouched in a cage, too low for him to stand straight, and now he’s been let out and can view the world at his full height. Taller. He feels indomitable, free, curled up in the embrace of his own body and assured more than anything in the world of its capability. He is strong, and capable, how has he gone so long believing otherwise?

“I don’t really know what Gaius’ draught did,” Merlin admits. “Or how to make it, what goes into it. I just know that it helps with…heat symptoms. And the like.”

It’s funny, to Arthur’s addled and near hysterically unencumbered mind, that they’re speaking about his true nature so plainly. Arthur would never, should never, admit that he is what he is, even in jest. Yet here they are, talking as casually about it as friends should.

“Is it safe to keep taking?” Arthur asks, shifting his weight and stretching his arms out in front of him. “I like how this one feels much better. Can you make more? Is it daily?”

“I’ve never seen any side effects,” Merlin replies, a tentative smile softening the guilty set of his mouth and shoulders. “I think you could keep taking it, at least until Gaius comes back.”

Arthur doesn’t ever want to take that damned draught ever again. He wants Merlin’s potions. Merlin’s solutions. They feel so much better, they feel excellent, and come with no chafing or uncomfortable presses of rough cloth and herbs to his neck and underarms. He doesn’t have to worry about sweating them off, or risk being seen without a shirt, and his stomach doesn’t hurt, he’s ten meters tall and unstoppable.

He doesn’t say any of that, merely nods, and Merlin’s tense shoulders slacken fully. “I’ll fetch you a bath,” he promises with a nod, then turns and scurries away, out the door, closing it behind him with a quiet thud.

Despite the new freedom in his limbs and racing thoughts, Arthur merely sits back on the stain on his bed. It’s cold now, drying, and is awful to sit in, but he doesn’t want to make more messes. He’ll wait until he bathes to get something clean and Merlin can come and dispose of all the Omega-soaked clothing and bedding. He’ll be late to training but it’s a small price to pay to not walk around smelling like…whatever he smells like.

Unfortunately, in this new silence and the open maw of possibility, Arthur has time to think. He wonders why, if Merlin knew both about his affliction and his medicine, he didn’t suggest it to Gaius sooner. Perhaps he has too much trust in the old physician, Arthur doesn’t really know the extent of their relationship except it is like father and grown son. He doesn’t seem the type to argue with Gaius openly, especially about such a sensitive topic.

But this is…well, it’s Earth-shattering, to put it plainly. He’s remade, and strong, and feels so light and secure. Is this how Omegas feel all the time? Is this how it’s supposed to feel?

Despite all his father’s ravings and reminders, Arthur can count on one hand the amount of Omegas he’s met before, and none of them were well enough to have spent any time on observation aside from the necessary bland interest he musters, like an Alpha would when seeing a single, fertile Omega near him. Still, they had never struck him as cowering, pathetic things like his father would describe. Naturally deferential, perhaps, but he’s the Prince, everyone is deferential to him except Merlin and Morgana.

There’d been no trembling, no weak whining and whimpering, no shaking hands and messy thighs. No bared throats and desperate supplication.

Not for the first time, and with this potion working wonders on his tender nerves, Arthur wonders if there is anything truly bad about being an Omega. What, in the grand scheme of things, does it change? As Prince, he’s expected to lead, to rule, to sire children. Omegas can do that. Surely, if Omegas can be Princes and Lords and Regents, why couldn’t they be Kings? Why hide?

If the situation were reversed, Arthur a young Alpha King and his father an Omega, he would still be Regent until Arthur came of age. His father has always waxed on about how weak, frail, pathetic Omegas were, but to his knowledge Arthur has never actually seen his examples in action. He’s seen more people burned for sorcery than scorned for being Omega, and he knew more than most that powerful Alphas capable of magic were just as likely to scream and sob as young Omegas like him.

When Merlin speaks about his friend, his voice is soft and fond, like any young man for his childhood playmate. There’s no judgement, no haughtiness. Even the knights, when there’s drink a-flowin’ and everyone is comfortable around the campfire and sharing tales of their escapades, paint their Omega lovers as fun, passionate, eager creatures. Things to be brought pleasure through any means necessary, people to admire and lavish with attention.

Why, then, Uther’s staunch refusal to think the same? Why his relentless burdening of Arthur with Alpha expectations? Wouldn’t everyone love a King who was kind, and passionate, and mated to whatever designation, as long as he was happy and as long as the match was good?

The scent of thunderstorms and a quiet knock jars him out of his thoughts. He coughs out a ‘Come in’ and watches Merlin come through the door with a washbasin, scraping it across the tile with huge grunts of effort, the buckets of water stacked inside sloshing and knocking together in protest.

Arthur takes a moment to incredulously admire the show of strength, before he gets to his feet and shuts the door, then helps Merlin push the basin to the front of the fire, shy of the rug. Merlin’s brow is beaded with sweat and he’s panting hard, but looks none the worse for wear.

“You dragged this all the way up from the baths?” Arthur asks, bewildered.

Merlin fixes him with a look that plainly communicates how idiotic that question is, but answers brightly; “The basin is stored at the end of the corridor with other supplies, I just brought up the water.”

Still, there are almost a dozen buckets, each of them heavy enough when empty. It’s no small hauling task, and another bloom of breathless gratitude and appreciation for Merlin mingles into Arthur’s insides like mulled wine. He’s drunk with it, and even more so with the knowledge that, yesterday, he wouldn’t have been able to exert himself this way. He’s always had to save his strength for the field, for training, for long walks to and from his father’s council chambers.

But he’s not tired, not tired at all. He could take on an army.

“Thank you, Merlin,” he says again, a little out of breath but emphatic with it. Merlin blinks at him, stunned, and then smiles widely, the color of his cheeks darkening a little as he gives a deferential nod.

He steps up to the basin and begins dumping the water from the buckets inside, stacking them neatly next to the fire when he’s done. “Once you’re out of those clothes, I’ll take everything downstairs to wash,” he offers, though he makes it clear he’s not going to wait around for Arthur to strip. He would never presume.

Arthur nods to himself and watches Merlin walk to the dining table, taking up the cup and cheesecloth and holding them like they’re precious.

A thought occurs to him, then; “The smell doesn’t bother you?”

Merlin stalls, halfway to the door.

“I’m not stupid, Merlin,” Arthur continues, a little sharply. “I know what heat is supposed to smell like to Alphas.” There’s not a single mote of red in Merlin’s iris. It’s impossible and confusing and Arthur doesn’t know why it irritates him so much.

Merlin swallows loudly, his knuckles whitening around the cup. “It’s…” He swallows again, and looks like he’d rather be looking anywhere but Arthur, yet can’t look away for longer than a second either. “It smells like you,” he finally decides to say. “I’m used to it.”

Panic flares in Arthur’s chest, his eyes widen. “I don’t smell like that all the time, do I?”

“No! No.” Merlin reaches out, but stops himself, and doesn’t take a step forward. “You don’t usually smell…like that.”

There it is. Just for a second, shorter than a blink or quick intake of breath. A dart of eyes to Arthur’s bed, a widening of his pupils. The smallest amount of red thickens around the black circles, and to Arthur it’s more powerful than a blow, a shot of cheap, strong peasant liquor straight to the base of his spine. His body shivers, lower back lax and wanting to arch. He controls the urge.

It’s heady, Arthur realizes, to see the first glimpse of humanity in Merlin, amidst that strangeness. The undeniable proof that he is, sometimes, not in control. There’s a maddening urge in Arthur to command Merlin closer, to examine his eyes and scent him, to check his racing pulse, to see if there are any other signs of being affected clamped down tight to Merlin’s bones.

Arthur understands what it’s like to live life in a crouch, to never fully extend all of his limbs. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

But the moment is too much, and he dares not do anything about it. “Good,” he says shortly, nodding and straightening his back. Merlin mimics him, the red swallowed up by blue once again. “That’ll be all. You can come back once I’ve taken the guards down to the training field.”

Merlin nods, a little sly smile on his face, like they’re sharing in some minor conspiracy; two children sneaking past the cook to snag an extra sweet, or stealing an extra candle mark of sleep by feigning illness.

Arthur grins back.

Chapter Text

Gaius comes back a day later, apologizing to Arthur profusely for his sudden long absence as he hands Arthur another of this draughts. “I hope Merlin managed well without me,” he says, obviously tired from whatever healing he was sent out to do, but still as focused and to the point as ever. “I’ve only had him observe making your medicine, before now.”

Arthur doesn’t tell Gaius about Merlin’s alternative. He also doesn’t take the draught, and doesn’t dwell on the fact that Merlin said he didn’t know how to make it at all, when Arthur asked. Perhaps he wasn’t confident enough in his abilities, having only watched. Either way, this Ealdor remedy has worked wonders. Arthur can’t remember the last time he ever felt as aware and confident as he does now. He doesn’t feel that ever-present meanness, that would compel him to pick fights with Morgana or trample the knights through drills until their bodies bent with exhaustion.

“It’s been working great, Gaius,” he tells the old man, not wanting him to worry.

Gaius nods, then fixes Arthur with a raised, expectant brow. “Do you need any more patches of herbs? I’ve noticed you haven’t requested a resupply for a while.”

Arthur doesn’t like lying to Gaius. He doesn’t particularly enjoy lying to anyone, but he knows there is a difference between lying and tact, strategic half-truths and burying the lead. So he clears his throat and asks if he smells any different, if Gaius has noticed and thinks he needs to alter the dose, but Gaius waves him off, telling him he smells no different, except perhaps even a little less than normal. Maybe that’s Merlin’s potion’s fault, Arthur dares not say.

That night, at dinner, Merlin gives him a somewhat confused but hopeful smile as he sets down the tray. “You didn’t tell Gaius about the change in medicine,” he says, which normally would be enough for Arthur’s hackles to raise and for him to let loose some snippy remark about how it’s none of Merlin’s business, except it is his business and Arthur simply doesn’t feel on guard around Merlin. He trusts his manservant, damn him, but he does.

“No,” he agrees, taking his seat. “Nor about the patches. I like your solutions to them much better. Will it be difficult to hide from him?”

Merlin hesitates, somewhere in Arthur’s periphery as he goes about stoking the fire and turning down the bed. Arthur tries not to be too aware of Merlin, to watch him too closely since the day before, when Merlin stopped his sudden heat symptoms and Arthur saw the tiniest bit of red in his eyes. He’s not sure he could stop himself searching for it again, and would quickly be driven mad about it. Down that path lies obsession, desperate and foolish attempts to get Merlin to break – and to what end? They’re friends, they’re close confidants, and Arthur knows Merlin prioritizes his safety above all else. None of that is improved with trying to bring out Merlin’s red. Even if Merlin was a Prince, or a man of noble enough birth that courting him would be acceptable to Uther, Arthur is still an Alpha to the public. There is no way to change that. It would just be another secret, and he is so tired of secrets.

“Do you…want me to hide it from Gaius?” Merlin asks carefully after another few minutes of uncomfortable silence. Arthur looks at him over his shoulder, finds Merlin crouched by the fire, already lit with ease despite the fact that Arthur knows the wood was green and a little too wet to light easily. “He’s your physician, after all, he ought to know. And I don’t think he’d mind making something else for you, if you like it better.”

A pause.

“He wants you to be happy, Arthur.”

Arthur exhales, and wonders when he started to lump Gaius in with people like his father, people to whom he is devoted and loyal, but doesn’t explicitly trust. He doesn’t know if Gaius ever advised Uther against hiding Arthur’s true nature, if when he was a child Gaius muttered under his breath and cursed the King’s narrow-mindedness.

What he does know is that Merlin trusts Gaius, and Arthur trusts Merlin.

He clears his throat and turns back to his plate. “If you think he should,” he says mildly. “I was just trying to avoid questions, but you’re right – it’s a waste of resources for him to keep making something that’s just going to go to out with the bathwater.”

Merlin smiles, Arthur knows he’s smiling even though he’s not looking at Merlin. Merlin’s smile sucks all the air out of the room, makes it feel warm and cozy, den-like and safe. If Merlin is happy, the Omega in Arthur reasons, then Arthur has nothing to worry about. No one else gets close enough to hurt him.

It’s still so strange. He’s been taking this potion for two days now, and it’s like he was in a dark cave all his life and finally has the first breath of clean, moving air; soft grass under his hands and bare feet; the sun touching his face for the first time. He feels everything so much more, and much more clearly. An awareness that was dulled and muzzled has come to the front of his mind, sitting like a loyal hound guarding the door to his innermost thoughts. It snarls when his father attempts to cow him, but yips and wags its tail in playful readiness when it’s time to spar with the knights.

It whines and lays itself low whenever Merlin is in the room. Merlin could walk right on over the threshold if he desired.

“And,” Arthur adds, “he might know if there are any better changes to it that could be made, or make the process more efficient. Two minds are better than one.”

Merlin makes a thoughtful sound, but doesn’t argue, so Arthur figures he agrees.

“You’re different,” Morgana says, relating to nothing. She corners Arthur somewhere on the ramparts where she is known to like to take walks, and maybe Arthur came out here hoping she would find him. He finds it easier to look at his own thoughts through the lens of her accusations, because she has no qualms making him confront things he would rather keep buried deep, deep down.

But he didn’t expect her to say that. “Different?” he repeats, with a practiced set of raised brows and easy smile that would look flirtatious if it were directed at anyone else. “In what way?”

She shrugs, her pale green eyes assessing as she looks him over, her lips pursed. “Looser, somehow.” She narrows her eyes. “Have you taken a bedwarmer?”

Arthur blanches, grimacing even as his cheeks turn scarlet. “What? No. As if I could.” The three short sentences come out with entirely different tones of voice: disgust, surprise, ridicule, longing.

Her face softens in sympathy, jaw loosening as her eyes grow gentle. She places a hand on his shoulder. He used to shrug her off, wary of disturbing the patches on his neck, but now he welcomes it. She is, at the end of the day, his sister in all the ways that matter, and he never liked how he had to shy from her touch, even though she knew, simply because he was afraid.

“I’m sorry,” she says with uncharacteristic sympathy. “I can only imagine.”

Arthur turns his face away, looking down to the courtyard. The stocks have been empty for some time, he doesn’t have the heart to even pretend to threaten Merlin with them anymore. Their situations are not entirely dissimilar, in that regard. Morgana’s future marriage will no doubt be a political arrangement, all she can hope for is that her future spouse is good to her and not too old. Arthur’s too, with the added stipulation that he marry a woman who will be too polite and intelligent to comment on his lack of knot when he beds her.

“What about Merlin?” Morgana asks, in a subject change so heavy-handed Arthur jerks in surprise.

“What about him?”

She fixes him with a look, brow furrowed. “He…knows, right? Surely he’s noticed. Surely you’ve told him.”

I didn’t have to tell him, Arthur wants to say. He just knew. It’s like he knows everything about me just from looking at me, and I want him to keep looking at me, and uncover all my secrets for me. “He knows,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean I can…”

“Because he’s a servant?”

Does she really not get it? He supposes he can’t blame her; the mating habits and courting rituals of Alphas and Omegas aren’t exactly talked about, especially with women, who are neither and are not as sensitive to things like scent and whines and Voices.

“I don’t want to put him in that position,” Arthur says, which is true. “The King would have his head if he found out.”

Morgana doesn’t reply. She doesn’t say that that doesn’t count as an ‘I don’t want him that way’. She doesn’t point out that Arthur basically admitted that he’s thought about it.

“If I found you at all tolerable, I’d marry you. Then you could bed all the Alphas you wanted and leave me to my own devices,” she says with a bright smile, startling enough that Arthur laughs and nudges his shoulder against hers.

Arthur has only seen Merlin raise his voice once, and that was in the confrontation about Valiant. It’s enough to put him on high alert.

“The chalice is poisoned! He means to poison Arthur!”

It’s also the second time he has ever seen Merlin show his red – they’re a stark ring in his eyes, vibrant enough to be blinding. It’s difficult to look at him directly, to cast an apologetic smile to his outraged father and King Bayard. “I’ll handle this. Merlin, have you been at the slow gin again?” he hisses through his teeth, grabbing Merlin by the arm. He yanks the chalice from Merlin’s hand.

“Unless you want to be strung up, you will tell me why you think it's poisoned, now.” Uther’s voice is hard and unforgiving, it would cut down a lesser man with its sharpness.

Merlin doesn’t falter. He squares his jaw and looks at Arthur only. “He was seen lacing it,” he says, heavy with meaning, and Arthur doesn’t know how Merlin could have gotten that information, but it doesn’t matter. He realizes, in that moment, that Merlin could declare the sky green or claim that pork was no longer safe for anyone to eat, and Arthur would believe him.

“By whom?” Uther hisses.

Merlin hesitates, and looks to Arthur for help, but Arthur is busy being struck by the revelation of just how deeply and implicitly he trusts Merlin, he cannot speak.

“…I can’t say,” Merlin admits. He looks at the chalice in Arthur’s hand like it’s a poisonous snake, fingers curling like he wants to wrench it away again and cast it into a fire. The red in his eyes isn’t going away.

“I won’t listen to this anymore!” Bayard declares, his face red with indignation, eyes sparking and red with outrage.

Uther looks to Bayard, then to Arthur, then to Merlin. “Pass me the goblet,” he commands, approaching and holding out his hand. Arthur gives it to him, then his eyes widen as Uther offers it to Merlin. “This accusation is at best an act of treason,” he says mildly.

Merlin’s jaw clenches, and he speaks lowly. “Bayard is not my King,” he says, making Arthur swallow back a rough noise, “and I’m not lying.”

Uther considers him, perhaps in that way Alphas do, sizing each other up. Whatever he sees must satisfy something in him. His mouth twists in an unkind smile and he looks at Bayard over his shoulder. “If this cup is poisoned, I want the pleasure of killing you myself.” He lifts the cup to Merlin again. “Drink it.”

Arthur lunges for the chalice, but Merlin’s hand on his arm stops him. Uther sees it, but Arthur doesn’t care. “If it is poisoned, he’ll die!”

“And we’ll know he was telling the truth,” Uther finishes, still mildly, his eyes still challenging. If only he trusted Merlin as Arthur does.

Arthur can’t watch this. He can’t. He knows it’s poisoned, there’s no way it isn’t. He can’t watch Merlin drink something meant for him and die from it. The hound inside his head and the beast in his chest that is no longer caged rages against the injustice of it all. His hands shake, but Merlin’s grip on his arm is steadying.

He takes the chalice.

“What if he lives?”

“Then you may do with him as you please, with my sincerest apologies for the behavior of Arthur’s servant.”

Merlin meets Uther’s eyes in challenge. If Arthur were in any other mindset than this debilitating, certain fear, he would be impressed by it. His heart is pounding so loud he can barely hear.

“Uther, please!” Gaius cries from somewhere in the waiting crowd, likely held back just as Arthur is. “He’s just a boy, he doesn’t know any better!”

“Then you should have schooled him better.”

“Merlin,” Arthur begs, rough and low as Merlin lifts the cup to his lips. He’s pale with fear but his hands don’t shake. He won’t break eye contact with Uther. “Apologize. It’s a mistake, I’ll drink it -.”

“No,” Merlin says, sharp as a slap across Arthur’s face. He squeezes Arthur’s arm. “It’s alright.”

He lifts the chalice in a salute to Bayard and Uther, and in that moment he looks so…potent. It’s the same look Arthur has seen on him before – a fathomless, ancient thing that dragged itself from the depths of the ocean and decided to play pretend as a mortal man. For a fleeting, insane moment, Arthur wonders if it is poisoned, but it won’t affect him anyway.

But Merlin is mortal. He drinks the whole contents in one long swallow.

After a heartbeat, he’s still standing, and Bayard looks triumphant. Then, Merlin’s grip slackens on Arthur’s arm, he grabs his throat, dropping the chalice, and collapses onto the floor.

Arthur hears Uther calling to seize Bayard amidst the rushing in his ears, but little else. The cacophony of a court in open riot and guards rushing around him is meaningless as he falls to his knees, rolls Merlin to his back, and frantically checks his pulse, his forehead, anything that might tell him if Merlin is still alive. He’s no physician, but he has enough battlefield wound training to find Merlin’s pulse, which is fast and weak, but there.

Gaius and Gwen are by his side immediately. “Merlin, can you hear me?” Gaius mumbles, frantic and faint, his face pale. He looks at Arthur. “We have to get him back to my chambers. Bring the goblet. I need to identify the poison.”

Gwen grabs the goblet, Arthur grabs Merlin, hoisting him up and mildly surprised when it feels like Merlin weighs nothing at all.

Gaius’ examination is disorganized, the distress emanating from him like sour wine. Arthur tries not to wrinkle his nose out of politeness; he’s sure if he wasn’t taking medicine, his scent would be much the same.

“Is he going to be alright?” Arthur asks, breathless as he lays Merlin down even though the rush to Gaius’ workshop felt like nothing at all.

“He’s burning up,” Gaius mutters, feeling Merlin’s forehead. Arthur nods: he had felt it, with Merlin in his arms, the drastic increase in temperature until it felt like he was holding a bag of hot coals. He’s writhing weakly on the bed, face screwed up in agony. When Gaius lifts a limp eyelid, Arthur gasps when he sees that there is no blue left in his iris at all. His pupils are pinpricks and the rest of his eye is a burning, wild red. Like an Alpha mad with rut.

If Gwen notices, she doesn’t comment, but stands with a bowl of water and a rag for Merlin’s forehead. “You can cure him, can’t you Gaius?” she asks, her voice thick with worry and unshed tears.

“I won’t know until I can identify the poison,” Gaius mutters, gesturing towards Gwen. “Pass me the goblet.”

She does, handing it to Arthur who hands it to Gaius. The contents don’t smell like anything odd, just the remnants of Uther’s expensive wine. Gaius reaches in and pulls out a single pale petal, from a moon-white flower, stained at the edges from the wine.

“What is that?” Arthur asks.

“A flower of some kind,” Gaius says, brow furrowed.

“He’s burning up.”

“Keep the cloth on his forehead, Gwen, there’s a girl.”

Arthur is stuck standing by the foot of the cot, impotent and useless. The creatures in his body that make up pieces of who he is are braying with helplessness, with anger. Kill Bayard, the beast screams, but the hound whimpers and paces the front of his mind like a leashed animal, knowing only that something is wrong and it cannot run to find help.

Gaius searches through his stacks of texts and pulls out a large, ugly book, with frayed page edges and peeling leather binding. He sets it with a heavy thump on his table and opens it halfway, scanning the page with both his eyes and a single pointed finger.

“Ah,” he says, right when Arthur feels like he’s about to burst at the seams. “The petal comes from the Mortaeus flower. It says here that someone poisoned by the Mortaeus can only be saved by a potion made from the leaf of the very same flower. It can only be found in the caves deep beneath the Forest of Balor. The flower grows on the roots of the Mortaeus tree.”

Arthur perks up at the mention of a cure. Thank you, he wants to whisper, to whatever deity might be listening. He leans closer and sees a creature inked beside the diagram of a tree, a monster with a rooster’s head and armored body, with wings and a long, spiked tail, with wicked-looking claws, beak open in a perpetual scream.

“That doesn’t look friendly,” he notes weakly.

Gaius nods. “A cockatrice. It guards the forest. Its venom is potent. A single drop would mean certain death. Few who have crossed the Mountains of Isgaard in search of the Mortaeus flower have made it back alive.”

“Sounds like fun,” Arthur says, his mind already made up.

Gaius notices. “Arthur,” he says gently, for a moment the same kind but stern old man who has seen Arthur through the worst parts of his life. “It’s too dangerous.”

“If I don’t get the antidote…” He can’t even think it. His voice is shaky. “What happens to Merlin?”

Gaius’ eyes are rich with pain. “The Mortaeus induces a slow and painful death. He may hold out for four, maybe five days, but not for much longer. Eventually he will die.”

He meets Gaius’ eyes. Gaius doesn’t try to dissuade him again.

He doesn’t intend to tell his father his plan, but something must show on his face, or perhaps in the way he keeps searching for Merlin in the room, leaning into the absence his body would normally inhabit, or glares at the temporary manservant appointed in his place. Either way, he notices.

“What’s the point of having people to taste for you if you're going to get yourself killed anyway?”

“I won’t fail,” Arthur says sharply, then softens his tone. “No matter what you think.”

“Arthur,” Uther begins, in a voice that would come across as fatherly concern on anyone else, “you are my only son and heir. I can’t risk losing you for the sake of some serving boy.”

Not even a week ago, such a declaration would have Arthur tearing up, holding that scrap of fondness and love he craves from his father to his heart for the next time Uther inevitably launches into another tirade about how weak and useless Arthur is.

“Because his life’s worthless?”

“Because his life is worth less than yours.”

Arthur stops midstride, forcing Uther to turn and regard him. “I can save him,” he rasps. “Let me take some men.”

“No.”

“We'll find the antidote and bring it back.”

“No, Arthur.”

“Why not?” his voice comes out louder than he meant it, high and distraught. Why can’t his father see how important, how necessary, Merlin is to Arthur’s life? Why can’t he see that this isn’t something Arthur can just ignore? How can he ignore it? Merlin saved Arthur’s life once already and was rewarded with a servant’s position. Now, he does it again, and Uther is simply going to wash his hands of it?

Uther sighs, and puts both hands on Arthur’s shoulders, meeting his eyes. It’s more than his father has touched him in months, and Arthur wants so badly to sink into it, to risk maybe a hug, to beg the King to change his mind and see how important it is that Arthur does this.

But he can’t. Such a show of weakness is not something King Uther allows.

“One day I will be dead and Camelot will need a King.,” he says. His words are gentle, but his grip on Arthur is not. “I'm not going to let you jeopardize the future of this kingdom over some fool's errand.”

“It’s not a fool’s errand,” Arthur mutters, feeling petulant and five years old again, when he first asked why he had to wear these itchy patches and drink the medicine that made him sick. Maybe there’s something wrong with him. Maybe there will always be something wrong with him. “Gaius says we can get the antidote…”

“Oh, Gaius says?” Uther drops his hands, dripping sarcasm. “That’s exactly what makes it so.”

So much trust for Arthur’s medicines, but none to risk the life of someone Uther barely acknowledges for all the things he’s done.

Arthur has to try, one more time. “He saved my life,” he whispers, meeting Uther’s eyes and hoping there is still some shred of that fondness, enough for Arthur to dig his nails in and tug. “Please, father. I can’t stand by a watch him die.”

“Then don’t look.” There is no fatherly love there, not anymore. He is King once again. “This boy won't be the last to die on your behalf. You're going to be King. It's something you'll have to get used to.”

Arthur’s jaw clenches. “I can’t accept that.”

Narrowed eyes, matching clenched jaw. “You’re not going.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“Damn it, Arthur, that’s an end to it!” Arthur startles, jarred at his father’s sudden shouting. It normally doesn’t take him so badly by surprise. “You’re not leaving this castle tonight!”

He leaves Arthur there, shaken and panting. For the first time, he’s glad that his mother is no longer around, and Uther, while a powerful King and an Alpha with dominion over Arthur, does not have a Voice to make his commands indomitable.

Morgana is in his chambers when Arthur flees to them. She turns to look at him, takes in his harried state and the burning in his eyes that might be tears, for they cannot be gold. She steps close to him and offers him a hug, and he’s too weak to resist the desire for some comfort. He holds her tightly and buries his face in her shoulder.

The moment lasts only as long as Arthur can bear it. Try as he might, the hug doesn’t make him feel better. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, wiping at his face. “I should have made sure you were alright.”

“I’m fine,” Morgana says, irritated by his misplaced worry. Then, her face softens. “I want to go with you.”

“It’s dangerous,” Arthur says, shaking his head. “Don’t get yourself involved.”

“Spare me the lecture, I've already had it from Uther.”

“If it's any consolation, you weren't the only one.”

He should be used to shrugging it off. He should have accepted long ago that his father simply doesn’t love him, at least not in the way Arthur wishes he would. Maybe he can’t, maybe he never would have been able to, even if Arthur’s mother survived his birth. It doesn’t matter now. He might try on occasion, and when Arthur was a boy he might have even made a few good memories of himself for Arthur to store like a starving squirrel in winter, but those moments have passed, buried behind years of memories and insults and hurts. He should just learn to get over it, but he can’t, and maybe that does make him weak, maybe he’ll never stop hurting for his father’s approval, and he’ll never get it, but he can’t make himself stop.

Morgana’s voice breaks him out of his wallowing. “Not that I listen to him. Sometimes you've got to do what you think is right, and damn the consequences.”

“You think I should go.” It’s not a question.

“It doesn’t matter what I think.”

Arthur wants to go. He wants to go so, so badly. Behind his eyelids, the sight of Merlin’s face wracked with pain, his pale and sweaty skin, the deep red of his sightless eyes haunts him. “If I don't make it back, who will be the next King of Camelot? There's more than just my life at stake.”

“And what kind of King would Camelot want? One that would risk his life to save that of a lowly servant, or one who does what his father tells him to?”

Arthur stares at her, not for the first time relieved to have her in his corner. He clears his throat. “I need a supply from Gaius,” he tells her. He doesn’t explain what for; they know. “A week’s worth. And patches, too. It’ll look suspicious if I go visit.”

She smiles. “Say no more.”

Arthur doesn’t like the way Gaius’ draught makes him feel, but he’s out of options. Merlin can’t make more of his potions and Arthur doubts he got a chance to ask Gaius about making them instead. The sluggishness around his brain feels like putting on a too-tight coat; familiar but awful and awkward. The patches itch terribly on his newly sensitive skin.

He has to save Merlin, if for no other reason than he can’t go back to living like he was. He’d sooner die.

He hopes Merlin is okay. Every time he thinks of the Alpha, he sends up a thought – or perhaps a prayer – to whatever might be listening, that Merlin lasts long enough to give him the antidote. He has to. Merlin can’t simply die. It’s not right! People like Merlin can’t just die.

Not for the first time since Merlin talked about how country folk live and think and all those edges of a coin he was blathering about, Arthur thinks about how people do just…die. Constantly. Of starvation or disease. In his life the castle has had to ration his food twice after some particularly harsh winters, and once when a trade treaty fell through and they were short almost an entire harvest of grain from another Kingdom. How had his people suffered, when he barely felt the pinch? How many of Merlin’s friends has he watched starve or die from something preventable, doomed merely by the misfortune of their birth? Perhaps that’s why he wanted to become a physician in the first place, and train under Gaius.

Even with Arthur, he just wants to help. To be useful.

Arthur cannot let a man like that die, no matter how personally he feels about it.

On the border of the forest, Arthur hears a woman crying. His ears perk up even as he frowns, wondering who might be making such a sound. He dismounts his horse and follows the noise to find a woman, beautiful and bruised and pale, clutching a torn robe around her thigh. Images of bandits or other rough men forcing themselves on her flashes through Arthur’s mind, but he doesn’t see any blood or any other torn garments on her. Maybe she snagged it on a branch.

“Hello?” he calls, friendly and light as he can make his voice. “Are you alright?”

The woman looks up, eyes pale like Morgana’s and hair a dark, rich brown. Her face is dry despite the crying noises, her eyes are dry too. She doesn’t flinch from Arthur’s presence. It looks like she’d been expecting him.

Behind Arthur, he hears a roar. He whirls around and draws his sword quickly, searching for the monster. “Stay back,” he calls to the strange woman, who doesn’t move, even to hide from the cockatrice as it emerges. The sword feels oddly heavy in his grip and his mind is sluggish from the potion, but the beast is dumb and operates only on instinct, no more difficult to kill than a particularly angry wolf. He fells it quickly and turns around to find the woman in the same spot.

She flinches when he approaches, blood still dripping off his sword. Arthur remembers himself, and crouches down. He shouldn’t be suspicious, she’s just a poor woman alone in a dangerous wood. Maybe she’s hungry, maybe she hasn’t had water in days and so has no tears to shed.

“It's alright. I'm not going to hurt you,” Arthur says, earning her eyes again. He looks at the bruises. “Who did that to you?”

“My master. I ran away from him, but then I got lost. Please don't leave me.”

Her urgency sounds forced, but maybe she’s just tired.

“I won’t,” Arthur promises.

“You can take me away from here?”

He shakes his head. “There's something I have to do first.” He looks around, mildly surprised to find that the cave mouth is in sight, behind a single line of trees. Again, suspicion curls in his mind, like a slow-moving current. Why would she be here? The monster’s kills and scattered bones line the floor of the cave, and even from here he can hear the chitter of creatures inside. She doesn’t look exhausted, even fleeing from her life, Arthur can’t imagine her wanting to take refuge here.

She notices him looking. “Why have you come to the caves?”

“I'm looking for something. It can only be found here.”

“What is it?” He looks at her, finds her eyes wide and guileless. “I know this place. I could help you.”

Arthur frowns. If she knows this place, it’s even more odd that she’s here. She’d know the danger. He stands, shaking his head and sheathing his sword. “It’s alright. You should wait out here.”

“Is it the Mortaeus flower? I know where they are. I'll show you.”

She stands up, unsteady on her feet. Arthur doesn’t reach out to catch her. His mind prickles and the back of his neck feels warm, different than the discomfort of his patches. He doesn’t want to walk with her, to trust her with this information, but he can’t very well send her on her way. If she wants to help, feels brave and grateful after he saved her life, when who is he to say ‘No’?

So he nods, and keeps his grip on his sword as he follows her into the cave.

Arthur, it’s a trap.

Arthur stalls in place, his eyes wide. Merlin. That’s Merlin’s voice. How is he hearing Merlin’s voice?

He shakes it off. The cave is oppressive, lined with bones and webs on all the walls and ceiling. It has a macabre kind of beauty to it – the gleam of skulls and lost weapons shining in the weak light of their torches, the precision killing visible in the snapped spines and torn necks. Nothing terribly recent, though the stench of rotting flesh is hard to ignore.

He hears Merlin’s voice again, a string of gibberish he doesn’t understand, but feels like an urgent thing in his belly.

“There they are!”

The woman points up to the ceiling, where there is, indeed, a cluster of the same white flowers Arthur saw in Gaius’ book. He smiles triumphantly but doesn’t thank her, instead stepping forward and beginning the perilous crawl up to the flowers. He reaches to grab a fistful of them and stuff them into a bag at his belt.

Before he can, there’s another string of gibberish, this time in the woman’s voice. Arthur turns to see her eyes glowing gold, her hand outstretched. He lurches back just in time to avoid falling with all the rest of the floor as it opens up beneath him, revealing nothing but cavernous blackness. The tree and flowers fall with it, disappearing immediately even as he yells in dismay. His torch falls out of his grip, into the void, and descends until it is out of sight.

“What are you doing?” Arthur demands, for a moment too shocked to realize that she’s using magic, that she opened the cave to trap him or perhaps kill him from the fall. Deep in his mind, a stab of satisfaction mingles with frustration. He didn’t trust his instincts, again. He would have, if he’d been drinking Merlin’s potions. He wouldn’t have ignored them then.

The woman stops chanting as the cave settles, gold fading from her eyes. She looks at Arthur, face a half-glow from her torch, and sighs. “I expected so much more.”

“Who are you?” Arthur growls.

She smiles. “The last face you'll ever see.”

At first, Arthur merely hears the noise. A soft slithering sound, a crumble of falling rock, a small clicking rhythm. Then, he looks down, and from the maw that was once the floor, the first four legs and snapping mandibles of a giant spider lunges up at him, eyes beady and shining as though wet. With a yell of alarm, Arthur draws his sword and strikes at the creature. It hisses, then screams as Arthur chops off a leg and one of its mandibles, then scurries back into the darkness.

“Very good,” the woman says, sounding genuinely impressed. “But he won't be the last. I'll let his friends finish you off, Arthur Pendragon. It's not your destiny to die at my hand.”

She turns to leave, and ignores Arthur when he once again screams at her, demanding who she is, how she knows his name, why she knew about the flower. Around him, his voice echoes off the cavernous walls, and the chittering grows louder and more excited.

He can’t go back the way he came, and it’s so dark that it’s slow-going to find another way out. Every loose rock he kicks or juddering of the cave makes him pause, heart pounding in his ears as he tries to breathe and keep his sword ready for any wayward creature trying to make him into a meal.

Arthur! Arthur, it’s too dark, too dark…

Merlin’s voice again. Why is he hearing it? He doesn’t understand. He’s never been prone to flights of fancy like this, never whisked himself away with imagination in his waking hours. But that is Merlin’s voice, there’s no mistaking it.

Suddenly, almost blinding, a ball of light appears when he rounds a corner. He freezes, fearing that the woman came back, and hefts his sword. “Come on then!” he yells. “What are you waiting for? Finish me off!”

The light merely bobs in place, pulsing with a gentle, warm glow. Eyes narrowed in suspicion, Arthur approaches it. He flicks it, and it doesn’t move, but he thinks he hears a chuckle in his head. The light darts away, up and over a ledge. He climbs it and gasps when he sees another tree, with more of the white flowers. It’s not near the light, it’s across the ledge in near darkness, above another dangerous drop.

He hesitates.

Leave them, Arthur.

Arthur shakes his head. He hears a spider screech, hears fast-paced skittering.

Go. Save yourself. Follow the light.

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur mutters as he climbs up to the flower and stuffs a handful into his belt. Spiders are coming in force now, crawling up from the darkness. He stumbles back, swinging his sword with such disregard that Leon would grimace if he saw it. He doesn’t care what it strikes, just that it keeps the beasts away from him and the flower remains safe.

Faster, Merlin’s voice urges. Go faster! Follow the light! Move, climb!

Arthur turns and bolts for it, scrambling up the steep ledge as the light hovers by him to let him see handholds and footholds. The spiders scream at the presence of the light as it brightens, driving them away. Arthur manages to make it to the top and sees another opening, daylight obnoxious and so welcome he could fall to his knees in relief.

He doesn’t, not until he’s out of the cave and safe. The light doesn’t follow him out. When he looks back at the cave, it’s nowhere in sight.

When Arthur returns, sluggish and sore, his mind abuzz from the journey and wondering, still, how he had heard Merlin’s voice in the cave, Gwen rushes to him a split second before the guards arrest him.

He shoves the flowers into Gwen’s hands, out of sight. “Go to Gaius. Go now.” He watches her leave, and doesn’t fight as he’s hauled to the King’s chambers, given a lashing so deep and cruel and cutting that he’s surprised it doesn’t leave physical marks, then tossed into the dungeon for a week as punishment.

He doesn’t mind. Gwen will give Gaius the flower, he’ll make the antidote. Merlin will be safe.

The dungeons are filthy and cold even though his room is by far the cleanest and actually has a decent amount of blankets. Uther doesn’t want him to get sick, of course. When the morning meal comes, the familiar green bottle Gaius gives him comes with it, delivered by Gwen. He knows just from looking at her that Merlin will be alright.

It leaves him weak with relief, he doesn’t even care that the draught makes him dizzy and brings a return of those awful stomach cramps. It doesn’t matter, if Merlin is safe.

“Why do you care so much?” Uther had demanded. “The boy is just a servant.”

He’d said it so dismissively. Arthur knows he’ll never understand. Merlin saved his life. He’s saved Arthur’s life every moment of every day – given him the gift of freedom and movement. He wants to scream at his father, to yell, ‘Don’t you have anyone you trust this much? Wouldn’t you have done the same for my mother?’ but that feels far too close to revealing something important and Earth-shattering and Arthur can’t talk about things like that on his own.

So instead he’d told Uther about the woman, about how Bayard might be innocent. He might have stopped a war with those words, though it had taken Uther some convincing and hadn’t saved Arthur from the dungeons. At some point, Bayard is released, so Arthur figures it’s alright.

Less than three days after his initial arrest, Arthur is out on the battlements with Uther and Morgana, watching Bayard ride away with his entourage. Things will be testy between the two Kingdoms, but at least it’s not outright war.

“So,” Morgana says, “bragging time. How’d you do it?”

“I'm not sure,” Arthur says slowly. Morgana blinks at him, brow creasing. Clearly she expected some dramatic and exaggerated tale of heroism, not Arthur’s bland admission. “All I do know is I had help. Someone knew I was in trouble and sent a light to guide the way.”

“Who?”

Merlin, Arthur wants to say, but that’s impossible, he knows that.

“I don't know. But whoever it was, I'm only here because of them.”

She looks at him, assesses, nods, and smiles. “I’m glad you’re back.”

Uther questions him about the woman, but Arthur doesn’t know who she is. She didn’t tell me anything, he says. She didn’t kill me when she could have, he says. She said it wasn’t my destiny to die at her hand, he says.

Uther looks pale. “You must've been scared.”

He was, but he also wasn’t, not really. Angry, frustrated, confused. Worried for Merlin, annoyed at himself for ignoring the voice saying it was a trap. But he felt safe, in that light, following Merlin’s voice. It felt the same as Merlin’s potions.

“Had its moments,” he says roughly.

“Those who practice magic know only evil. They despise and seek to destroy goodness wherever they find it. Which is why she wanted you dead. She is evil.”

Magic made light to guide Arthur out. He doesn’t say that.

“Sounds as if you know her.”

To Arthur’s surprise, “I do. To know the heart of one sorcerer is to know them all. You did the right thing. Even though you were disobeying me. I'm proud of you, Arthur. Never forget that.”

Arthur wishes he could treasure that moment, the same as the others, but he simply can’t. He watches his father leave and feels a pulse of wrongness, a strange nausea in the pit of his stomach. Magic light guided him out. Magic tried to warn him. But that felt the same as Merlin’s medicine so maybe it’s just his brain, in a panic and searching for something familiar, that supplanted the voice of his best friend and most trusted companion over Arthur’s own subconscious?

He growls to himself, shaking his head and scratching at the patches on his neck. He can’t bloody think with these infernal things on. He vows, as soon as Merlin’s better, to swear off Gaius’ medicine for good. He can’t live like this.

Merlin brings him breakfast the next day, and Arthur is so relieved he could sob.

“Still alive, then?” he rasps. Merlin looks a little unsteady and still rather pale. Arthur wants to give him more days off, but that would mean going longer without seeing him, and that thought makes the hound in his mind whimper so pitifully he can’t bring himself to do it.

Merlin smiles at him, his eyes bright. “Yeah, just about. I understand I have you to thank for that.”

The cup of milky-white and sweet concoction goes down so smoothly. The feeling at the back of his throat returns like a long-lost friend, a most beloved companion. It feels the same as the light, that warm, gentle glow. There’s something there, something he’s missing, but his brain is so sluggish from his relapse and he’s too damn happy to see Merlin here to think about it.

Merlin is still smiling at him and Arthur wants to cry. He wants to stand and pull Merlin into his arms, to shove his face against Merlin’s neck and refamiliarize himself with his scent. He wants to drown in the thunderstorms, the security radiating off of Merlin with every breath. He wants to say so many things and know that none of it is necessary: Merlin just has to look at him to know what he’s thinking, always has.

“Yeah, well, it was nothing. A half decent servant is hard to come by.”

Merlin’s lips twist, knowing and sly. “I’m not half decent by any means.”

Arthur doesn’t mean to blush, but Merlin blushes too, so that’s alright.

In the silence, Merlin clears his throat. “Arthur.” Arthur looks at him. “Thank you.”

“You too,” Arthur says quietly. “Take it easy today. I mean it.”

“Of course, Sire,” Merlin says with a slightly unacceptably shallow bow, that smile still on his face. Thank whatever power in this world that Arthur saved him. He couldn’t imagine what life would be like without seeing that smile every day.

Merlin leaves and things go back to normal. Well, relatively normal. Merlin’s medicine replaces Gaius’, Arthur doesn’t have to wear the patches anymore. If Gaius has any thoughts one way or the other about it, he stays silent. Arthur keeps having dreams of the cave, of the light, of the sound of Merlin’s voice urging him to abandon the flowers and save himself.

In his dreams, when he reaches the last ledge and slips, almost falling, a hand reaches out to grab him and pull him up the rest of the way. A hand belonging to a red-eyed Alpha with a smile that sucks all the air out of the room, and when Arthur kisses him in his dream, it tastes like magic.

Chapter Text

“Why aren’t there any Omega Knights in Camelot?”

Arthur looks up, squinting at Merlin where he’s standing at a perfect angle for the mid-afternoon sun to blind Arthur. It streaks in, a single thick beam, and highlights just how abysmal a job Merlin has been doing at dusting his room for the last few weeks.

Merlin shifts his weight slightly, and his head blocks out the sun, and Arthur stops squinting. It takes another moment before his eyes adjust to Merlin’s expression, which is set into one of too-innocent curiosity.

Arthur’s eyes narrow again, but he decides to graciously indulge Merlin and not interrogate him about it. He looks back down to the missives on his desk, unable to focus on the words. “Knights are sent from the noble houses of Camelot,” he explains. “They tend to save their Omegas and women for marriages.”

Merlin acknowledges this with a slightly disgruntled noise, which makes Arthur smile to himself. “Besides,” he adds lightly, “it’s not exactly a life suited to Omegas.”

He doesn’t need to look at Merlin to know that the meaningful cough would match the indignant expression. Since he’s been regularly taking Merlin’s medicines, those kinds of things are so much more obvious than they have been before. A shared look between Leon and Merlin when Arthur steps onto the grounds, as though they’re exchanging who’s the first in line to fall on a sword for him. The way his father’s jaw twitches whenever Morgana is sly with him, the way Gwen always pinches her lips together before she says something she knows Arthur won’t like.

He notices things that, dulled by draughts, he didn’t notice before, and it feels like a secret power he has, since it seems like no one else notices but him.

Arthur turns the page over, as though he’s still reading. “I’m not solely a Knight, Merlin.”

Merlin prowls away from the window, bathing Arthur in the last of the light as the sun gradually moves on. It’s a pleasant warmth on him above his chair. Arthur sighs, rolling his shoulders, and sits back.

“Why do you ask?”

Merlin is by the door, hand hovering above the door handle. He thought Arthur was dismissing him – was he? Of course not. Arthur doesn’t frown, though he wants to.

“The man who helped me, out in the forest…” Arthur remembers. Almost two months ago, Merlin had come stumbling back to Camelot leading a thin and dirty horse, missing a saddle, with a stranger half-dead draped across its back. Arthur only learned about it an hour after his breakfast and medicine should have arrived, and stormed to Gaius’ quarters because Merlin is never late and he’s always so careful and what if he suddenly couldn’t for whatever reason, or he’s changed his mind, Arthur can’t force him to keep making his medicine, can he? or no, something must be wrong…

Thoughts in a whirlwind and screaming inside his skull like a spooked horse, Arthur had burst into Gaius’ chambers to find a man he’d never met, feverish and shaky on the physician’s cot, sporting a nasty-looking claw wound loosely bound with bandages on his side, and Merlin practically dead on his feet trying to keep pressure on the wound while Gaius prepared his surgical implements.

It was a chaotic scene, enough to stymy Arthur in place long enough for Merlin to notice him. He was panting, pale, with dirt and blood smeared up his hands and over his face. He looked wild with stress, exhausted but trying to hold out long enough to save the man’s life.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathed. “I would have sent someone but -.”

And Arthur had shaken his head, stepped up beside Merlin, and helped him keep the bandages in place until Gaius was ready to sew the man shut.

His name is Lancelot, Arthur had learned later, and whatever had happened in the forest had saved Merlin’s life. So Arthur was – is – indebted to him.

He is also an Omega, which means Merlin was alone in the woods with an Omega Arthur doesn’t know, and regardless of what had happened after the fact, Arthur hasn’t mustered the willpower to ask Merlin about it, and Merlin never said what he was up to. And since Lancelot has been here, recovering from his wounds rather quickly if Arthur were to say so, Arthur has seen him frequently speaking to Merlin, and he has made Merlin smile quite often. So Arthur has considerably less favorable thoughts towards Lancelot than he ought to, if for no other reason than if Merlin is courting someone or even mated, Arthur wants to damn well know about it.

His only consolation is that Lancelot’s scent – thick and syrupy, honey mead and blackberry wine – is completely foreign to him. He’s never smelled that on Merlin before, and even with Merlin helping in his recovery, there has been no scandalous merging of scents or any sign of courtship.

Not that Arthur would know what courtship looks and smells like between Alphas and Omegas. Or care.

“He says he was coming to Camelot to become a Knight,” Merlin says. He’s turned back from the door to look at Arthur properly. Whether or not Merlin has picked up on Arthur’s complicated feelings towards the other Omega, Arthur can’t say. He’s not a particularly good liar and doesn’t like to make it a habit of playing courtier games, smiling and bowing while plotting behind their back. He’d rather be in an honest disagreement than a false alliance.

Arthur taps his fingers against his papers, making them rustle beneath his suddenly sweaty palms. An Omega, wanting to become a Knight? Arthur had no choice regarding his own training, every Prince should know how to fight with and lead his men, that’s a given. But the patrols are hard, the training relentless. It is many nights away from a comfortable bed or familiar nest. There would be medicine for him, too, no one would risk a heat during a long campaign around the border.

Lancelot had seemed physically capable enough, no less than Arthur. If he wants to try for it, who is Arthur to deny him, just because he’s an Omega? How hypocritical would that be? Even Uther couldn’t find fault in that logic, even if they were the only ones who knew the truth.

But Arthur…doesn’t particularly want an Omega around the Knights. His men are noble and good as a matter of course, but who’s to say an Omega wouldn’t be a distraction? Would they all lose their senses the first time they got a whiff of him? Would they smile and coddle him in public but laugh to themselves in private, teasing Mad Prince Arthur, he must have gone soft, or maybe he’s got eyes for Lancelot, or…

And if Lancelot was around the Knights that means he’d be around Arthur more, what if Arthur gives himself away? An Omega would be better at sniffing him out. He’d be around Merlin, and what if he and Merlin…?

What if he and Merlin?

“Sire?”

Arthur startles, and looks down at the papers in his hands which have become little more than tattered scraps barely held in a crumpled heap. Arthur’s shoulders slump: it’s a good thing he’s been reading these damn things all morning, he has them memorized and can rewrite them well enough.

He clears his throat and waves Merlin away, gets to his feet and wishes he had something as banal as physical discomfort to distract him, some itch under his arms or heavy armor to shrug around with and complain about. But the temperature in his room is perfect and it smells like Merlin so it’s perfect and he can’t even care that it’s dusty because he likes how the motes look in the light and how he can sometimes see them dancing in Merlin’s eyes and -.

“If he’s of noble birth, he can serve,” he says roughly, staring out the window. People mill about in the courtyard, and beyond the lower town, plains and forests stretch out as far as the eye can see. “Bring him to the training grounds tomorrow, and have him bring his seal of nobility.”

Merlin’s gratitude is like a physical thing, warmer than sunlight and heavier than a cloak. “Thank you, Arthur!” he says brightly, then turns to leave. Arthur lets him go, to tell Lancelot the good news. He swallows, and even the soothing tingle of the medicine at the back of his throat doesn’t do anything against the anxious nausea turning his ribs into a clenched fist around his heart.

Merlin will probably switch Lancelot from whatever he’s on to the same medicine. He’ll be making it for both of them.

It’s too much. Arthur’s sick to his stomach.

Of course he’s too hard on Lancelot. Of course he’s brash and abrasive and dismissive when he catches Lancelot out and sends him sprawling in the dirt, then sends him to muck out the stables. Of course the pretty – and damn it, he is pretty, he’s beautiful even, of course he fucking is – and noble and obedient would-be Omega Knight is deferential and polite and doesn’t ever once rise to Arthur’s challenge.

He won’t, because Arthur is a Prince and leader of the Knights and Lancelot is an Omega and doesn’t know Arthur is one too and he’s acting terribly about this but he can’t make himself stop. Every time he sees Lancelot he’s overcome with an angry, spiteful, petty hate. Lancelot doesn’t have to hide who and what he is, he has a golden ring in his eyes clear as day, and no one leers at him or treats him badly except Arthur.

“You know,” Merlin says, mild on the surface but with a hint of tension beneath that Arthur hasn’t decided if he’ll ignore or not. “You’d catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”

Arthur frowns. “I’d catch the most with manure or a rotting corpse. What’s your point?”

“Gwen told me about Lancelot. Why are you being so mean to him?”

This is precisely why Arthur’s been making sure Merlin’s chore list is too long for him to spend time around the grounds; he has no need for Merlin to be around where he might see Lancelot train. He has noticed Leon looking for Merlin when Arthur arrives, though he never speaks on Merlin’s absence once he realizes.

“Why is Lancelot complaining to Gwen and why is Gwen telling you?”

“Because maybe I have a chance of getting through to you, you…clotpole!”

Arthur slowly turns to look at Merlin. “Is that a word?”

“Yes. A very accurate one to describe how you’re behaving.” Merlin is tense, one hand balled into a fist at his side as he glares at Arthur’s chest. “If half of what she said is true, you’re treating him abysmally. Why?”

“Why do you care?” Arthur snaps, and hates how defensive he sounds, how that petty, jealous snake hisses loudly at the notion that Merlin cares about Lancelot. “This is how Knights train. They prove themselves and do hard work. This is what they all go through.”

Those words seem to affect Merlin, a sudden strike across his face he didn’t expect. He doesn’t flinch, but he looks stunned.

His voice, when he speaks, is very quiet; “All of them?”

“This is none of your business, Merlin,” Arthur growls. “I appreciate that you’re…invested in him, given that you helped him when he was injured, but if he wants to be a Knight, he’d best get used to a little hard labor and having his feelings hurt every once in a while.”

Merlin looks heartbroken. He shakes his head.

“He’d make a wonderful Knight, Arthur.”

Arthur frowns. He straightens up.

“That day, in the forest… I was out and I heard this noise, unlike anything I’d heard before. Like thousands of ravens were screaming all at once. A shadow across the sky.” His eyes grow hazy, focused up, far away and no longer in the present. “The noise was terrible. I followed it and sought out an opening in the trees, so I could see. I didn’t see the creature, but the sky darkened, and it dove for me. I barely saw any of it before Lancelot had pushed me out of its way and attacked it. It stopped worrying about me at all, probably thought I was too skinny. He drove it away, enough for us to find cover, but it kept coming for him and every time he’d shove me away and fight, until it finally got its talons in him. Even still, he made sure we were hidden long enough for it to leave before he’d let me search for his horse, or help.”

Merlin blinks, focusing again, and gives Arthur a sheepish smile that’s so annoyingly endearing Arthur’s fingers curl at his sides so he doesn’t reach. “You said his injuries were the result of a bear attack,” he says.

“I didn’t,” Merlin says quickly. “I just…didn’t correct you.” He clears his throat, swallows when Arthur’s expression tells him that was not the correct thing to say. He shifts his weight and fidgets with the sleeves of his jacket. “I was confused. I didn’t know what it was, but it was…dangerous. Hungry. It was far away and I didn’t know where it went.”

“If there is a monster capable of doing that to a man, flying around, Merlin, then it’s my duty to try to find and kill it,” Arthur says, rising to his feet. “The King ought to have been informed immediately.”

“It’s dangerous, Arthur!” Merlin steps in front of the door, blocking the way. It’s such a strange thing to do, confusing enough that Arthur lets him. He tenses as Merlin clamps a hand on his shoulder, sudden and direct and so much warmer than the sunlight felt. “Lancelot landed blow after blow on the thing and it did nothing. Gaius has been trying to figure out what it could have been, but…”

Arthur frowns. “Lancelot didn’t get a good look at it?”

“He said it had the wings of an eagle and the body of a lion. Does that sound like something that exists?”

His frown deepens. “No,” he admits.

Merlin nods, and his hand moves away, and Arthur has to bite hard on the inside of his cheek to stop himself making a sound. Merlin doesn’t touch him all that much, the pressure and heat of his hands mostly dampened by the act of putting on armor or helping with a heavy cloak. Most recently, it was when their hands had clasped as they’d both held bandages to Lancelot’s chest and side.

Two months. Suddenly it feels like an eternity, and Arthur doesn’t know if he can handle another two months before it happens again.

“I need to tell the King about this creature, Merlin,” Arthur says quietly, forcing himself not to linger on the frustration and pain in Merlin’s eyes, the angry edge to his sigh.

Arthur pauses. Inhales, the scent of thunderstorms coating his tongue. No honey mead, no blackberry wine. It soothes his hackles enough to ask; “Is the fact that he saved your life the only reason you’re pushing this so hard?”

Merlin meets his eyes. “He’s a good fighter, and a noble man, and…” a small smile, “he puts up with you, which already makes him worth ten men.”

Arthur scoffs and rolls his eyes, but he takes Merlin’s advice because Merlin has never steered him wrong, and names him Sir Lancelot the very next day. They’ll need all the men they can get for this beast, after all.

“Merlin.”

The room is dark, oppressive, like a caved-in burrow. There are no candles, Arthur can’t stand any light right now, even the moon is making a mess of his blistering headache. In the corner, Merlin’s shoulders are hunched and he reeks of nerves, eyes darting around like the floor might open up and give him an escape route.

“I want you to answer me honestly,” Arthur says. He’s so, so tired. “Did you know his seal was a forgery?”

Merlin doesn’t answer right away, which is answer enough. Arthur’s shoulders slump. “I knew.”

“And you still talked me into Knighting him?” he demands, whirling around and pointing an accusing finger Merlin’s way. Merlin doesn’t flinch, thank God, but he looks like he’s expecting this to turn physical. Arthur hasn’t been this angry at him since Valiant.

To his surprise, Merlin clenches his jaw and levels his ocean-deep glare at Arthur. “Why should only nobility get to serve?” he replies just as harshly. “Lancelot wants to, he’s good at it, why can’t he? Don’t tell me you think he doesn’t deserve it after what he did today.”

No, Arthur can’t deny that. When the creature had attacked the lower town and Arthur had rushed down with all the Knights, Lancelot had been right by his side and landed – or attempted to land – just as many blows. He had fought bravely, seamlessly, and when the creature was driven away he had been first in line to help those buried under rubble or in need of medical attention that wasn’t too serious.

“I do think he deserves it,” Arthur says, growling under his breath, “but damn it, Merlin, rules must be obeyed, especially when the man who made those rules still sits on the bloody throne!”

Merlin does flinch, then, and Arthur hates it.

Then, his face hardens again. “So it didn’t break the rules to save my life?” he rasps, not letting Arthur look away from him. Not that he could – Merlin’s eyes have changed again, something fathomless and ancient moving behind them, and Arthur dares not look away for fear of missing a moment of it. “You felt a duty to fight against Valiant, even knowing you could die. You disobeyed the King to get my cure.”

“You called us Royals ‘mad’ for duty,” Arthur says weakly.

“Commoners can be as mad as Royals, sometimes,” Merlin replies, his voice softening somewhat but nothing else changing. “Why are you the only one who gets to do insane things in the name of duty? Are you worried he’ll show you up?”

The accusation is like a fist, a blow straight through his stomach and up to his heart. Such a casual cleave to the root of the matter, made to sound so stupid. It’s been so long since Merlin was angry enough to turn his words into weapons; Arthur had forgotten how good he is at it.

“The law is the law, Merlin,” he forces himself to say. “I would have let him continue the lie, but the King has found the truth, and made his ruling known. There’s nothing I can do about it now.”

Merlin’s jaw clenches, bulging at the corner over and over as he grinds his teeth. He breaks gazes with Arthur, finally, looking out the window to where the moon is hiding in the corner, just barely illuminating the space. The sky is cloudless and would be beautiful if not for the winged death still roaming around out there.

“I didn’t mean it,” Merlin finally says, when Arthur has turned away and climbed into bed, not bothering with a fire or changing into sleeping clothes. “About…showing you up. At least not because you’re both…” He clears his throat. His voice is so quiet in the dark room, but Arthur hears it as clearly as if he were shouting. “No one compares to you, Arthur – that’s why people follow you. That’s why commoners who have nothing except their name and the clothes on their back travel here to serve under you. I wish you were in a position to let them.”

After all, even Merlin’s service wasn’t intentional. Another whim of Uther, another thing out of Arthur’s control.

“Get some rest, Merlin,” Arthur says tiredly, rolling onto his side. “I’m sure Gaius will need you in the morning.”

Arthur doesn’t hear Merlin leave, even his door closes silently, but the entire room grows noticeably colder for his absence, and Arthur shudders from head to toe and tries to make himself as small and warm as he can.

He can’t sleep. Sometime around midnight, Arthur kicks off his freezing covers in a huff, pulls on his boots, and stalks out of his room down to the dungeons. The guards let him through, there’s no reason they wouldn’t. It’s not hard to follow his nose and find Lancelot’s cell.

Lancelot looks up, his eyes widening when he sees Arthur. He’s sitting on a tiny cot, much smaller than the one Arthur was given, but when he sees Arthur he immediately falls to his knees and bows his head.

“I should have known,” Arthur hisses, more to himself than anything. “You don’t sound like a Knight. You don’t even look like one.”

Lancelot tenses, his mouth twisting. It’s the first time Arthur has seen him visibly react to Arthur’s dismissive attitude towards him. He put up with a whole slew of humiliations in his quest to become a Knight, but now that dream is gone, Arthur supposes there’s no use pretending anymore.

Arthur envies him his privilege, to shrug off his mantel of pretender and, even in a cell, greet the world honestly.

“I’ve offended you,” Arthur says.

“I was under the impression that a Knight is judged by the quality of his heart, not how well he fills out chainmail.”

Arthur can’t help it; he smiles. It sounds like something Merlin would say.

“I agree with you,” he says. That makes Lancelot look up. “You may not look the part, or speak the part, but you damn well fight like a Knight, and that’s good enough for me.” He takes the ring of jailor’s keys and opens the cell, stepping back and pulling the door with him. “Camelot needs men like you. I need to know there are men like you out there.”

Lancelot gets to his feet. “The creature still lives.”

“No sword does damage to it,” Arthur confirms. “No one’s said it yet, but it doesn’t look like anything made naturally. It might be magic. Stands to reason only magic can harm it. Even with you, and me, and twenty other men, we couldn’t kill it. I’ve never seen its like.”

Lancelot nods to himself, but doesn’t step out of the cell yet.

“The first time I faced it, Sire, I struck it full square. I wondered how it endured.” Arthur nods, pressing his lips together. “Makes sense that it’s magic. You truly believe that we need magic to bring it down?”

Arthur ignores the ‘we’, and the warm glow of pride in his chest that words sparks. “It doesn't matter what I believe. The use of magic is not permitted. The knights must prevail with steel and sinew alone.” Lancelot’s mouth twists again, and Arthur wonders where he truly came from. Did he hail from some place outside of Camelot, where the rules against magic are not so strict? “There's a horse waiting outside.”

Lancelot’s eyes widen. He bows his head. “Thank you. Thank you, Sire.”

“You must take it and never return to this place.”

He shakes his head, meeting Arthur’s eyes, every inch of him bent in supplication. “No! No, please. It’s… It’s not my freedom I seek. I wish to serve with honor.”

“I know,” Arthur sighs.

“Then let me ride with you, Sire!”

“I cannot.” His voice comes out sharp enough that Lancelot flinches, shoulders falling in resignation. Arthur swallows, and lowers his voice, leaning in; “My father knows nothing of this. I release you myself, but I can do no more. Now go before I change my mind.”

Lancelot sighs to himself, defeated, and nods.

“And Lancelot.” He looks up again. “The rules…will change, one day. When they do, if you still wish to serve me after everything I’ve put you through… The Knighthood is yours. If you still want it.”

He doesn’t wait for Lancelot to reply, just turns and hurries out of the jail cells, and tells the guards that Lancelot is free to go. Arthur only hopes that he is smart enough to bide his time, and will come again when Camelot has need of him, and is ready to welcome him back with open arms.

The sky is grey and cloudy when Arthur sets off with as many Knights as are still in fighting form. It’s not enough for this creature, especially with merely steel, but it’ll have to do. The King sees them off, no grand speech, merely a nod to Arthur, an expectation that, despite all odds, he will do what needs to be done.

He hasn’t seen Merlin since their argument last night. Gaius was the one who brought his morning medicine. There’s a hollow ache in the center of Arthur’s chest, different from the feeling that overcame him when he has stared down certain death before.

Even though Merlin is no warrior, it would feel…right, to see him one last time. To argue with him not to come with them, to force him to stay back in relative safety. Arthur would never wish Merlin in danger, even with his uncanny ability to survive most things unscathed, but he wishes Merlin were here to see him off, anyway.

It takes half a day of swift riding North, following reports of sightings of the griffin, before Arthur hears wingbeats above the tree canopy and the distant, raucous screech he knows all too well now. He unsheathes his sword and holds it ready even as the horses begin to toss their heads and grow restless, sensing danger.

“For Camelot!” he yells, and digs his heels in, headed for the direction of the creature’s cries. An answering chorus rings up around him, Leon quickly taking place at his right, Sir Kay on his left. The trees are thin enough to allow a full charge, out into a clearing where the griffin is, tearing into the fresh corpse of some poor farmer.

It’s clear they took the beast by surprise, even with the noise, and for a moment Arthur thinks maybe they’ll stand a chance. Then the first blow lands and does nothing. A horse crashes into the creature’s hind legs and falls with a dizzyingly shrill whinny, throwing Sir Kay right into the talons of the creature. It whirls and strikes too close to Arthur’s head, he barely ducks in time.

He dismounts, unwilling to risk getting thrown as well. He stumbles to his feet and manages to block a swipe of a huge, bloody beak, shoving his sword against it and making the griffin bite down into the ground instead, but it’s only a small reprieve. No matter how many blows he and the Knights land, the griffin doesn’t bleed, doesn’t bruise, doesn’t stumble.

It’s chaos. Horses are running everywhere, some of them skewered by the beast, but it clearly has a preference for human flesh. Arthur watches in horror as another Knight falls under its deadly claws, another gets pushed with a wing so powerfully he goes flying back and is knocked against a tree, blood blooming from the back of his skull.

He reaches out and yanks Leon out of the way of another beak attack, and doesn’t recover in time to dodge a blow from the creature’s wing. It slams into his shoulder and sends him skidding back, gritting his teeth as pain lances down the entire side of his body. The griffin narrows its glowing eyes on him, snorting heavily, and advances, not caring for the other Knights as they try to distract or harm it.

Arthur hefts his sword, face a mask of determination. He will not show this thing fear. It lunges for him, knocking his sword out of the way with its beak, and digs its talons into his waist, rending the armor like it’s made of paper. Arthur snarls and pulls out his dagger, trying to stab the thing in the eye, but it jerks its head back and tosses him away, sending him rolling ungracefully across the field and to a hard stop against a rock.

Dizzy with blood loss, his head ringing, Arthur tries to cling to consciousness.

“Arthur!”

For a moment, he’s back in the cave. That’s Merlin’s voice, why is he hearing Merlin’s voice? It’s becoming a pattern – first Valiant, then the poisoned chalice, then the cave. Why does Merlin always yell for him when Arthur is about to die?

Through hazy vision, he sees two new riders appear. Lancelot and Merlin. He grumbles to himself as they pull up short and Merlin practically falls off his horse in his haste to get to Arthur. He puts a shaking hand on Arthur’s bloody side, radiating panic.

“He’s alive,” Merlin gasps. Lancelot has a sword, the same he came with, marked and dull. Arthur has no idea where he got the lance. His vision is fading as Merlin’s arms wrap around him, holding him close and keeping him warm. “You’re alright, you’re alright – Lancelot, don’t!”

Arthur tries to keep his eyes open. His men deserve to have a witness to their end. Lancelot is a blur of brown horse and ordinary clothes, the lance point a shining tip that he knows will do nothing. Merlin is speaking but Arthur doesn’t understand the words.

Until, suddenly, the tip of the lance glows with blue fire, right before it plunges into the griffin’s side, aimed straight for its heart as skillfully as one might fell a wild boar. The griffin screams in agony, louder than anything Arthur has heard, but he doesn’t have the strength to cover his ears.

The lance shatters, but the tip remains embedded. Blue fire spreads over the creature, illuminating its impossible skeleton and shining out of its eyes like torches. The creatures screams, thrashing, bleeding all over the place as it tries to take wing, but it can’t – the Knights have it surrounded and there’s no room for it to take off.

With one last bit of strength, something innate that calls to him and tells him to bear witness, Arthur looks up…

Just in time to see the gold fading from Merlin’s eyes. Not even the ring of panicked red that replaces them can hide that gold. There’s no sunlight trick to blame for that.

The medicine at the back of his throat pulses with energy, like he was the one to swallow the blue fire. Merlin’s hands are warm and almost glowing under the light of the torches, shining with Arthur’s blood.

He’s fading, but he knows what he saw. Despite himself, Arthur smiles.

I knew it.

Merlin Interlude

“Alphas, you know, it’s a funny thing… Your father always told me it was love at first sight.”

Merlin knew what she meant, probably more than she even realized.

It wasn’t love at first sight for him. It began way before Merlin saw Arthur’s face or first heard his voice. It wasn’t love, it was destiny, which has always been the meaner, pettier, and more vindictive cousin to her romantic counterpart.

When he was sixteen years old and sweating through his first rut, presenting as an Alpha despite the odds, Merlin had a vision. He saw sunlight incarnate, glory made flesh; a wildfire flashing off the belly of a golden dragon. A man, dazzling in both aura and ability, to whom every cell and atom of Merlin’s existence, from his bones to his magic to his heart, had felt compelled to run.

He had seen nothing else, only knew this man, his destiny, was in Camelot. His mother hadn’t wanted him to go. They didn’t understand or want magic, she said. Merlin would always have to hide that part of himself, to control it so that he wasn’t found out.

It was Merlin who first wrote to his uncle, begging for an apprenticeship. He didn’t know who the man in his vision was; he could have been a blacksmith’s son from how well he held a sword, he could have been a particularly skilled squire, or perhaps a Knight.

“I have to go to him,” was all he could say, with the young helplessness of a man who knew in his heart that he was right, but knew not how to articulate or communicate it. Camelot was where his future lay, he could not more deny that than he could deny the cycle of the seasons.

And when he had first met Arthur, challenged him and been brought to his knees with a hard grip around his wrist, holding him in place, for a moment the words hadn’t registered. He had merely felt, down to the depth of his soul, that this was that man. He felt it like his own blood, like his magic, frantically clawing out of his skin and yearning for an answering touch.

The Prince. His destiny was Prince Arthur. Haughty, arrogant, hardened.

But beautiful, Merlin had thought. By the gods, he’s beautiful.

And reasonable, and kind, when given the chance. Brave, certainly. Hardheaded and stubborn. Noble, naïve.

With every breath, every action, he’d sought Arthur out. It was impossible to deny the need to be close to him. To become his manservant was a step in the right direction, even though Arthur seemed determined to make his life a living Hell.

It was a Hell Merlin walked through happily. Taking care of Arthur was his singular purpose; to protect him, to trust him, to soften the world so that Arthur could walk through it freely. It hadn’t been conscious, simply necessary. He deliberately shirked his cleaning duties, knowing that Omegas were particular about their nests, and he would make the bed badly, the pillows still clinging to the shape Arthur beat them into while asleep. He wouldn’t dust, so Arthur’s scent lingered.

He watched Arthur struggle with his herbal patches and wince his way through Gaius’ medicine. His magic would not be denied – he would help in any way he could, even if it meant risking discovery if Arthur ever caught wise to the true nature of his medicines, and the magic that Merlin put into it to lighten the burden of hiding.

It wasn’t love at first sight, but devotion was swift to follow on the heels of destiny, alongside the desire to serve, to converse, to coax Arthur out of his tightly bound shell and trust him. He needed, so desperately, for Arthur to trust him.

Whenever Arthur sent him away, it felt like pieces of Merlin broke off, adrift, trying to find their way back to the Prince. Whenever Arthur allowed him back, he felt whole again.

He’s trembling now, trying to hold the pieces of Arthur together as he and Lancelot, and the only able-bodied Knights left, drag the wounded back to Camelot on the few horses that remain. Lancelot keeps looking at him, gold in his eyes shining in his dark and brooding expression.

He pulls off outside of Camelot, a heavy resignation on his face.

“He’d fight for you,” Merlin says, conscious that they don’t have a lot of time, but Arthur is sharing a horse with Leon and they’re riding forward briskly with the rest of the Knights, and Merlin trusts Leon to get the Prince to Gaius in time. He waits until there’s a little more distance between them. “After what happened today…”

Lancelot fixes him with a wry smile. “I won’t put him in that position,” he says, and sighs. “When Arthur is King, perhaps I’ll return. Once the rules have changed.”

Merlin swallows, and says nothing. He understands better than most what Lancelot means.

“A lot of the rules will change, I imagine,” Lancelot continues. “The Prince is not as set in his ways as his father.” A pause. “I imagine you have a lot to do with that.”

“Lancelot, I -.”

“I saw what happened, Merlin,” Lancelot says meaningfully. Merlin’s heart skips in his chest, shuddering as though struck with a hammer. “I’ll keep your secret. I won’t tell a soul.”

He swallows hard enough his throat clicks. “Thank you.”

“I think he was jealous of me,” Lancelot continues, shifting in his saddle, mouth twisting in thought. Merlin frowns at him. “It’s hard to tell, with the potions, but… I think I could tell.” He meets Merlin’s eyes. “Am I wrong?”

“You know a lot of secrets,” Merlin says tactfully.

“And I won’t tell anyone. They’re not mine to tell.”

Merlin smiles, overwhelmed. “Camelot doesn’t deserve you, but she needs you. I hope you come back one day.”

“I will,” Lancelot promises, and holds a hand out for Merlin to shake. “Now go. Our paths will cross again, and when they do, much will be different.”

“I hope so.”

He watches Lancelot ride away, then digs his heels in, swiftly catching up with the rest of the Knights even though he’s far less comfortable riding a horse and almost bounces himself out of the saddle several times. He catches up with Leon, who looks pale but is thankfully relatively whole.

Leon smiles thinly at him, nodding his head. “Should have known you’d be skulking about with us. You never leave him alone.”

They share a look; two Alphas who know exactly the worth of the precious thing they’re sworn to protect.

“Where’s Lancelot?”

“We’ll see him again,” Merlin promises, then looks at Arthur. He’s pale and sagging against Leon’s chest, utterly boneless and only held up by Leon’s firm grip around his waist. “Can we go any faster?”

Leon smiles knowingly, and urges the horses on with a fierce cry.

Chapter Text

Arthur isn’t aware of a lot of the time between falling unconscious in Merlin’s arms and waking up in Gaius’ chambers. He remembers the disgruntled huff he’d let out at being moved, the familiar scent telling him it was Leon holding him steady but unable to not be a little peeved at losing Merlin’s warm touch. He remembers the pain, every drum of the horse’s quick steps jostling him despite Leon’s best efforts. He remembers the sound of the bell, hailing his and the Knights’ return, Merlin’s voice barking out orders on who needed to be treated by Gaius, who could be left in the courtyard with their minor wounds, who had fallen.

He remembers Merlin’s hands on him again, stronger than he ought to be, hauling Arthur up with Leon as though between them he weighed nothing. The first in a short line of Knights with wounds requiring more precise or urgent care.

He remembers being laid on a cot, Merlin’s presence like a lightning storm as he’d flitted in and out of Arthur’s awareness, stress bringing with it the scent of burning trees hollowed out by lightning strikes, catching fire, doused by rain.

He remembers magic, the warm and familiar feeling of it spreading throughout his body. Gaius’ voice, sharp and warning; “Merlin.”

Merlin’s reply, raw with desperation; “I can’t let him die. I don’t care what happens. Death can’t have him.”

In Arthur’s fugue state, undoubtedly caused by herbal remedies to keep him away from consciousness while the healers did their work, he sees his mother. Or rather, what Arthur imagines she looked like. His height, a healthy weight; prosperous, happy, blonde and beautiful. She’s holding him and crying without sound. Whenever she speaks, it’s Merlin’s voice he hears. Wherever she touches him, it’s Merlin’s hands; healing, warming, soothing.

Fingers peeling his armor and chainmail and clothing off, shaking hands pressing bandages a little too hard, a warm balm that helped with pain. Magic, he knows, pressing into him so intimately, surrounding each muscle and cradling his heart as though it alone is what kept it beating.

He sleeps for three days, and when he wakes, there is a thick bandage all around his torso, he’s gross with dried sweat and there’s still dirt in his hair, and Merlin is at his side, looking like he hasn’t moved since the moment Arthur arrived.

When Arthur blinks open bleary eyes and meets Merlin’s, they flood with tears immediately and Merlin collapses at his side, pressing a cloth to his forehead and offering him water.

“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” Arthur coughs, his throat dry and unable to take more than a sip at a time. Merlin’s hand holds the cup steady, never wavering, his other hand forgoing the wet cloth and helping Arthur lift his head to drink.

“Don’t talk,” he rasps. He sounds exhausted, but exhilarated. “It’s been three days, you’re healing well, but you haven’t had any medicine in that time. You need to save your strength.”

Panic wants to flood Arthur, to take root at the notion that he’s been without his potions for so long, but Merlin’s magic has made itself firmly at home inside Arthur, and neither fear nor anxiety can grab a foothold for long. He has no doubt that the only reason he’s not in heat right now is because it’s being suppressed by Merlin himself – for his healing, or because he didn’t want Arthur to suffer through that on top of everything else, he can’t say, but it’s just another thing to add to the long list of things to be grateful to Merlin for.

The door opens and Gaius walks in, a wide, relieved smile on his face when he sees Arthur. “Glad to see you awake, Sire,” he says warmly, coming closer. Merlin moves the cup away, but his hand doesn’t release Arthur’s head. His fingers curl at Arthur’s nape, a soothing and steady pressure, and Arthur shivers in a way that has nothing to do with pain. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I fought a griffin and almost lost,” Arthur coughs. He’s tired from trying to sit upright. Merlin lets him lay back as Arthur blinks up at the ceiling, twisting his mouth and swallowing as he tries to get his throat to remember what saliva is. He breathes in, breathes out, pain lancing in four thick lines across his torso that even Merlin’s work cannot dull. “How many casualties?”

“Four dead, Sire. Sir Kay, Sir Ewan, Sir Bedivere and Sir Oldof. We have recovered their bodies and they have been given their rites and burials. Others were wounded, but have been recovering well. You were by far the worst off.”

Arthur closes his eyes again, doing his best to breathe through it. “They were good men,” he says weakly.

“It would have been many more. I believe we have Lancelot to thank that it was not so.”

And Merlin.

“Sir Lancelot,” Arthur says firmly. “When he returns, that is what he will be.”

“As you say, Sire.”

Gaius is quiet for a long while. Arthur can feel the old man’s gaze flying between him and Merlin, who has not moved an inch from kneeling by Arthur’s shoulder, except to gently run his thumb back and forth across Arthur’s hairline at the nape of his neck. Dimly, Arthur is glad that it didn’t take two months for him to feel Merlin’s touch again.

He should shake those thoughts off, but he doesn’t much want to, and is far too tired to argue with himself.

“The King will want to know you’re awake, and a report -.”

“God’s sake, Gaius, can he not have a moment to rest before that?”

Merlin’s voice is sharp as a whip strike and makes Arthur wince internally, though he doesn’t otherwise react, and Gaius’ answer to that is to simply arch a brow the likes of which would have lesser men quaking in their boots. Arthur’s vision is hazy, but he looks at Merlin and finds him glaring at Gaius, the red in his eyes the undeniable proof that he’ll stand his ground on this and won’t let himself be cowed.

Eventually, Gaius relents with the weary sigh of all old men when confronted with the passions of youth. “I suppose… There are many people to see to along the way. And perhaps a good meal is in order. This castle is so large, and my old knees aren’t what they used to be. Who knows when the King may hear that his only son is awake.”

It’s an intentional barb, and finds its mark in Arthur. “It’s alright, Merlin,” he says weakly, struggling to sit again.

Merlin puts a hand on his chest, and it takes nothing at all to force Arthur back down. “No, it’s not. You’re going to listen to me for once and rest.”

“I listen to you all the time,” Arthur complains. “It’s a double-edged sword.”

At that, Merlin smiles, and sniffs, finally wiping at his tear-streaked face and releasing Arthur’s head. He looks awful, truly, does Merlin. Like he hasn’t slept in months and he certainly hasn’t bathed. There’s still flakes of dried blood on his cheek and jaw – Arthur’s blood, most likely.

Red looks quite good on him, despite the source.

“I can promise you an hour of respite, Arthur, no more,” Gaius murmurs, then takes his leave. Merlin doesn’t move for a moment, but then he scrambles to his feet, frantic as Arthur watches him refill water, re-wet a cloth to put on Arthur’s forehead, babble about his bandages and how deep the claw wounds were and promising he’ll make Arthur’s medicine right away and -.

“Merlin.”

Merlin stops in his tracks and whirls to Arthur. There’s so much red in his eyes, it’s damn near dazzling. Arthur reaches out to him and Merlin takes Arthur’s hand in both of his, letting Arthur’s weak tug guide him back to sitting at his side.

He should tell Merlin what he knows now, but Merlin looks so stressed it might actually kill him. So instead, Arthur squeezes his hand and tries to make himself smile in a way that hides the pain he’s in. “The worst of it’s over,” he promises. “I’ll be alright, between you and Gaius. I know I will be.”

Merlin sucks in a slow, shaky breath, and when he lets it back out, it’s lost in a hoarse, rough sob. More tears spring to his eyes, relief breaking through the lightning storm and calming the scent of burning, wet wood, into something more familiar and welcome.

Arthur pulls him in and lets Merlin rest his head on Arthur’s shoulder, as he has wanted to do so many times when tensions are high and he has no other way to reassure. He slides his fingers into Merlin’s thick, greasy hair, and soothes him with soft rumbles until Merlin’s shaking stops.

Merlin might have fallen asleep, at some point, but Arthur hardly notices, as he’s drifting off almost immediately after.

Uther comes, relief shining his eyes and his voice warm with pride as he congratulates Arthur on slaying the beast. Arthur has neither the energy nor the heart to correct him. He ignores the pain in his entire body as Uther pats his cheek and tells him he did well, ignores how Merlin stands in a corner like a wraith and clenches his fist whenever Uther touches Arthur.

It’s funny, in its way, or maybe that’s the painkilling draughts Gaius keeps feeding him like candy. Merlin has always been protective of him, but it’s like this incident was enough for him to stop being at all subtle about it. He refuses to leave Arthur’s bedside until Arthur can at least sit up on his own and manage a few steps without stumbling, and even then he only goes as far as the other side of the room, sleeping on the floor and waking whenever Arthur so much as shifts in his sleep.

Death can’t have him, he’d said. Of course he can’t. Arthur owes Merlin his life, several times over. Death, apparently, has many debts to pay before Merlin will let him go.

Eventually Arthur is well enough to take his medicines again, and while he tries to watch Merlin like a hawk for any signs of magic in the making of his potions, Merlin has either gotten very good at being turned away or doing it while Arthur is distracted, or Merlin does it whenever Arthur is asleep. He feels the radiating balm of Merlin throughout his entire body, but never once catches another flare of gold in his eyes.

He tries to compare the gold he’d seen to Lancelot’s coloring, but it’s like a candle compared to a midday sun. It had taken over Merlin’s entire iris, even more than his red ever has, more than Arthur has seen in anyone. Does magic consume a person that wholly, or would it be the same for all magic users?

With Arthur well enough to move and eat, Merlin has no choice but to be bullied back into his regular chores, though he stays by Arthur’s side as much as he can. Gaius seems to have a vengeance against it, probably some old Alpha dominance battle Arthur has never been privy to because he’s not an Alpha and even then, most Alphas don’t tend to challenge him, as the Prince.

Either way, Merlin isn’t around as much, and Arthur has to suffer the unfortunate side effect of bedrest: boredom, and lots of time for self-reflection.

Gaius knows about Merlin’s magic, that much is obvious. Has he been teaching him magic while Merlin has been here? Arthur witnessed it before Merlin even reached Gaius, Arthur remembers mistaking the gold in his eyes and understands the truth of what he saw, now. Merlin has had magic before he came to Camelot, from wherever Ealdor is. Some tiny village across the border, where Camelot’s magic ban is well-known but cannot be strictly enforced. Maybe Gaius is helping Merlin learn how to control it, or strengthen it.

Magic corrupts, that’s what the King always says, and now that Arthur knows about Merlin’s, he cannot allow himself to be clouded by emotions or unfair in his judgements. His training as a warrior and years of watching his father have taught him not to be swayed by his feelings, though every instinct in him screams to ignore it, to trust Merlin as he always has. He owes it to himself and to Camelot to see this from as many sides as he is able before he decides on a course of action.

He has certainly seen enough examples of magic being used for evil. It hurts to think of Merlin as the enemy, but Arthur must push through it, if only to be sure of himself that he was thorough in his assessment.

He wonders where the gain is, what the goal is. Warning him against Valiant, Merlin had tried that. Arthur remembers Merlin’s eyes shining gold that day. Had he conjured the snakes so Arthur could be struck down? That doesn’t make sense – if Merlin did it, and Arthur died, no one would know he was right about the shield. Valiant hadn’t seemed surprised they were there; the enchantment was something he knew, something he used before. Merlin didn’t summon the snakes to attack Arthur, merely forced them to show themselves.

What to gain? Arthur’s trust in his authority, his gratitude for saving his life? Arthur could have gotten away, fled the ring, but Merlin shouted for him and let him see Morgana tossing him a sword. He was able to put an end to it.

A thought strikes him, then: the way Merlin and Morgana had looked at each other after that fight. Does she know Merlin’s secret, too? Is that why she took so quickly to him, and convinced Arthur to disobey the King to save Merlin’s life?

What to gain?

When they’d first met, Arthur remembers seeing gold in his eyes. A falling net there, a displaced mop here. Simple things to help himself get away. He hadn’t wanted to be apprehended by Arthur, or goaded into a squabble, and certainly didn’t mean to raise a weapon to Arthur and land himself in the stocks.

And then the whole stint that made Merlin his manservant. Of course, Arthur thinks to himself, and could smack his forehead for missing it. Merlin was the only one awake because the spell didn’t affect him. Could he have stood by and let a sorceress fling a knife at Arthur?

What to gain, if he hadn’t stopped the knife? Nothing.

What to gain, if he’d simply deflected it, and it had been dismissed as a bad throw? Nothing.

But could he have predicted being given the manservant position? It’s a cold thought that slithers down Arthur’s spine. Could he have somehow planted the idea in Uther’s head, a tiny whisper while in enchanted sleep, to convince him to let Merlin get close to Arthur?

Could the whole thing have been some ploy, an alliance between two sorcerers, to win Merlin the Court’s confidence and Arthur’s gratitude?

…No. Merlin hadn’t seemed happy about the position change either. Arthur works him hard enough for four men and that’s not even factoring in Gaius’ chores, which Arthur has noted firsthand with no small amount of guilt are many and usually quite unpleasant. If Merlin had wanted his or the King’s ear, he would have been far better off gaining favor as Gaius’ apprentice, he seems patient enough for such a task and actually seems to like helping people, brewing potions, curing ails.

What to gain, then, by saving Arthur’s life, simply because he was there to do so? The answer is obvious to Arthur, but he forces himself to give it the close inspection it deserves. He picks it up like a trinket, examining it from all angles, but no matter which way it turns and how close he peers, the answer remains the same:

Merlin is a good person. He does the right thing even when no one is looking. He could have left Lancelot to die as a griffin’s meal. He could have let Gaius keep giving Arthur mind-numbing and nausea-inducing potions. A weak and sick Prince is easier to manipulate. He could have let Arthur bleed out. Even under the influence of the Mortaeus flower, he could have left Arthur to die in that spider-infested cave, or let Arthur drink from the poisoned chalice in the first place and start a war.

What to gain, then? Arthur’s trust? His friendship? His respect and regard?

Merlin didn’t need to use magic to do any of that.

And the ultimate goal? Merlin had more than enough chances to assassinate anyone in the castle he wanted. He certainly didn’t need to save Arthur’s life so many times, or diligently perform his duties – even the ones he barely does correctly – and become so invested in Arthur’s wellbeing that he wept at Arthur’s bedside when he finally woke up.

He just…can’t reconcile it. It’s not like he can talk to anyone about this – magic is still very much outlawed in Camelot and if the wrong ear heard him, Merlin would be sent to the pyre.

Against his will, his mind conjures that vision, and the idea of watching Merlin burn makes him so suddenly, viscerally nauseous he almost passes out from it. He groans and tries to hold his stomach, only to be reminded that he took a griffin talon to it not nearly long enough ago, and then it’s just painful and makes him so dizzy, he has to lie back and stare at the ceiling until it stops spinning.

He’ll be out of here soon. Uther had wanted him moved back to his chambers immediately, and Arthur thought Merlin might actually attack the King if he’d insisted. Thankfully, Gaius had saved the day and Arthur has been here, but it won’t last forever. As soon as he can walk across a room without stumbling, Uther will expect him to at least return to the nonphysical duties he’s neglected during his recovery.

Merlin will likely have some choice words for that. The kinds he says with his face because to speak them out loud would probably be treason.

Arthur smiles weakly to himself, the nausea finally settling, leaving him weak and shivery but no longer at risk of losing his lunch.  

“Having pleasant dreams, Sire?”

Arthur opens his eyes as Gaius’ face swims into focus, Merlin after him but invisible behind a mound of fresh bandages, cloaks and blankets, and a rather backbreakingly large book, and that’s nothing to say of the basket of clinking potions dangling from his arm and swinging wildly against his knees.

Strong, Arthur registers absently, but he knew Merlin was strong, that’s not new information.

“Dreaming about the day you let me out of this room so I can get back to work,” Arthur teases.

“Well, let me change your bandages and check your progress.”

Arthur has lost the privilege of being embarrassed or nervous about being shirtless around Merlin, though he long ago stopped needing to worry about his patches being seen. Even if he never allowed Merlin to help him dress, by this point he’s been basically naked from the waist up aside from his bandages, and unconscious for long enough that Merlin could have looked whatever fill he wanted in between making sure Arthur didn’t die.

He’s strong enough to push himself upright and swing his legs over so his feet are on the floor and Gaius can have unrestricted access to the wrapping around his torso. The claws had left more of a swipe than a gouge, thankfully nothing deep enough for him to lose an organ or a chunk of himself, but it was a lot of blood lost fast, and strings of tight skin that were constantly under threat of splitting apart all over again.

Arthur looks at Merlin’s shoes instead of Merlin’s face as Gaius starts unwrapping the bandages. At first Merlin is simply putting things away and placing the bottles in his basket back in their proper places, but then Merlin stations himself by the door with a good line of sight to Arthur’s flank and Arthur’s fingers curl around the side of the cot – not out of pain, but out of a sudden fear that if he meets Merlin’s eyes, Merlin will know Arthur knows. And he’ll panic, and he’ll run away or lash out, and Arthur will never see him again.

So he stares at Merlin’s boots. They’re scuffed and dirty, worn to almost nothing at the toe and stained at least three different colors in various drips and splatters. A terrible state. Arthur should get him some new boots; those are hardly comfortable, and can’t do much to keep Merlin’s feet warm.

His trousers and tunic don’t look in great shape either; they’re worn and thin and can’t be comfortable. Arthur dares not let his gaze travel any higher.

Gaius prods him in the side, yanking Arthur’s attention away from Merlin’s clothes and what may or may not look better for him to wear. He hisses and shows his teeth out of reflex, wincing as he shies away. “Oh, hush,” Gaius says with all the seasoned impatience of a man who spends most of his life helping big brutes with swords who whack each other around far too much for their health. “…My, my.”

Arthur looks down at himself. It took Lancelot two months before he was in fighting shape again, and his wounds had been serious, but fewer. It has not been two months since Arthur was wounded, and there is no way the wounds should look as good as they do. The stitches are ready to be taken out, and while everywhere from Arthur’s collarbone to his hip is a mottled mess of dark blue and black, and his muscles are tender enough that pressure is uncomfortable, there are no scabs. No pieces of skin barely held together with twine, just ready to be ripped apart.

“These have healed very fast,” Gaius notes, “and well.”

He doesn’t look at Merlin. Arthur also doesn’t look at Merlin. But it feels like everyone is looking at Merlin.

“Maybe killing the beast had something to do with it. Mixing blood,” Merlin says brightly.

Gaius’ lips purse.

Arthur damn near bursts into laughter.

“I’ve always healed fast,” he soothes, no trace of suspicion in his voice. At this moment, he is more than happy to play the fool. He plasters on bravado and grins widely when Gaius merely ‘hmm’s and gestures for Merlin to grab scissors, tweezers, and a bowl for the stitches. “I’ll be back on the training field in no time.”

“Absolutely not,” Merlin snaps with a little too much sharpness. He sets the implements down and folds his arms across his chest. “You’re going to take it easy until Gaius clears you, if I have to lock you in your chambers myself.”

Arthur can’t help himself; he’s giddy. This whole situation is so, so ridiculous. Three men and a dragon in the room that they all know about but no one will dare mention. “You can’t speak to me that way,” he can’t resist saying.

Merlin arches a brow. “You are on bedrest, Sire, and will remain so until Gaius says otherwise.”

Arthur holds a hand up in surrender, but it does little to ease the tension in Merlin’s shoulders. The red in his eyes hasn’t gone away – since the fight with the griffin, it’s been there. Arthur had always thought permanent red would look odd in Merlin’s eyes, deep and blue as they are, but it gives the effect of blood in the water; something predatory and self-assured, something that makes the beast in Arthur’s chest want to swim closer, to see if there’s anything worth hunting. If there is another creature of its ilk, that it could hunt with.

He shivers, looking down again, and blames his silence and stillness on the fact that Gaius is removing his stitches, and it would do no good to tear himself apart now.

His chambers are far too clean and orderly and Arthur immediately hates it. His nose wrinkles at the fresh scent of soap, the bedcovers and pillows flattened and fluffed to perfection, the lack of dust motes in the air, the pristine stone around the hearth.

Merlin, behind him, huffs in apparent agreement. “Don’t sack me now that you’ve got a taste of the good stuff,” he mutters, but when Arthur looks at him, he sees Merlin’s eyes narrowed in derision, nose slightly scrunched, as though this absolutely immaculate room were the worst hovel he’d ever stepped in.

Arthur can’t help but agree. It doesn’t smell like him in here anymore, and worse, it doesn’t smell like Merlin.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says a little too honestly, walking slowly to his desk. He feels relatively stable, but the walk from Gaius’ rooms to his own was long, and had far too many stairs, and he’s not exactly in fighting form yet. Another pang of guilt nestles in his skull, thinking of how many of these trips Merlin has had to make.

He should offer Merlin the attendant rooms, next to Arthur’s. He could even bring whatever he needed to make Arthur’s medicine there, and have a proper closet with decent clothes, and -.

“I’ll fetch you something to eat, and a bath,” Merlin says from somewhere behind him. When Arthur turns, Merlin is kneeling by the fire, lighting it far too easily once again. He smiles to himself, shaking his head, and turns away so that Merlin doesn’t see him watching.

“I’m not supposed to get the bandages wet,” Arthur replies, gesturing to himself, where beneath his tunic are a fresh set, wrapped firm over a slathering of healing salve and numbing herbs to help with the dull ache of movement.

Merlin frowns to himself and bites down on his cheek hard enough Arthur wouldn’t be surprised if he draws blood. His fingers curl at his sides, fidgeting and restless.

He needs to do something. Arthur sees it plain as day. He knows the feeling – when a sudden ambush or battle takes him by surprise, and for a while all there is is instinct and training and the desperate desire to survive, and how even after everything is done and everyone is safe, he cannot feel calm.

“I’ll take some food, though,” Arthur offers, pleased for guessing right when Merlin’s shoulders lower and he nods to himself, determined. He all but runs to the door in his haste to be useful. “And, Merlin…?”

Merlin pauses, and turns to look. The red, God, that red… It’s a visceral thing, effective in a way Arthur can’t describe. He’s not afraid of it, he’s enthralled. He wonders if Merlin even notices it’s there, or if he’s too exhausted, too tightly strung, to worry about suppressing it as he normally does.

Arthur should tell him he knows, but once again, it doesn’t feel like the right time. Merlin is too…everything. The scent of lightning and fire is still too thick on his skin.

So Arthur shakes off the feeling, the confession on the tip of his tongue, and instead says; “You have been irreplaceable for the last few weeks. To Gaius, and to me. The amount of loyalty and care you have shown me is…singular.” He pauses, draws in another breath. “If there is ever something you need from me, name it. If it’s in my power to give, it’s yours.”

For a moment, it looks like Merlin might cry again. He clears his throat and his knuckles are white on the door handle. He looks down, chews on his lip, swallows, tries to speak. Swallows, tries again. No tears fall, but Arthur senses that’s more because he simply doesn’t have the energy to let them out, not for any lack of feeling.

“Just…don’t ruin all my hard work, okay?” Merlin manages to say, finally. His smile is weak, though genuine. “Not right away at least.”

Even now, he asks for nothing. Now would be the perfect time, Arthur thinks. To beg for his ear on matters of trade or personal gain, to probe for Arthur’s opinion on magic – or to simply force Arthur to listen. Arthur is weak, right now, and in no position to fight. He is indebted to Merlin in a stark and obvious way, and couldn’t possibly refuse an honest request.

And still, all he asks is that Arthur gets better. That Arthur lives.

“Please,” Merlin adds roughly, when Arthur is silent a moment too long.

“I can do that,” Arthur promises. Merlin nods, smiles again, and takes his leave.

This time, the warmth of the fire remains behind, and the air smells more like thunderstorms again, and the little knot of tension at the base of Arthur’s spine slowly unwinds, like a beast stretching out in a shaft of sunlight, full and contented and ready to rest.

Chapter Text

Merlin Interlude

“Come on, come on…” His fingers curl up into a tight fist, jaw clenching as he pulls against his magic with all his might, trying to gather it back inside himself and lay down the blanket of suppression he’s cloaked himself with for as long as he can remember. Since before his first rut, but with much more focus after, since he began to understand that to some people, Alpha is synonymous with threat.

His magic writhes around his wrists, a petulant child trying to break free. Try as he might, he cannot force it to lie still or settle. When he looks into the small mirror Gaius has on his worktable, he still has a potent, thick ring of red around his pupils.

Merlin shoves himself to his feet with a curse, wincing when the bottles and equipment rattles alarmingly from the force. The door opens and Gaius walks in, closing the door with a quiet thud that feels more like the clang and lock of a cell door.

“We have a problem,” Merlin says, hushed and frantic.

“Is this problem in any way related to the fact that you have been dosing the Prince with magical potions for months? Or perhaps the fact that you openly blessed a weapon in front of him, or poured so much healing magic into him that he now has barely any scars from an attack that ought to have ended his life, which is not in the least bit suspicious?”

Merlin flinches from his uncle’s sharp tone, his magic rearing up like an angry warhorse, ready to charge. He has always thought of his magic as something innate in him, like an additional limb that can react to his will and be used as he desires, but recently it’s been turning into something…other. Something conscious and sentient, that prickles along the back of his neck as though it can feel something he can’t.

“I’m not going to apologize,” Merlin says quietly, unable to meet Gaius’ eyes. “For any of it. I’d do it all over again, even if it sends me to the pyre.”

Gaius was holding a book, which he slams down with too much force at Merlin’s declaration, making him jump. “This is not a game, Merlin,” he snaps.

Merlin’s shoulders curl in, even his magic going subdued under the force of Gaius’ anger. “I know,” he says. “I know. I just…”

His fingers flex, magic settling but no closer to hiding the red in his eyes, and snarling at him when he tries.

“I can’t stop myself,” he admits. He couldn’t stop himself before, either – his magic had raced out of him, into the elixir he first made for Arthur, into the scent deadener he could smear on his neck and arms instead of using his patches. It had slithered out of him like an oil-covered snake, unable to be held, and nestled itself into Arthur’s medicines, and snapped at him when he tried to pull it back. He wouldn’t have fought it to save Arthur’s life from the griffin, either, but even if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to. It had lunged itself out of him like vomiting up poison, sinking into Arthur and curling around him like living water, a relentless break in a crumbling dam that flooded Arthur with healing and comfort completely out of Merlin’s control.

Gaius’ eyes narrow, assessing and shrewd. “What do you mean, you can’t stop yourself?”

“I mean, my magic…” He gestures to his eyes, then tries to flex his hand and exert his will again. And again, the magic recoils, gold shining in his veins as it fights against his hold. A spark escapes his fingertips, zipping along the workbench and coming to a halt a short distance away, leaving a line of seared blackness down the weathered wood. “I can’t hide my red anymore. And when Arthur was…”

He swallows hard, his throat clicking.

“I couldn’t have stopped myself even if I wanted to. I didn’t have a choice.”

Gaius is silent for a long while. Then; “I wasn’t under the impression that your magic could…fight you. There have been times where you struggled to call upon it.”

“In practice,” Merlin agrees, remembering the long nights of desperately trying to animate a statue, for use against Valiant’s snakes. Or with the griffin, to enchant a sword. “But then, when the time comes, when it’s Arthur I’m fighting for, it’s easy. It’s unstoppable.”

He sucks in a shaky breath.

“I’m terrified, Gaius. Who knows how long I’ll be able to hold onto it if it keeps acting out like this? Even hiding my red – I’ve done it for years. It’s easy. It should be easy.”

Frustrated tears spring to his eyes, his jaw clenching hard enough to bloom a painful headache between his temples. He runs a hand across his forehead, smearing gods know what, and lets out a rough, angry noise.

Gaius approaches him, then, and wraps an arm around Merlin’s shoulders as he guides Merlin to their dining table. There’s still some leftover stew and without thinking, Merlin waves a hand and two bowls fill themselves with it from the ladle that moves by itself, the stew heats with no fire, and the two bowls and spoons place themselves in front of him and Gaius without protest.

Yeah, that you’re willing to do, he thinks at his magic sullenly. In his mind, it flicks its tail at him, as dismissive as a housecat.

Gaius doesn’t comment on the flagrant use of magic, except to give Merlin the now-familiar arched brow, which is usually conjured by Merlin behaving recklessly or using his magic for ‘trivial’ matters. If Gaius knew the true extent that Merlin uses his magic, he’d have a conniption. Even though Arthur is not in a position to train or go on dangerous expeditions again, Merlin has been laying enchantments and runes of protection into the plates and chain mail whenever he has a moment. He’ll be damned if Arthur is so grievously wounded a second time.

“When you wrote to me,” Gaius begins after a few silent moments of eating stew and Merlin not meeting his eyes, “you said that your destiny was in Camelot. I believe that to be true, despite the present laws and circumstances.” He pauses. “I don’t believe I’m out of line by saying your destiny and Arthur’s are very much intertwined. He is, after all, the future of Camelot.”

Beneath his skin, Merlin’s magic swirls happily, chipper at the idea. Merlin swallows his mouthful and nods.

“Destiny is a funny thing,” Gaius continues. “Short-sighted men may say it’s flighty, and the ideas of preordained events, prophecy, the like, are folly. That those who claim to have visions of the future and seek the advice of soothsayers, those who can read tea leaves and bones, are heretics and liars looking to trick people into believing whatever they choose.

What some might not understand is that destiny is magic. The choices of the individual play a part in the greater cycle of life and death and everything in between.” Gaius pauses again, and sighs when Merlin still won’t look at him, staring resolutely down at his bowl. “It’s not impossible that you are unable to make your magic listen to you on certain subjects because it is in league with destiny, and it goes against destiny to hide yourself that way.”

Merlin grimaces. “So you think going around flaunting my Alpha-ness around the Omega Prince and having my magic act like a damn fool around him is what’s supposed to happen?”

Gaius sighs. “When Uther outlawed magic, your father left Camelot, along with many magic users who fled for their lives,” he says. “He went to Ealdor, and met your mother. Through them, you were born – magic incarnate. Through magic, Arthur was brought to term, albeit with a tragic exchange.” Merlin does lift his eyes, then, unable to believe what he’s hearing.

“How do you know so much about my father?”

Gaius smiles wryly. “Your mother is very dear to me, my boy, as are you. We kept in touch. I know a lot more than I let on – a trick you’re learning, albeit very slowly with all that stuffing between your ears.”

Merlin narrows his eyes, but he can’t help but smile at Gaius’ good-natured teasing.

Then he sobers. “I know how it sounds. An Omega Prince, an Alpha manservant. Even though almost no one knows about Arthur, the rumor mill works overtime.” His cheeks heat, and he can feel the tips of his ears turn red. “Uther would have my head if he ever heard about it.”

Gaius arches a brow. “Is there anything for him to hear about?”

“I already told you – I can’t control my magic around him, Gaius!” Merlin cries, pushing his bowl away and putting his head in his hands. “It’s like whenever I’m around him, it’s all I can do not to reach out. It doesn’t matter if he has a headache, if he’s being an ass – which still happens quite often, let me assure you – if he’s hungry or if his room smells wrong, I just want to…” He sighs, defeated.

Gaius reaches across the table and takes one of Merlin’s hands, patting it reassuringly. “Merlin,” he says, his tone of voice suddenly so serious that Merlin looks up again. “I’d like you to answer me honestly, although I understand it may be difficult to do so.” Merlin swallows, dread like a knot in his throat. He resists the urge to loosen the kerchief around his neck. “Is it at all possible that your regard for the Prince is simply because he is an Omega, and your magic is reacting to it because you’re an Alpha?”

Merlin shakes his head, though the denial on the tip of his tongue, like his magic, refuses to come out. It wouldn’t matter, he wants to say, even if it were true. Arthur is the Prince, his destiny is far greater than anything Merlin could accomplish. Yes, he’s beautiful, and brave, and Merlin has never felt happiness like he feels when Arthur is pleased with him, and being in Arthur’s confidence settles some nervous, restless thing that has lived in his chest since the day he had his vision at sixteen, but it doesn’t matter. He refuses to think of Arthur that way, refuses to reduce him to just Omega. He isn’t just anything. He’s everything.

The denial withers and dies on his tongue, and Gaius gives him a small, knowing smile, lips pressed thin as he pats Merlin’s hand again. “I wouldn’t wish anyone in your position, dear boy,” he says gently, “but you know what I would advise.”

“I do,” Merlin rasps, miserable to the bone. He curls in on himself, then nearly jumps out of his skin when the door slams open, and Arthur strides in.

He’s recovered well, back to near perfect form. Well enough to be a Royal pain in Merlin’s backside, though Merlin wouldn’t want him any other way. “Good afternoon, Sire,” Gaius says, surprised, as he stands and gives Arthur a polite bow.

Arthur nods back, and fixes Merlin with a look so focused and intense that, for a moment, Merlin is terrified that Arthur overheard all that. Oh gods, let it not be so.

Arthur clears his throat and folds his arms over his chest. “The medicine you make me, how long does it keep for?”

Merlin frowns at him. Of all the things he expected Arthur to say, it wasn’t that. “Um,” he says, rather eloquently.

Arthur rolls his eyes and taps his foot. “Well, Merlin?”

As it always has, whenever Arthur says his name, magic throbs somewhere just below his heart, an attentive dog ready to leap at its master’s command. “It could…potentially last forever, Sire,” he says slowly. “There’s nothing in it that is sensitive to time, or heat, or -.”

“Excellent,” Arthur says with a satisfied nod. “I’ll need two weeks’ worth. And pack your things.”

Merlin’s eyes widen. “What? Why?”

“That griffin didn’t just appear out of thin air. Someone is making magical attacks on Camelot. This isn’t the first time – it might have been the same person who tried to throw a knife at me, or the woman who used the poisoned flower, or whoever taught Valiant that trick with the shield. Either way, a griffin is easier to track, and we’re going to go North and see if we can find this sorcerer and bring them to justice.”

That woman. Merlin will never forget her face; the servant who warned Merlin about the poison and tried to start a war. Merlin doesn’t remember much about his torture under the Mortaeus flower, caught only glimpses when he sensed that Arthur was in danger, but if Arthur met her as well…

If he ever sees her again, he’ll kill her, with his bare hands if he has to. His magic snarls inside his skull in agreement.

As he’s thinking, the rest of what Arthur has said catches up with him; “Arthur, you’re in no condition to go on a two-week expedition tracking down a sorcerer!” he says, getting to his feet as well. “You’ve barely healed, and I can’t -. Who else is coming with you?”

Arthur’s eyes gleam in the low light, a little bit mischievous. “No one. It’ll be just the two of us. We won’t draw any attention to ourselves with a big company. We won’t invite any fights, Merlin, don’t worry – and if we do, I’m sure I can keep your clumsy fool self in one piece.”

This is a bad idea, Merlin thinks to himself, at the same time his magic leaps forward in readiness, and makes him say, “Alright.”

“Good. Pack what you need and make as much of my medicine as you can. And I’ll send someone up with some new boots and warmer clothes for you.” His nose wrinkles slightly. “You’ll be shivering like a newborn fawn in that cold with what you have now.”

“I did spend most of my life in the cold,” Merlin argues. “I’m used to it.”

“Well, I find shivering irritating, so I’ll hear no more on the matter.” Arthur’s gaze moves away and Merlin has a sudden sympathy with unstringed marionettes. He couldn’t move if he tried. “I’m sorry for taking him away from you for so long, Gaius, but perhaps you’ll have a chance to get this place in proper order. I shudder to think of the spills he’s caused.”

Gaius chuckles. “Quite right, Sire.”

“Good. We leave in the morning. I’ll see you for my supper, Merlin.”

And with that, he leaves, taking all the air in the room with him.

Merlin sinks back down on the bench, his heart hammering and his hands shaking. More nervous sparks of magic jitter along his fingers, ruthlessly held back as it was from reaching for Arthur while he was here.

“Well,” Gaius says mildly. “That was certainly something.”

“I can’t go,” Merlin whispers, throat hoarse. “There’s no way. Gaius, there’s no way.”

“Merlin.” Gaius comes around the table and places his hands on Merlin’s shoulders, shaking him out of his spiral until Merlin meets his eyes. “You are stronger than you give yourself credit for. You want to protect Arthur?” Merlin nods. “Then you will. I believe that. And I believe that, at the end of the day, Arthur trusts you.”

“This isn’t just bringing him food and throwing him a magic sword when he’s not looking, Gaius,” Merlin hisses. “I can’t even hide my red around him, how am I supposed to hide everything else? It’s just the two of us, I can’t keep blaming things on random chance.”

Gaius sighs, expression grim. “I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice.”

He moves away, tinkering with nothing at all and leaving Merlin to stew in silence. He’ll have to move soon, he needs to make Arthur’s medicines, he needs to pack. He can’t run away from this, and if he begs Arthur not to take Merlin with him, he’ll want to know why. Even if Merlin succeeds, it’ll be two weeks without making sure Arthur is alive, without ensuring his safety.

No. Merlin would go mad. He couldn’t possibly let Arthur out of his sight for that long. Half a day is too long already.

His fingers curl and he looks down at his palms, willing himself to suddenly be skilled at reading them, to discern his own destiny from the lines and creases and calluses.

“…What if I hurt him?” Merlin whispers. His magic recoils at the idea, snarling inside his skull and rattling his ribcage. “What if there’s an accident, I can’t control it, and something happens to him?”

Gaius pauses, and then sighs deeply. He moves across the workshop to a tiny, unobtrusive chest in the corner. The lock is bound by magic, and there is no physical key. With a whispered word and a single touch, it opens, revealing the books and various trinkets he has given Merlin over the months, to help him train and hone his gift into something useful, something he can control.

He takes out a small bag, lined with rabbit fur, and hands it to Merlin. Merlin takes it, grimacing as soon as he touches the bag. He opens it and pulls out an amulet on a thin leather cord. It’s a small silver pendant in the shape of a circle with a line through it, etched with tiny sigils on all sides. He doesn’t want to touch it.

In his palm, the silver is incredibly cold and his magic recoils again, fleeing like a rabbit from a hound. He shudders as he holds it, and wants to throw it away immediately, but forces himself not to.

“What is this?” he asks, unable to keep the disgust from his voice.

“It was taken from a magic user years ago, back when they used to hide in plain sight,” Gaius tells him. His voice and demeanor have grown heavy, as though the story pains him to tell, weighed down with all the souls lost to Uther’s crusade and all the guilt that comes with it. “It was used to suppress their magic, for all the good it did.”

That’s what Merlin is holding, he realizes. Guilt. Suppression. The staunch muzzling and binding of something that was born to run free. Cautiously, Merlin lets his hand go through the leather loop, and his arm turns dead. If he wears this, it’ll be like he removed himself from his entire body, leaving him nothing more than a walking husk.

But it will keep Arthur safe. Better to be dead than dangerous.

Merlin puts the talisman back in the bag and ties the loop around his belt, ignoring Gaius’ heavy gaze as he moves to the workstation he used to make Arthur’s medicine. He doesn’t thank Gaius, because it feels wrong to thank someone for their own instrument of suppression. After a while, Gaius sighs to himself, and focuses on his own work. They don’t speak again until it’s time to wish each other good night, and Merlin retires to his room to pack for the coming journey.

Arthur

He’s made it a habit before going off on long expeditions to go see Morgana the night before he leaves, out of the way of his father’s overbearing presence, where they can speak more freely. He knocks on her chamber door and enters when she grants permission, noting that she already has her sleeping draught by her bedside and is dressed for bed. Gwen is long gone, but Arthur expected that.

Morgana looks a little better rested than she has recently. She smiles when she sees Arthur enter, offering him a cup of wine, which he takes. “How are you?” he asks, because he genuinely cares.

“Much better,” Morgana says. “Gaius has changed something about my medicine, I think. I’m sleeping better than ever.”

“It was probably Merlin’s doing,” Arthur jokes. He watches her as she takes a drink. “He has a knack for it.”

Morgana, to her credit, doesn’t give anything away on her face, but she answers a mite too slow; “I haven’t inquired. When something works, it’s best not to question it, especially when it comes to healing.”

So she does know. Of course she knows; she always knows everything.

“As long as it works,” he agrees with a smile, content to play the fool a little longer. He wonders what is in the potion, though he does his best not to stare at it. Gaius had been making sleeping potions for her, to help her with her nightmares, but they hadn’t done much except perhaps to make her even more tired throughout the day.

“Merlin and I will be gone for the next two weeks. He’s probably already thought about it, but you might want to ask him to make a supply for you as well, while he’s gone.”

Her eyes flash, tendons in her neck drawing tight as she smiles. “Thank you for the warning.”

“Nightmares are a nasty business; I wouldn’t wish them on anyone.”

She tilts her head, but doesn’t press. She takes a drink of her wine. Arthur does too.

“He’s one of the good ones, Arthur,” she finally says slowly. Her eyes meet his. “I’m rather fond of him. Do your best to treat him well.”

There was a time, not even a year ago, where Arthur would have scoffed at the idea of mistreating a servant. They were paid to do their job and should be reprimanded or punished for not doing it right, and they should know their place, and show him due respect and deference.

But that mindset belongs to another man entirely – one who was too dulled and slow and angry to think of anything clearly enough for basic empathy. He doesn’t like that mindset, that man, and hopes that he’s been buried forever, never to return.

He nods at her, and wants her to know he’s serious. “He deserves everything I can give him,” he says softly. “And more than I can give him. But what I have the power to do, I will.”

Something shifts on her face, there and gone again, faster than a blink. Her eyes shine with something dangerously close to tears, and Arthur has never seen Morgana cry a day in his life, and sincerely hopes she doesn’t start now.

“One day,” she says carefully, “you will have the power to grant him anything.”

Arthur smiles to himself. He doesn’t particularly relish the thought of his father dying, or the eventual exchange of power that will grant him a crown on his head and a Kingdom to rule as he pleases, but there is that silver lining: that he will be able to reward the deserving, and protect the good. People like Morgana, and Lancelot, and Gwen. People like Merlin.

He nods again, finishes his drink, sets the cup down, and pulls her into a warm embrace. “I will,” he promises, whispering the words into her hair. “Him, and the people like him. I will.”

It’s all he can get away with without confessing to her, in that moment, but when he withdraws and bids her a good night, he sees hope shining, powerful and bright in her eyes, and knows it was the right thing to do.

When he gets back to his chambers, it smells like Merlin, and there’s a bath still the perfect temperature, and a fire crackling happily in the hearth. He falls asleep thinking of the flames reflected in Merlin’s eyes, and how at some point in the next two weeks, there will be a time where he can tell Merlin what he knows, and promise him that there is nothing to fear from him. Everything will be out in the open, and they can move forward together.

He can only hope that, once Merlin learns the truth, he will decide to stay. It’s a terrible thing to ask a man to live in shackles, to hold out the hope that Arthur will stay true to his word and keep him safe, but Arthur must hope. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if Merlin decided to leave, if he never saw him again. Even if he chooses the same path as Lancelot, and keeps his distance until Arthur is King, a piece of Arthur will go with him, and he will never feel the same.

But Merlin is good, and Arthur trusts him. He only hopes that Merlin trusts Arthur just as much, and will remain by his side.

Merlin

He’s dead. He’s dead and he’s dying, the amulet around his neck drawing him down to the ground like a corpse ready to be consumed by the Earth. He rides out with Arthur with the same heavy heart as he might approach a pyre built just for him.

Storm clouds have gathered, promising heavy rain. There is no wind; the storm will be brutal and linger for a long time. The farmers need the rain, but it will be a miserable trek throughout all the villages and towns over the next weeks, tracking down a sorcerer that may not even still be in Camelot – or worse, that is waiting for them, and will strike Arthur down when he’s weak and unprotected.

Morgana and Uther see them off, waving to Arthur as they leave. If Uther has any opinions about Arthur going off with only his Alpha manservant around, he keeps them to himself. He would, of course, never think his son would lower himself to tolerating affections from a servant, even if Merlin knew Arthur’s true nature.

Still, it’s a welcome thought, to know he won’t be around the King for a while. Whenever he’s in the same room, Merlin’s magic turns into a feral, angry thing, gnashing its teeth and wanting to lunge. It sees Uther as a threat, not to himself – that is forgivable – but to Arthur and his happiness. If Uther had his way, Arthur would still be suffering and weak, nauseous, sick.

No, better to keep as much distance between them as he can.

Arthur notices his mood, trotting his horse over to nudge his toe into Merlin’s calf. “Cheer up, Merlin, it’s just a little rain!” he says, too loud. Merlin winces, fidgeting with the reins that are basically hanging loose, his horse more than content to simply follow along behind Arthur’s.

“Quite right, Sire,” he mutters.

Arthur smiles at him. “I was thinking -.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Very funny. But I was thinking, since we’re going North anyway, that we might pay a visit to your mother if we make it up far enough.”

Merlin straightens despite himself, blinking in confusion, a tentative smile on his face. “Really?”

“It’s just past the border, isn’t it? Ealdor?”

“…Yes,” Merlin says, surprised Arthur would have even bothered to learn where it is.

“We might as well, then. I’m sure you miss her. And I must see the barn you were raised in to give you such terrible table manners.”

Beneath Arthur’s jabs, Merlin senses nervousness. Arthur is nervous about suggesting this idea, like it’s some secret he’s not sure Merlin is willing to share. Warmth blossoms in his chest despite the talisman’s awful cold, and for the first time today, his smile is genuine.

“I’d like that, Arthur, thank you.”

Arthur grins, then squints up at the sky. “We ought to hurry if we’re to make good time before this rain breaks. Come along, try not to bounce out of your seat.” Merlin rolls his eyes, which seems to do well for Arthur’s mood, relieving some of the tension in his shoulders.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Merlin orders. “I won’t have you falling off and braining yourself on a rock. Though it would probably only be an improvement on whatever’s there.”

“Speaking that way about your Prince is treason, Merlin,” Arthur calls lightly over his shoulder.

Merlin grins to himself and shakes his head, urging his horse into a swift canter behind Arthur’s, as above them, the sky rumbles with promising thunder, and a little way off, the curtain of oncoming rain is already visible, approaching fast.

Chapter Text

Something is wrong with Merlin.

His dour mood has nothing to do with the rain; on past day trips and hunts, Merlin has always been annoyingly optimistic, energetic to an insulting degree, and pleased when it storms because it means everything is hunkered down or hiding, so Arthur can’t get his sword or crossbow through any poor, adorable creature Merlin would rather he not slaughter.

Now, though, he’s pale and sagging, like everything takes just a little more effort than usual – draining him of energy he doesn’t have. He’s dead on his feet, like a soldier that’s just finished a fortnight of forced march without rest. He can’t light the fire even though he’s never had trouble doing so on wet wood, and eventually Arthur has mercy on him and tells him not to bother with it. They set up their meagre cover and huddle together beneath a slanted cloth tarp, shivering in the cold – though, Arthur is pleased to notice, Merlin seems much less affected than he otherwise would be, wearing the warmer clothes and boots Arthur ordered to be packed onto his horse.

Arthur isn’t used to Merlin like this. He’s usually a fount of endless energy, chipper for Arthur even when he’s sad or stressed. Now, there is no backtalk, no quips, no rolling his eyes whenever Arthur demands he do this or that.

Arthur doesn’t care for it much at all.

He wants to ask, of course he does. He can’t stand it when Merlin is in a bad mood, especially when he might be the cause. Right now, he’s the only potential cure – if Merlin is miserable because of this admittedly atrocious weather, then Arthur wants to cheer him up.

“What is your mother like?” he asks, once their meal of dry, salted pork is done and there is only the relentless rain to serve as a backdrop to their conversation.

Merlin’s lips twitch in a thin smile, his gaze focused somewhere on the middle distance. “She’s the best,” he says warmly. “She was always there for me, even when I was acting a right idiot.”

“You still act an idiot,” Arthur says, nudging his shoulder to Merlin. To his surprise, Merlin flinches from him, and Arthur frowns to himself but doesn’t try again. He watches from the corner of his eye as Merlin scratches the back and side of his neck, which looks redder than usual. Hopefully he’s not having a reaction from the cheap cloth of his neckerchief getting wet. “It must have been difficult to leave her.”

Merlin sighs. “It was. But we both knew it was necessary.” He shifts his weight, draws his knees up closer to his body, heels digging into the soft mud beneath them where the blanket stops. “I’ve always wanted to be able to…help people. Be a healer. Knowing my uncle was here, and getting on in years, it seemed like the right thing to do.”

Ah, so Gaius is Merlin’s uncle. Arthur hides his surprise, which is swiftly followed by a pang of guilt. It stands to reason Gaius has family, but Arthur never bothered to learn about it. Judging from their respective ages, he would guess Merlin’s mother is Gaius’ niece, so Merlin is his grandnephew. Which means Gaius has siblings – had siblings. If they were also peasants, they likely wouldn’t still be alive.

Did he have a wife, or a mate? Did he ever consider settling down and having children, or did the demands of a Court physician take up too much of his time? Does Merlin think he has a similar fate, never to have love or courtship, never to have children, to grow up to be yet another old man in a too-high tower at the beck and call of people who think themselves well above his station?

Arthur presses his lips together, aggravated by the idea, though he can’t put a finger on why. It seems a shame to never see a child, with Merlin’s eyes and Merlin’s dopey grin on a young, round face. In his mind, this child has no discernable features except what his father gave him, and there is no woman or Omega on Merlin’s arm when he pictures Merlin interacting with his son, but Arthur is so helplessly enamored by the idea. He thinks of Merlin leaning down and holding a gentle, large hand over a scraped knee or a bump on the head, eyes shining gold with soothing magic as he consoles the young boy, and Arthur so overwhelmingly endeared by the idea that it takes his breath away.

Perhaps it would be best for Merlin to never breed, for the sake of Arthur’s poor heart and nerves.

It’s hard to tell when exactly the sun set, as the storm has turned the sky a terrible shade of grey which lingered since noon and has given him no clues as to the position of the sun since, but it’s growing very dark now. He can’t even see the moon. With no fire, it’s getting harder and harder to see Merlin except for the occasional flash of red in his eyes.

It’s still there. Arthur can’t help but think of his father in that moment. It’s normal for the rings of red and gold to grow thicker and smaller by degrees, reactive to the instinctual signals and thoughts of the bearer and overtaking the iris entirely when nearing rut or heat. For his entire life, his father’s eyes have been more red than any other color. He has often suspected that his mother’s death made matters worse; that there was a time when Uther’s eyes had no red in them at all, but something in him broke the day Arthur was born and has never since healed.

Now, there is blood in the water of Merlin’s eyes. Something in him broke – something in his magic broke, and Arthur doesn’t know what, but he can’t shake the feeling that it’s his fault.

After a while of listening to the rain, Arthur speaks again; he simply can’t stand Merlin’s silence. “My mother died when I was born,” he tells him, feeling Merlin turn to look at him in the darkness. “I never knew her, and for a long time no one would tell me anything about her. I just knew I looked like her.” He sighs, looking down at his boots. “Too much like her.”

“That’s not your fault,” Merlin rasps. “I…think I look like my father. I never knew him either, I’ve never met him, but I don’t look anything like my mother.” He swallows audibly, shifting his weight again.

“Do you think you’ll want to meet him, one day?”

“Frankly, I think he’s dead,” Merlin says flatly. “Or if he isn’t, I’d rather believe he is.”

“Oh?”

Merlin’s voice is hard and dark when he says, “He left her behind. It’s always been her and me. He doesn’t deserve to know us. No Alpha that abandons his family deserves to know them.”

Arthur wants so desperately to reach for him again, but remembering how Merlin flinched, he doesn’t. The reaction confuses him – they had touched often while Arthur was healing, but now it’s like it hurts Merlin to touch him at all. It leaves him empty, bereft, the hound in his head whining for its friend, not knowing why it was abandoned. It would do anything to have Merlin at its doorstep again.

He clears his throat and sighs. “I’m sorry I asked.”

“No – I’m sorry,” Merlin replies quickly. “I didn’t mean to -. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for, Merlin,” Arthur says, suddenly weary. He pushes himself back, farther beneath the cover, and onto his bedroll which is laid out a respectful distance from Merlin’s beneath their tented, open cover. “Get some rest. Hopefully the storm will have broken by morning.”

It’s freezing cold, even beneath his blanket, and the rain has soaked through his clothing and made it stick angrily to his healing scars. He only has to wear a few bandages where the marks are particularly thick and the wounds are deeper than the others, and they itch terribly, reminding him unpleasantly of his patches.

He tries to ignore it, and is aware that Merlin doesn’t move to lie down for a long, long while.

“Arthur?”

“Arthur…”

“…Sire?”

“Yes, Merlin, what is it?” Arthur asks, pleased when Merlin’s audible eyeroll reaches him from his left. Merlin’s horse shakes her mane out, as though in agreement, and Merlin smiles and absently pats her neck.

He’s been acting a little better since the first night they left, no longer so obviously stressed, but he’s still…off. Still Not Merlin, stumbling and struggling with the most basic tasks. Things he hasn’t struggled with for as long as Arthur has known him.

Given that he’s not been nattering Arthur’s ear off and being a thorough distraction, Arthur has had time to think about the reasons why.

He’s had no additional luck with the wet wood. The storm broke after the first night, but the ground and trees were soaked, and there hasn’t been any sun or warmth to help the process along. It would take a miracle to light anything without drying it out first, which they often don’t have time for while making camp. A miracle, or magic. Merlin hasn’t been using his magic to help him light fires.

The lack of conversation or general optimism. Merlin has been looking steadily worse by the day, beyond what normal wear and tear of being on the road would bring. He slumps in his saddle and sometimes has to stand by the stirrup and breathe for many minutes before he has the energy to hoist himself up into it.

He only lies down when he thinks Arthur is asleep, and Arthur suspects he doesn’t sleep even then. The circles beneath his eyes are black as shadows and make his eyes look haunted, abyssal. The part of the ocean where the old gods sleep and beasts large enough to swallow ships hunt, endlessly hungry.

His words are slower and he’s less likely to respond to a barb or conversation, though once he’s engaged, he doesn’t seem any worse affected than normal. It’s as though simply getting started takes everything out of him, and once he’s going, he can only maintain a gentle plod, a large boulder rolling downhill that will stop as soon as the ground grows level.

Frankly, it’s making Arthur sick with worry. But the worst part – or at least, the most frightening part – is that his potions no longer make him feel like they did. They calm his scent and stay his heat, for whatever they’re made of does seem to work as it’s meant to, but the taste, the feeling of magic on the back of his tongue has disappeared entirely. The potion is slightly bitter and hurts his stomach, like it used to. He’d think it was one of Gaius’ old recipes were it not for the color.

Merlin isn’t using his magic anymore. He’s used it before to light fires around Arthur and the Knights, clearly he knows how to do it without them noticing. But not now. Now, there’s red in his eyes and no feeling in Arthur’s throat and stomach to tell him he’s safe and everything is okay.

Something is crushing Merlin’s magic, rendering him unable or unwilling to use it entirely, and if Arthur does not find and destroy the cause quickly, he might go mad. Something has broken in him and Arthur must, he must fix it.

“We seem to be taking a rather straight road to Ealdor, Sire,” Merlin notes. He even sounds too exhausted, there’s no playfulness or teasing. Arthur wonders just how long he was sitting in silence, trying to gather the energy to speak at all.

He turns to look at Merlin over his shoulder. Despite his obvious malaise, Merlin’s eyes are sharp on Arthur, always watching when he isn’t scanning the sides of the road for sudden threats, or closing his eyes and trying to quell his nausea when he thinks Arthur isn’t looking.

But Arthur is always watching, too.

“Is that a problem?” Arthur asks, too lightly.

Merlin’s brows rise. “Aren’t we trying to find a griffin summoner?”

Arthur rolls his eyes and settles in the saddle, facing forward again. “Honestly, Merlin, do you really expect us to be able to find a secret lair of a sorcerer that, if they’re clever, will have long since fled the area? Shall we interview every drunk and layabout in every tavern from Camelot to Essetir in the hopes that they remember what direction the beast flew from?”

“You’ve made your point,” Merlin grumbles, then frowns at his hands. “Then…why are we here? Why are we going at all?”

Arthur sighs to himself. “Because you deserve to see your mother, after what you’ve done for me. And I’d like to meet her, to thank her in person for…letting you go, I suppose.” He looks back at Merlin, finding him stunned, overwhelmed by Arthur’s candor. “I meant what I told you before we left. I know I wouldn’t be here without you.”

For a brief, hysterical moment, Arthur wishes Merlin could just know. Can’t sorcerers read minds? Can he not simply peer inside Arthur’s head and heart and see what he wishes he could openly say? The hound and beast would welcome him, Arthur would happily sit Merlin at the table in his mind, share a drink and stories with him, as though they were around any campfire out in the woods. In the same way he desperately wishes he could, within the walls of the castle.

But Merlin is not using his magic, so even if he wants to, he can’t. Instead, Merlin’s eyes well with happy tears, he looks down shyly, fingers twisting in the reins. “I -. Thank you, Arthur. For this.”

Arthur smiles, glad that, whatever else Merlin is feeling, Arthur can make him happy. “There’s an inn another hour’s ride, where we’ll stop for the night. It will be the last chance for a warm fire and an actual bed before Ealdor, so I suggest you make good use of it.”

And just like that, Merlin’s good mood vanishes, which Arthur finds utterly baffling. He clears his throat. “I think I’ll probably just stay downstairs, Sire. Maybe sleep in the stables or with the servants.”

Arthur frowns at him. “Why on Earth would you do that?”

Merlin swallows audibly. “I don’t think it would be…appropriate.” He winces at the word. “I mean, imagine what the King would say.”

“Despite my father’s brisk attitude, he doesn’t take delight in the idea of a servant sleeping among the animals. If there’s a bed, then you should have it! Honestly, Merlin!”

Merlin fixes him with a look, his jaw clenched. “Arthur, I don’t think the King would take kindly to knowing that his only son and heir shared lodgings with his Alpha manservant,” he says, extremely carefully, putting far too much enunciation into it.

Inwardly, Arthur recoils. Not for any revulsion towards the idea itself, but that he could have been so blind to it. It’s been so long since he had to think of himself as, well, what he is, and what Merlin is, and how it might look to people who knew the truth. Naturally, his potions keep the general populace unsuspicious, but whenever Arthur leaves the citadel and runs up a tab, the innkeeper bills it to the Crown, and if it’s more than Arthur has on him, there’s a paper trail. Messengers. Details, if Uther is so inclined. Witnesses to Arthur’s conduct, and that of those with him.

Even an inn far to the North is not without its eyes.

Arthur clears his throat and forces his shoulders lax. “We will get you your own room, then,” he decides with a nod, and doesn’t pause to wonder why neither him nor Merlin assumed this solution in the first place. “And a bath. I can’t possibly present you to your mother with a week of forest clinging to you.”

“She’s used to worse,” Merlin says, but his voice lacks the previous tension, and it is left behind them with their tracks down the muddy road. Still, discomfort sits at the base of Arthur’s spine like a heavy weight. He doesn’t like treating Merlin like a secret, but Merlin is a secret. Arthur knows Merlin’s secret, and once Arthur tells Merlin, Merlin will have to keep hiding it. They both will.

In the grand scheme of things, is one any more scandalous than the other? If Uther suspects Merlin of magic, Merlin will lose his life. What would Uther do if he suspected dishonorable conduct? Execution? Imprisonment? Would he cut off Merlin’s hands and exile him back to Ealdor for the rest of his days? Would he even dare to make a spectacle of it, and have all of Camelot find out the truth of Arthur’s nature as well?

Merlin might rather be dead than be diced up and forced into a jail cell, but that’s not a choice Arthur can make for him. If Merlin is worried about appearances, and how he behaves around Arthur, on top of everything else, then Arthur will not make it worse.

At this rate, stress might kill Merlin sooner than any pyre. Arthur had best find an opportunity to figure out what’s wrong with him, and have all the conversations they need to have, as soon as he can. He had hoped that the prospect of seeing his mother would make Merlin excited and willing to listen, that they could have huddled around a fire with nothing threatening Merlin and the promise that, should he want to flee, he could simply keep going North and Arthur would not chase him, but the weather has been so awful and Merlin’s disposition so troubling, Arthur hasn’t had the heart to bring it up yet.

But he should. At a certain point, his delay becomes cowardice, and he owes Merlin bravery, to be strong when Merlin cannot be, to be his shield and armor when Merlin needs it. It’s the least he can do.

Chapter Text

When Arthur was younger, not yet old enough to be trusted to handle affairs at Court or delegated tasks that his father deemed him capable of – provided he was able to report consistently and made decisions Uther approved of – he spent most of his time, when he wasn’t training, shadowing Uther at council meetings and watching him deal with various affairs for Camelot, both from her citizens and delegations of neighbors throughout the years. He has witnessed alliances, feasts, trade negotiations, thinly veiled threats of war, marriages of convenience and personal gain.

He was not given the privilege of being shy, and so learned to mimic Morgana at times like that, as she has always been blessed with poise and confidence and a bearing that rightfully earned her attention and respect whenever she was in the room.

Arthur was the Alpha heir, the firstborn son of legendary King Uther, and had learned to behave as such. But he never stopped this habit of observation. Turning people’s words around in his head until he had examined every refraction and gleaned whatever motivations and intentions he could out of them. He learned to think of the people at Court as spiders in a web, and would watch as certain strings were plucked or broken, how they would react.

Using that skill, he concluded long ago that there are two types of clever people. There are those that possess understanding, a good listening ear, the ability to adapt and take in new information to piece carefully into their worldview or adjust it as needed – and then there are those who are too clever for their own good.

He has always strived to be the first type of person. Slow to judgement – easier said than done, especially when he was still taking Gaius’ potions that wreaked havoc on his nerves and disposition – and methodical in action. The type that would learn his manservant and one of his dearest friends – and the woman he views as a sister in all the ways that matter – is a sorcerer and not immediately sentence them to the pyre because he understands that they are good people and have never harmed him and that maybe by extension, magic is not inherently, wholly evil either.

Then, there is the other type of clever person. Too clever for their own good; haughty, arrogant, overbearing, and most of all, paranoid.

He suspects that Merlin is this second type. Prone to overconfidence, as evidenced by his staunch refusal to treat Arthur as his station demands. In his wildly disrespectful instinct to speak up and declare openly to a room full of people that a visiting King might be attempting to poison Arthur in plain sight. Arrogant in his presumption that he should go behind Gaius’ back and change both Arthur’s and Morgana’s medicines, which Arthur is sure he did without the old physician’s permission.

Paranoid, to be sure.

But not without reason. He has more than enough reason to be afraid, especially living in Camelot, with the threat of discovery and execution hanging over his head. It hasn’t stopped him acting in Arthur’s best interests, but it must surely weigh on him.

He is not a spider, Arthur thinks, but perhaps more like a whale. A behemoth, the kind that Arthur has read about in some of Geoffrey’s more fanciful texts, but never seen personally. They are good for meat, their fat has endless uses, their skin tough to break, and they are dangerous to hunt but well worth the slaughter, for the crews of seafaring men brave enough to best them.

A spider desires to grow large, for their web to catch many things for them to feast upon, their silk valuable to be certain, but not easily attained in great numbers. Arthur remembers one particular old woman who came to Uther’s court, claiming she raised and bred spiders for their silk, and presented Uther with very pretty bolts indeed in lieu of monetary taxes.

He wonders what treasures might be uncovered in the taming of whales. Deep divers for lost treasure, tireless beasts that could pull ships in a storm, endless fonts of fat and food for the hungry and poor. Some are very solitary, he remembers reading, though there are other types that hunt and live as a family, protecting each other and raising their young together. The ocean is so vast and they are strong, and live long lives beneath the crushing, cold waves. Still, in the deep and dark, they are known to sing.

Though they may wander far, they always know their way back home.

“You’ve been quiet,” Merlin says, near-silent himself. He looks even worse than he did before they stopped for the night, if that could be possible. Still, he’s clean and they ate a hot breakfast and paid for extra supplies for the road, so Arthur doesn’t feel too terrible presenting Merlin to his mother in this state. “What are you thinking about?”

“Whales,” Arthur tells him honestly, looking to Merlin for his reaction. Merlin’s brow creases in confusion. “Do you know what those are?”

“The…big sea monster things, right?” Merlin hedges.

Arthur snorts. “Of a sort. I take it you’ve never seen one.”

“No.” Merlin nudges his horse a little closer, a familiar spark of interest in his bloodwater eyes. “Have you?”

Arthur shakes his head. “I read about them when I was young.” He swallows, and misses the soothing balm of magic running down from his throat to his stomach. He aches in a way that has nothing to do with the long ride and uncomfortable bed; it’s something around his bones, a sudden weakening he didn’t know to miss until it returned. “I heard they sing to each other, even leagues away, they can hear a song, and recognize each other’s voices.”

“Woah,” Merlin says, a little awed. “What made you think of them?”

“I happen to think about a lot of things when people aren’t chattering in my ear all the livelong day.”

That manages to coax a smile out of Merlin, though it’s sad, and doesn’t make Arthur as happy as Merlin’s smiles normally make him.

Arthur lets the moment linger, shifting in his saddle and fiddling with the reins, though he doesn’t need to. His horse’s footing is sure and the road dried up considerably as they went further North. The wind is biting and the air is cold, but it has been too chilly for rain up here.

“They’re gigantic,” Arthur tells him. “Bigger than dragons. They have the whole ocean to themselves, as far across the world as we can see – farther, even. I like thinking about how things can live when given that kind of freedom.”

Merlin chuckles weakly, scratching at his blister-raw neck. The reddening has gotten worse, and Arthur suspects it’s more than his neckerchief causing the reaction. Even if it was, Merlin hasn’t removed it once on their journey.

Their feet knock together from their proximity, and Merlin flinches so suddenly his horse shies, tossing her head with a reproachful whinny. She doesn’t buck or cause him to lose his seat, but it’s enough of a reaction that Arthur frowns. Merlin has staunchly refused to touch Arthur throughout their trip – not that Arthur needs him to, but he had grown used to it at least in passing, a brushed shoulder or a meeting of hands when they passed out waterskins and food, and to suddenly be bereft of it makes his stomach knot with tension he can’t explain away.

They passed the border this morning, and Ealdor is less than an hour away. Arthur should speak to Merlin now, where there are no lawful reasons for Merlin to flee from him, and so that Arthur can simply turn around and go home if Merlin decides to leave him for good.

The thought of it makes him wince. He doesn’t want Merlin to leave. He wants, more than anything, for Merlin to trust him, to feel safe with him. For them to speak openly to each other and know that above all else, Merlin is Arthur’s friend, and Arthur would never willingly do him harm.

He doesn’t. Cowardice sinks its teeth into the back of his neck, hobbling him as surely as a predator’s grip, and he remains silent. Around them, the trees fade out to farmlands, humble and small. They pass a field of low-trimmed grass housing three goats, another with a single horse and ramshackle barn.

Beside him, Merlin straightens up, recognizing this road and the buildings and farms around it. His eyes light up with eagerness and his smile is easier, his shoulders sitting slightly lower as they approach Ealdor. Arthur unfastens his red cloak and lets it drop to the saddle behind him so that he’s not quite so obvious, though no one this close to the border would mistake the Pendragon red.

The village comes into view – a homely collection of small buildings in various states of disrepair and haphazard attempts to keep them standing, slanted boards and leaking roofs patched with clumps of straw and mud. Goats and pigs wander freely around the roads, and dirty folk in peasant garb wander between their houses, barely sparing a glance at the newcomers as they ride in. This is one of the main roads between Camelot and Essetir’s capital, so he imagines many people simply pass through and do not stop.

Arthur allows himself to fall back and follow Merlin’s lead as they travel through the main thoroughfare, the tiny clump of larger buildings, an inn, a livery, a blacksmith and wool trader, and another large pen of animals to be hocked to various farmers. They come to the other side of the village and ride up to a single shack, barely larger than Gaius’ chambers, where a woman and a man are mending a fence post next to a single shaggy cow, lazily chewing its cud.

It lows as Arthur and Merlin approach and they both look up. Arthur immediately recognizes some of Merlin’s features in the woman – they have the same long nose, high cheekbones and wideset brows. Her hair is slightly lighter, her face rounder, and Merlin certainly didn’t get his height from her, but this is undoubtedly Merlin’s mother.

“Oh!” she gasps, dropping her tools and clutching at her face. “Merlin?”

At the sound of her voice, Merlin’s face splits into a wide smile. The pair shore up the fence post and come towards them, letting Arthur know that the man at her side is an Omega, and Merlin’s age, with shaggy brown hair and a wide, toothy grin. Merlin practically falls out of his saddle and stumbles towards them, sinking into his mother’s embrace.

Arthur stalls, shocked despite himself.

Merlin is purring.

He knew Alphas could purr – Omegas can too, though he’s never been able to make himself and has never heard it from anyone else. It’s the kind of thing reserved for family and dear friends, things Alphas do for their pack members to reassure, or as expressions of happiness.

The sound is deeper than he’d thought it would be, and rumbles through him like an earthquake. He’s suddenly more nervous than he’s ever been in his life, and desperately wants to make a good impression. He needs these people, who can make Merlin smile like that, and purr and embrace them without a care in the world, to approve of Arthur in turn.

Merlin’s mother releases him and he turns to the other Omega. “Will,” he greets, giddy in a way Arthur has never heard him before, and the Omega – Will, of course it’s Will – laughs and throws himself into a hug, clutching and snuffling at Merlin like they’re a pair of puppies from the same litter. Arthur watches him closely, resolutely tamping down the jealousy in his stomach that Merlin has no problems hugging him.

He sees Will run a hand through Merlin’s hair, sees it stall over the raw, red marks on his neck. Sees Will look at Merlin, a moment passing between them, and then Will’s eyes narrow, his jaw clenches, and he turns and glares at Arthur.

“It’s so good to see you,” Merlin’s mother gushes, as Arthur finally dismounts and gathers the reins of both horses.

Merlin clears his throat, drawing away from Will as though he, too, sensed the change in Will’s demeanor. He touches Will’s arm but Will jerks it away, still glaring, as though Merlin’s neck is Arthur’s fault. Perhaps it is, he has no idea.

Is this why Merlin wouldn’t touch him? Did he not want Arthur’s scent on him, when he returned home? Is Will more than just his friend?

“Arthur,” Merlin says quietly, drawing his attention. He looks to see Merlin standing slightly beside his mother, gesturing between them. “This is my mother, Hunith, and my friend, Will. Mum, Will, this is Prince Arthur of Camelot.”

Hunith’s eyes widen and she immediately bows low. Arthur shifts his weight, uncomfortable with the gesture – he is not their Lord here, and feels quite out of place like he’s back at Court and still a child and doesn’t yet understand that people will always bow to him, that it is an insult for them not to.

Will, he notices, does not even bow his head.

“Please,” Arthur says, sliding into the skin of gracious, benevolent ruler he has had to wear for his whole life. “Hunith, it’s an honor to meet you. You don’t need to bow to me.”

Hunith straightens but she’s still somewhat bent. Will’s glare lessens a mite in intensity.

“The pleasure is mine, Your Highness,” Hunith says, and Arthur imagines he will have a hard time convincing her to ditch the moniker as well. “What brings you so far North?” Her eyes darken with worry, only the same deep blue Merlin’s used to have, absent of red or gold as they dart between Arthur and Merlin. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Merlin assures her. “I just wanted to come see you.”

Hunith’s mouth twists in uncertainty. She pats the shawl around her head and then fidgets with her skirts; it isn’t hard to see where Merlin got his restless energy from. “I wish you’d sent word,” she sighs to her son, who blushes and grins as she ruffles his hair. “The house is a mess, and there’s so much work to be done. Really, Your Highness, we would be honored to host you, but -.”

“Please,” Arthur holds up a hand to stay her rambling. Another inherited trait, he thinks with amusement. “I am not a Prince here, and insist on no special treatment. If there is work, I’m happy to help for the time we’re here.”

He doesn’t miss how Merlin looks at him, surprised and warm. Arthur would rather Will were not here, but he can’t do anything about that now. The Omega’s bristly nature is like a physical thing, stinging his nose with sourness and heavy on his shoulders, but he decides to forge on.

“I wanted to meet you in person,” Arthur continues. “Merlin is a remarkable man and has been a dear friend to me – truly, the honor is mine, and I wanted to thank you for allowing him to come into my service.”

Hunith’s face pinkens with pleasure and she gives a dainty curtsy. “Very kind of you to say,” she replies, her voice gentle in a way Arthur thinks all mothers must be. His own must have been, when she was alive. When she looks at Merlin, Arthur feels an immediate kinship with her: a high regard shared by both of them, for the man who does so much, and without whom Arthur wouldn’t be alive. “Well, if that is the case, there is certainly lots of work to do. But I think lunch, first. Will, are you staying?”

“I’d best be off,” Will says. For all he keeps glaring at Arthur, his smile is genuine and his tone gentle for Hunith. He nods at Merlin and claps him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you around?”

“Bye, Will,” Merlin says, a little subdued. In the same way Arthur felt connection to Hunith, the expanse between him and Will seems cavernous. He thinks it would be good for him to form at least a cordial bond with Will, that Merlin would like to see them getting on. Such is the way of Alphas; they do not take well to discord in their packs.

Will walks away from them, past Arthur and around the bend towards the rest of the village. They stand in awkward silence for a moment longer before the cow blusters and releases an absolute deluge of manure into the field, breaking the tension.

“Lunch,” Hunith declares with a nod. “Merlin, please show his Highness where you can keep your horses – the barn is still standing for now and there is room.”

Merlin nods and hugs her one last time, before she bows to Arthur and then disappears into the house. Merlin lets out a long breath, grinning sheepishly at Arthur, then at the farm. “It’s not much,” he says quietly.

“Some people don’t need much,” Arthur replies. “Some have far too much.”

Merlin smiles wryly, and they share a look. It seems to last for a long time, and Arthur for the life of him cannot tell what Merlin is thinking. The whale has dove deep, and he cannot hear its song anymore – hasn’t for days. How he wishes it would come back, that Merlin’s magic would come back, and tell Arthur that everything is alright again.

The horses bluster, Merlin’s stamping her foot once, and Merlin springs into action, to show Arthur where they can be untacked and stalled, before they head into the house for their lunch. There is no meat and the portions are small, but Arthur doesn’t mind. It is worth it, to see Merlin with his mother, happier than he’s been in days, and he tries to tamp down the disquieted notion that Merlin is far happier here, with people who know and love him, than he has ever been with Arthur.

Merlin

When he lived here, he had a pallet on the floor and his mother had her own room. Now she insists that Arthur takes her bed, despite Arthur’s many heartfelt refusals, and Merlin watches with no small amount of pleasure as the either force of Hunith, the Mother comes down on Arthur and bullies him into the spare room, to take her bed for the night.

They make up their pallets on the floor and get ready to hunker down through the cold night. It’s freezing, even with the new clothes Arthur insisted he take, and he hates seeing her shiver and poke the tiny fire in the hearth, to no avail.

He should help her – he can help her. His magic bristles and roils inside his skull, the only safe place for it to exist, otherwise dead or dormant in the rest of his body, cut off by the talisman like blood in a tourniquetted limb.

He is so tired. The journey up here has been akin to torture, the leather cord pulling at his neck like it’s trying to carve through his skin, the talisman burning a welt against his chest whenever he instinctively tried to reach for his magic, whether to ease his soreness or start the fires or soothe Arthur’s restless sleep.

Seeing her is worth it. His mother is a font of grace and strength, tireless and relentlessly optimistic. He strives, daily, to be more like her.

“Merlin,” she whispers quietly, and looks meaningfully to the fire, then to her closed bedroom door.

Though Merlin’s entire body aches with the desire to help, to release his magic and warm the air to make them all comfortable, he viciously tamps it down. His muscles are more like pulp than meat, his blood too thick, his head heavy. Everything hurts and there’s nothing he can do about it, not while Arthur is around.

He shakes his head.

She sighs but nods her understanding, and silently goes to fetch more blankets.

He hadn’t thought this far. When they first set off, claiming that they were tracking down the griffin summoner, Merlin had thought that the goal would distract him, that if they found the perpetrator, he would be able to release his magic in a safe way, to do away with the threat. Or that Arthur would simply give up after a time and they would go back to Camelot. He hadn’t anticipated this, and though he is glad they came, and pleasantly surprised to find Arthur behaving so nobly and humbly around Hunith, this isn’t sustainable.

“Baby.” She kneels down beside him, her eyes soft and hands warm as she takes his in her own. “What’s the matter?”

His hands tremble and curl inside hers, so much larger. He’s big and strong and grown now, he should be able to protect her. He should be able to redo the leaking roof and thicken the walls to stop the winter chill setting in, he should be able to light the fire and conjure feasts for her and mend the fence with a flick of his wrist, and he can’t.

He looks to the door, and his confessions, his questions, die on his tongue. He simply shakes his head and says, “I don’t know.”

Hunith presses her lips together, following his gaze for a brief moment. “Is he a good man?” she whispers.

The force of Merlin’s sentiment threatens to choke him in place. “He might be the best man I’ve ever known,” he says. “He’ll be a wonderful King, one day.”

She nods. “And he treats you well? Cares for you?”

Merlin nods.

She squeezes his hands, then releases them. “I understand the circumstances are difficult,” she says carefully, “but I don’t believe there are any laws against Alpha-Alpha courtships in Camelot, are there?”

For a moment, the question is so unexpected that Merlin’s brain stalls in place. He forgets the pain he’s in under the sheer weight of confused disbelief. Then he meets his mother’s eyes, sees her looking concerned but supportive, and burst into a coughing laugh, blushing up to his ears. “It’s not that,” he manages, squirming under her stare. “It’s not – he’s not like that.”

He could be – he is an Omega, after all, so it’s not even like it would be unnatural, but Hunith doesn’t know that, and that isn’t what this is about.

“He speaks very highly of you,” Hunith says casually, picking at a clump of cow hair stuck to their woolen blankets. “And he’s very handsome.”

“Mum.”

“Well, forgive me,” she says, rolling her eyes. “But this is the first person you’ve ever brought home to me, and such a way as well! What am I to think?”

“I’m his servant!” Merlin hisses.

“And I’m sure he could have spared you for a few days to go off on your own,” Hunith returns, arching a brow in an expression so much like Gaius that Merlin instinctively swallows his words. “It’s not every day a Prince crosses the border to spend time with his servant’s peasant mother, after all.”

“Yes, well, he’s annoyingly noble like that,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “But I swear, that’s not what this is. It’s another of his whims, I’m sure.”

“Mm, well,” Hunith says, smoothing out her blankets and laying down on her pallet, “if you insist.”

Merlin huffs, glad she’s letting the subject go for now, though it does spark a question in Merlin’s mind, rekindling a fire that has been burning since Arthur told him his true intentions for this trip:

Why did Arthur want to come? Why did he insist on accompanying Merlin up to Ealdor? Merlin believes Arthur when he said that he wanted to meet Hunith in person, it’s consistent with his character – to recognize and applaud the sacrifices and loyalty of the common folk, but surely that could have been sent as a letter for Merlin to carry? Did it need to be in person?

Even summoning Hunith to Camelot would have been more comfortable and easier for him, but perhaps there is some political reason he cannot go about sending for various citizens of other lands.

He doesn’t know. There is so much he doesn’t know of Arthur’s world, and so much of it that could see him executed if he tried to navigate it and stepped out of line.

Merlin waits until his mother is asleep before he rises, sneaking out the front door as he did so many times as a boy. He skirts around the side of the house away from the barn, wary of drawing a reaction from any of the animals. Their cow has always been a calm sort, not reactive and especially keen to let Merlin go without protest in exchange for a sugar lump, but Arthur’s horses are war beasts, and know that someone skulking around is someone worth whinnying loudly about.

The trees have been cut back around Ealdor to make room for farms, but there is a small copse half a mile away farther North from town, and he makes his way there now. The amulet around his neck burns, as though sensing the burgeon of eager magic inside him, knowing that they are going to a safe place, a place that Merlin can unbind the manacle around his neck and let them live again.

He’s almost sprinting by the time he makes it to the trees, then through them. Their boughs are heavy and the bushes and roots underfoot are thick, no place for anything but the most sure-footed of animals and people. Still, he knows the route well, and ducks under the hanging branches and steps carefully down the little animal trail, until he comes upon the familiar clearing. The grass is tall here, dandelions spotted about in clusters of puffy grey and white. On the other side of the trees, a river runs that waters the village, out of sight but barely audible.

Merlin exhales heavily and drops to his knees. Slowly, with shaking hands, he unties the leather band around his chafed and bruised neck, and lets the amulet drop to the grass. Immediately magic rushes through every part of his body, his eyes glowing as it races to heal his aches from the ride and labor, soothe and undo the burns in his chest and around his neck, calm his frazzled mind and racing thoughts.

He breathes deep, fingers curling and flexing like he’s testing the grip of a weapon, letting out little fissures and currents of magic that race across the ground and into the trees, making them shiver with pleasure. The Earth itself seems to reach back out to him, as warm and welcoming as his mother had been.

Welcome home, it seems to say. Wind tickles his ears and smooths across his sweaty forehead, cool air a balm in his heaving lungs, the scent of grass and wet bark settling like a blanket over his stiff and exhausted shoulders.

He hears a branch snap to his right and freezes, but magic and the Earth whisper soothing words to him, and he becomes aware of that familiar scent: lamb stew, horse, fresh-ploughed fields, river mud. He smiles thinly and summons a small light to guide Will’s way, settling down to sit as Will emerges from the dark trees, carrying a bundle of sticks. Wordlessly, he sets them up in a small patch where the grass does not grow, and Merlin sends the light down into the campfire and sets it ablaze.

Will sits beside him, knees drawn up and arms resting over them, and gives Merlin a cautious smile.

“Hey,” he greets.

Will nods at him, and reaches into a small bag tied to his belt, fishing out some jerky and, to Merlin’s delight, two small berry tarts he no doubt pilfered from his mother’s stores. Merlin takes one and eats, relishing the familiar graininess of the sugar. It’s much less sweet and refined than the desserts at Camelot, but it tastes like home.

“So,” Will begins, “Prince Arthur’s manservant, huh?”

Merlin huffs and nods.

“Does he know?”

Merlin shakes his head and tries to hide the amulet that was still on the ground between them, but Will notices. He notices way too much, Merlin thinks to himself – always has. Will’s eyes darken and his jaw stiffens, clenching hard enough it bulges at the corners.

Then, “What is that?”

“It suppresses my magic,” Merlin tells him, too exhausted to lie to his friend.

“If he doesn’t know you have it, why do you wear that? Have you been wearing that the whole time you’ve been there?” Will demands, righteous anger raising his voice to almost a yell before Merlin shushes him.

“No,” Merlin confesses. “Just for this journey. My magic…” He hesitates, but cannot lie; “My magic acts oddly around him. I can’t always control it. I thought it was safer. Gaius gave it to me.”

“Safe,” Will repeats with a derisive snort. “You’re not dangerous, Merlin. And if he can’t see that -.”

Merlin closes his eyes, shaking his head again. “It’s the law,” he says miserably.

Will is quiet for a while, munching away at the snacks he brought and staring at the fire. He leans against Merlin and Merlin lets him, glad for the silent support of his friend.

“You hold him in high regard,” Will notes.

Merlin nods, for he cannot deny it.

“Is he…?” Will stops, clears his throat, starts again; “Is he the one you saw? In your vision?”

Merlin remembers the look on Will’s face when he’d told Will about it. In truth, Merlin can’t deny that he and Will are a well-suited match. Will is strong and kind and likes honest work, he knows about Merlin’s magic, he’s an Omega who trusts Merlin implicitly, and has always been a dear friend to him. But Merlin has never felt that kind of draw to him – Will is his friend, his oldest and one of his dearest friends, and Merlin loves him as wholly and completely as a man can love another, but Will is not his destiny. He had known that, when he had his vision, and explaining it to Will had been one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do.

But above all else, Will prizes honesty, and so Merlin does not lie; “He is,” he admits. “He’s my destiny, and I know you may have your opinions about him, but Arthur is… He’s good, Will. I truly believe he’s good.”

Will sighs, a defeated sound, but something in his bearing loosens, as though he has finally let go of something he was clinging onto with all his might, and is content to watch it slip away. “As long as he’s good to you,” he says flatly. “But he doesn’t know all of you, Merlin. You can’t trust him to have your best interests at heart.”

“Because he’s a Prince?” Merlin snaps, defensive on Arthur’s behalf.

“Precisely,” Will says with a meaningful look. “He will, one day, rule an entire Kingdom. No one can put a single person above that responsibility, even if they wanted to.” He waits, and when Merlin doesn’t speak, he says; “If it is the law, do you think he’ll change it for you? How many of your kind have they killed? Do you really think you can make him stop?”

And yet, hadn’t Arthur left Camelot for two weeks, to go see Merlin’s mother? Hadn’t Arthur immediately let himself be put to work, mending fences and repairing stalls, without a complaint? Arthur likes serving people, likes making them happy – would he upend everything his father built, turn around such a severe and long-standing law, for Merlin’s sake?

“I don’t know,” Merlin admits, and then sighs. “But I don’t think I care.”

He can feel Will staring at him in disbelief, straightened up to meet Merlin’s eyes, though Merlin can’t meet his.

“It’s pathetic,” Merlin agrees with a nod. “I know it is, you don’t have to tell me. But he’s…he’s worth it. He’s mine, and I am his, in whatever way he’ll let me be.”

Will’s brow furrows, his lips turn down and his shoulders tense up. “He’s an Alpha,” he says weakly, as though that would be the thing to break Merlin’s regard.

Merlin snorts to himself, lips twisting into a wry smile. No, he’s not, he wants to say, but that’s not his secret to tell. It wouldn’t matter – he would feel this way about Arthur no matter what. It’s…a singular thing. Perhaps if he’d had an Alpha role model he might understand it better, but he can’t explain it any more than he can explain his magic.

He was simply born with it: this nature, this desire to serve, to serve Arthur and Arthur alone. Nothing else matters, as long as he can do that.

Around them, the trees whisper their truths and secrets to each other, snaps of the language of Earth and magic coming to him on the breeze, though he doesn’t understand most of it. The trees speak in a language too slow and full of hidden metaphor to translate to the common tongue easily.

“Can you promise me something?” Will asks. Merlin looks at him. “Promise me that if you’re ever in danger, if he ever turns on you, you’ll come home. You’ll keep yourself safe.”

His physical body, certainly. Merlin is not particularly eager to go to the pyre. His heart is another matter entirely.

Still, he nods, and hopes that is enough.

Will nods back, then nudges their shoulders together. “He is handsome,” he grudgingly admits, and Merlin laughs out loud, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all.

“Yeah,” he sighs, and with a flick of his wrist, the fire curls into the shape of a dragon, winging about as free as can be. “He is.”

Arthur

His heart pounds in his chest and he’s hardly breathing, unwilling to make a sound as he watches Will and Merlin around the magic fire. He hadn’t seen Merlin drop the amulet, but he sees when Merlin puts it back on, and the fire abruptly sputters and dies as though it was never there at all.

He had felt it, in Hunith’s room; the rush of magic returning to his limbs, soothing his aches from the labor of the day and filling his stomach with something much more satisfying and hearty than food. It had spurred him from the bed and out the window, following Merlin’s scent and the steady pulse of magic to this little gathering of trees, and to the edge of the clearing.

He’d heard a little of their conversation, though not the whole of it. He’d heard Merlin confessing that he would remain by Arthur’s side, even if he upheld the law banning magic. He’d heard Will force Merlin to promise to keep himself safe, had heard something about a vision, though it was too little for him to discern the meaning.

Merlin had had a vision about him? When? Regarding what? Whatever it was, it had clearly compelled Merlin to come to Camelot, and though becoming Arthur’s manservant was a stroke of coincidence, Merlin was clearly glad for it.

Warmth and affection sink into his bones, surround his skull like a thick fog. Merlin’s magic is like whale song, and Arthur thinks there could be countries and oceans between them, and he would feel it, and know it from the sound.

He waits, watching the two shapes in the moonlight as Will rises and bids Merlin a goodnight with a fond embrace, then takes his leave in the opposite direction where Arthur is crouched. Merlin remains behind, staring at nothing. His shoulders are hunched low again and his breathing is a little labored – he might be crying. The magic feeling has been snuffed out, buried down deep like a corpse.

It hurts, it’s unbearable, to feel it disappear again. Arthur can’t imagine how it feels for Merlin.

He can’t stand it. This needs to stop, now.

Arthur can be brave. He must be, for Merlin. For them both.

He stands and walks out of the trees, surprised that Merlin doesn’t realize he’s there until he’s quite close. He turns around and launches to his feet, his eyes wide and face pale with fear. “Arthur!” he says, and clears his throat, straightening stiffly. “Are you alright?”

“Merlin.” Arthur takes a step forward, and while Merlin looks like he wants to flee, he doesn’t move. He hasn’t tucked the talisman back into his shirt, and it glows with a soft, ephemeral light. He deliberately doesn’t acknowledge it, still approaching Merlin like he might a startled horse. “Merlin.”

“How… How long have you been there?” Merlin whispers, voice shaking with dread. How much of that conversation would damn him? How much could he lie and twist the truth to appease Arthur’s curiosity? Arthur sees the wheels turning in that too-clever mind.

He didn’t bring a weapon, and he’s dressed in only a tunic, trousers, and his boots. He didn’t want to give the impression he was coming for a fight, and the air is freezing cold out here, making him shiver, but he ignores that.

“Merlin,” he begins, figuring that it would be best to cut straight to the heart of the matter as quickly as possible; “I want you to know that I would never, ever, harm you. Do you understand me?”

Merlin stares at him, sick with terror. He looks down and notes with alarm that the talisman is in plain sight. Wide, scared eyes meet Arthur’s again. “It’s not what it -.”

“Merlin,” Arthur interrupts, and shakes his head. “I know.”

“W…” Merlin swallows audibly and takes a step back. “What do you know?”

“I know you have magic,” Arthur says, and wonders how the words are so easy, when their meaning is so monumental. They come out in a rush, then; “I know Morgana has magic, that you’ve been helping her, like you’ve helped me. I know you saved us from the griffin, and before then, in the caves with the Mortaeus flower. I know you used it with Valiant, and with the sleeping spell and getting me out of the way of the knife.”

He looks down at the talisman again, and has never hated anything as much as he hates that little innocuous charm. “I know that you’re a good person, and that you are loyal, and braver than anyone has any right to be, and I know you’re scared right now, so I need you to know that you have nothing to fear from me, alright?” He meets Merlin’s eyes. “I know, and it’s okay. I swear, it’s okay.”

Merlin swallows again, breathing shallow and fast. He looks seconds away from fainting, or perhaps losing the contents of his stomach with so much stress. Arthur chances taking a step closer.

“Will you please take that awful thing off?” Arthur asks, gesturing to the pendant. “It’s hurting you. I don’t like the idea of your suffering.”

“You…know?” Merlin rasps weakly, hands fidgeting uselessly in front of him.

“I do,” Arthur says again, nodding. He takes another step closer, close enough to reach out and take Merlin’s arm, though he resists the urge, unwilling to startle Merlin into running away. “Take off the talisman, light the fire, and let’s talk about it.”

“I… I can’t -. I…”

Arthur presses his lips together, then, decided, he reaches for the pendant around Merlin’s neck.

“No!” Merlin grabs his hand with both his own, eyes wide and very red with fear. “It’s -. I have to. I can’t control it right now, I might hurt you.”

“You’d never hurt me,” Arthur says, as sure of that as he is that the sun will rise and set, the seasons will change, and Merlin is good. He tugs on the talisman and the cord holding it in place snaps as though it’s made of string. That feeling rushes back into Arthur, warm and soothing and welcome. He smiles, some of his own tension fleeing in its wake.

Merlin stares down at the talisman, clutched in their entwined hands. His eyes flash gold as the fire erupts back into life, the trees shiver around them, the grass rustling though there is no more wind.

“It’s okay,” Arthur says again, as gently as he imagines his mother might have been, were she alive, whenever Arthur was sick or scared, back when the scent of thunderstorms made him anxious, before Merlin. “You’re safe with me.”

Merlin’s expression crumples, tears welling and falling almost immediately as he sobs, and collapses against Arthur, embracing him tightly. Arthur hugs him back, closing his eyes as magic sweeps around them, as though it too is hugging them close, forcing them together. He rubs his fingers over Merlin’s nape, sore and pink but no longer so raw.

Merlin falls to his knees, sobbing openly, and Arthur goes with him, clutching him tightly as the fire blooms warmth through their bones, more than it should be able to, and makes the air around them as comfortable as a tavern hearth, suffused with heat and welcoming safety.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you,” Arthur speaks into Merlin’s shoulder.

Merlin chokes on a strangled, wet laugh. “Shouldn’t I be saying that?”

Arthur smiles to himself, but doesn’t deny it. He pulls back as Merlin’s sobs subside and his breathing turns a little more even, wishing he could do as Merlin does to him; push into his skin something warm and comforting, like Merlin’s magic answered back. But he can’t, so he settles them by the fire and leans his shoulder against Merlin’s, glad when Merlin doesn’t flinch from him, this time.

“When I was thinking about whales,” he says after a while, when the moon is no longer quite so high and the fire has settled to a lazy, happy crackle, “I was thinking about you. About how you could be, if you weren’t so afraid.”

Merlin is silent, so Arthur nudges him. “Nothing to say to that?”

“At least you’re not comparing sizes,” Merlin mutters, which makes Arthur laugh. Merlin wipes at his face with a loud snuffle, and finally unties his neckerchief so he can do a more thorough job. Merlin looks at him, then. “Why did you come here? How did you know I was here?”

“I felt it,” Arthur replies, tapping his chest. “Your medicines, I felt magic in them. I haven’t felt it since you were wearing that…thing.” His nose wrinkles with distaste. “But I suppose, when you took it off, I felt it again, and I followed the feeling here.”

Merlin’s eyes widen and he swallows harshly. There is still red in his eyes, Arthur notes – that broken thing is still broken, but it doesn’t look too bright or unnatural. There is still blood in the water, but it doesn’t belong to either of them, and he is not afraid.

“You trusted me, even when you knew?” Merlin presses, voice wretched. “The two of us, alone on the road – I could have done anything to you.”

“But you wouldn’t,” Arthur says confidently, nodding. “I…” He sighs. “I wanted to wait until we were up here, in case you reacted…badly. I wanted you to know you were safe and that I wouldn’t hunt you, if you thought me capable of it. That I could just go home and we’d forget the whole thing. Camelot can’t execute you up here.”

Merlin makes a low noise, disquieted and awkward. “Do you…want me to stay here?” he asks, too vulnerable to meet Arthur’s eyes.

“No,” Arthur says emphatically. “No, I really don’t. But I also know it’s unfair to ask, that you hide and be afraid, for my sake. So I waited, but if I’d known…” He looks at the talisman again. Merlin let go of it, so he’s the only one holding it, and he wants so badly to throw it into the fire, but he won’t without Merlin’s permission. “If I’d known you were using this thing, I’d have brought it up earlier. I find your suffering as intolerable as your shivering.”

Merlin snorts, a thin smile on his face. “Apologies for exercising caution, Sire.”

There it is; the playful, disrespectful tone Arthur missed so much. He nudges their shoulders together again and looks to the tree line, towards where Will disappeared.

“He doesn’t think highly of me, does he?” Arthur muses.

“He’s protective of me,” Merlin replies gently. With a meaningful look at Arthur; “I seem to bring that out in people.”

Arthur smiles. “I know it’s selfish to ask, to have you come back, with the law how it is. But I will change it.”

Merlin frowns, disbelieving, hopeful.

“Not just for your sake. For people like you. For people like Morgana. Magic can’t be all bad, can it?” At that, a tiny trace of doubt, for as much as Arthur trusts Merlin, he has had very real and very recent encounters with ‘bad’ magic. “It’s a tool,” Arthur continues. “Gaius could just as easily poison us all as heal us. It depends on how you use it.”

“Wow.” Arthur turns to look at him, noting how close they are, as well as the wry, impressed smile on Merlin’s face. “And here I was thinking I’d have to make a grand speech about that to convince you, one day.”

“Would you have?” Arthur asks, genuinely curious. “One day?”

Merlin sighs. “I’d have wanted to. But I wouldn’t ever want to put you in that position – I mean, what am I to you? A servant, against your father’s laws? Against a lifetime of belief?”

Arthur doesn’t like that it makes sense, and he cannot argue against it. He takes issue with Merlin claiming he’s just a servant to Arthur – surely Merlin understands how much Arthur cares for him? How much Arthur wants Merlin by his side?

His bravery has run out, it seems, because when he tries to find the words for that, they fail him. He swallows and looks at the fire, wondering if he should ask about Merlin’s vision, about the things he overheard.

But no. Cowardice has returned, seething and hungry, and does not let him speak.

“I think we should stay here for a few more days,” Arthur says. “Your mother needs the help, and I quite like it up here. Things are…simpler.”

Merlin smiles, nodding in thanks. “I appreciate it, Arthur.”

“And…when it’s time to leave, will you come with me?”

He can’t hide the hope in his voice, the vulnerable and naked fear that Merlin will, in the end, choose to stay where he’s safer and outside of the looming threat of Camelot’s pyre. But Merlin smiles, his eyes shining in the firelight, and magic leaps inside Arthur’s stomach like an excited puppy.

“I’d never abandon you, Arthur,” Merlin whispers, raw and honest in the comfortably warm, silent night. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

Arthur smiles, and twists his hand around the talisman cord, holding it over the fire. Merlin doesn’t stop him dropping it in, and they watch together as Merlin’s eyes glow that beautiful gold, the fire takes the shape of a pack of wild dogs, and tears the thing to molten shreds.

Chapter Text

Arthur resists the urge to plague Merlin constantly with requests for displays of magic. It’s clearly something he’s still reluctant to flaunt, he only does subtle things that Arthur notices more because of the difference between the first day and the second, and not some overt show or performance. Some things Arthur might not have noticed at all except for the shy glances Merlin keeps casting his way, and Arthur has always been a little more aware of Merlin than anything else when he’s in the room, and so knows that something has happened even when he didn’t see it.

Not that it would matter. The golden light in Merlin’s eyes enthralls and delights him; the creature comforts are more than welcome. He is not afraid, and refuses to make Merlin regret trusting him with this knowledge of his secret.

The house is warmer as a standard now, even when the fire is dead and the wind rages outside. The animals seem a little more docile and more inclined to follow some wordless nudge from barn to pasture and back again rather than being led. Hunith’s food, while plain and simple, warms and fills the stomach a little more readily than normal fare ever could. The sky is clear and cloudless, no longer so dreary.

It’s like the very Earth reacts to Merlin’s happiness and freedom, the subtle pulse of his magic throughout everything he touches and everyone he talks to. And Merlin is happy, smiling and laughing and cheerfully putting himself to work on whatever chores Hunith has for them.

It’s simple work, and hard labor, but it’s good. Arthur appreciates being able to see the direct effects of his efforts, whereas at Court he might have to wait days, a month, a year for decisions and alliances to bear fruit – or for a misstep or disagreement to turn into something more serious.

Here, the fences are mended, the roof patched. The cow gives milk, the horses shine after being brushed down. The small garden bears the last of autumn’s harvest, the trees are turning golden and orange and brown at their heads.  So much changes before his eyes here, in a way that the ever strong and constant stone of Camelot does not.

The only point of discord Arthur notices is between him and Will. Despite Arthur doing his best to be friendly to the other Omega whenever he’s around, and Merlin’s attempts to invite him to help or dine with them, Will remains distant, giving Arthur a wide berth whenever they’re in forced proximity or outright ignoring him, as though he is another animal in the field not worth Will’s attention.

Arthur tries not to let it bother him, but he knows it bothers Merlin. He can see it when Merlin looks between them, that dark and fathomless thing in his eyes, that wishes the two Omegas in his charge would get along.

So, when Hunith commands Merlin to come with her to scout for any blackberries and fallen chestnuts that haven’t been stolen away by the wildlife, Arthur ventures into the village square to seek Will out. He finds Will by the blacksmith’s stall, loitering against a post and absently munching on a knot of stale bread.

Will’s eyes narrow on him when Arthur approaches, but he at least has progressed to the point of giving Arthur a stiff nod of greeting. “Your Highness,” he says.

“Prince William of Ealdor,” Arthur replies, grinning when Will snorts and rolls his eyes, straightening in place. “Could I have a word?”

Will arches a brow, but nods, finishing off his bread and kicking at a loose rock. He stuffs his hands into his threadbare jacket and follows Arthur’s lead as Arthur walks down the main road, away from Hunith’s farm. If Will has anything to say about the directional choice, he swallows it down.

Arthur walks until he is sure no wayward farmer might overhear them, plopping himself down on an old tree stump. There’s a stone beside it, larger than the stump, which Will takes as his perch. It puts his head above Arthur, which Arthur chose deliberately. He doesn’t want to give Will the impression that Arthur thinks himself above Will, or wants to make this a competition of status.

Pack dynamics, he knows, are complicated; tricky and shifting in place, and must be adhered to as carefully as status at Court. Will thinks that Arthur is an Alpha, and above Merlin in station, and so will not outright challenge his authority, but as Merlin’s lifelong friend and close confidante, he has status of his own that Arthur would do well to acknowledge.

As Omegas, things become more complex. Will is, technically, of a higher pack status than Arthur, even though Arthur is a Prince. He is not a Prince of Essetir, and his relationship with Merlin is one of clear-cut lines and deference, but that matters less to instincts. In this hodgepodge of acquaintance and friendship, Arthur is below Will, unless something about either of their relationships with Merlin changes.

It's all a little bit of a headache, if Arthur is being honest with himself, and for the first time he wishes he had been privy to it growing up. He would be able to understand it better.

Arthur sighs to himself, absently tapping his fingers against his thigh as he looks back towards the village, the buildings small enough to look like toys from this far off. “I understand why you don’t like me.”

“I don’t know you well enough to like or dislike you,” Will says flatly. “I’m not too fond of Royals.”

“Understandable,” Arthur agrees with a nod.

When Arthur doesn’t argue with him or react offendedly, Will’s shoulders flatten slightly. He scuffs his foot against the rock and looks away at the tree line. “Merlin likes you,” he grudgingly admits.

“His loyalty is more valuable than a King’s,” Arthur says. “Even more so, considering his circumstances.”

“Every subject is loyal to their ruler.” Will’s voice is guarded.

Arthur smiles at him. “Will,” he says gently. “I know about Merlin. His magic. Let’s not pretend otherwise, shall we?”

Will’s eyes widen comically, his mouth opening and closing like a gaping fish. His cheeks color with some unnamable emotion and the look he finally settles on is bewilderment. “You know?” he demands harshly.

Arthur nods. “Yes. And I didn’t know about that…thing around his neck.” His nose wrinkles with distaste. “We destroyed it. If I’d have known he was using it I would have forbidden him.” He pauses a moment. “I know what it’s like to have to hide. You might think me selfish, or too far above him or you that I don’t see or notice things like that, but I do. I ask that you believe me when I say I understand it very well.”

“Oh?” Will demands. “What exactly are you hiding, Prince?”

Not even a month ago, that kind of question would have Arthur bristling and defensive, but if Merlin trusts Will to know about his magic, Arthur figures it only right to extend the same trust. “Merlin makes medicines for me,” he says, drawing on what Merlin told him. “He said that he had a friend in Ealdor – you – who might take the same kind of potion.”

Will’s brow furrows.

“Mine are more potent,” Arthur continues, and gestures to his eyes. “They suppress everything, even the color.”

It takes a moment, but then Will’s eyes widen with understanding. “You’re…” He leans in, as though he can see a tiny damning fleck of gold in Arthur’s iris, or smell something on him if he tries hard enough. “You’re not an Alpha?”

Arthur shrugs, a small self-deprecating smile on his face, and shakes his head.

“Oh.” Something in Will’s face changes then, a faint pallor of resignation as he sighs, looking down at his feet, abruptly miserable. “Of course you’re not. Merlin would never…” He sighs again.

Arthur tilts his head.

“Merlin has a bit of a prejudice towards Alphas,” Will says, suddenly conspiratorial as he smirks Arthur’s way. The balance has shifted between them, Arthur can tell; he is not now just another Alpha, whose status is above even Merlin, towards whom Will is loyal, but a fellow Omega, who can be spoken to more plainly. “More inclined to let them fend for themselves, since they think they own the world and are so big and strong they can get their way.”

“Well,” Arthur chuckles, “he’s not wrong. We have to beat that out of most Knights when they come to serve. Teach them to act as a unit and not let their pride get in the way.”

“Pride kills more than famine does,” Will agrees. He narrows his eyes, contemplative. “Why do you hide it?”

Arthur sighs. “My father would rather I pretend,” he confesses. “Marry a woman, sire a child with her. He thinks Omegas are weak, and I’m sure too many of the Court would agree if they knew.” Will’s mouth twists in annoyance, the same kind Arthur feels in his stomach whenever he thinks too long on the matter. “My medicine used to make me…more like them. Angry. Aggressive. Merlin has been helping me with that; I scarcely recognize myself before I met him.”

“He does that to people,” Will sighs with unimaginable fondness. “Always wanting to help. Always wishing people could live freely as they are, without having to hide.” At that, his voice takes on a new heavy implication.

“Not yet,” Arthur says. “But one day.”

“You’re not afraid of magic?”

“I was,” Arthur admits, nodding. “My father would have Merlin executed in a heartbeat if he knew. There’s no convincing him, I’m afraid.” He pauses, for a moment toeing the line between honesty and outright treason. “But it wasn’t always that way in Camelot, and I hope one day, it can be different. I’ve seen too much, now, I can’t ever go back. If there are people like Merlin in the world, then it can’t be all bad.”

Will looks at him, still a little disbelieving, but awed. He laughs to himself and shakes his head. “Gods, to hear you talk about each other, you’d think you’d known each other all your lives.”

Arthur can’t think of anything to say to that.

“I just want him to be happy,” Will says, suddenly plaintive. He turns towards Arthur and fixes him with the full force of his gaze.

“On that, we’re in wholehearted agreement,” Arthur rasps, throat suddenly dry.

“If he is happy with you, then I suppose I can learn to live with it.” Will smiles thinly, but the sentiment is heartfelt and genuine. Arthur isn’t sure what he means, but he’s glad that Merlin seems to be content returning to Camelot, and that Arthur has managed to form a bond with Will. That will make Merlin happy, too. “Even if he’s a manservant.”

“He’s a terrible servant,” Arthur teases, “but I need to keep an eye on him somehow.” Even here, knowing Merlin is safe with his mother in his home village, but not by Arthur’s side, fills Arthur with a prickly, restless energy. He’s rather disquieted whenever he doesn’t know Merlin’s precise whereabouts.

Will nods to himself, but whatever he was about to say is lost as a rider appears down the road, wearing the livery of a messenger, brown leather with a fringe of red and the Pendragon crest. A rider from Camelot. Arthur frowns and gets to his feet as the rider approaches.

“Your Highness!” he greets, sounding surprised as he pulls his horse to a stop. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Arthur greets, unsure. “Are you here to find me?”

The messenger shakes his head. “I have a letter from Gaius, to Hunith,” he tells Arthur. “He sends a letter to her every other week or so.”

Arthur nods. He’s not sure whether his father knows his precise whereabouts, but wouldn’t put it past Uther to have figured it out somehow, and sent to come fetch him. God, if Uther knew where Arthur was, what he was doing, who he was with…

He shakes the thought off and steps aside. “As you were.”

The messenger bows his head and trots away, leaving Arthur and Will alone on the road again.

“I ought to head back,” Will says, climbing down from his rock. He nods to Arthur, a new respect and friendliness on his face. “Treat him well, Prince Arthur of Camelot.”

“I will,” Arthur swears, and watches Will walk back into town. He follows a little while later, but heads straight for Hunith’s house, where a warm fire and sounds of laughter come from inside. He pushes through the door and finds Merlin and Hunith around the tiny dining table, Merlin’s eyes glowing gold as he makes the spoons and mugs act out a joust.

Hunith jumps, her eyes wide when Arthur enters, but Arthur just smiles at them both. “How went the foraging?”

The mugs and spoons settle and Merlin proudly presents a gathering sack of only slightly crushed, ripe berries. “A treasure trove,” he says, grinning as the gold fades from his eyes, leaving behind the now-familiar red and deep, dark ocean blue. “And I found some herbs that only grow up here, after they dry out I’ll pack them up for Gaius.”

“Speaking of,” Hunith says, and holds up a letter. “Your uncle wrote to us.”

Arthur pours them all some water, amused despite himself at the act, as more often than not it is Merlin who waits on him. He quite likes doing things like this, though; helping with the cooking when Hunith lets him, feeding Merlin and pouring his drinks. He can see why Merlin likes it so much, how content he is whenever the Knights eat something he made out on a patrol and find it good.

Hunith opens the letter and reads as Merlin and Arthur drink, occasionally picking a berry from the bag like they’re pilfering sweets from the Camelot kitchens. They sit on one side of the table to give Hunith space, the table so small their knees and shoulders and elbows knock with every movement, and Arthur finds that the restless, disquieted feeling of having Merlin out of his sight is quick to be soothed now that he can touch Merlin again.

“Oh.”

Merlin looks up, frowning at Hunith. She has a hand over her mouth, her brows drawn low as she skims the paper covered in Gaius’ neat scrawl. She looks at the pair of them over it, first at Merlin, then to Arthur. “There’s a delegation in Camelot, all of the Five Kings coming together for peace talks. King Olaf is bringing his daughter, the Lady Vivian. Gaius seems to believe that Uther has…intentions, for Lady Vivian and the Prince.”

Arthur’s stomach grows tight and cold, blood draining from his face at the news. He doesn’t look at Merlin, though he desperately wants to, and then wonders why in the world Merlin’s reaction matters so much to him.

He swallows, even the water suddenly tasting sour. “That sounds like him,” Arthur finally says, because someone has to say something. “I met the messenger on the road, so my father will know I’m here eventually. He’ll want me to return home.”

Beside him, Merlin nods, and when Arthur finally looks at him, Merlin’s expression is carefully blank. “So we’ll be riding out in the morning, then?”

Arthur sighs inwardly, deflated despite himself at Merlin’s lack of reaction. “I suppose we must.” He looks at Hunith apologetically. “I’m sorry we couldn’t stay longer, or help more -.”

“You have done more than enough,” Hunith says, placing her hand on Arthur’s and giving it a reassuring squeeze. She smiles thinly, and seems to also want to keep looking at Merlin, as though she understands something Arthur doesn’t, and that Merlin refuses to show. She is his mother, after all; she’d be able to see this sort of thing.

Hunith stands, folding up the letter and placing it in her smock. “I need to go visit Meredith in town for some eggs, I’ll see you boys for supper.” She circles the table and kisses the top of Merlin’s head, squeezes Arthur’s shoulder, and then leaves the house without another word.

Arthur sighs, pushing his cup away.

“What were you doing on the road?” Merlin asks abruptly, an edge in his voice.

“I found and spoke to Will,” Arthur tells him. “I wanted to reassure him that you’re… That I knew about your secret, and that he didn’t have any reason to fear or distrust me, or how I would treat you. I wouldn’t call us friends, but I think we managed to reach a place of mutual respect and understanding.”

Merlin stares at him, then shakes his head with a small, disbelieving smile. “That’s…very good of you.”

“I also let him know that you’re not the only one with secrets,” Arthur says, grinning. “Seemed only fair.”

“You told him?” Merlin asks, eyes widening. “Aren’t you…? Why would you do that?”

“It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

“Aren’t you worried he’ll make…assumptions?”

Arthur frowns. “What’s there to assume? He’s your friend, and I thought I could find some common ground with him. It worked. It’s not like telling one person is going to collapse the ground beneath our feet.” He shakes his head, nudging Merlin lightly. “You worry far too much.”

“I’m just surprised,” Merlin says softly. He clears his throat and looks away, but doesn’t reach for his cup or the berries. “So…Lady Vivian?”

Arthur scoffs, shaking his head, his shoulders hunching up. “I suppose it was only a matter of time. It’s been no secret that my duty is to marry some highborn lady, forge a strong alliance between two Kingdoms or for matters of trade…” He trails off, sighing again. “I didn’t think it would be so soon.”

“Have you ever even met her?” Merlin asks.

Arthur shakes his head. “I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other during the peace talks.” It is, he takes a moment to admire, an incredible move on his father’s part, and if it goes well, could spell a long time of peace and prosperity between the Five Kingdoms. Arthur will have to be on his best behavior, and make all types of appearances, and be the golden son his father needs him to be.

“He can’t make you marry her, can he?”

Arthur looks at Merlin, wishing he was better at reading whatever expression Merlin is wearing. It’s a careful thing, more at home on a courtier’s face than Merlin’s, who has never kept what he’s thinking a secret from Arthur.

“He can’t,” Arthur says slowly, “but he can. It’s complicated.” He looks away. “I doubt it’ll happen. King Olaf is an overprotective old codger, he won’t take kindly to any attention being brought to his daughter, especially a romantic kind.” He forces himself to smile. “I should be safe. Just play nice and act the part and hope that our fathers aren’t too set on the idea.”

Merlin’s mouth twists, but he doesn’t reply. He pushes himself up from the table and Arthur resists the urge to reach for him, to pull him back and make Merlin talk to him. “I’ll start packing up everything we’ll need for the journey,” Merlin mutters, scrubbing the back of his neck, which has healed since they destroyed the talisman and is no longer red.

“I’ll help,” Arthur says, standing as well.

“No, Sire, please,” Merlin replies, holding out a hand as though he could physically stop Arthur coming with him. “I can handle it.” His smile is strained. “Nothing I haven’t done before. You should rest.”

Arthur isn’t tired, and he doesn’t like the feeling that’s brewing in his stomach: Merlin is upset, is Merlin upset with him? What on Earth could Arthur possibly have done since he walked in?

Slumping back into his place, Arthur wraps both hands around his cup and glowers at the unoffending water. “If you insist.”

Merlin is quick to leave after that, and Arthur is left alone with his thoughts. A dangerous combination: an upset Merlin and Arthur left to think too long about it. He’d seemed in fine enough spirits when Arthur walked in.

Maybe he doesn’t want to go back to Camelot yet. Yes, that makes sense – in Camelot, he will have to hide, to be careful, to be afraid again. And with so many visiting Kings and Lords and Ladies, all eyes will be on Arthur and Merlin, by extension. He must be nervous. Arthur would certainly be nervous in his position.

As a matter of fact, he is nervous. Uther has pointed out a fine Lady to him every now and again, but never with outright intention or implication that Arthur should pursue her. As far as Arthur is aware, Omegas are expected to be chaste until they are mated or married off, and posing as an Alpha, there was little Arthur could do in terms of seeking romantic companionship. Uther would lose his head if Arthur managed to get someone pregnant – or worse, get pregnant himself.

Arthur assumed that he would have to wait until he was married, where there would be a very awkward conversation between him and his future wife about how no, he will not be able to knot her, about how there is no red in his eyes, about how she needn’t fear a claiming bite or any other kind of Alpha-centric behaviors from him, but will be sworn to secrecy and dutifully bear his children and behave as a married woman should.

He's never really allowed himself to think further than that. He understands that it must feel somewhat pleasurable, and whenever he has had fractured and odd dreams about it, he feels bereft and empty, like a vessel in need of filling, but that’s as far as he lets himself think. He does not allow himself to think of Alphas that way, has forced himself to ignore any wayward attraction or primal longing, but he can’t deny it’s been there, when his cramps have threatened to tear him to pieces and his neck feels too exposed.

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself, as he has always told himself when his mind takes him too far into the realm of mating. He won’t mate, he’ll marry. The best he could ever hope for is a loving, kind wife who might be willing to indulge him but will inevitably expect to lie back and bear his children when the time comes.

His lips press together and his shoulders tighten. Why does it have to be so? Again, he wonders, why couldn’t he rule openly, take an Alpha lover, call them consort since they could never be King, and satisfy the things he’s too afraid to wish for? Why not?

As if Uther is suddenly in the room with him, Arthur wants to yell it into the open air. Why not? Why not allow magic users to live freely? Why not allow Arthur to live freely? He’ll be the King, his word will be law, why isn’t he allowed to make those decisions for himself?

Uther’s voice comes to him, plain and stern, like this is a particularly boring tantrum, an argument they have had countless times though Arthur has never dared speak up about it before: Because I said so.

But you won’t be around forever, Arthur thinks viciously. His fingers curl around the mug until it groans in protest and he pushes it away, getting to his feet. He refuses to sit still, he can’t simply sit and brood even though Morgana teases him about doing this exact thing quite often.

He’s not a Prince here, and Merlin has never hesitated to tell Arthur what he’s thinking when Arthur asks. He can’t do anything about his father’s plans, but if there is something he can do to make Merlin smile again, he will.

He finds Merlin in the stables, brushing down the horses and packing up their extra pallets and blankets, since they will use what Hunith has for their final night. He has a few extra rolls of rations and herbs he gathered, though not the ones for today since they are still drying.

His shoulders slump as Arthur approaches, and he turns to look at Arthur. “Sire,” he greets, resigned as though he expected Arthur to chase after him eventually.

He looks…sick. Sad. The way he looked when they first rode out and he had that blasted talisman around his neck. Arthur doesn’t look for it, because he knows that’s not the cause now. “I know it’ll be hard,” Arthur says, walking up and absently patting his horse’s muzzle when he lips at Arthur’s pocket. “I’m sorry you can’t be open about your magic when we go back.”

“That’s not the matter,” Merlin sighs, shaking his head and placing his packs on the ground.

“Then what is it?” Arthur demands. Merlin swallows loudly, looking everywhere but Arthur’s face. “Merlin. Please. Tell me what’s wrong, I can’t stand to see you sulking.”

The jibe falls flat, and hangs awkwardly in the air between them. Merlin searches around for the words he wants, words Arthur already knows will not be the whole of the matter, but that he might be able to dig at enough to find the truth once Merlin lets him get a toe in the door. “You know my opinions on…duty. Royal duty specifically.”

Arthur frowns. For some reason, he hadn’t expected that. “Yes,” he replies, nodding. “But just because my father might have some machinations afoot – which Gaius only suspects, mind you – it doesn’t mean anything has to happen about it.”

“But it will, won’t it?” Merlin asks. “One day, you’ll receive an offer or arrangement you can’t refuse. You might start a war for refusing, or hurt Camelot in some way. You…” He sighs. “You have a Kingdom to inherit, Arthur, and one day there will be a match that you cannot realistically or reasonably reject. That upsets me. You should have the option to marry or mate for love, like the rest of us do.”

Love. Arthur has never been able to really place what that feeling is. He loves his father, absent and strict and mean-spirited though he can be. He loves his mother, though he’s never met her. He loves Camelot, and Morgana, and Gwen, and…

But romantic love? Like mating, Arthur has never allowed himself to dwell on it. “I might get lucky,” Arthur offers weakly. “I can be quite charming, you know, and I think I’m an excellent judge of character. It’s not impossible that there’s a Princess somewhere I might get along with well enough that…love can bloom after the fact.”

“But what if it doesn’t?” Merlin snaps harshly, glaring at Arthur’s chest.

“What if it does?”

“Wouldn’t you rather know?” Merlin asks. “Wouldn’t you rather…have someone whose smile you look forward to seeing every morning, who has your ear and your heart and whom you trust, who is good to you and whom you don’t have to hide from?”

“Of course I’d rather know,” Arthur rasps, and viciously cuts through the feeling that they’re not talking about some nameless Princess anymore. That, in Merlin’s entire list, there is one person who fits all those puzzle edges, and is certainly no Princess. He desperately tries to look for some other way to change the direction of this conversation. “Do you believe your mother loved your father?”

Merlin winces, his jaw clenching. “She said he told her it was love at first sight,” he says coldly. “Fat lot of good it did her.”

“There you go,” Arthur says.

“And he left. You won’t be given an option to leave, Arthur. Whether or not she loves you, or is good to you, or even if she’s -. What if she’s bad for Camelot, on top of being terrible?”

Arthur flinches, looking down, and Merlin lets out a rough, unhappy noise, close to a growl but without any heat. “I’m sorry,” he says, scrubbing both hands over his face. “I know I’m a peasant, I don’t understand the way things work in your world. I just…wish it could be different. You deserve to marry someone you want to be with, not someone your father thinks is a diplomatically good match.” He spits the words, as disgusted with them as Arthur had been when he’d discovered Merlin’s talisman.

Arthur breathes in, breathes out, tries to let the feeling of Merlin’s unhappiness slide off him like water, though he doesn’t quite manage. “Like I said, it’s not set in stone,” he says quietly. “And if there are genuine complaints to be made about any match, or her character, I can bring them to my father and he will do what is right.”

Merlin nods to himself, though the tension remains. His horse whickers quietly, nudging Merlin for a sweet, and Merlin reaches into his pocket for a sugar lump and holds it beneath her muzzle while she crunches on it, and Arthur’s horse snorts, annoyed at being denied the same. Merlin’s lips twitch and he tosses a second to Arthur to give to the stallion.

Merlin opens his mouth, closes it, steels himself; “Did the King love your mother?” he asks.

“Yes,” Arthur replies. “Tragically well.”

“I suppose neither of us have particularly good role models,” Merlin concedes. “I didn’t mean to argue with you about it, I know you’re not happy about this either. I just…wish,” he finishes with a defeated sigh.

“Who knows what the future holds?” Arthur says, forcibly light. “We might fall madly in love with each other, have ten children, and never want for anything. Stranger things have happened.”

Merlin laughs. Neither one of them comments on how strangled and sad it sounds, but at least Merlin doesn’t send him away again, and allows Arthur to pack up with him in tense, trembling silence.

Chapter Text

They leave the next morning at a swift pace, finishing up any quick chores they can for Hunith in the morning and Arthur leaving her all the coin he can spare. He makes a mental note to raise Merlin’s salary; he’d let slip that he sends most of his money to his mother, but clearly she’s still in dire need and the Crown can certainly spare it.

It will mean they have to make camp instead of spending nights at an inn, but that’s no trouble. He’s used to sharing space with Merlin and since Merlin is using his magic again, the fire will light easily and the air will remain warm, keeping them comfortable as winter sets in in earnest.

They make camp that first night after covering a good amount of ground, the horses tired and steaming gently in the cooling air as they loosely tie them in a good grazing spot and Merlin tasks himself with setting up their cover and beds while Arthur prepares their meal.

Things have been…not tense, Arthur wouldn’t use that word, but strained. It’s clear that the news of Arthur’s pending courtship still weighs on Merlin greatly, though Arthur has faith that if there is truly any protest from either party – him or Lady Vivian – then the King won’t pursue the match. Despite his many grievances towards his father, Arthur knows Uther can be fair about these things. Lady Vivian is not the only highborn lady that would make a good match, Arthur is still young and Uther is still strong. They have time.

He's contemplating this issue and how he might be able to assuage Merlin of his doubts when Merlin plops into place beside him with a heavy sigh, rubbing his shoulder and stretching his legs with a wince. Though they aren’t racing home, they rode harder than normal, and he can see the strain in Merlin’s shoulders and the weariness on his face.

Perhaps there is no way to alleviate Merlin’s concerns. Merlin thinks too hard, worries too much. He’s paranoid and too clever for his own good. There’s little Arthur can think of to say that might convince him; he will simply have to see for himself, that for all the Royals talk of duty and formality and tradition, there is still free will at Court.

“Your ears are steaming,” Merlin says, ladling soup into bowls for Arthur first, then himself. It’s not as good as when Merlin makes it, but it’s warm and filling and tastes good enough. Arthur has been watching Merlin long enough to know how to make a decent soup, and without the Knights around he doesn’t feel out of place doing the chores of a servant. “What’s on your mind?”

“I’m thinking about how Alphas court,” Arthur says, which is not what he was thinking about at all, but now that he’s said it, he can’t take it back. Merlin chokes on his mouthful, spluttering and in danger of dropping his bowl before Arthur leans over and takes it from him so he can have his overreaction without fear of burning his hands.

“Why –?” Merlin asks once he’s recovered, taking the bowl back. Their fingers brush but Arthur refuses to let that affect him. “Why are you thinking about that?”

“Because I don’t know,” Arthur says honestly. “And I’ll have to pretend. I’ve never had to before.” He takes a bite, the soup still very hot and making his mouth and throat feel tender, even as Merlin’s soothing magic rushes to relieve the discomfort. “It’s not like I can ask my father, and the only other Alphas who know my situation are Gaius, Leon, and you.”

“Right,” Merlin says weakly.

“I can’t exactly ask Leon,” Arthur says, grimacing in embarrassment. He knows he’s rambling but he can’t make himself shut up. “He’s basically like my teacher, or another father to me, I don’t even want to think about having this conversation with my father, and Gaius… Well, I doubt he remembers, even if he ever courted someone. Do you know if he did?”

“As far as I’m aware, he’s never had a companion. I don’t know if he still…thinks about that sort of thing,” Merlin says, cheeks blazing scarlet.

“So that leaves you,” Arthur declares, a little breathless.

“I don’t exactly know either! I’ve never courted anyone.”

“Well…” Arthur pauses, searching for a way forward in the conversation. Now that he’s started it, he feels like a dog with a bone, and wants to see it through. “What kind of things are typical? I’m going to have to play the part eventually, I might as well learn now.”

Merlin grumbles, his blush travelling to his ears and down his neck. “I don’t know.”

“Come on, Merlin,” Arthur mutters, nudging their knees together. “You must have some idea. You can’t think of anything? Make someone up if it helps.”

Merlin’s eyes dart to Arthur’s, a little more red than normal, Arthur notices, before he shifts his weight and clears his throat. “I suppose… Well, it depends, doesn’t it? Not all Omegas are built the same – or Alphas, for that matter.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Fine, then. Imagine you were courting me. What would you do?”

“I’d…” It’s clear Merlin doesn’t want to keep speaking, doesn’t want to share this clearly secret and vital information about Alpha courtship, but Arthur needs to learn, doesn’t he? He’ll keep pushing until Merlin gives in; he always does.

Merlin takes a breath, steeling himself, his knuckles white around his bowl. He stops even pretending to be interested in his food and looks at the fire instead. “I’d learn what you liked,” he begins, almost too soft to hear, voice raspy. “Your favorite foods. I’d try to bring them to you whenever I could. I’d make sure your swords and armor were always ready, make sure your horse was able to be saddled at a moment’s notice so you could go riding whenever you wanted. I’d…” He swallows loudly, throat clicking. “Alphas like to touch, mark their Omegas with their scent.” His eyes dart to Arthur again, then quickly away. “I’d make sure people could smell me on you.”

Despite himself, Arthur flushes, wondering what it could be like; a warm oven and a lightning storm. The promise of staying warm by the hearth while nature rages outside.

“I’d use my magic to keep you safe,” Merlin adds. “But that’s obviously not something every Alpha can do.” At that, the subtlest hint of pride; something that marks him as Other, as Above other Alphas. He’s almost smug about that. “Then I suppose just…talking. Always giving an ear or advice when I could.”

“You’re just describing how you are anyway,” Arthur says. Merlin presses his lips together and merely offers a shrug. “Those are the makings of a good servant, too.”

“I believe that’s what an Alpha should be,” Merlin says quietly. “A servant. A protector. Loyal, and devoted.” He sighs. “An Alpha’s highest priority should be their Omega. Everything else comes second, even myself.”

This is dangerous. Arthur feels it, like a prickling on the back of his neck. He’s suddenly terrified that someone might happen upon them, or overhear this conversation, even though they aren’t doing anything wrong. It feels like they’re doing something wrong.

“Alright,” Arthur murmurs, clearing his throat. “What about a woman, then? If you wanted to court one.”

Merlin snorts. “I’m not attracted to women,” he says.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Well, pretend.”

“I don’t know! I guess I’d…give her things, if I could. Accompany her to wherever she wanted to go, make her feel like a Queen even if she was a peasant.” He shrugs again and takes a bite of soup, chewing far too slowly so Arthur knows he’s trying to get out of the conversation. When Arthur merely waits patiently, Merlin sighs and shakes his head. “Recite poetry?”

Arthur bursts into laughter. “Poetry?”

“Well it’s not like I can purr or scent mark her,” Merlin snaps, though he’s grinning as Arthur laughs. “Women don’t notice that sort of thing.”

“So no poetry for your Omega?” Arthur teases.

“My Omega wouldn’t need it,” Merlin says, staring at the fire again, his voice abruptly soft, weighed down by longing.

There’s a lump in Arthur’s throat that magic can’t soothe. He tries to swallow past it but can’t. “Whoever you end up with will be lucky to have you,” Arthur says. “Though I’ll have to approve, of course. I can’t have you mating with just anyone.”

Merlin scoffs. “Of course, Sire, as long as they have your approval.”

Arthur smiles, and they go back to eating for a moment. “You’re not attracted to women at all?” he asks.

“Not so far, though admittedly I haven’t been close to many.”

“Gwen’s pretty,” Arthur offers.

Merlin looks at him, arching a brow. “So’s Morgana, what’s your point?”

Arthur’s nose wrinkles. “That’s my sister, Merlin.”

“And rest assured I have never thought about bedding your sister,” Merlin says, positively gleeful at Arthur’s discomfort, which makes Arthur want to retaliate in a very un-Princely way, such as flicking his spoon at Merlin or tackling him to the ground until Merlin relents. “Or Gwen, for that matter. She’s nice, and a good friend, but I’m not attracted to her.”

“Have any Omegas caught your eye?” Arthur asks, and he’s stupid for asking, but he can’t stop himself. The night is cold and dark, the fire their only light, and it feels safe in this magic-warmed space, a secret place that no one else can take from them, like the glade by Merlin’s home. “Will? Someone at Court?”

Merlin sighs sadly. “I think, if things had been different, I would have…with Will,” he admits, dragging his spoon across the bottom of his bowl. “But things changed. I love him, certainly, but not…like that.”

Since apparently Arthur has had a habit of blundering through massive truths between them, and because he so desperately wants to know, he doesn’t stop himself saying, “I overheard a little of your conversation that night. Something about a vision? About me?”

Merlin stiffens, entire body going tense as his eyes widen and he stares at Arthur. “You overheard that?” he practically squeaks.

“Not much,” Arthur reassures. “Just that it happened, and apparently he knew about it.” He won’t mention that he overheard very explicitly what Merlin said about destiny, because Merlin looks like he might faint to get out of this conversation and Arthur won’t allow that. “What was the vision of? You don’t have to tell me.”

Merlin lets out his breath slowly, shaking his head as though awed. “You notice far too much,” he grumbles, but he doesn’t sound that upset about it. He sets his bowl down by his feet and stares at the fire. Arthur follows his gaze when he sees Merlin’s irises flash gold, and from the fire leaps the figure of a man – a Knight, armored and wielding a long, two-handed sword, fighting against a dragon the color of gold and fire-red. It’s a molten creature, encased in smoke as the flames take its shape. It lunges down at the man and the man steps to one side, bringing its sword down on the creature’s neck. The beast lunges back and opens its mouth in a silent roar, before the fire leaps up to take back its pieces, and the whole thing disappears as though it was never there.

“That’s…me?” Arthur asks, a little weakly. He doesn’t make a habit of fighting dragons, after all – there hasn’t been a sighting of one in decades, since before he was born and his father conquered one such beast and put its likeness on his crest.

“I didn’t know it was you,” Merlin tells him. “I just knew that the man in my vision was the one I had to find, and that he was in Camelot. I didn’t realize until…” He stalls, clearing his throat, then forges on; “When we first met, and you put me in an armlock and threatened to execute me.” His mouth twists with a wry smile. How far they’ve come. “My magic knew – that you were him.”

“When did you have this vision?” Arthur demands.

“I was sixteen.”

So long ago. “Do you usually have visions?” Arthur asks, frowning at Merlin.

Merlin shakes his head. “No.” He coughs and takes up his meal again. “That’s been the only one so far. The circumstances haven’t repeated themselves to where I’d have another, I guess.”

Curiosity burns through Arthur like an ember, taking root in his stomach and blooming a sharp-fanged desire to interrogate Merlin further, but he resists the urge. Merlin has already said so much when he didn’t have to, and Arthur doesn’t want to make him regret speaking. All of Merlin’s secrets have been unravelling since he met Arthur, just like Arthur’s have for him.

No one knows him better than Merlin. The realization feels so new, even though he knows he must have understood that at some level for quite some time. Merlin knows him.

Merlin finishes his food in a rush, undoubtedly eager to finish the conversation and move on. Whether or not he’ll actually sleep is to be decided, but at least he’s not sick with suppressing his magic, and his demeanor doesn’t strike Arthur as worried anymore, so he counts that as a win.

“Thank you for telling me, Merlin,” Arthur says to his back. “I know I can be…”

“Pushy? Headstrong? Intolerably probing?” Merlin teases.

“To name a few,” Arthur says, smiling. “But I appreciate that you’re willing to answer my questions. It’s a rarer quality than you might think.”

Merlin turns to look at him, then, far back enough from the firelight that Arthur can no longer see the finer details of his expression, or whether he’s still blushing up to his ears. “It’s my job to take care of you,” Merlin finally rasps. “Leaving you in the dark about things isn’t taking care of you.”

That ember blooms warm and earnest in Arthur’s chest. He can’t help but smile. “Don’t ever change, Merlin,” he says, voice laden with affection.

Merlin clears his throat, whispers, “You either,” and turns towards the pallets to go to sleep.

Arthur isn’t surprised to find his father isn’t waiting to receive them when they get back. He didn’t send word, so Uther doesn’t know to expect them. He is surprised to find Morgana and Gwen on the steps leading to the castle, searching for them and smiling wide when they come through the gates. Gwen waves and Merlin waves back, and the women approach as Arthur and Merlin dismount and turn over their horses to the stable hands to take care of.

“I’ll go give these herbs to Gaius,” Merlin says, clutching some pouches to his chest. “I’ll see you for supper.”

Arthur nods, oddly bereft to see him leave. They’ve spent almost two weeks in each other’s pockets and the air around him feels empty and cold without Merlin taking up space.

Then Morgana and Gwen approach, exchanging fond smiles with Merlin as he passes them, and to Arthur’s complete surprise, Morgana embraces him in a warm, if brief, hug.

“The castle is buzzing with preparations,” Morgana tells him, letting him take her arm and placing her hand on his as Gwen falls to Morgana’s side, walking with them up to the castle. “Have you heard the news?”

“That the five Kings are coming for peace talks? Yes,” Arthur says.

Morgana nods, looks around them, then lowers her voice. “Have you…heard the other news?”

Arthur frowns, disquieted. “What have you heard?”

“Nothing,” Morgana says. “But there is…a certain energy, I suppose, surrounding the arrival of King Olaf and his daughter.”

So Gaius had more than just a hunch. Or Morgana managed to figure out something using her magic – he should make sure she and Merlin have plenty of time to speak to each other. Merlin can tell Morgana that Arthur knows, that he’s lenient towards magic, and perhaps she’ll feel safe enough to speak to him about whatever she sees and feels more openly.

Whatever happens, Arthur is done being left in the dark.

“Hopefully it’s just talk,” Arthur says, squeezing her arm. “I’m in no rush to get married.” She hums. “Did Merlin manage to make enough medicine for you while we were gone?”

Her eyes flash to his, a note of warning in how her lips press thin. “He did,” she says carefully. “It’s been very effective.”

“I’m glad,” Arthur says. “You should feel free to speak to him about whatever…symptoms you might have. I’ve found him to be an irreplaceable source of knowledge on the matter, with my own potions. And the like.”

She arches a brow, carefully examining his face. After a moment, Gwen politely clears her throat. “The King will want to see you, Sire,” she says apologetically. Arthur doesn’t blame her. He’s coming back after two weeks and certainly killed no griffin summoner. Arthur can only hope his father is too distracted with the upcoming preparations to dwell on it.

He releases Morgana and bows his head to her and Gwen. “Merlin will be in Gaius’ chambers,” he says meaningfully. “I strongly suggest you speak to him, before learning more Court gossip.” He smiles. “You’re all my eyes and ears now.”

Morgana looks fit to burst with her desire to question Arthur – clearly they both inherited that from their respective parents – but Gwen takes her arm and curtsies primly. “We’ll go right now, Sire,” she says, and steers Morgana away.

Arthur wonders if Gwen knows, too – about Merlin and Morgana’s gifts. He can’t imagine Morgana kept it a secret. Gwen is one of the most trustworthy and loyal people he knows. He’ll ask Merlin about it later.

Merlin

“Well, you’re not executed, arrested, or still wearing that terrible charm, so I have to imagine things went swimmingly.”

‘Home’ to Merlin is still Ealdor, it likely always will be, but home is also places inside Camelot. Arthur’s chambers, the feasting hall, Gaius’ rooms. He smiles and hugs the old man tightly after placing his pouches and sacks of gathered herbs, and feels tears welling – from relief, from joy, from fondness, all combined.

“He knows,” Merlin says. Gaius’ eyes widen comically, his mouth falling open. “He’s known for ages. He wanted me to destroy the talisman. He’s…” Merlin shakes his head, finally able to take a moment and think about how insanely lucky he is, how powerful this relief feels, to not to have to hide it from Arthur. “He knows.”

“And he didn’t exile or execute you,” Gaius whispers, awed. He shakes his head with a weak chuckle. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

There’s a knock at the door and Merlin turns, straightening when Morgana and Gwen walk in. “My Lady,” Gaius says with a polite bow. “Guinevere. What a nice surprise.”

“Apologies for the interruption, Gaius,” Morgana says, regal and graceful as she always is around the old man. Her respect and affection for Gaius is evident; her eyes and voice are soft whenever she addresses him. “Arthur thought it paramount we speak to Merlin.” Her gaze levels on him. “Apparently he has irreplaceable insight into ‘potions and the like’.”

Merlin frowns, baffled. Gwen clears her throat and looks at Gaius, then Merlin, then Morgana. “He mentioned something about Morgana’s medicine,” she says.

“Changing yet more of my recipes, Merlin?” Gaius grumbles.

Morgana smiles, catching Merlin’s pallor, and pats Gwen’s hand. “Gwen knows,” she says softly, then nods to Gaius. “So does Gaius.”

“So does Arthur,” Merlin blurts. Their eyes widen. “Not about…you. Well, he might suspect, but he doesn’t know any details. I didn’t tell him. But he found out about me.” He smiles shakily, near hysterical with relief. “He’s…fine with it. More than, in fact. Hasn’t batted an eye. Encouraged it, even. He…” He draws in a breath, lets it out. “He apologized that we’d still have to hide it, but mentioned changing the law. I think he’s… I think he’s going to change the law, when he’s King.”

“Goodness me,” Gaius says, and hurries to the door. He opens it, checks the hallway, then closes and bolts it. Without thinking, Merlin casts a silencing spell on the door, noticing how Gwen jumps a little and clutches Morgana’s arm, but doesn’t otherwise react. “So much excitement in one day.”

“How did he find out?” Morgana demands.

“I don’t know,” Merlin replies, shaking his head. “But he put two and two together – about how we helped with Valiant, about the griffin, and there was…” He gestures to his neck, grimacing. “I tried to wear something so that I couldn’t accidentally do anything about it, but he noticed that, too. He destroyed it right in front of me.”

Morgana’s eyes widen, glassy with tears. She puts a hand to her mouth and sinks onto one of the benches by Gaius’ table, shuddering. “I can’t believe it,” she whispers. “I mean, I saw it, but…”

“You saw it?” Merlin asks, drifting closer.

She shakes her head and takes the cup of water Gwen hands her with a smile of thanks. “I saw Arthur, King, on a battlefield. A great storm overhead, not a natural one. He was looking out to a high cliff and there was someone there, using magic, but wearing Pendragon colors, and I didn’t know what to think, I didn’t see his face, but if he changed the law, if that sorcerer was fighting on our side…”

She doesn’t say what they’re all thinking – that Merlin, without question, would join in a battle at Arthur’s side, that he is certainly powerful enough to summon a storm. He’s done it accidentally when he was young, so strong that it became a permanent scent etched into his skin.

“I can’t believe it,” she whispers.

“We are still a long way from Arthur becoming King,” Gaius says, arching a brow. “Caution must still be exercised. And hopefully quite a bit longer before things like grand magical battles come into play.”

But Merlin can’t help himself; he wants to believe, so badly, that there is a future where Arthur is King and willingly has Merlin in battle with him, helping him with magical weapons as he’s certainly no use with a sword.

“Have you seen anything regarding the Lady Vivian?” he asks. He tries to keep his voice neutral, but fails abysmally.

Morgana looks up at him, then shakes her head. “Nothing like that, no.”

Merlin clenches his jaw, grits his teeth. “Are you able to…try?”

“Merlin,” Gwen scolds softly, frowning at him.

Morgana sips her water, slowly reeling her emotions back under control. “I haven’t seen anything like that, and I don’t make it a habit to scry into Arthur’s love life,” she says curtly. Merlin shouldn’t care so much, but he does, damn him, he does, and he swallows back the demand that she tries because who Arthur mates with or marries matters, for the future of Camelot, it matters.

They stand and sit in tense silence for a moment, before Gaius clears his throat and rocks on his heels, fixing them all with a very stern look indeed. “So everyone here knows and so does Arthur. But that doesn’t matter, because Arthur is not King, and to wish him to be King this moment is treason, so I think we should all call it a day and carry on with the very important preparations for the five Kings. There’s no time to waste.”

Morgana nods, standing and setting her cup down. “Thank you for your time, Gaius,” she says with another fond smile, then looks to Merlin. She seems to deliberate something, and then sighs. “I’ll try,” she promises. “I know how much it means to you.”

“Who Arthur marries is important to all of us,” Merlin says, but it’s weak, and he knows she knows it.

She smiles, but has mercy on him, and doesn’t call him out on it. “Good day, gentlemen,” she says, and leaves with Gwen shooting a look over her shoulder at Merlin. He should apologize to her, but he’s not exactly sure what for.

Once they leave, he releases the silencing spell on the door, and collapses to the bench with a world-weary sigh.

“Arthur knows,” Gaius says softly, like he still can’t believe it. “If magic is welcome in Camelot, even a little, it will not escape notice.”

Merlin frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I mean magic speaks to the world, Merlin, and the world listens,” Gaius says cryptically, which doesn’t explain anything. “There are those in tune with the workings of the world that will sense reception, peace, safety with Arthur, through you.” He presses his lips together, frowning into the middle distance. “When you sleep, what do you dream about?”

Merlin’s frown deepens, confused by the question. “I try not to dream about anything,” he says honestly. “I almost burned the house down once, because I was cold and dreamed about setting a fire in my sleep.”

Gaius nods. “Do you ever hear…voices?”

“No… Gaius, what are you trying to say?”

“Nothing,” Gaius says a little too quickly. “But you will tell me if you start hearing voices, yes?”

“…Sure,” Merlin agrees.

“Good.” Gaius nods and smiles, the moment forgotten. “Now, what have you brought me, hmm?”

It still doesn’t sit right with Merlin, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he starts unpacking the herbs he gathered, much to Gaius’ delight and praise – “You have a good eye, my boy.” – and then there are chores Gaius clearly hasn’t bothered with since Merlin left, like cleaning the leech tank, and Merlin desperately needs a bath, so Gaius complains.

Though, Merlin thinks, he certainly smells like horse and the road and not having a decent wash since he left home – he also smells like Arthur, and he tries not to feel a little bereft as he washes that scent away. He’s grown rather used to it, and just smelling like himself, well…it makes his teeth itch.

Chapter Text

It is expected that Arthur makes all the appearances Uther will, as the future ruler of Camelot. He can’t say he’s terribly excited about the whole thing – being in the spotlight is something he’s had to become used to, his actions and decisions in and around Court something he navigates with the same tactical precision with which he might engage in battle.

He stands on the castle steps as Bayard’s entourage arrives, the familiar banner flying high above the first of many carriages and wagons. After the whole business with the poisoned chalice, they had left on shockingly good terms in Arthur’s opinion. It’s not every day an assassination attempt and jailing ends with a ruler coming back to speak on peace.

He looks up at his father, noting the expression on the King’s face. He looks more grey than normal, like the years are getting to him, and there are dark circles under his eyes that speak of many nights with advisors in meetings pending these talks that Arthur was not privy to, since he spent the last two weeks away.

“Father,” he says, trying to lighten the mood. “We're not going into battle, you don't have to look so somber.”

Uther’s expression doesn’t change. When he speaks, his voice is soft with wonder. “Never before have the rulers of the five Kingdoms come together in this way. Never before have we all worked towards the same aim, towards peace. If these talks are successful, Camelot will enter a new era of prosperity.” He breathes in, breathes out, his heavy robes rustling around him. “If they fail, we will almost certainly be at war.”

Arthur wishes Merlin could be standing by his side right now. He doesn’t feel quite as solid without Merlin’s warmth and steadiness at his shoulder, silently offering encouragement and a listening ear, a quick nod or shake of his head when Arthur silently seeks his opinion. Perhaps it’s unseemly for him to rely on Merlin so much – Merlin is a servant, after all, and certainly no advisor or courtier schooled in the ways of politics – but his insight has always proven invaluable, his hunches always correct, and it seems foolish to discard someone who has the ability to be Arthur’s eyes and ears, invisible to the higher stations. Someone they feel comfortable speaking and behaving openly around.

He hasn’t been able to see Merlin much at all – not that he lets that bother him. Not too much, anyway. He knows Gaius has been running him ragged on top of the chores the castle servants have had piled on them to see all the guest rooms prepared, the castle scrubbed to sparkling, all the armor and vestments as regal and noble as they ought to appear. Camelot must present herself as a strong ally, and a place where Kings feel comfortable negotiating for the future of their Kingdoms.

On top of that, apparently every King has at least two guests in need of some special tonic or perfume or potion, which has fallen to Gaius and Merlin to prepare in advance. The one time they managed to speak on it, Merlin simply mentioned how everyone and their mother needed something these days, and that he wished he could use magic on all of them to hasten the processes along.

It was a small moment, all things considered, but hearing Merlin mention his own magic so casually, the way he might complain about a stubborn dent in Arthur’s armor or not being able to convince one of the cooks to sneak him extra sweets, warmed Arthur so intensely, it stayed with him for the rest of the day. Knowing Merlin is comfortable enough around him to make comments like that settles something in Arthur’s skull; a worrying doubt that Merlin’s talk of trusting him and wanting to stay in Camelot with him was just talk, and not something he actually wanted.

They haven’t spoken further on Lady Vivian. It’s a tender topic, one Arthur can’t quite broach. He’s bracing himself for her arrival most of all.

“What kind of welcome is this?” The booming voice makes Arthur wince, though he tries to school his expression and keep his stance neutral as the giant King Olaf approaches him and his father. “You leave us hanging around like the last swallows of summer.”

Uther smiles thinly, regal to a fault. “You are welcome, indeed, Olaf.”

Olaf grins, all sharp angles and crooked teeth. “May I present my daughter, the Lady Vivian,” he says, and makes a grand sweeping gesture to the willowy woman at his side. She’s a few years younger than Arthur but has the clenched jaw and narrowed eyes of a seasoned combatant. She’s pretty, Arthur won’t deny that, but has an unignorable aura of defensiveness that’s almost aggressive.

“Lady Vivian.” Uther dips his head and Arthur does the same. “How like your mother you are.”

Arthur searches for some look between the two fathers, an expectant smile or agreeing nod for their two children to begin courtship, but he sees nothing of the sort. Arthur offers his hand to Vivian, but she gathers her skirts and walks past him into the castle, leaving him to hurry to catch up and lead her towards her chambers. They are some of the last to arrive even though it’s only midday – he already escorted King Alined and his squirrelly, clumsy squire to their chambers.

He leads her to her room, the walk completely silent. Her eyes are only ever focused straight ahead, not even looking to Arthur for direction as he leads them up the stairs and to the second floor. He opens the door for her and she steps in, expression unchanging.

He clears his throat, wondering if he should say something to her – that he has no intentions of making her uncomfortable here, and they don’t need to even make appearances together or speak at the dinners if she has no interest in their proposed courtship. Their fathers will understand, and they can decide on some other course of action, if any.

“I hope everything is to your satisfaction,” he says after a solid minute of her not turning to look at him or saying anything.

“It is…adequate,” she finally decides, nodding once in his direction. Her jaw still has not unclenched.

“Most of our guests are extremely happy here. I'm sure you will be, too.”

“Hm.” Her arched brow could put Gaius to shame. “I am not most of your guests.”

“…Indeed.” He notices Gwen approaching and steps back to let her inside, presenting her with a warm smile. “Well, may I present Guinevere. She'll be looking after you for the duration of your stay. You'll want for nothing. She is truly one of Camelot's finest.”

Vivian finally smiles, then, though it’s a sharp and cruel thing, not unlike her father. “Then I fear for Camelot.”

Gwen darts her eyes to him, but Arthur can’t think of a thing to say to that. He and Gwen back out of the room like they might back away from a rabid dog, and when the door closes and they’re a safe distance away, Gwen lets out a little uncomfortable laugh.

“Good luck with that one,” Arthur teases, shaking his head.

“I’ll just pretend she’s Merlin,” Gwen replies, smiling.

Arthur scoffs. Merlin can be insolent, sure, but he’s not rude. Well, he can be, certainly with his facial expressions if nothing else, but he’s not rude to Arthur -.

Except, well, yes he is, but with him it’s charming.

He squeezes Gwen’s shoulder reassuringly and leaves to rejoin his father to wait for the rest of the arrivals, and hopes he doesn’t have to see much of Lady Vivian in the next days. One thing is for certain; there will be no willing and enthusiastic courtship in the near future.

“You should have heard what she said to Gwen, Merlin!” Arthur bemoans from behind his changing screen. They’ve gotten to the point where Arthur doesn’t mind changing in front of Merlin – why would he? They’ve travelled together on the road where privacy was nowhere to be found, and he doesn’t have to hide his patches, and it just saves so much time instead of having Merlin run himself ragged on the stairs two extra times a day to fetch Arthur’s laundry.

“That bad, huh?” Merlin asks as he throws a new shirt over the screen, then moves away. The last shirt had a hole eaten right through the arm! Arthur appreciates that Merlin is willing to let his clothes go longer and become softer with use between extensive washings and replacements, but really, Merlin, a hole! “So we shouldn’t be expecting you to suddenly start writing poetry?”

Arthur rolls his eyes, inspecting and then pulling on the new shirt. “Anyone trying to impress the Lady Vivian does so at extreme peril. Olaf'd have their head in a vat of hot oil before they'd have a chance to say ‘Hello’. Besides, she may be beautiful, but her rudeness far surpasses that.”

“Anyone insulting Gwen should do so at extreme peril,” Merlin mutters.

“And you, for that matter.” Arthur sticks his head out from behind the screen so Merlin can see how serious he is. “This is going to be an important week, but that doesn’t mean everyone gets to mistreat you, or her, or any servant. I might not be able to do anything about it now, but when I’m King, I’ll want to know what kind of people I’m dealing with.”

Merlin smiles at him. “Consider my eyes open and my ears always perked, Sire.”

“Good.” Arthur goes behind the screen again, tugging on the laces to pull the deep V of the shirt together. It’s much fancier than he normally wears, and he can’t figure out how to tie the strings without leaving an unseemly amount of excess hanging down. He looks like a bedraggled vagrant. “Damn it.”

“Everything alright, Sire?”

“No.” Arthur huffs, then steps out from behind the screen and gestures to himself. “I look like a child in his father’s clothes! Come help me.”

Merlin shakes his head at Arthur fondly, but approaches without complaint, tugging the strings free with a small tut and rethreading them, starting at the bottom and working up. Arthur, without quite meaning to, finds that he’s holding his breath. Merlin’s never been this close before.

Well, he has, but usually they’re sitting side by side or Merlin is bowing over him to refill his goblet at a table, he’s not just standing there, flooding Arthur’s mouth and nose with his scent. Not usually tugging gently at Arthur’s clothes, the constriction around his back and shoulders growing tighter and more secure as Merlin pulls at the ties. He’s never been close enough that Arthur could lean in and nuzzle his hair, or touch his scent glands, or….do anything else.

Arthur can feel his cheeks heating and turns away as soon as Merlin is done. If Merlin notices his deep blush, he doesn’t comment on it.

“It’ll be alright, Arthur,” Merlin says after another long moment. Arthur wonders, not for the first time, what he smells like to Merlin. Even under the tincture Merlin gave him. He recalls with startling intensity the look in Merlin’s eyes when he’d scented Arthur’s slick, the very first time Arthur had ever seen him go red.

He shakes the thought away violently, baring his teeth at himself behind the screen. He doesn’t need to do anything else back here, but he can’t bring himself to risk eye contact with Merlin. He’s acting ridiculous, this is not the time to be lingering on thoughts of his…friend. His servant and his friend.

“You never know,” comes Merlin’s voice again, softer this time. Has he crept closer? Arthur dares not look out. “She might just be nervous. Sometimes people get mean when they’re nervous.”

“So I should be extra nice to her?” Arthur grumbles, grimacing at the thought.

“As much as you can without risking vats of oil,” Merlin teases. “She’ll rule her Kingdom, one day. Doesn’t hurt to plan for the future. Just being nice to someone can go a long way.”

Arthur huffs, and waits until his heart slows and his face doesn’t feel as hot before he steps back out from behind the screen and dons his robes. His father forbade chainmail and weapons being carried around while the Kings are here; their intention is peace, and it does no good to wander around looking paranoid.

But if Arthur is weaponless, Vivian still has her sharp tongue and mean eyes. It will not be easy to become her friend, even if it’s something Arthur desired to do. It’s going to be a long week.

Thankfully, Vivian and Arthur aren’t sat close to each other during the feast, so Arthur doesn’t have to attempt to entertain or impress her. Arthur is glad when King Alined’s squire, who is more of a jester apparently, provides the bulk of the entertainment, meaning Arthur can sit in his place and worry about not accidentally offending anyone.

“Now, I have a spectacle for the ladies!” Trickler declares with a wide smile, looking around the u-shaped tables before he reaches into his cloak and, from seemingly nowhere, produces a flock of butterflies.

Arthur’s eyes widen, and he sits forward in his seat, looking for a telltale flash of gold in Trickler’s eyes. But the man was turned away from him, and if there was any gold, it has faded by the time Arthur can look.

“It is skill, indeed,” Uther declares, his smile surprisingly genuine. A man might have just performed magic right in front of him, and he’s willing to indulge it as long as he thinks it’s a parlor trick. Arthur shakes his head internally, marveling at the dichotomy of his father’s allowances. Merlin could produce something three times as impressive with a mere flick of his wrist, and here Uther is, encouraging this shaman.

“Oh, Lady Vivian!” Trickler gasps, walking towards her. Her cold eyes meet his, her shoulders hunched. Olaf at her side glowers at Trickler as he reaches behind her ear and pulls out yet another butterfly, a shimmering blue and flapping lazily on his finger. “It has mistaken you for a beautiful flower.”

The Court chuckles and chortles in glee, and Uther claps his hands. Arthur’s fingers close into fists. He didn’t see it the first time, but noted it the second – gold, more than the normal ring of an Omega, shining in Trickler’s eyes. Magic.

Harmless magic, but under the rule of King Alined, this is a strange magic, and one Arthur does not want to trust.

“Merlin, I need a favor from you.”

Merlin looks exhausted, to put it plainly, but he is immediately at attention at the tone of Arthur’s voice. “What is it?” he asks, frowning and stepping closer.

“I saw Alined’s jester using magic,” Arthur says. “It seemed harmless, but…”

Merlin’s shoulders tighten, a strange expression on his face. “Were you…bothered by that?”

Arthur frowns.

“By magic?”

“…A little,” Arthur admits. “I don’t know this man. I don’t know his magic.”

“But it’s all the same, isn’t it?” Merlin asks, an edge in his voice.

“No, it’s not,” Arthur says, shaking his head. He sighs. “I know you. I trust you. I’m not going to tell my father or treat this man any differently, I just want you to…keep an eye on things. Please.”

Merlin’s jaw clenches, his nostrils flare as he breathes in and looks away. He sighs. “Alined’s jester, you said? Trickler?” Arthur nods, not even surprised that Merlin already knows the names of everyone that has arrived at the castle in the last day. “I’ll watch.”

“Thank you, Merlin,” Arthur breathes. Then; “I know how it sounds, I just -.”

“It’s alright, Arthur.” Merlin forces a smile. “It would be foolish to be cavalier about this sort of thing. You can’t be too careful.”

“I need you to understand that when I am King, there are going to be things I’ll need your help with,” Arthur says. “You said you don’t know things about my world, but the opposite is true, too. I know the broad strokes of how my people live, but not the details. I wouldn’t understand why a man is so upset over a stolen chicken, or how much it actually costs to mend or build paddock fencing. Neither will any of my advisors. I won’t know anything about magic, or be able to…feel out ill intentions like that. It’s not just an abundance of caution – I want to be able to see and understand everything I can, and right now I need your help to do that.”

Merlin’s eyes soften, his shoulders lowering as he accepts that with a tired nod. “I understand, Arthur, really. I’m sorry. I’m just…prickly about the whole thing, I suppose.”

“And we should talk about it,” Arthur promises. “I’ll learn, I swear I’ll learn. When there’s time.”

“Right.” Merlin huffs and smiles. “I never thought I’d say this, but I think Uther might be one of the more reasonable Kings I’ve ever met. Or at least one of the less demanding.”

Arthur grins. “Just wait until the peace talks start.” He laughs when Merlin groans.

Arthur has strange dreams that night. He’s been having them a lot, recently – usually about Merlin, magic, or Merlin using magic. His mind is quick to invent scenarios of Merlin coming to his rescue in a battle, or standing by his side while Arthur sits on the throne and listens to petitions, leaning in to offer counsel whenever a subject proves particularly hairy.

Sometimes, in his dreams, Merlin is cruel and awful, corrupted by magic, his veins painted black and purple as he tortures a nobleman with nothing but a curl of his fingers and a wicked, mean smile – Arthur little more than a puppet King on a fool’s gold throne. In others, Merlin is healing the sick, his hands and eyes glowing, his and Arthur’s fingers entangled over bandages pressed tight to a bleeding wound.

Once, his dream puts him on a hill, at a war council, while a great storm is brewing outside. The enemy soldiers are trembling with fear, his spymaster claims, as they know Camelot has a powerful contingent of sorcerers on their side. And Arthur, in this dream, bares his teeth in a smile, giddy at the prospect of smelling it amidst the blood and iron. Fear: potent, heady, delicious. Him covered in blood and viscera, triumphant, with Merlin at his side, pristine and smiling.

This dream is not like those. For one, Merlin doesn’t feature at all. Instead he touches flaxen hair and softens a clenched jaw into a smile. The scent of wildflowers overpowers his senses, he’s with a woman, beautiful and laughing, with butterflies in her hair.

When he wakes, he feels dopey, like he’s already been at the wine. Alarm bells ring inside his skull, the hound in his mind stumbling drunk while the beast hisses inside his chest. This feels like the medicine he had when he was a child, before puberty; something to make him amicable and meek.

But oh, the day! The sun is shining brightly, the leaves are still clinging to their proud heads of gold and brown, and here is Merlin, who is so good to Arthur and is really such a wonderful servant, and whom Arthur can trust with anything.

By the end of his dream, the woman had taken shape, the butterflies morphing into the Lady Vivian – cool as stone and beautiful as marble. Untouchable, her defenses up. What Arthur would do to see them crumble, to see her smile! He must make it happen immediately.

“Merlin!” he cries, throwing his arms around the Alpha and hugging him tightly. Merlin stiffens, even when Arthur squeezes him to try to get him to reciprocate.

Ah, well. Nothing will dampen Arthur’s mood today, even Merlin’s ever-present dourness, he thinks fondly. “Good morning, Sire,” Merlin says, smiling in confusion and a little breathless.

“Never have you been more right, Merlin. It is the sunniest, the most fragrant, the most beautiful morning I've ever seen in my life.”

Merlin frowns, cocking his head to one side. “You seem chipper,” he notes.

Arthur grins at him. “Of course I am! Today I make my proclamation of love!”

Merlin’s frown deepens, which is really very unseemly of him. He should smile more, Arthur decides, but that thought is quickly swept away by the prospect of seeing the Lady Vivian. Where is his breakfast? Ah, Merlin brought it, and set it down before Arthur ambushed him. Good! A Prince should be well-fed when he takes up the task of wooing!

“A proclamation of love?” Merlin repeats. “To whom?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Why, the Lady Vivian, of course!”

Merlin’s eyes widen, he freezes. “The Lady Vivian?” he squeaks. “What about vats of oil and overprotective fathers and the fact that she’s…rather hostile to any kind of attention?”

“That doesn’t matter when it comes to the heart, Merlin!” Arthur declares. “I want to tell the world. I want to shout it across the Kingdom. Her father will approve of the match, I’m sure – no one could refuse such an apparent good match. We’re made for each other!”

Merlin’s eyes widen even further, in great danger of falling out, and he swallows. “Quite right, Sire,” he says weakly, and then he approaches Arthur and takes him by both shoulders. “If that’s the case, then such a task will require you to be well-rested. You can’t very well declare your love for your Lady -.”

“Vivian,” Arthur sighs dreamily.

“Yes, without looking at your absolute best!” Merlin’s eyes glow gold – a very pretty gold, like Vivian’s hair – and he gently pushes Arthur back down onto his unmade bed. “I insist you rest, Sire, and I’ll make sure that everything is prepared for you to profess your love.”

Arthur is feeling rather sleepy, actually. His dreams were so strange and filled him with intense longing, and Merlin is right – Merlin is always right, really, Arthur would do well to heed his advice. He’s nodding along like a dumb mule as Merlin presses him down and tucks him in.

“Get some rest, Sire,” Merlin says, urgently watching for when Arthur sleeps.

“Make sure you wake me before the feast, Merlin,” Arthur mumbles, eyes already closed. “I can’t wait a day longer. I must make my love known!”

“Of course, Sire, of course,” Merlin whispers. Or, it sounds like he’s whispering, and very far away. No matter. Arthur succumbs to sleep rather quickly, the beast in his chest hissing at the bars of its cage – a cage it hasn’t been jailed to for a long while – as though desperate to get out and run far, far away.

But the beast is covered in oil and tar, and the bars are too slippery, and it cannot break free.

Merlin

Merlin waits until he is certain that Arthur is asleep before scurrying out of his chambers. He checks the hallway to see that there are no guards, before locking the door with a quick binding charm, and then silencing it for good measure. He doesn’t know how long Arthur will sleep for, but he doesn’t want anyone to hear him shouting to be let out so he can make an even bigger mess.

He must not leave this room, no matter what.

That done, Merlin sprints to Gaius’ chambers, and damn near collides with Morgana and Gwen as he slams the door open. They whirl on him, Morgana’s eyes wide.

“We have a problem,” Merlin mutters, quickly locking and silencing the door as Gaius frowns at him. “Arthur’s in love.”

“I saw it,” Morgana breathes. “Last night. It already happened?”

Merlin nods, fists clenched at his sides. “Arthur's completely besotted, he can't concentrate on anything. All he thinks about, all he talks about is...is the Lady Vivian.”

“The Lady Vivian?” Gaius asks. “How could that have happened so suddenly?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin snaps. He takes a breath, trying to calm down, but calm won’t come to him. He can’t shake the look on Arthur’s face from his vision, love drunk and swaying, his eyes practically glowing with joy. Lady Vivian made him look like that? Merlin will eat his own neckerchief if that’s the case.

And there is something, something darker and buried deeper down, that is filled with rage. Arthur shouldn’t be looking like that at anyone but him.

“Something doesn’t feel right,” Merlin says. “Only yesterday he dismissed her as rude, didn’t say anything about liking her at all.”

“She is rude,” Gwen mutters. “Nothing makes her happy. It’s not like she’s a Princess or anything.” She rolls her eyes and Morgana smiles at her, but her smile quickly fades when she looks at Merlin again.

“So you don’t know the culprit?”

“No. Do you?”

She shakes her head. “I only saw shadows. Someone poured a potion into Arthur’s eyes, I didn’t see the person’s face.”

“Arthur said that Alined’s jester performed magic at the feast last night,” Merlin mutters. “I’d put money on him being involved somehow.”

Gaius makes a low noise, looking troubled. “If Arthur professes his love for Vivian, Olaf will be furious. Surely, Arthur knows that?”

“Yes, he’s very familiar with Olaf and his vats of hot oil,” Merlin says flatly. He scrubs both hands over his face and sighs into them. “He wants to woo her. Declare his love tonight. I cast a sleep spell on him and locked and silenced his door, but he can’t be absent forever. Uther will call for him eventually.”

“We must find the nature of this spell immediately,” Gaius declares, already moving to the hidden compartment and older shelves of texts, where buried remnants of magic remain, too-often looked over by anyone who might care to notice.

“We’ll stay and help,” Morgana says, Gwen nodding at her side. “Merlin, if Trickler is the culprit, perhaps he has something in his room that will help us? Or you can confront him…” She trails off, brow creasing, but Merlin’s already ahead of her. He will do whatever it takes to find and reverse this spell.

Kill the caster, something whispers in his skull. Potions don’t work that way, he knows that, but the snarling thing in his chest doesn’t give a damn about that. Rip his throat out. He touched Arthur, he dared to touch Arthur. He came into his room while you were gone and you weren’t protecting him.

Merlin clenches his jaw, molars grinding together. He nods at the three of them and leaves the room.

He goes to Arthur’s chambers first, pleased to find that his spells have held and no one seems to have sought after Arthur in the meantime. Now that he knows to pay attention to it, he breathes in deeply, upper lip curling back when he detects the faintest hints of foreign scent. Trickler – an Omega, subservient to his Alpha King, of course he would be used to do the King’s dirty work, and not put up much of a fight. His impression of King Alined has been rather neutral before this, but now Merlin hates him with a fiery passion.

How dare he order someone to come to Arthur’s rooms, how dare he try to use magic right under my fucking nose, how dare he how dare he how dare he…

He follows the scent to Arthur’s bed, glad that he still looks deep in slumber, his eyes roving gently back and forth beneath his closed lids. He really is beautiful, Merlin can’t help but think, even more so in sleep, without the promise of frown lines, without the weight of his position on his shoulders.

Merlin’s fingers curl, itching to touch. He’d been so close last night; Arthur’s never invited him that close before, usually just invades his space and nudges Merlin whenever he desires. He was close enough to smell Arthur beneath his tincture, fresh and warm and sweet.

His mouth waters. He swallows it back, ashamed of himself, and begins to carefully search Arthur’s bed. He looks beneath, between each set of sheets and blankets as much as he can without disturbing Arthur, and finally, he checks beneath the Prince’s pillow.

He finds a lock of golden hair, that still holds a trace of Vivian’s perfume. He growls to himself and resists the urge to set the damn lock aflame out of spite.

“Why would he want Arthur to fall in love with Vivian?”

Gaius frowns, considering the lock of hair. “An advance by Arthur would be a sure-fire way to ruin the peace conference. Maybe Alined wants war.”

“Without creating it himself,” Morgana finishes, flat and unimpressed.

Gaius sighs. “It's the sort of cowardly behavior you would expect from him. Cowardly, but clever.”

“Any luck with finding what this spell is?” Merlin asks a little desperately. “I can’t keep him locked in his room forever. We need to find a way of turning Arthur back to normal.”

“There are hundreds of love spells in these books,” Gaius says, gesturing to their spread-out horde. “And over one hundred and fifty of them involve a lock of hair.” He pauses. “Give or take a few dozen.”

Merlin groans. “And we can’t narrow them down a bit?”

“Well,” Morgana says, pointing her finger towards one. “If you choose this one, and it’s wrong, Arthur will be turned into a toad. And if this one’s wrong, Vivian will lose all her hair.”

“Olaf might not declare war for that, but Vivian certainly would,” Gaius chuckles.

Merlin is not chuckling. Merlin isn’t even smiling. Tension rolls off him in waves, crackles of lighting in his veins as he tries to calm himself down and not set the whole damn castle ablaze out of frustration. Arthur can’t declare his love for Vivian if she’s dead, if they’re all dead -.

“We’ll figure it out, Merlin,” Gwen says softly. She doesn’t approach him, and her expression is rather tense. Her eyes keep darting to Merlin’s fists, which have clenched so tightly his nails have cut into his palms. Try as he might, he can’t unclench them.

Merlin eventually has to go back to Arthur’s chambers, if for no other reason than he’s becoming paranoid that Arthur will wake up and do something stupid like jump from his window to search for Vivian. He doesn’t know the extent of this potion’s effects, if it could convince someone to risk their own life in pursuit of their love.

Though, he supposes, trying to court King Olaf’s daughter certainly risks Arthur’s life.

There’s a knock at the door, and Merlin tenses, looking to Arthur. He’s still sound asleep, thankfully, but it’s almost noon and talks will have begun again. Someone will send for Arthur shortly and then Merlin will have to make sure he remains on task and doesn’t do something very public and very loud that will end with him starting a war.

He opens the door, eyes widening when he sees the Lady Vivian, dressed in only her nightgown and a cloak, hair still in disarray, and wearing a very familiar expression of dopey, glazed-eyed happiness.

“I wish to see Arthur. Your master,” she declares, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. “My Lord,” she sighs dreamily.

“Oh, no,” Merlin mutters.

“Where is he?” she asks, standing on her toes and trying to peek in. Merlin almost slams the door in her face, blocking the thin open section with his body.

“Not here, which is a very good thing, I believe!”

“Then I shall wait!” she says, pushing the door open.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea!” Merlin shouts, internally wondering if letting her in or laying a hand on her to keep her out will send him to the executioner’s block faster. “You’re not even dressed, my Lady!”

“My love does not care what I wear, only that I am near. Now fetch him.”

This is bad. Merlin can hear the sounds of heavy booted feet approaching, the gruff cajoling of King Olaf and Alined and Bayard along with Uther’s quieter, smoother ripostes. They’re not coming here, are they? Gods above, they are.

“I cannot,” Merlin says.

“You will!”

“Shan’t.”

She glares at him, arching a brow and putting her hands on her hips. “As he commands you, I command you!”

And of course now would be the time the sleeping spell wears off. Merlin hears Arthur snuffling awake, grumbling quietly. Vivian’s eyes light up. “My love!” she cries.

“Vivian!” Arthur says, suddenly alert as can be.

And that is when Uther, Bayard, Alined, and Olaf round the corner – as Vivian bursts through the door and throws herself into Arthur’s arms across his damn bed.

“What is the meaning of this?” Olaf snarls, his eyes flashing red and his face twisted into a terrible scowl as he spies the scene in the room. Instinctively Merlin goes to block the door – he will not let a bunch of Alphas into Arthur’s rooms, damn it – but then he remembers that these are all Kings and he can’t rightly refuse them entry. He hovers next to the door, brimming with nervous energy and magic. He’ll out himself to save Arthur’s life, if he has to.

Vivian looks up from where she and Arthur were enthusiastically embracing, her cheeks flushed and her eyes practically glowing. “You cannot keep us apart. It's written in the stars! Vivian and Arthur. A love for all time. A love stronger than time. A love...”

Gods, how he wishes he could shut her up. Maybe for good. Maybe if she swallowed her own tongue for a while she’d appreciate how good she had it, and how important her words are.

“Unhand her!” Olaf roars, striding in and yanking Vivian away. Both she and Arthur cry out in despair, reaching for each other.

“My Lord, if I have dishonored you in some way, then, by all means, provide me with proof and I'll face the consequences.”

“She is in your chambers and you were just pawing at her like some tavern drunkard!” Olaf says, his face red with rage.

Outside the door, a shadow moves. Merlin turns his head, his eyes narrowing on Trickler as he spots him, skulking about in the shadows. The Omega freezes when Merlin sees him, his eyes widening. Was he using some kind of concealing charm? He will need to do much better than that.

Arthur is still talking – gods, he should shut up, they both should – but it doesn’t look like Olaf is going to cut him down right this moment, so Merlin focuses on Trickler and attempts something he has not attempted for a long time.

Minds are like houses. Some are grand castles, stretching high into the clouds, with libraries of information and memories to pick through at leisure. Some are simple, humble hovels, fit with all the comforts of home but with no greater ambition.

Trickler’s is like a cave, dark and foreboding and ripe with secrets. Merlin walks to the mouth of the cave and says, You did this.

Trickler visibly startles, his eyes wide and fearful. He might have squeaked, but whatever charm he’s using silences his involuntary sound.

A whisper comes back from the caves, echoing and hissing like a serpent. Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.

Tell me how to reverse it, Merlin tells him with a snarl, or I’ll tear you to shreds.

Trickler eyes him, a slight smirk on his face. Oh will you, serving boy?

Yes, Merlin says, not taking the bait and succumbing to the urge to gloat. He has the Prince’s ear, has proven himself more than worthy of the King’s trust. At least enough that his opinions will not be outright discarded, especially when it comes to Arthur’s safety. Any of that is information Trickler can use, and Merlin refuses to give it to him. Tell me how to reverse it.

Trickler must hear something in his mind’s voice, or see it in Merlin’s eyes. He shudders and draws his cloak of darkness around him tighter. It can be reversed with True Love’s Kiss, he tells Merlin, eyes shining with glee. Do you know Arthur’s true love, sorcerer?

“My friends,” Uther says, drawing Merlin’s attention. “This is a momentous day. We were but moments away from signing the peace treaty -.”

Olaf tears off his gauntlet and throws it at Arthur’s feet. “I say you have offended my honor, and you will pay the price. What say you now, Prince Arthur?”

Arthur looks aghast. “How have I offended your honor? Surely not with my love alone?!”

“Love?! You don't know the first thing about love! You're taking advantage of an innocent girl!”

“Father!” Vivian cries, still struggling in Alined’s arms where Olaf passed her to throw down his challenge.

“Arthur,” Uther warns.

Arthur stands, looking very unkempt indeed and certainly not the pinnacle of honor. “I assure you, my feelings for your daughter are as real as they are strong.”

“You will say it is not so, or suffer the consequences. Is this really worth risking your life for?” Olaf demands.

“It is!” Arthur declares. He smiles at Vivian, and does indeed look very much in love. Merlin’s sick to his stomach. “I would rather die than deny my feelings. I love your daughter with all my heart.”

With that, he picks up the glove. The challenge has been accepted. Merlin turns to find Trickler, but he has disappeared.

Arthur

Arthur watches his father pace, his face both pale with nervousness and flushed red with anger. “It's no good. I've spoken to Olaf, he will not rescind the challenge. He says his honor has been tainted. He demands recompense.”

Arthur shakes his head, frowning. “You didn’t have to do that, father,” he says kindly. Doesn’t he know that Arthur meant every word? He will fight for Vivian’s honor, if that’s what Olaf demands. He can think of no greater show of his regard!

Who needs poetry? All the best love letters are written with steel.

Uther whirls on him, and looks like he could shake Arthur for all the good it would do. “The fight is to the death!” he snarls. “What did you think you were doing?”

Arthur shrugs. “You can’t help who you fall in love with.”

“You do realize that your actions threaten the peace talks,” Uther hisses. “It may bring war to Camelot!”

“I am happy to fight for what I believe in.”

Uther stares at him, and then turns to Merlin, who has been a very present but rather unhelpful ghost in the hours following Olaf’s challenge. Not that Arthur needs him around, but it’s rather strange that Merlin hasn’t been speaking his mind. Didn’t he want Arthur to marry for love? Now he is! What joy!

“What’s happened to him?” Uther whispers to Merlin, desperate and dismayed.

Merlin clears his throat and opens his mouth, but Arthur stops him. “Lady Vivian. Nothing more. And yet, who could wish for more?” Arthur sighs.

Uther looks between them, then throws up his hands in defeat and leaves. Arthur leans back on his bed, staring up at the canopy with his hands behind his head. “You said your parents were love at first sight,” he says. “Is love at second sight possible? Or was it third? I can’t remember.”

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers, coming to his side. “You’ve been enchanted. Can’t you feel it?”

Arthur frowns up at him. “Enchanted?”

“Trickler, you remember you asked me to keep an eye on him? He has ensorcelled you – and her, apparently.”

Arthur’s frown deepens. The beast in his chest has felt very restless, like there’s an oil on its skin it doesn’t recognize and doesn’t like. The stink of wrong magic smells like Vivian’s perfume.

Vivian. He thinks of her and smiles again, off in dreamland.

“I should reward him, then,” he sighs wistfully. “I’d have never realized my true love was right in front of me without him!”

Merlin rubs a hand over his face, huffing angrily. “We need to find a way to break the spell, Arthur. Is there no one else you love? Before her?”

“There is no before her,” Arthur snaps, glaring at Merlin. “And there will be no after. She is everything, my love, my future Queen, ah…” He closes his eyes, sighing happily. “She will look rather splendid in Pendragon red, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Merlin mutters, and moves away. Which is rather good – the scent of thunderstorms was becoming quite distracting. It’s nothing like Vivian’s heady, floral perfume. Arthur could drown in it; pieces of it remain in his sheets, on his clothes. He turns his head to try and seek more, but only finds forests fresh from rain, thunderstorms and lightning strikes. It’s rather pleasant, as well.

Confused but content, Arthur curls up in his bed, and doesn’t notice Merlin muttering another curse to himself before leaving Arthur’s room.

Merlin

“He admitted to it,” Merlin snarls, glaring down at the books spread out in front of him. “I’ve tried to reverse it, but I can’t. His magic is strong, but I know it’s not stronger than mine. How can it be stronger than mine?”

“True Love’s Kiss,” Gaius sighs, nodding with a resigned expression. “It’s a powerful magic, Merlin. The kind of thing that entwines itself with destiny. It is not so easily dissuaded by a mortal man, even one of your power.

“We have to go to Uther,” Merlin says, looking up desperately. “It’s a fight to the death!”

“If Uther realizes that one of the Kings is using magic, there will certainly be a war. The only way out of this situation is to unenchant Arthur. And unenchant him fast.”

“Oh, do you happen to know who Arthur’s true love is? Please, send for them at once. Dress them all pretty and make them kiss Arthur with no preamble whatsoever. I’m sure that will go over swimmingly.”

“Sarcasm is not a good look on you,” Gaius mutters. “The tourney is in less than an hour. You need to be at Arthur’s side, ready to defend him if need be.” He settles a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “I will continue my work here and see what I can find. But if it’s a kiss the spell needs…”

Merlin puts his head in his hands, growling low to himself. It’s almost a whine, really. “This is my fault. Arthur told me to keep an eye on Trickler, I should have been there, and stopped him. I should have…”

“Merlin,” Gaius says, in such a way that it makes Merlin look up at him. The old physician’s face is drawn, heavy and worldly even beyond his years. He breathes in deeply and then sighs. “I have a theory.”

Merlin waits, and makes an impatient noise when Gaius doesn’t immediately continue.

Gaius frowns down at the books. “The wording of this spell,” he begins, taking his sweet time if Merlin’s opinion mattered on the subject. “I believe it could only take effect if Arthur’s true love was, in fact, known to him. It’s a concealment charm, in a way. It blinds the subject to the truth and covers up the reality of their heart.” He purses his lips, then shakes his head. “It’s just a theory, but you know Arthur better than anyone. If Arthur does have a True Love, it will be someone he already knows. Someone you might know, by extension.”

Merlin swallows, the feeling like a hot stone sinking down into his stomach. Inside his veins, magic pulses, eager and anticipatory.

“Can you think of anyone?”

To his credit, Gaius looks guileless. But it’s no secret. It hasn’t been a secret on Merlin’s part for quite some time.

He nods to himself and closes his book, standing to leave. “Whatever happens…” he begins, then falls silent. It doesn’t matter. It will work or it won’t. Arthur will die or he won’t. There will be a war, that is for certain. Merlin can only hope Arthur forgives him his transgressions, so Merlin can fight by his side through the inevitable fallout.

He does not think about how, if Arthur falls, Merlin will strike Olaf down where he stands. That kind of detail seems inconsequential at the moment, and he can’t find it within himself to argue. That fate is certain, too.

Arthur

Gwen is helping him with his armor, his father’s voice booming far too loud from outside the tent:

“King Olaf has demanded recompense. And by the ancient laws of Camelot, the matter will be settled by a tourney with three stages. The weapons chosen are quarterstaff, mace, and sword. The fight will be by the Knights' Rules, and to the death. Are we all clear?”

Arthur strides out to a chorus of cheers, grinning at the gathered courtiers and subjects who were able to hear the gossip and come as fast as they could. In the King’s stand, the other Kings are gathered except for Olaf, and – ah, there she is, shining brighter than the sun. He waves at Vivian and she gleefully waves back with both hands, pressing her fingers to her lips and sending kisses Arthur’s way.

The first fight doesn’t go well. Olaf manages to use his great hulking strength to get past Arthur’s defenses entirely, sweeping him at the knee. Arthur rolls to safety but in his attempt to block, Olaf shatters Arthur’s quarterstaff entirely and slams his weapon into Arthur’s ribs.

Pain blooms brightly along his side as he staggers out of the ring, trying not to breathe too deeply. Merlin is there, watching with open fear in his eyes. He catches Arthur at the shoulder and feels down his injured side, where the armor has dented and molded to his ribs.

“One of your ribs is broken,” Merlin snarls, angrier than Arthur has ever seen him. So he understands how foolish this whole thing is, and has finally come around! That’s good, Merlin is always so dependable.

Arthur smiles at him. “Nothing can hurt me today. I'm invincible,” he says, making Merlin scoff. Soothing magic tingles through Arthur’s limbs, Merlin’s head ducked low to hide his eyes. Arthur laughs with delight at the feeling, that oil being replaced with something much more pleasant. “Love really can conquer all, it’s true.”

“This can’t go on,” Merlin says. “This fight’s not fair. I don’t know what to do.”

Arthur sighs at him. “It’s alright, Merlin,” he says, taking Merlin by the chin and forcing him to lift his face. The gold in his eyes immediately fades, snuffed out forcibly to avoid detection. Arthur brushes his thumb along Merlin’s chin, wishing he could simply be happy for Arthur and continue to do what he does best; be there, and help. “My specialty is with the mace. As long as I have Vivian to gaze at, I can conquer the world. You’ll see.”

Merlin swallows, opens his mouth to speak, but the call has come for the second bout. Arthur’s ribs are feeling much better, and he hefts his mace with a cheerful swing as he saunters back into the ring.

Olaf is not any gentler, nor does he seem to tire. Wherever Arthur tries to put his feet, the great brute’s bulk is there, blocking him from getting a good footing to swing. His blows come down like thunderclaps, strong enough to shatter rock as they bang into Arthur’s shield and send throbbing pain up his arm.

Merlin will have his work cut out for him, Arthur thinks with a joyous cry as he lands the first hit, to much applause from Vivian.

Despite himself, he’s getting tired. His thoughts are too consumed by his Lady, and Merlin really couldn’t have put some invigoration magic into his armor or mace? It seems only fair to combat this absolute beast of a man.

Olaf surges forward with a battle cry, knocking Arthur back, but before he can press his advantage, the gong is rung, signaling an end to the round. Arthur grins at Olaf’s back as the big man stalks away, throwing his mace and shield to the ground in disgust. Arthur’s own shield is shattered as he unbuckles it and lets it fall, setting the mace up by a post as he returns to his tent for Merlin’s oh-so-helpful healing.

Merlin is there, of course, looking frantic and nervous, fists clenching at his sides.

“Are you finally going to wish me luck?” Arthur says. “You haven’t yet, you know.”

“No, Arthur,” Merlin snaps. Arthur frowns at him. “I am not going to wish you luck.”

“Well, honestly, that’s rather rude,” Arthur says. He is not pouting, he certainly is not. What is there to pout about on a day like this one?

Merlin steels himself, sucks in a breath, and whirls on Arthur, striding towards him. He puts both hands on Arthur’s shoulders, which Arthur likes very much, he could use a bit of healing magic before the next -.

“Don’t have me arrested if this doesn’t work,” Merlin says.

And then Merlin kisses him.

Arthur freezes, for a moment completely taken aback.

And then it feels like everything breathes a sigh of relief. He exhales, his posture loosening abruptly. He cups the back of Merlin’s neck and fists his other hand in that ridiculous ratty neckerchief and kisses him back. The cage around the beast in his chest dissolves in an instant, and it can shake the oil and tar off its skin and fur, and the hound in his head lets out a joyful chorus.

Merlin growls, sensing Arthur’s surrender, and pushes him back against one of the tables in his tent, knocking over a pitcher of wine and jostling Arthur into sitting on it. He clenches his fingers in Merlin’s hair and then yanks himself away with a pained gasp as his bruised and possibly broken arm makes its complaints known.

“Ow,” Arthur hisses.

Merlin doesn’t move – he can’t, with how Arthur is holding him. His forehead is pressed to Arthur’s shoulder and he’s breathing heavily, hands gripping Arthur’s waist like his armor might as well be made of cloth.

“What’s – what am I doing?” Arthur demands. His arm hurts terribly, his ribs are sore, and Merlin just kissed him.

“You’re in a fight to the death,” Merlin tells him, voice muffled. “And you’re losing.”

Arthur frowns. That does sound very familiar, but odd, as though it happened to someone else, or happened to him in a dream. “But…”

“King Alined’s jester enchanted you. And Vivian. This was…” Merlin clears his throat and straightens, moving away. His cheeks are blazing red. Arthur’s hand has lost its strength, and he releases Merlin without protest. “This was the only thing I could find to break the spell.”

“A kiss?” Arthur presses.

Merlin’s blush darkens further. “I was running out of options.”

Arthur opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He wants to ask what Merlin means – options? What other options were there? Why a kiss? It worked, that much is certain, but could it have been anyone? Inwardly, he rejects the idea, though he desperately wants to know. Would Merlin kiss him out of a sense of duty?

Does he want to do it again?

Arthur does, he realizes. He’d quite liked kissing Merlin.

“There’s no time to explain,” Merlin says, eyes wide as the gong rings out, gaze darting to the tent flaps. “Just…live, Arthur. You have to live.”

Of course I’ll live, Arthur wants to say, but the charm has worn off, and he’s very sore, and Olaf is very strong. He nods to himself and presses his lips together, noting how warm they are, how they’re tingling slightly.

“Can you heal my arm?” Arthur asks dumbly, lifting the limb. “I think it’s broken.”

The third fight does not start off well either. Merlin followed Arthur out to the side of the arena, and Arthur can feel Merlin’s eyes burning holes in his back as he fights. He no longer cares about Vivian – honestly, how could he have not felt the wrongness sooner? Of course there’s no one… No one else…

There’s Merlin. Merlin is watching him fight. A long-forgotten feeling is rising up in Arthur: pride. Not the pride of a Prince leading his people, or a hunter after felling a particularly nasty boar, but the pride of an Omega, showing off his prowess in front of an Alpha. He wants Merlin to see how strong and talented with a blade he is. He wants Merlin to see that he is capable, skilled and tactical; that he is the best of his breed, the worthiest of Merlin’s attention.

Merlin is, after all, a powerful sorcerer, a strong and keen-sighted man. Only the best Omega can and should capture his affections.

That feeling of Merlin’s kiss, of Merlin’s lithe body pressing him into the table, fills him with renewed vigor. That sense of relief and release from the breaking of the spell lends fluidness to his limbs and a quickness to his footwork that simply did not exist with Vivian.

Of course, he thinks to himself with a smile. Of course it wasn’t real. Merlin is real. Merlin is worthy.

Olaf knocks Arthur to the ground with a brutal swing, crashing their bodies together in the muck. With gritted teeth and a surge of strength, Arthur manages to wind a leg around Olaf’s and use the compromised position to flip them, scrambling to his feet and disarming the King with a swift kick to his sword.

He stands above Olaf, poised to strike. A year ago, before Merlin, angry and abused by his medication, he might have.

He doesn’t.

He lowers his sword and shakes his head, stepping back. “This is no way to achieve peace,” he says, loud enough for those in the King’s stand to hear.

He offers Olaf his hand. The man’s narrowed eyes look at him, seeing mercy.

Not mercy, Arthur thinks. Strength.

He grasps Olaf’s hand when Olaf takes his, hauling him to his feet and very glad that Merlin was able to heal his broken bones. The man’s grip alone would have pulverized what was left.

The crowd cheers around them, and Uther is standing and clapping. Olaf slams his arm down on Arthur’s shoulder and laughs, like it was all one big game.

“Your boy has a very wise head on his shoulders,” Olaf later tells Uther, over a newly signed peace treaty. He grins at Arthur. “I doubt he gets that from you, Uther.”

“I’m just glad that these unfortunate events haven’t harmed the peace treaty,” Uther says tactfully.

“Oh, I believe that Vivian was as much to blame as Arthur,” Olaf says, grinning widely. “She has not stopped crying since the fight. I'll take her away from temptation. She's far too young to encounter such things.” He falls quiet for a moment, stroking his mighty beard, and then nods. “Yes, I go in peace.”

“I’m very pleased to hear that,” Uther says with a visible relaxing of his shoulders. Arthur leaves the room quickly after that – he’s sure his father will have an earful and a half for him when the Kings are gone, but all’s well in the end, so he supposes his father can’t be too angry.

At least Arthur wasn’t caught swooning after an Alpha.

Arthur enters his chambers, frowning when he sees that the room is immaculate. It hasn’t been this way since after his injury with the griffin, when another servant was charged with cleaning his rooms. It smells all wrong and it’s far too neat, and – where is Merlin?

A prickle of unease runs down Arthur’s spine. He hasn’t seen Merlin since he was whisked away after the tourney, Arthur hasn’t had time to discuss what happened. He has questions, and above all else, he wants to make sure Merlin is alright. He would hate to have Merlin think he’d been taken advantage of for the spell’s sake.

He leaves his rooms, glad to leave the perfectly clean horror behind, and follows his nose and a steady pulse of instinct in his chest. It does not lead him to Gaius’ rooms, but out of the castle, following a trail out of one of the smaller gates that do not lead towards town, but the forest.

He finds Merlin after almost an hour of wandering, feeling for that same vague urge he followed in Ealdor, and eventually comes upon Merlin at a meager campfire, almost entirely hidden from the sight of the path.

Merlin looks up at him, blinks, and then sighs. “I suppose you’re going to be able to follow me anywhere,” he says. Arthur notes there is plenty of space to sit beside Merlin; a patch has been cleared in the dirt, like Merlin was expecting him.

Arthur sits. He stares at the fire. There is nothing but its crackling and the rustle of night creatures going about their business.

“Merlin -.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin blurts. His knees are drawn up, nails digging into his shins. He won’t look at Arthur. “I know I overstepped – terribly, and you are certainly within your right to throw me in jail. But I didn’t know how else to break the spell and there wasn’t anyone I could ask and -.”

“Merlin.” Arthur puts a hand on Merlin’s arm, making Merlin’s words stutter to a halt. Merlin clenches his jaw, nostrils flaring. “I’m not angry with you. You saved my life. Again.”

The noise Merlin makes is closer to a sob than anything else.

Arthur sighs, deliberating with how brazen he should be. He’s not exactly made a habit of flirting with people, or even showing interest. He’s always been wary of touching Merlin too much.

He squeezes Merlin’s arm and doesn’t move his hand otherwise. “There was no one else to trust,” Arthur says. “You didn’t have time to explain, let alone convince them of magic. I’m not angry with you.” Merlin doesn’t answer. Arthur tries again; “You know, you never asked me how Omegas court.”

Merlin’s brow creases. He swallows again. “How do they?” he rasps.

“I don’t know,” Arthur laughs weakly, which makes Merlin’s lips twitch. Arthur should not pay attention to Merlin’s lips; he has a mission here. “Probably like women do. Passively. I’m…not like that.” He bites his lower lip. “I like to have the people I cherish around me. I value their insight. I enjoy their company. I heed their advice and let them insult me.”

“You just make it so easy,” Merlin says, like he didn’t even mean to.

Arthur smiles. He moves his hand down Merlin’s arm and tries to convince Merlin’s fingers to stop digging marks into his shins. Merlin’s fingers flatten and spread almost immediately, allowing Arthur to take the space between them.

“I trust the people I love,” Arthur whispers. “Implicitly. I let them see things about me I don’t show anyone else. I want the people I love – the person I’d be courting – to know me better than any other.”

It doesn’t look like Merlin is breathing. He’s stiff as a board and trembling under Arthur’s gaze.

“It wasn’t just that it was you, was it?” Arthur asks. “It had to be you. For the spell.”

Merlin’s eyes go glassy. He clenches them tightly shut and nods, once.

“Why?” Arthur presses, surprised when Merlin lets their fingers lace.

“It was a love spell,” Merlin says. “Only a more powerful love could break it.”

Arthur takes this in, lets the truth and rightness of it wash over him, savoring every second. Love. Real, true love. The kind Arthur never even knew to hope for.

“Merlin, please look at me?” Arthur pleads, glad when Merlin does. Their eyes lock and it’s a powerful feeling that blooms in Arthur’s chest, the feeling like he would never rather look anywhere else. That he will always seek out Merlin in the room, that his ear will always be bent to Merlin before all others, that Merlin’s magic is embedded in him as surely as the red in Merlin’s eyes, as surely as their fingers are laced in this moment, as surely as the air will always be warm for Arthur when Merlin is around. “So was it just duty, for you? Protecting my life?”

“You know it wasn’t,” Merlin whispers hoarsely, this moment too precious to break with normal speech. “You already know everything about me, even this.”

“Do you regret it?”

“No.” Arthur had expected more hesitation, if he’s being honest. He can’t help but smile, surprised. Merlin’s fingers squeeze between his. “I would have killed Olaf,” he whispers. “I’d have torn him to shreds, left smoking ground in the place where he stood, if he’d mortally wounded you.”

Unbidden, a shiver of delight runs down Arthur’s spine. Good, he wants to say, but he swallows it back. “It’s a good thing there was no need for that,” he says shakily, unable to hide the pleasure in his voice. Merlin’s lips twitch into a smile, knowing and fond.

Merlin’s eyes drop to his mouth, and Arthur cannot be sure who leans in first, but they meet as equals, as though there was no delay between their first kiss and this one. Merlin wraps a hand in Arthur’s cloak, pulling him closer, as Arthur shivers and deepens the kiss, eager to taste more of magic, thunder, Merlin on his tongue.

They will have more to talk about, of course. Arthur may not have started a war today, and Camelot is in good standing after the peace treaty’s signing, but that doesn’t mean he can suddenly openly court his manservant, or shed his Alpha falsehood and walk about the castle as his true self. Merlin still cannot use his magic. There is still the weight of a potential match and more Princesses presenting themselves to Arthur in an endless line to consider.

But for right now, there is just Merlin. Merlin, holding Arthur like a prized possession he conquered Kingdoms for, surrounding Arthur’s senses and warming Arthur’s hands against his skin. There is Arthur, gluttonous and desperate, sinking his fingers into Merlin’s hair and his teeth into Merlin’s lower lip.

And, around them, there is the magic of the Earth, as it sighs out its relief.

Chapter Text

With the whole mess with Vivian, and Merlin sending Arthur to sleep so he didn’t go wandering about the castle – something Merlin apologized profusely for on top of everything else, but just made Arthur laugh – he didn’t take his medicine that morning. He didn’t apply his tincture.

It’s a good thing there was too much going on to notice, but that night after Merlin reluctantly suggests that Arthur should get some rest, and Arthur returns to his rooms, he’s aching and empty. He’s used to the feeling of cramps, his lower stomach tightening all over like it’s trying to break up a stone inside him, but normally that feeling is just pain and discomfort, and something he doesn’t try to dwell on.

Now, with Merlin’s scent in his throat and Merlin’s taste on his tongue, Arthur doesn’t want to ignore it. This sensation feels much more pleasant; instead of tightness and pain, he’s open and empty, like a sea cave at low tide.

He doesn’t want to be alone, though it’s foolish to wish for anything else. No suspicion can fall on Merlin, now more than ever. Arthur has to have an abundance of caution so that his father doesn’t become suspicious. He could throw Merlin in a jail cell – or worse, send him away.

His bed is clean and pristinely made and Arthur grumpily punches the pillows into something more closely resembling a nest. His father has never let him keep one, but Arthur has enough blankets and pillows to make something passable, and at least his mattress is warm and comfortable. He curls up around himself and is glad that there is no lingering scent of Vivian on his sheets.

He still doesn’t like it. He’s used to smelling Merlin everywhere; an oppressive feeling of heavy skies and rolling thunder shuddering through his bones. He cups his hands around his nose and mouth so that he can gorge himself on it, the feeling of magic and Merlin left behind on his skin and his tongue.

Not for the first time, he wishes he’d had more chances to learn about the relationships between Alphas and Omegas. How scents can merge and change each other, what the yawning, cavernous feeling in his lower belly might be solved with. How he might be able to show casual, acceptable affection to Merlin in a way that Merlin will understand and recognize.

He simply doesn’t know, only that he wants, and his want is so powerful that it terrifies him. He wants to hold Merlin’s hand and tuck his nose to Merlin’s neck, wants to be able to have Merlin stand close to his shoulder so Arthur can feel his warmth, he wants Merlin to kiss him – everywhere and as often as he desires.

But he can’t. They can’t.

Arthur clenches his eyes shut, dizzy and empty and so desperate with longing he doesn’t know how he’ll be able to sleep.

By the time Merlin comes with breakfast, Arthur is half-mad with want. Even a few feet between them feels monstrous and cavernous and he detests it with all his might.

He practically lunges from his bed, staggering to Merlin and throwing his arms around him, burying his face in Merlin’s neck as Merlin huffs and catches him, clutching at his wrinkled sleep shirt tightly, desperately, like he feels the same way.

“Arthur,” Merlin rasps, nose in Arthur’s hair as he sucks in a greedy breath. “Your medicine -.”

“I know,” Arthur replies, clawing his fingers through Merlin’s thick, dark hair and shoving his neckerchief to one side with his nose so he can get at Merlin’s bare skin. He can’t stand the thought of Merlin covering up so much of his neck, the vulnerable hollow of his throat. Arthur should have unfettered access to every piece of him. “In a moment. Not yet. I want you to have your fill before I have to hide it again.”

Merlin shudders, a low growl rumbling in his chest the likes of which Arthur has never heard him do. He turns Arthur and pins him to the dining table, one hand catching Arthur’s chin and hauling him up into a kiss.

It comes so naturally, Arthur marvels, like they’ve been doing this for years. There’s no hesitation, no awkward clicks of teeth or knocking noses. It’s like he already knows that Merlin likes it when Arthur bites his lower lip, the same way Merlin already knows that Arthur quite likes the feeling of being pinned against something and surrounded by Merlin’s arms.

By the time Merlin pulls back for air, Arthur’s lungs burn and his legs might as well be jelly. He wouldn’t be standing if it weren’t for the table and Merlin holding him upright. He shoves his face into Merlin’s neck, wanting to be drunk on his scent, wanting, somehow, for Merlin’s scent to embed itself on Arthur’s tongue so he can taste Merlin whenever he talks.

“You can bite, if you want,” Merlin says, his voice lower than Arthur has ever heard it. Arthur hesitates, blinking in surprise, though his mouth is already watering and his teeth feel far too sharp. Merlin’s hands, flat on Arthur’s hips, clench a little tighter, one thumb sliding beneath Arthur’s shirt and touching his bare flank. It’s such a small thing, that motion, but it makes Arthur’s entire body shiver and grow warm. “I want you to.”

Arthur wants to, as well. So desperately he’s blind with it.

He tugs Merlin’s neckerchief up, pulls the collar of his shirt down, almost to Merlin’s shoulder. Low enough to hide, he manages to remember as he pulls his lips back, seeks out a good place, and bites down as hard as he can.

“Fuck,” Merlin gasps, going still as Arthur sinks his teeth in, tasting blood and that soothing, mint-like taste that he associates with Merlin’s magic. It floods his mouth easy as wine; Arthur is no stranger to blood, neither the smell nor taste of it. He swallows greedily, teeth clamped tight around the muscle connecting Merlin’s shoulder to his neck. Merlin’s nails dig into Arthur’s hip and Arthur feels Merlin’s clenched teeth, bared against his clothed shoulder. His other hand winds into Arthur’s messy hair, cupping the back of his neck and encouraging him with a gentle squeeze.

Arthur pulls back after another mouthful, his tongue tracing the two deep, neat wounds he left behind. He watches as Merlin’s magic stitches his skin back together, but does not heal it. There is a deep, raw-looking, and undeniable claiming mark left behind.

This, Arthur knows, is something usually reciprocated. He desperately wishes he were in the position to let Merlin bite him back.

He sighs, nuzzling Merlin’s jaw. “When I’m King,” he promises. “I swear.”

“It’s alright,” Merlin rasps, though he kisses a place high on Arthur’s throat, like a promise. One day, he will return the gesture. “It’s enough, knowing you want it.”

“Of course I want it,” Arthur says.

Merlin sighs, pulling back with a smile. He rests their foreheads together and cups Arthur’s face, wiping a stray smear of blood from beneath his lip. “You’ll get a Voice, from that,” he says quietly. Arthur frowns at him. “My blood. Any Alpha’s blood, really – but I like knowing it’s mine that gave it to you.”

Not even the King has a Voice; he never had an Omega to give him one. Already Arthur’s throat feels sore and swollen, the subtle growth swelling at the introduction of Alpha blood. “You’ll make me a tyrant,” he teases, though the look in Merlin’s eyes makes the joke fall flat.

“You’ll never be a tyrant, my Lord,” he whispers, kissing Arthur chastely. He has so much faith in Arthur, in Arthur’s inherent goodness. It’s enough to make Arthur’s throat feel tight for another reason entirely, fighting back emotion.

With a Voice, Arthur has complete power over Merlin. He could command Merlin cast a spell in front of the entire Court and Merlin would have to obey him. More than a subject for a Prince, a servant for his master.

He never wants this moment to end, but it must, if for no other reason than Arthur can feel himself warming all over, slick dampening his trousers, and if he lets Merlin keep touching him without any medication, hiding their affection for each other will become an impossible task.

He nudges his forehead to Merlin’s, kissing him once more, and by some unspoken signal, Merlin releases him, stepping back with another smile. Neither of them comments on the scent in the room, or the fact that Merlin’s trousers fit far more snugly than they did when he came in.

Arthur drinks the potion first, that familiar sensation blanketing his senses and wrapping him in the equivalent of a thick, heavy cloak. He smiles to himself and goes behind the screen to change while Merlin busies himself with cleaning what little he cares to, more with gestures and flashes of gold than any actual physical labor.

Arthur dresses for the day and applies his tincture, knowing that after training with the Knights, his father will likely have a mountain of tasks and lectures for him to bear through the afternoon. He’d been gone with Merlin in Ealdor before the peace talks, and then those were happening, and then Arthur was enchanted, so there hasn’t been a lot of time for his normal routine. He welcomes it, though – it will be good to get back into normal life, made even better with Merlin to keep him company.

He'd missed training. At Hunith’s home, there had been plenty of manual labor in the form of chores, but there’s nothing like running himself ragged during drills or single combat, honing his reflexes and feeling the weight of sword and shield in his hands, making every muscle burn with exertion as he gives each encounter his all. Leon kept the Knights in perfect form while he was away – Arthur expected no less – and the sun is shining brilliantly, helping ward off the chill in the air.

Arthur is pouring sweat and his body burns deliciously as he walks over to Merlin, sliding off his bracers and pauldron and dumping them into a heap at Merlin’s feet along with his sword. Merlin grins at him, rolling his eyes good-naturedly at the state of the armor, and Arthur can’t help himself as he leans in and ruffles Merlin’s hair before he walks away, falling into step beside Leon.

“It’s like you never left, Sire,” Leon tells him, also smiling. They had a good session today, morale and camaraderie are high; it’s not too miserable to train during the day and the nights haven’t gotten too long, so winter’s discontent hasn’t settled into the men yet. They’d all been laughing and joking as normal as they’d trained.

“I knew they’d be in good hands,” Arthur replies. He hadn’t noted any new arrivals, and those felled by the griffin have left a visible hole in their ranks, but he tries not to let that ruin his mood. The griffin is dealt with and the people are safe, there should not be any risk of war for quite some time. Though they can never grow complacent, there is no need to worry.

He claps Leon on the shoulder before taking his leave, heading towards his father’s smaller, more private Council chambers where only the top advisors and Arthur himself make any regular appearance. He knocks before entering, knowing the King will be expecting him, and finds his father dining on an early lunch while reading over a raven’s scroll.

Uther looks up when Arthur enters and smiles at him. “Arthur, good, come here,” he says, and hands Arthur the note he was holding. Arthur takes it, scanning the scrawling text. It’s a letter from one of the Northern garrisons reporting bandit activity in the area, targeting travelling merchants and some of the local farms for ‘protection money’ on the road.

“When did this arrive?” Arthur asks, frowning as he takes a seat at his father’s right hand.

“This morning,” Uther tells him, sipping his wine. “There was another one yesterday, citing a similar issue a little to the east of the garrison, so they’re moving, and they aren’t slowing down.”

Arthur nods. “I can take a few men up there, find and arrest their leader. Packs like this always tend to dispel when the leader’s caught.”

Uther is silent a moment, and when Arthur looks at him, he finds his father’s expression considering, a small crease in his brow. “Quite right,” he says, setting his goblet down. “But there’s no hurry. I’m hoping the garrison’s soldiers there will be able to handle it themselves. If we receive more word next week, you will go.”

Arthur nods again and sets the little roll of parchment down by the pile beside Uther’s plate. His stomach rumbles – he didn’t have all that much time to eat, since he’d been rather…preoccupied this morning. Even the salted pork smells incredible.

Uther is still watching him. “How are you feeling?”

Arthur flushes without quite knowing why. “Quite well, father, thank you. And you?”

“I’m well,” Uther says. He pauses again, then presses; “I hope you’re not too upset about the Lady Vivian.”

Arthur laughs awkwardly, shaking his head. “It was a flight of fancy, nothing more. I was just caught up in it, is all. It won’t happen again.”

“I should hope not,” Uther says. “But don’t close your heart off completely. There will be many Princesses and Ladies of the Court in the future that might catch your eye, and be an advantageous match.” His smile is genuine, even kind. “I do want you to be happy with your future wife, Arthur. Don’t swear off Ladies forever.”

Arthur swallows, his throat tight. He drums his fingers on the table, sucks in a breath. His father seems to be in a rather good mood – as good as it ever is – and Arthur figures it’s as good a time as any to get a sense of his opinion on the whole matter of Arthur courting someone. They’re alone, and if Arthur needs to, he can make a quick getaway, citing his need for his own midday meal.

“Father,” he begins, quite unsure how to proceed. With Merlin, words come easy. Not so, with King Uther. “Do you…? I know you want me to pretend to be an Alpha – and I understand it, and I’m not saying I shouldn’t. But is there no world in which I find a Consort or spouse who is…not a Lady?”

Uther frowns, looking more confused than angry. “Like another Omega?” he asks. “…I suppose I couldn’t fault you for it, even though we’d both know it would be…unnatural.”

Yes, God forbid two Omegas fall in love, or two Alphas. But that’s not the point. “But not an Alpha,” Arthur says. “Even as a Consort, and not a King.”

Uther’s face darkens, like a physical storm cloud settled over his head. “No,” he says emphatically. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Arthur tries to keep his voice even; this is just a hypothetical, after all. “Please, father, I’m not arguing with you, believe me. I’m just wondering why. You’re much wiser and more worldly than I am. I’m seeking to understand.”

Uther’s jaw clenches as he glares at Arthur, as though he might be able to peel back Arthur’s skin and see the inner workings of his mind if he looks hard enough. Arthur keeps his expression neutral, eyes guileless. Innocent curiosity – he can play the fool well when he needs to.

Finally, Uther looks away, sighing heavily. “There are many reasons,” Uther begins. “Alphas are headstrong, cunning, they can be cruel. An Alpha would be able to manipulate and control you if you were ever bonded to one, weak as an Omega’s mind is.” Arthur forces himself not to scoff. He’s certainly not too ‘weak-minded’ to inherit a Kingdom, but God forbid he follow his heart. “But there is another reason. A deeply personal one to me.” Uther looks at him again, and Arthur is surprised to find that he’s aged twenty years in that moment, his eyes holding a deep, profound sadness. “I couldn’t bear it if what happened to your mother happens to you.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. He stares. “You think I’d die giving birth to my own heir,” he says before he can stop himself.

“It’s risky for women,” Uther says. “Your mother was sick the entire time with you. In the end, it overcame her. It’s even more risky for Omegas, I’m told.” He pauses, considering his next words. “It’s why I never remarried, or took an Omega for a Consort. I couldn’t bear to see it happen again, I will not see it happen to you.”

Despite himself, the unhappy knot in Arthur’s chest unravels. His father isn’t lying to him, at least not that Arthur can tell. He’s genuinely terrified of Arthur sharing his mother’s fate.

“That makes sense,” he murmurs, if only because seeing his father so unspeakably sad is making him feel like the floor has opened up beneath him. It’s not right – Uther has always been an unmoving, unconquerable pillar of strength. He is not possible to wound emotionally.

As always, Arthur’s mother seems to be the exception.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, because he will always feel that his mother’s death is his fault, even though he had no control over it. “Thank you for telling me. I understand better, I think.”

Uther smiles thinly, reaching out to pat Arthur’s hand. “You are the most precious thing in the world to me,” he says. “Better for your future wife to suffer the risk than you.”

Arthur hides his frown, swallows down the sudden bitter taste in his mouth. Of course. Arthur would still need to sire an heir, but Uther has no trouble at all having someone else dying for it. He speaks of Alphas wanting to manipulate Arthur’s soft mind, but sees no issue using his mother as a weapon of manipulation.

He swallows, suddenly sick to his stomach, and pulls his hand away. “Are there any other matters that need my attention, before I go to lunch?” Arthur asks.

“As a matter of fact, there is.” Abruptly the sadness disappears, shuttered behind one of many walls, and Uther regards him coolly. “A messenger informed me you were sighted in Ealdor, beyond the border.”

Arthur nods; he’d prepared for this question. “We tracked the potential griffin summoner up North,” Arthur tells him. “Over the border. Merlin was with me, and his mother has a house in Ealdor, so we stayed there while we searched instead of spending the Crown’s gold in a foreign land.”

It’s a good answer, Arthur knows it is. He’s made a habit of providing only good answers to his father.

“Merlin,” Uther repeats, causing that sick feeling in Arthur’s stomach to tighten and grow thorns. “From what I’ve heard, the boy’s a natural with medicines and potions. Gaius has been teaching him well, from the reports I’ve gathered.”

Arthur doesn’t speak, because it’s not any of his business who Merlin treats under Gaius’ employ. He can’t be seen to know too much about Merlin’s life, or even worse, be interested in it.

“Does he make your medicines?” Uther asks.

“I haven’t inquired,” Arthur replies, leaning back in his chair, the picture of ease. “I only go to Gaius for my medicine if something feels wrong, and nothing’s changed since I presented properly. I haven’t noticed any difference.”

“Mm.” Uther’s eyes narrow, the expression almost playful if not for his tone. “It just seems to me that wherever excitement is happening, there you are. And Merlin, right behind you.” He tilts his head. “Do you enjoy bringing him along on every escapade like a trained hound?”

Arthur forces his expression into one of amused disinterest. “He’s my servant, isn’t he? It’s his job to do what I say. He knows how I like things.”

“I trust he’s been a pinnacle of good behavior,” Uther says. “He hasn’t been…untoward, has he?”

Arthur forces a laugh and hopes it doesn’t come out as strained as it feels. “Absolutely not, Your Majesty,” he assures. “I’d have him in the stocks if he tried anything. Besides, he thinks I’m an Alpha, I doubt he’s intelligent enough to figure me out, and he’s certainly not one of those unnatural types.”

He hates speaking this way. The words are like poison and make his teeth itch, but he’ll say whatever he has to in order to keep Merlin out of his father’s mind.

“Good,” Uther says, apparently satisfied. “You let me know if that changes. He’s proven a skilled apprentice to Gaius, he certainly doesn’t need to remain your servant if he cannot represent the interests of the Crown.”

“Of course, father,” Arthur assures, baring his teeth in a too-wide smile. “Is there anything else?”

“No, you’re dismissed,” Uther says with a wave of his hand. Arthur nods, forcing himself not to stand or leave the room too quickly, lest it give the impression he’s fleeing the interrogation. He breathes a sigh of relief once he’s rounded the corner and out of sight of the guards, shaking off the whole business and the bitter taste their conversation brought. He closes his eyes briefly as he walks, reaching for the part of Merlin in his throat and stomach that is always so quick to soothe him. An answer comes immediately, warm and welcome, wrapping around him like a hug.

He startles when he hears Merlin’s voice, plain as day; Are you alright?

He looks around, seeking the Alpha out, but he’s alone. He knows what Merlin sounds like when he’s close by, and when he’s in Arthur’s head. The memory of Merlin’s voice in the caves lights up the backs of his eyes. He forces himself to keep walking and focuses on the feeling of Merlin.

I just spoke with my father. He asked about you – about your behavior. A pulse of worry, not Arthur’s, though it feels close to the same. I reassured him you were an exemplary model of good servant…ness.

Merlin’s laughter curls around the base of his skull like a warm hand. That’s high praise, my Lord.

Don’t let it get to your head, Arthur thinks, smiling fondly. A servant gives him a warm smile as she passes, and Arthur schools his expression as he carries on. So we can hear each other’s voices in our head now?

I could have done this from day one, Merlin tells him. But I don’t know if you could have answered me back. I’ve only seen that in other magic users.

I’m using your magic, Arthur says in his mind, noting Merlin’s pleasant surprise in answer. I probably won’t be able to if I ever stop taking your potions.

Maybe, Merlin says, though Arthur can tell he wonders the same, and doubts that it would change anything. Merlin’s magic feels like it’s embedded in Arthur, now, as surely as Arthur’s teeth sank into and marked Merlin’s skin that morning. They’re conjoined, bonded, and Arthur doubts that is something easily undone.

…Would you ever stop? Merlin asks after a while, as Arthur fetches himself a snack from the kitchens and heads out to the battlements for no other reason than the sun is still shining brightly and he’s missed his usual walking tour. Taking the potions?

Arthur considers the question, munching on a bread roll that he tore into halves and stuck a piece of honeyed ham between. This whole talking without needing his mouth business is rather splendid. Incredibly useful, when Arthur pictures hearing petitions or debating at Council and having Merlin whisper secrets and observations into his mind.

Perhaps, Arthur finally concedes when Merlin’s mental presence pulses through him, eager for an answer. Not any time soon. Likely not until I’m King, if ever.

Merlin’s mental presence doesn’t seem upset by that, which Arthur is relieved to feel. For all Merlin can be impulsive and argumentative and brash, he is also unwaveringly patient and understanding. Arthur is very, very lucky.

Let me know if that changes, Merlin offers. Your medicine is potent, but there are versions that aren’t – more like what Will takes.

One that will allow Arthur’s true eye color to show, that will no longer repress his gold, but will presumably stop him from going into heat or losing his mind to instinct.

I’ll keep that in mind, he promises. In his mind, something that feels a lot like Merlin nuzzles him, an almost physical sensation of warmth at his cheek and a kiss pressed to his neck. He blushes at the feeling, stuttering to a halt midstride as he feels a pressure like Merlin’s hand in his hair, a gentle press to his lips. Behave, he hisses.

Merlin laughs, and Arthur damn near jumps out of his skin when he hears, “Something on your mind?”

Morgana, he says, before he realizes his mouth is still full of bread roll and he coughs when he tries to say her name out loud, turning to face her. She regards him with a cool smile, brows raised at his flustered state. Inside his head, Merlin withdraws, and Arthur is alone inside his own skull again.

He swallows the food down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I was, ah…” He looks around and finds no one is with them on the battlements. He leans in close and whispers, “I was speaking to Merlin. We can do that now, apparently.”

Morgana’s eyes widen, flashing with both surprise and delight. He assumes Merlin had plenty of time to talk to her about how Arthur knows about magic, and her reaction basically proves it. It will likely be quite a while before she becomes comfortable enough to mention it casually around him, but that’s alright. Arthur can be patient, too, for the people he loves.

“Oh,” she says, then clears her throat. “And you seem more than recovered from Lady Vivian.”

Does she know about that, too? Arthur wouldn’t put it past her. He grins, suddenly giddy. “Merlin figured that out, too. Though I’m sure you helped. If you helped. Which you might not have.”

“I did what I could,” Morgana says tactfully. “As did Gwen.”

So they all know. Good. That will make a lot of things easier. “Can you do…the same kinds of things Merlin does?” he asks.

She draws her shawl around her, biting her lip and looking away. “…No,” she finally says, jaw clenching. “I can do…small things. He’s taught me how to light and put out candles.” She laughs. “I almost burned down my dress closet the first attempt, but I’m learning.”

Arthur steps in beside her, so they can speak with low voices and have plenty of time to fall silent should someone walk by. “Your dreams?” he guesses.

Her gaze snaps to him, sharp and sudden. “You really are more observant than I’ve given you credit for.”

“I’ve been getting that a lot,” Arthur says, smiling. “It pays to play the fool, sometimes.”

“That it certainly does,” she says. She sighs. “So that’s it then? We all play pretend and act as fools until the time comes when the law can change?”

“Anything else would be treason,” Arthur replies, which is true. He doesn’t particularly want his father to die, and certainly not of anything unnatural. He can look forward to the chance to do something with his reign without eagerly wishing it along. “I…don’t think it would be unwise to lay the groundwork now, but obviously I can’t go around promising safe havens to sorcerers out in the open.”

Morgana nods, looking out again. “Do you really think you can keep this a secret?” she asks. “Uther has eyes and ears everywhere.”

“So do I,” Arthur replies. “In Merlin, in you. In Gwen and Gaius. You see and hear a lot more than I do.”

“Still.”

“I’m no stranger to keeping secrets, Morgana,” Arthur says meaningfully. “I’ve been hiding who I am all my life, too.”

Morgana opens her mouth, no doubt with some sharp retort, but she sighs and nods, conceding the point. “That is true.” Her eyes soften. “I wish it were not so.”

“One day, it won’t be,” Arthur promises.

“Really? So one day you’re just going to stop taking your potions, walk into Court as a fully fledged Omega, and expect everything to go over smoothly? People will talk, ask questions.” Her voice has an edge of fear. “They will look at everyone you speak to and everyone you trust with new eyes. Doubt will fall on me, and Gwen, and Merlin, and Gaius. They will,” she lowers her voice, “suspect things.”

“Like what?” Arthur asks, frowning.

Morgana rolls her eyes. “Picture it, Arthur: You are newly crowned the King, and the first thing you do is shed your Alpha falsehood. The second thing you do is reverse the law against magic. Then it will inevitably come out, that the King’s ward and your own Alpha manservant can use magic. They will think we’ve enchanted you! They will doubt your ability to rule!”

Arthur’s frown deepens. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, she has a point. He braces himself against the stone wall in front of them, staring out into the courtyard.

“It doesn’t all have to happen in one day,” Arthur says. “I’ll start out small. Seek counsel where I can. Leon and Gaius will have some ideas. I can tell the Council, first. Maybe the Knights after. Rumors will spread for a while, some may test our defenses and my leadership – but that was always going to happen, Morgana. It’s the natural way of things. I’d still be young and untried in everyone’s eyes, even if my father lived another ten years before I was crowned King.”

“Ten years,” Morgana echoes, face pale. She presses her lips together and draws in a shaky breath. “I don’t know if I can last another ten years, Arthur.”

Arthur looks at her, considering the fear on her face, the heaviness of this secret and terror weighing down on her with every breath. Merlin hides it well, but Arthur knows how scared he is of someone finding out about his magic. He’ll never forget the look of terror on Merlin’s face when he’d thought he’d been found out.

“I won’t ask you to,” Arthur decides. She opens her eyes, surprised when she looks at him. “If there is a place you can go, where you will feel safe, I won’t stop you. That’s up to you – and if Merlin can help, I know he will. All I ask is that, when I’m King, you remember that I love you as you are, and you would be welcome back in Camelot without question.”

Morgana’s eyes flood with tears, her smile watery as she nods. “I’ll last as long as I can,” she promises. Arthur smiles, drawing her into a warm embrace, which she readily welcomes, hugging him back.

Merlin

You’ve opened the door.

Merlin has heard all of the lectures about magic being a corrupting force – both from those who fear and outlaw it, and from people like Gaius, whom he trusts implicitly. The truth is that ‘corruption’ isn’t the right word for it.

Magic, as all old and powerful things, is wise. It is wise in the same way a forest might not notice the felling of a single tree, as long as the roots of the rest remain strong and there is always water and sunlight. It has an ancient knowledge that cares more for the end than it does the means.

Is it really that strange, then, that those who wield magic, who are in tune with the grand turnings of this vast world, might begin to think the same way? That they might be convinced that, yes, it is sad that the village dies, but their sacrifice will appease the sun and turn the water and soil rich, and feed thousands with its bountiful harvest?

Is it so strange, that a man might see something as his destiny, a man born for great things, and turn a blind eye to all else except whatever it takes to ensure that man’s survival and glory? That Merlin might fall so deeply, madly, worldly in love with Arthur, that he pays attention to the advisors and servants that speak ill of him, or are caught skulking in the darkness, plotting this and that, and think to himself that the world and Arthur would be better off without them?

When someone who touches magic sees the weaknesses in a grand spinning web, is it strange that he might think himself a spider, and move along the web to pluck certain strings, destroy knotted webbing, and remake parts of the structure entirely?

Emrys.

Merlin’s head tilts, hearing a voice – or rather, many voices, all whispered low and far away, chanting in unison. The same way a field of grass rustles under the same gust of wind, many reeds swaying at different pitches, but all creating the same great noise.

Emrys. Emrys. Emrys.

Who is Emrys? Merlin doesn’t know, but the way all these voices say his name… He’s powerful. Worshipped. Called upon.

Such a man that can stir up so many is a man Merlin needs to know. He might be a threat to Arthur. There is a hive all buzzing to the rhythm of Emrys’ name and if Merlin needs to destroy the whole thing, for Arthur’s sake, then he will.

He doesn’t know where the voices are, there is no direction or impression of location that he can hone in on. He clenches his teeth and tries to search, eyes closed as he splays his consciousness all throughout Camelot, seeking a telltale quiver in the web.

He finds nothing. Wherever these people are, they are not in the citadel or the town.

He thinks… They might be North. Northeast.

He started hearing it after opening his mind to Arthur. He’s opened a door, somewhere, in the magic of his mind, and now voices are leaking through from the other side.

He should tell Gaius. He promised he would tell Gaius if this kind of thing happened.

He opens his mouth, staring at the old physician’s back as he tinkers with yet another tonic some highborn Lord insists he needs that is essentially brine water, but it’s cheap to make and seems to solve whatever ails him.

“Gaius,” he says.

“What is it, my boy?” Gaius asks, not turning around.

Merlin begins to speak, but as abruptly as the voices came, they fall silent.

“It’s nothing,” Merlin says, clearing his throat. “Nevermind.”

Chapter Text

Merlin

There is a field of grass, almost entirely buried under fresh white snow. The snow lies untouched by animal tracks, blood splatter, even pockmarks from rain. Within this clearing, with tall evergreens all around towering high and stern as Kings, time stands still. Not even the flakes of snow ever manage to meet their brethren on the ground. 

Merlin walks into the clearing, his first step crushing the snow beneath his foot with a mushy crunch, then the second. Fear curls around the base of his spine like a serpent, hissing that it is far, far too quiet, and that they are too exposed out here.

Yet Merlin cannot make himself turn back, nor can he slow the pace of his steps as he walks out towards the middle of the clearing. The snow is thicker, or else there is normally a hill here; the grass no longer pushes through in stubborn starving clumps. It’s entirely white and entirely flat in the center of this clearing.

Steel gleams like a beacon, almost too bright to stare at directly. It’s a sword, planted straight down into the white. It radiates a chill that has nothing to do with the snow or the strange, unmoving air. Merlin halts a few steps away from the sword, admiring the strangely delicate arch of the cross guard, the near blackness of the leather wrapped around the grip, the fine and perfect etching of script too small to read from this distance running down the sword’s blade.

There is no motion, not even the snow, but Merlin gets the distinct impression that, despite having no eyes, the sword is very aware of him, and is watching. 

His fingers curl by his side and then he reaches out. He has no intention of pulling the sword from its place, he’s more curious about the thing’s reaction. Tension hums down his arm like the touch of lightning, not painful but an obvious warning, like the testing pressure of a large animal wanting to make it very clear how soft and squishy Merlin’s body would be in comparison.

Merlin’s lips twitch, a smile fond and exasperated. “You’re a strong one, aren’t you?” he murmurs and drops his hand. The tension disappears, the sword glimmers a little brighter at the compliment. “What are you waiting for?”

The sword does not move. And yet, it shifts the angle of light in its pommel and manages to tilt its head in confusion.

Merlin hesitates, then says, “Who are you waiting for?”

The sword shivers, a tremble running across the ground and up through Merlin’s legs. The trees rustle with an ecstatic sigh, the snow rippling like a wake of goosebumps on skin beneath a lover’s touch. Warmth breezes across Merlin’s neck, a touch of lips to his ear. He resists the urge to bat it away. 

He steps back at the first loud crack, then loses his footing and stumbles at the second, sending snow scattering as he flings his arms back in an effort to catch himself. His hands are bare and the snow…

The snow is not cold.

The snow is scorching.

There is another gigantic cracking sound, the snow quickly melting in the sudden, extreme heat. Strange - Merlin never realized how similar snowflakes look to pieces of falling ash. He hisses and jerks his hands up as whatever burns beneath the snow blasts his palms, turning them pink and tender.

He scrambles to his feet and runs back, but loses his balance again as the Earth shudders beneath him, the trees draw their ranks together to prevent his escape. He turns around, prepared to face whatever great calamity is happening at the sword’s behest. 

The sword is gone. Where it stood is now a small, clear lake. The water, despite the trembling of the Earth, is completely clear and smooth like a mirror. Merlin can still see the gleam of the sword’s brilliance beneath the water. The terrible heat recedes to something bearable, though Merlin’s skin is slick with sweat.

Slowly, he walks towards the water, his feet slipping in the soaking, muddied field that the fast-melting snow left behind. He comes to the water’s edge and falls to his knees, suddenly exhausted. Another sudden wave of weakness hits him right after, making him sag forward and catch himself with his hands planted an inch deep into the water. It’s blessedly cool on his burned hands, licking around his wrists like a playful puppy.

Even him touching it doesn’t mar the water’s surface; it remains perfectly smooth so that what he sees has impossible, unignorable clarity.

A dragon stares back at him, as though it’s Merlin’s reflection. Its eyes and scales glow the same brilliant gold as the sword’s pommel, and its teeth are the same bright white as the snow.

“We,” the dragon says, in a great and terrible voice, “are waiting for you.”

Arthur

Arthur jolts awake at the sound of a hoarse cry, shaking his head violently to wake himself up quickly and reaching for his sword. While they are still two days’ ride away from the Northern garrison that had reported bandit activity so severe that Uther had finally relented and commanded Arthur take care of it, it’s not impossible that the bandits have travelled far enough to cause trouble. Or it could be some unrelated cause entirely.

He grabs his sword and draws it, wiping a hand over his face to clear his vision away from sleep, and is prepared to rush his way out to deal with the threat, when he hears the sound again. It is not the panicked yell of people being taken by surprise, nor the war cry of seasoned Knights rallying for some counterattack.

No, the soft, rough snarl of pain is coming from inside Arthur’s own tent.

Arthur slowly lowers his sword, frowning as he crawls across his pallet and towards Merlin’s. Travelling with a company of Knights who assume Arthur is also an Alpha, it doesn’t draw attention to have Merlin share a tent, and it’s common for Knights to double up on patrols like this. It helps keep warm and means one man cannot be taken from his tent without someone else witnessing it, and they’ve done it before.

Granted, it’s the first time sharing a tent as something strictly other than master and servant, or two friends, but they’re the only ones that know that, and while it had killed Arthur to be so close to Merlin and not able to touch him, they’d agreed before leaving that it would be better to behave as though nothing had changed. Not even in private.

It’s hard to see Merlin’s face in the tent; dawn has barely broken and there is almost no light from outside. Arthur frowns and slowly reaches forward until he touches Merlin’s shoulder, then slides his hand up to Merlin’s jaw. It’s clenched and bulging at the corner, his mouth twisted up like he’s in pain. His skin is searing hot under Arthur’s palm.

“Merlin,” he whispers urgently, noting the sheen of sweat on Merlin’s skin, turning him clammy and pale even as he burns beneath Arthur’s fingers. Merlin’s hands are curled up against his chest – he sleeps like a little mouse burrowed in for winter, all wound up on himself – and twitch restlessly at the sound of Arthur’s voice, a thin river of fire pulsing from Merlin’s palm to his fingertips.

Arthur tenses, nervous despite himself. He’s never seen Merlin have a nightmare and has no idea how his magic will react to the stress of one. Merlin awake is in constant control and would never harm Arthur, but there have been times where Arthur has been startled awake, a knife in hand and ready to strike before he understood the reality of the waking world.

What damage could Merlin do, with his weapon of choice, before consciousness stepped in?

“Merlin,” he whispers again, rougher now. He pushes Merlin’s sweat-damp hair from his forehead and, driven by some instinct he doesn’t know the origin of, he finds the raised, scarred line of Arthur’s bite on Merlin’s shoulder and digs his nails in.

Merlin gasps, eyes flying open in a flare of gold. He lies unmoving except for his heaving breaths, shuddering his shoulders and chest even as Arthur gentles his hand and runs his fingers through Merlin’s hair, pushing the sticky, wet locks away from his face.

“Merlin?” he says quietly, a little braver. Merlin sucks in a breath, closes his eyes, opens them halfway again. His body collapses on itself under Arthur’s hands, like he’s trying to hunch on himself even further. “Merlin, say something. Are you alright?”

Merlin still doesn’t speak, so for lack of anything else to do, Arthur pushes Merlin onto his back and throws himself onto Merlin, quickly pinning him down even as Merlin squeaks in alarm and tries to catch Arthur by the wrists. “What are you doing?!” he demands breathlessly.

“Getting a reaction, mostly,” Arthur replies. He sits a little more upright, comfortably perched on Merlin’s hips, and does his best to check Merlin’s eyes, his pulse, his forehead for fever in the darkness. “You were having a nightmare.”

Merlin clears his throat, finally going still and letting Arthur fuss over him. His hands naturally settle on Arthur’s thighs and Arthur suddenly is very aware of how he’s sitting. He blushes deeply, thankful that the darkness hides it, and pushes himself off of Merlin like he’s satisfied his curiosity and thinks nothing more of it.

He plops himself down at Merlin’s side, legs folded and chin in his hands. “What were you dreaming about?” he asks.

Merlin presses his lips together, breathes in deep. “My dreams aren’t like Morgana’s,” he says. “Sometimes dreams are just dreams.”

Arthur considers that. “I dream of the caves, sometimes,” he admits. Merlin looks at him, only the edge of his face and the glow of red in his eyes visible to Arthur. Despite himself, despite what they agreed, he wants to reach for Merlin so desperately. “With the flowers. I know I made it out, but sometimes in my dreams, I don’t. There’s no light to help me see and I end up falling into the darkness. Sometimes I don’t even land before I wake up.”

Merlin pushes himself upright, all pretense of going back to sleep forgotten. “I’m sorry you have bad dreams,” he says. A pause, then, “I’m sorry for any part I’ve played in making you afraid. Ever.”

“Fear is a natural part of life, Merlin,” Arthur says with a wry smile. “Fear precedes great adventure.”

That startles a hoarse chuckle out of Merlin, which Arthur counts as a win. He leans in and rests his shoulder against Merlin’s. Merlin turns his head to nuzzle Arthur briefly but freezes with a hiss and lifts his hand to rub against the sore spot where Arthur bit him.

Arthur huffs, smiling sheepishly. By way of apology, he cups Merlin’s chin and turns him, drawing him in for a kiss. Merlin sighs into it, lax and melting into it eagerly. He draws away too soon but Arthur understands the Knights will wake at any moment and they can’t get carried away.

He wants to get carried away, though. He wants so, so badly. It haunts most of his waking hours; thoughts of touching Merlin, kissing Merlin, feeling Merlin’s magic running through every part of him. He has never thought of himself as a particularly romantic person but – just to be able to openly say something! To take Merlin’s hand or share a warm embrace for but a moment in public!

To have everyone know that someone loves him exactly as he is, no matter how impossible the idea.

“Arthur.” Merlin’s warning is breathy and hot against his neck, making Arthur shiver. His nails drag up Arthur’s jaw and, entirely automatically, Arthur’s mouth opens, and he tilts his head, baring more of his neck for Merlin’s mouth.

Merlin snarls lowly, teeth grazing Arthur’s racing pulse. “You’re trying to distract me,” Arthur stutters, in dire need of distraction himself as his fingers sink into Merlin’s hair. It’s only the slight chill dampness of Merlin’s sweat that reminds him of why they’re awake at all.

“Trying?” Merlin parrots, teasing. Arthur rolls his eyes and shivers as Merlin presses his nose to Arthur’s neck and breathes deep. “Maybe I just want my fill.” His voice is so low and rough again, almost a snarl. Merlin breathes in again like there is no air worth breathing that didn’t touch Arthur’s skin, huffing greedily as Arthur’s pulse steadily climbs, his heart pounding, every inch of him lightning-struck and tingling with anticipation.

It's the sudden warmth low in his belly and the tremble in his legs that draws Arthur back to reality. If Merlin keeps this up, it’ll be a matter of moments before Arthur is too slick and sensitive to be of any use outside. He doesn’t need the Knights to smell an Omega or ask questions about where that scent came from. He needs his potion and his tincture, quickly, before the scent of aroused Omega can escape the tent or become so potent that there’s no hiding it.

He clutches Merlin’s arm for balance and Merlin finally draws away.

And not a moment too soon; “Sire?” Leon’s voice comes from outside the tent, his shadow falling over the opening. “Everything alright in there?”

“Everything’s fine, Leon,” Arthur says, pushing himself to his feet and going to greet his friend. He pushes the tent flap open and shivers at the sudden chill air that blasts its way inside. Merlin always keeps the space warm for Arthur and he hopes that the Knights didn’t have too much trouble staying warm without. “Who’s awake?”

“Just me and Gwaine, Sire,” Leon says. “I heard sounds from inside.”

“Just Merlin,” Arthur tells him. “Probably dreaming about missing out on breakfast.”

Inside, he can feel Merlin rolling his eyes.

Leon half-smiles and nods, stepping back to continue readying camp for the morning. Arthur lets the tent flap fall closed and goes to his personal bags, fetching another potion and drinking it quickly before he unstoppers his tincture and douses his neck and underarms with it, feeling that now-familiar soothing balm in the back of his throat and settling low in his stomach.

Merlin has already begun rolling up their pallets and putting on fresh socks and his warmer boots, the nightmare forgotten except for the lingering pallor in his cheeks. Arthur wants to ask him what he dreamed about, but the moment for it is gone. He trusts that Merlin would tell him if it was anything important.

Outside, he hears Gwaine’s voice, boisterous and far too chipper for the hour. “Rise and shine, ladies!” he crows, knocking his sword against some of the tent poles to the grumbling of other Knights rousing. Arthur shakes his head, smiling to himself. They’d had to replenish their ranks after the griffin attack, and among some more noble sons of houses to join, Gwaine had come. Merlin found him in some tavern and decided he was fit for Knighthood, and there was no issue of birthright Arthur could argue against. He’s a good fighter and gets under Arthur’s skin quite regularly, but he makes Merlin smile and there is a lot Arthur will put up with if it makes Merlin smile.

“Arthur,” Merlin calls, drawing Arthur’s attention immediately. He nods to show he’s listening, but when Merlin doesn’t say anything else, he raises his head. Merlin’s eyes are far away, lost in thought, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he stares down at his hands. “Did Morgana mention anything about these bandits? About this trip?”

“No,” Arthur says. True to habit, he had visited her before they left, not only because it’s ritual for him but because he wants to have as much insight as he possibly can before heading out of Camelot, and it would be foolish of him to turn away the visions that have plagued Morgana for weeks now. She hadn’t said anything and had looked quite chipper at the prospect, so he assumed there wasn’t anything to worry about.

Merlin nods and seems appeased by that. “Good.”

“What’s got you so worried?” Arthur asks. “Bandits are hardly an army. It’s likely we won’t have to do much after we find and arrest their leader.”

“But what do they want?” Merlin presses. “They don’t take food, just money, and even then, they don’t completely decimate anyone they’ve targeted. It’s like…” He trails off, worrying his lower lip again. “It doesn’t seem normal.”

“Money buys food, and weapons,” Arthur says, though as Merlin speaks, the wrongness of it strikes him as well. It is odd. By the garrison’s estimates, there are almost twenty in this group that strike travelers on the road. They don’t pillage, they don’t burn farms. They take their tithes and head off, never to be seen from until the next time. There are no reports of where they’re holed up, and Uther had seemed more than a little reluctant to let Arthur go at all, specifically Arthur, as though there was some reason not to travel North again, some secret he doesn’t wish Arthur to uncover.

At first Arthur had simply thought Uther assumed the task too trivial, but that’s never stopped him before. He was more than happy to let Arthur go with only Merlin to hunt down a griffin summoner, after all. But with this group, Arthur was commanded to take ten Knights along with him.

“I suppose,” Merlin finally says. “It just feels strange.”

“I’ll protect you,” Arthur promises, grinning when Merlin smiles at him. There’s no arrogance there; with the Knights around them, Merlin can’t rely on magic as much as he normally does, and there is no magic in the world that can protect oneself against a well-timed blade with the element of surprise. Surprise is one of the most dangerous types of magic there is.

“And I’ll protect you,” Merlin says, coming close and nuzzling beneath Arthur’s chin. He huffs, disgruntled, and rubs his nose. “Tincture,” he complains, wiping the clear smear from his skin.

“Is there something you can make that only hides me from everyone else?” Arthur asks. “Or something I can drink instead?” He pauses, swallowing, and says quietly; “I don’t like that you can’t smell me properly. That I don’t even know what I smell like, really.”

“If there is, I don’t know it,” Merlin says a little sadly. “The only thing I know of would be like a concealment charm, but that takes concentration, and I wouldn’t feel good knowing that I might…fail you, like that.”

“You’d never fail me,” Arthur says, so sudden and forceful it takes his breath away. Merlin sucks in a breath, eyes shining as he smiles, warmed by Arthur’s conviction. “I know you wouldn’t. Not willingly, anyway.”

“I suppose that’s the point, isn’t it?” he murmurs. “There’s a lot I wouldn’t do willingly, but sometimes things don’t happen willingly.”

“And we’ll handle it, if that happens.” Arthur cups Merlin’s cheek, meets his eyes. “You have my utmost trust, Merlin. Remember that.”

Merlin swallows audibly, fists clenching at his sides. Arthur lets him go, sure that if either of them act on the things they’d rather do, they won’t leave this tent and will certainly be in no state to carry themselves normally in public.

He is getting very, very tired of secrets.

“Soup’s up!” Gwaine yells, much too loudly in Arthur’s opinion. He’s gotten good over the years at stamping down his tendency to startle that all Omegas share, but the Knights believe they are in the company of Alphas, and have no qualms being loud or sudden as they please.

Merlin gives him a look, mouth twisting in wry understanding. He squeezes Arthur’s hand and then goes back to packing, as Arthur fastens his sword belt and his cloak around him and steps back out into the freezing air.

Merlin

Emrys. Emrys is coming .

Merlin is back in the clearing, the snow gone as though it was never there, the Earth subtly radiating heat like he’s stepping into an oven. The lake is gone, dried up from the fire beneath it. When Merlin steps up to the edge, he sees a cavernous maw, like some great tunneling beast dug its way into the Earth and made its home there.

There is no way to go but forward. The trees will not let him leave. He braces himself, firming his shoulders into a straight line and lifting an arm to cover his mouth and nose, and steps into the hole. The path down is steep and he has to walk like a goat, zigging and zagging so he doesn’t stumble and slide all the way down.

There is light at the bottom of the tunnel, burning like fire – orange and flickering and so, so warm. With it comes the smell of all ancient, bestial things. No rot, no decay, but power incarnate, like ash and smoke.

He walks down and comes to a cavern, the rock jet black all around him like it was burned and scorched into shape. His mouth is dry and his skin grows tight and itchy, sparks dragging across his forehead and down his arms like touches of embers from a great roaring fire. There is a fire in the center of the cavern, burning white-hot despite there being no fuel. There is no wood down here, no sticks or other kindling, just fire burning in a great iron bowl, the metal charred and blackened but holding strong.

Behind the fire, a shape moves. It’s huge, greater than anything Merlin has seen before, and just before the shape smooths out its edges and becomes something concrete, his mind whispers urgently to him: dragon.

It is a dragon, the same golden one he saw in his last dream. Its face looms high above the fire, it’s using it almost like a shield, blocking Merlin’s view of the rest of its bulk. By Merlin’s best estimates, its body is as large as four warhorses, its wings big enough to completely cover a small town. Its face is not altogether fierce, though it is still a dragon and therefore has some level of threat to it. Its muzzle is not creased in a snarl, its horns are pointed backwards, not jutting forward in threat.

“Ah, there you are,” it says, in that same rumbling voice. “The young warlock. A pleasure.”

Merlin lowers his arm, no longer fearing the fire. Fire has been a constant companion to him, playing tricks when he was young and easily called to his voice whenever he summons it. He has no fear of whatever burns in the giant iron bowl.

The dragon peers at him with the same curious non-expression the sword did. Merlin cannot see it, but he imagines that behind the dragon is a great horde, and he is willing to bet that the sword is there, gleaming amidst its other treasures. He cannot see it, but he feels the rightness of that thought settle into his bones like liquid heat, nodding along with his hunch.

“What’s your name?” Merlin asks of the beast when it neither lunges at him nor speaks further.

“My name is Kilgharrah,” the dragon tells him, and though its reptilian face is not inclined to smile, the corners of its lips curl up at the sides and some of its teeth are bared. “A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Emrys.”

“Emrys,” Merlin repeats. “That’s not my name.”

“It might not be the name humanity gave you,” Kilgharrah says, “but it is your name, nonetheless. It was given to you by the Earth, by the magic within it and all its subjects, the same way you might call a Prince ‘Your Highness’, or a King ‘Your Majesty’.”

Merlin frowns. “So it means ‘King’?” he asks.

That odd smile widens and the dragon bows its head. “In a sense, I suppose. It is a name like any other.”

“I’m no King.”

“No, you certainly are not.” Kilgarrah’s golden eyes rake over Merlin, studying him like one might a particularly interesting insect. “Much has changed since I spoke to you last.”

Merlin straightens at that, fists tightening at his sides. He’s certain he would have remembered meeting a dragon, let alone speaking to one. “We’ve never met.”

Kilgharrah grins, and looks to the fire. Merlin follows his gaze, eyes widening when he sees it take shape – the same shapes from his vision. A man – Arthur – wielding a shining sword, striking at a golden dragon on a field of shimmering sunlight. The vision ends as quickly as it had begun, leaving Merlin breathless.

“That was you?” he demands.

“A gift,” the dragon says, “from one creature of magic to another.” The dragon tilts his great head, looking at Merlin again. “It has been a long time. Your mind has been closed for years. It is only recently that I have been able to open the door again.”

You opened the door .

Kilgharrah lunges forward suddenly, ignoring the fire as it covers and surrounds his neck. Merlin refuses to take a step back even as the beast’s head looms closer until they are within touching – or biting – distance.

“What made that happen, I wonder?”

Merlin doesn’t answer, but he knows. Opening his mind to speak to Trickler – or even before that, sending out his consciousness to help Arthur in the caves. He’s been using magic more often, foolishly cavalier. It makes sense that the presence of magic in the world began to take notice.

Kilgharrah breathes in, huffing loudly like a wild dog, his breath hot and moist as it braces against Merlin’s skin. His muzzle wrinkles. “You have Pendragon stink all over you,” Kilgharrah mutters.

“You showed him to me,” Merlin replies. “Did you think I wouldn’t listen?”

“I am far too old to be surprised by the workings of Man anymore,” Kilgharrah says, lifting his head away.

“Why are you reaching for me again? Why now?” Merlin asks. “Who do I keep hearing, chanting that name? Emrys.”

“You are hearing the voice of that which has been silent in Camelot for far too long,” the dragon says, haughty and annoyed. His nostrils flare, fire glowing deep within his maw. “A voice I would much like to see raised loud in chorus again.” He looks to Merlin. “Wouldn’t you?”

“It will happen,” Merlin says.

“Why do you believe that?” Kilgharrah challenges. “What workings have you made upon the mind of the tyrant, Uther Pendragon?”

Merlin opens his mouth to answer, then shuts it, his teeth clicking together. Just as he did not give too many answers to Trickler, he does not think it wise to speak openly to this beast, who already seems to know far too much about him, and has had his workings in Merlin’s mind from years ago.

“Emrys -.”

“Don’t call me that,” Merlin snaps, snarling the words. “That’s not my name.”

“It is your name,” the dragon insists. Below Merlin’s feet, he feels a rumble. “You cannot deny it, any more than you can deny the magic in your blood, or in mine. To renounce it is to renounce that magic, your people -.”

“My people? What people?” Merlin demands. The rumbling is getting fiercer, making him tremble in place. The fire spits at him, hissing as though disturbed. Merlin takes a step back and looks behind himself, seeing that the cave opening looks far narrower than it did before. Fear prickles down the back of his neck, the knowledge that, should he stay and debate titles with the dragon, he will be trapped in here with it, and at its mercy.

“Enough of this,” he mutters, turning and walking back towards the opening. Behind him, Kilgharrah snarls, but Merlin doesn’t look back. The dragon doesn’t come after him or lunge, doesn’t even breathe fire. Perhaps it can’t.

“We will see you soon, Merlin,” the dragon calls behind him as Merlin steps out into the muddy field. “Goodbye for now.”

As Merlin turns for one final retort, he sees that the entrance of the cave has been swallowed up again, water pooling in like a rushing river to return to that flat, mirror-like pool he’d seen in his first dream. From the center, the sword rises, as though it was never gone.

Though he knows it’s impossible, he gets the distinct feeling that the sword is smiling at him. It has the bearing of a dragon’s grin.

Chapter Text

Merlin is brooding again.

The journey up to the Northern garrison has been without issue so far. The Knights are in a good humor, they haven’t come across any bandits or other delays on the road. Even the local wildlife hasn’t completely disappeared for the winter and they’ve managed to snag fresh meat once or twice when settling down for the night.

But Merlin is brooding. Arthur feels it like a dampness on the back of his neck that never quite goes away, chafing his nape and making him restless.

Unfortunately, they haven’t had much time to just talk. Merlin’s strange nightmares have continued, giving him less sleep than normal, and whenever they bed down for the night Arthur can feel his exhaustion like a physical thing, that makes him unwilling to press the issue. During the day, Merlin banters with the Knights and dutifully performs his normal tasks of helping with the tents, the horses, and the cooking. He might be a little slow to gain attention, lost in thought most of the time, but otherwise there’s nothing visibly wrong with him. Arthur doesn’t fear the presence of another talisman, he’s sure what’s causing Merlin’s upset is his nightmares.

They need to talk about it. Arthur can’t concentrate when he knows Merlin is upset, it’s a persistent irritant at the back of his mind.

They’re a day’s ride from the garrison when he decides he’s had enough. He grabs Merlin’s arm before he can go forage with some of the Knights for firewood, drawing his attention.

“I need a word with you,” Arthur says, firmly enough that Merlin doesn’t argue. Merlin nods, his eyes darting in apology to the fellow foragers’ disappearing backs, and allows Arthur to lead him into the main tent that they’ll share for the night.

Arthur releases him once the flap is closed. “Silence the tent,” he whisper-commands. “One way, if you can manage it.”

Merlin’s mouth thins, his shoulders hunching up as though expecting to be yelled at, but his eyes flash gold and he makes a little gesture towards the tent flaps, then nods at Arthur to signal that it’s done.

Arthur sighs, regarding him for a long moment. Merlin’s sleepless nights have painted dark circles beneath his eyes, robbed his skin of the tan everyone else has gathered from riding all day in the sun. He looks sickly, waxen. Not like himself.

“What’s the matter with you?” Arthur asks, and winces at the blunt phrasing. “You’ve been acting odd this whole journey. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Merlin replies immediately, his fingers twitching nervously at his sides. Arthur merely stares at him, and Merlin sighs, shoulders lowering, bringing up his hands to scrub over his face. “I’m just…worried.”

“Why?” Arthur presses, stepping close and gently clasping Merlin’s forearm. “What’s the matter, Merlin?”

Merlin’s eyes dart to the closed tent flap. Outside, those who weren’t tasked with gathering firewood can be heard milling about, putting up the last of the tents and doling out the dry, cold rations. There will be no warm meal tonight; the fire is merely for warmth and light before bedding down.

“I know you’ve been having dreams,” Arthur continues, brushing his thumb up and down Merlin’s wrist like he might soothe a startled horse. Every now and again, Merlin twists his hand so he can return the gesture. “You said they aren’t like Morgana’s, but they’re clearly causing you distress.”

“It’s nothing…” The protest dies on Merlin’s tongue at the expectant look in Arthur’s eyes. He sighs again. “I… I think I’d feel better if I could…show you something.”

“Show me, then,” Arthur says, his voice just shy of pleading. Anything to get rid of that awful feeling on the back of his neck, anything to soothe his Alpha’s distress.

Merlin sucks in a slow breath, closes his eyes, squares his jaw. “I need to teach you how to keep people out of your head.”

Arthur blinks, a small frown creasing his brow. “…Alright,” he replies. If this is what Merlin needs, he’ll try, though he has no idea how he’d even begin doing such a thing.

Merlin nods. “Tonight. After dinner,” he says. “It might take a while.”

“Whatever you need,” Arthur replies, and finds that he means it. He’d do anything Merlin asked of him, if it would make Merlin happy.

Merlin smiles, his expression growing warm. “Thank you,” he says. He darts his eyes to the tent flap, then leans in for a chaste kiss that sends warmth through every one of Arthur’s limbs. His lashes flutter and he sighs into the kiss, drawing Merlin close with his hand on Merlin’s arm. The kiss ends too quickly, it always does in Arthur’s opinion, so he clings to the feeling and the look in Merlin’s eyes when he draws away. He watches Merlin’s irises go gold again, the silencing spell falling flat, and Arthur releases him so they can make their way out of the tent together with nothing amiss.

Merlin disappears to go help fetch firewood and Arthur settles down around where the campfire will be built. For lack of anything else to do, he takes out his dagger and begins sharpening it, the smooth glide and soft rasp of the whetstone an easy rhythm he loses himself to as, around him, the men prepare to settle for the night.

Soon, the fire is lit and Gwaine has started a haphazard drinking song, occasional rises of off-key singing and humming flaring up whenever someone remembers the next line of whatever tavern ditty they start. Arthur watches from his place, not joining in, even when Merlin laughs and sings along. He never learned these songs, never had occasion, but even the most noble and highborn of his Knights have frequented the tavern every now and again.

It’s an otherness he’s used to, even if it makes his chest ache. Since meeting Will, Arthur has strived to pay more attention to traditional pack dynamics like this, how each of these Alphas have a hierarchy within their ranks that are not necessarily determined by age or how long they’ve been a Knight. Perceived as an Alpha, Arthur outranks them all, but he notices subtle leadership changes as Gwaine becomes more comfortable, rising in the ranks. He notices a natural deference to Merlin, even though as a commoner Merlin would be the lowest of all of them. He notices how Percival sits comfortably in the middle of the pack, how Leon ranks high as their instructor and one of the oldest.

It's fascinating to him, and he wonders how all of it might change if the truth of his Omega nature were to come out. He’s still the Prince, he will always outrank them in that way, but would any of them try to worm their way into a position closer to his? Would they try to court his favor, to push back against his authority? Would they, if they knew his relationship with Merlin, see Merlin as the highest rank instead, and seek favor with him?

He doesn’t know. One day, he might have to find out.

But that is another day. For right now, the men he trusts more than anyone in the world are all around him, singing and laughing and drinking their watered-down ale, the fire is bright and Merlin is warming the air around them to fight off the cold, and he is content.

Soon enough it’s a respectable time to retire, and Arthur rises. They give him respectful nods as Arthur leaves them to it, and Merlin follows a few moments later. He closes the tent flap behind them and silences it once again.

He helps Arthur shed and fold his cloak, unstrapping his armor and placing it with his weapons in easy reach. He pulls off his boots and cloak and jacket and sits cross-legged on his pallet. Arthur matches him, so they’re facing each other, within arm’s reach.

“Okay,” Merlin begins, and breathes out again. He reaches out and takes each of Arthur’s hands in his own, making Arthur shiver despite himself, warm when their fingers lace around each other’s wrists. Merlin meets his eyes. “Do you picture any kind of house inside your mind? A castle, or anything?”

“There’s a house,” Arthur replies quietly, and conjures the humble building into the forefront of his mind. On the porch is a large black hound. In the basement is the creature he associates with being an Omega. He can hear it, see it, rumble with interest, ears perked up.

Merlin smiles, closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them they are glowing a dull gold, and Arthur sucks in a breath when, suddenly, Merlin is in his mind’s eye as well. He strides up to the house and stops just shy of the first porch step.

Arthur goes to meet him. The hound wags its tail, panting in recognition.

“If someone were to try and force their way into your mind,” Merlin begins, “you must be able to keep them out.” He’s speaking, but his mouth isn’t moving. The manifestation of him in his mind’s eye speaks instead.

He takes a step up onto the porch, but does not reach for the door. “I’m going to try to get in,” he warns. “You will try to keep me out.”

Arthur nods, swallowing harshly. The hound makes a weak, half-hearted growl, confused why it would not welcome Merlin into Arthur’s mind.

Merlin smiles at it, like he understands its hesitance, like it pleases him. He looks at Arthur. “Just try the door, for now,” he says, and walks up to it. He puts a hand upon the flat, plain wood, and pushes lightly.

Arthur’s jaw clenches. He closes his eyes so he can focus, and he tries to imagine the door barred and locked, an impenetrable fortress of steel and stone instead of the rather flimsy door it is right now. Perhaps there’s some significance to that, how welcoming by default Arthur’s mind is.

Soft, that’s what Omega’s minds are. Soft and weak for anyone to just walk in.

“Hey.” It’s Merlin’s voice, out loud. Arthur’s eyes open when he feels Merlin cup his cheek, a frown on his face. “Don’t think like that. Don’t you ever think like that. You’re not soft, you’re not weak.”

If he notices that voice sounded a lot more like Uther Pendragon than Arthur, he doesn’t comment.

Merlin watches him in silence, his thumb brushing gently over Arthur’s jaw, before he nods to himself and takes Arthur’s hand again. “Let’s give it another go,” he says. Arthur closes his eyes and tries to reinforce his door again, pleased when, this time, Merlin gives it a push and it does not open. It takes a lot of effort, a lot of concentration. Sweat breaks out below his hairline and behind his knees as Merlin tries to push the door open again. The hound, understanding the task now, growls a little more fiercely, though it does not move to attack.

Merlin stops pushing and takes a step back, his smile wide. “Good,” he murmurs. Arthur feels a brush of lips against his own and shivers, but refuses to think of anything else but the door. His instinct is rewarded when Merlin lunges for it again and finds it unmoving. He laughs breathlessly. “Good. I’m going to try a little harder, now.”

Harder? Arthur is barely able to hold it closed as it is. He tightens his grip on Merlin’s wrists and clenches his jaw, determined not to let Merlin into the house in his mind. He’s warmed all over, his teeth aching from effort as he grinds them together. Merlin pushes, and the door buckles, but holds. He slams his fist against the door and the entire house shudders, but it holds. The hound rises to its feet, snarling, hackles raised.

Merlin slams both hands on the door, pushing with all his might – far more strength than he’d be physically capable of. The weight of Merlin presses down on Arthur’s mind from all directions, as though Merlin has decided that, if he cannot get in, he will crush Arthur’s house entirely and seek what he desires among the rubble.

Arthur imagines a protective fist around his heart, a huge braying of hounds and whale song to distract and deter. He puts iron in the doorframe and acid on the handle. He piles bookshelves and armories against the back of the door so that it will not fall inward. He hollows out the Earth and packs it tight around the house so that it cannot explode outwards.

Merlin stops pushing, breathing hard in Arthur’s mind, and smiles at him. “See?” he whispers, panting. “See how strong you are?”

Arthur turns to look at what has become of his house. His eyes widen as he gazes upon the iron spikes shooting out from the door, the spears braced against the back of it, the thick layers of stone and dirt that have piled on to strengthen the walls, the roof made now of shields instead of straw.

As soon as he notices, and lets himself exhale, it all falls away, back to the welcoming, humble abode that Arthur imagined in the first place.

He opens his eyes. He’s panting as hard as Merlin is, sweat staining his brow. Merlin smiles at him, the gold fading from his eyes as he relents in his assault. “Did I… Was that good?” Arthur rasps, surprised to find his throat dry, his tongue sore like he’s been chewing on it.

“That was wonderful,” Merlin whispers, releasing his hands and cupping his face instead. “If you ever feel something like that, someone on the edges of your mind, remember what you did and you’ll be able to do it again.” He strokes his thumb down Arthur’s flushed cheek, smiling warmly. “It’ll get easier with time.”

“Can I do it to you? Am I able to walk into other people’s minds?” Arthur asks, wide-eyed at the possibility. It would be a boon, he thinks, to be able to know what anyone else is thinking at a moment’s notice. He wouldn’t have to fear a thing, if he knew that.

Merlin cocks his head to one side. “You can try…” he begins, frowning. “It might not work, though. I’ve only ever known magic users to be able to.” He falls silent, chewing his lower lip in thought. “But you did manage to call on me, before…”

“I’d like to try,” Arthur says, swallowing. “With your permission.”

Sitting as close as they are, and with Arthur watching Merlin so closely, he can see the tightness come back to Merlin’s shoulders, the unsure clench of his jaw, the nervous dart of his eyes. Arthur frowns. What does Merlin not want to show him?

But Merlin takes Arthur’s hands again, and breathes out. “You have my permission,” he says.

Arthur isn’t so certain Merlin wants him in his mind, but he did say ‘Yes’. Arthur closes his eyes, finding the house in his mind again. He puts his hand on his hound’s muzzle and crouches down, meeting the animal’s intelligent eyes.

“Find him for me,” he commands. The hound barks and takes off at a run. In his mind, Arthur can easily keep up with the animal. He chases his hound away from his own house, down a long, winding road that splits through fields and farmland. Panting, though he doesn’t need to, he follows the dog up a great mountainous trail, the trees growing tall and thick all around him and blotting out the sun.

When the dog slows, sniffing around, Arthur looks at his surroundings. He does not see any kind of house, or castle, or anything where a person might live. Instead, they come across a clearing, filled with flowers outside anything Arthur has seen in the natural world. There is snow on the ground, the flowers poking meekly up through the thick blanket of white.

There is a sword, buried in a lump of snow. His fingers flex with the instinct to reach for it, but he resists. The hound sees it, too, and snarls at the thing, going no farther.

“Merlin?” he whispers in his mind. His voice carries through the snowy plain, echoing in on itself until it’s like hundreds of himself are asking for Merlin.

He hears a crunch of feet in the snow, and turns to find Merlin striding out of the trees. He looks…different, here. Grander, somehow, as though his shadow adds to his overall presence. That same weight Arthur felt when Merlin was battering down the doors of his mind compress his shoulders here, too, overwhelming him with the desire to fall to his knees.

He does, breathing hard, unnerved by the effect. Merlin walks over to him and kneels in silence. They are both angled towards the sword, unwilling to let it out of their sights.

“What is…? What is this?” Arthur gasps, pawing at the snow and the wildflowers, trying to find strength to lift off his knees again. He can’t – the very air has a weight, the sky shoving him down like a great blue hand.

“I don’t know,” Merlin replies, in a voice that has its own echo, something darker and richer like old, sweet wine. Arthur shudders as it rolls down his spine, panting, desperate to take that taste onto his tongue, like Merlin’s voice is something he could touch and drink until he was glutted on it.

Power, he thinks absently. That is the sound, the scent, the taste of power.

And Merlin is so, so powerful.

In the real world, Arthur’s fingers flex, and his body trembles at the pure, unbridled presence of his Alpha. He suddenly and so desperately wants to kiss Merlin, wants Merlin to put his hands all over Arthur, to push him and pierce him and flood him with this feeling down to his very bones.

“It might be because you’re not a magic user,” Merlin says, oblivious to Arthur’s reactions – or unwilling to address it. He places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and Arthur whimpers. Merlin flinches back immediately. “If it’s hurting you, Arthur, withdraw.”

“I’m not in pain,” Arthur rasps. The snow isn’t cold, but his hands are numb. Are the flowers venomous? They glow in the sunlight, happily curling up in Arthur’s hands even as he shreds them in his grip and crushes them beneath his knees.

He forces himself to look up, around the clearing, one eye always on the sword. “Where’s your door?”

“Doors can be opened,” Merlin replies sagely. “I learned not to have one. Instead, my mind is a clearing, like any other. Easily passed over, easily lost.” He pauses, then adds, “At least, it used to be.” At that, Arthur looks at him, finds Merlin watching the sky with wary eyes. Merlin bites his lower lip and fixes his gaze on Arthur. “You’re not in pain?” he asks.

“No. It’s just…you. All of you. It’s…a lot.”

Merlin’s frown deepens, his scent turning sour in the real world with a hint of distress. Arthur fights his hands free of the snow and flowers and cups Merlin’s face, leaving a dusting of white crystals to fall against his neck.

“I don’t mind,” Arthur says, and he doesn’t, he really doesn’t at all. This feeling is… There’s no way to describe it, only that he wants more of it. It is the same desire that all men must share for something, he thinks, more power, more land, more wealth. More Merlin. “It’s incredible. You feel incredible.”

Merlin’s cheeks darken. He swallows and leans into Arthur’s touch, crowding closer in the snow. Arthur can’t resist; he kisses Merlin passionately, tongue seeking entrance and teeth biting down when it’s not immediately granted. The feeling of power coats his tongue, fills his lungs, makes every part of him tingle and flush. He feels like he’s taken some sort of drug; he’s jittery, high.

“Is this how you feel all the time?” he asks between kisses, crawling closer until he’s practically in Merlin’s lap. He is in the real world, too, he realizes dimly; Merlin’s nails are digging into his hips, his thighs spread on Merlin’s lap. If he were to press just a little closer, he’d be able to feel if Merlin is just as aroused as he is.

He is, Arthur knows; he can smell it.

“Yes,” Merlin gasps, clawing his way up Arthur’s back, drawing their bodies together and – yes, yes he’s certainly aroused. Arthur’s hips grind down, making them both gasp as they cling to each other, breathing hard. “But never like this. Like…it’s too much.”

“I’m here,” Arthur replies, kissing the words to Merlin’s tender, panting mouth. “I can take it.”

With a snarl, Merlin abruptly throws Arthur onto his back. Arthur feels both the gentle crush of snow beneath him and the hard impact of the unforgiving ground in the real world. In both, Merlin crawls over him, warm and alive and needy as he shoves his way between Arthur’s legs and plasters every inch of them together.

And Arthur wants. He wants so badly he can barely see.

But the hound is still in his head, and flattens its ears, whining in warning. The smell. Omega slick; it’s everywhere. Soaking the air like a chaser to harsh mead, like cool water on a burning tongue. They can’t do this here, now, without being able to mask his scent.

He opens his mouth to protest, but he can’t get the words out. Instead, his fingers sink into Merlin’s thick, soft hair. His thighs tighten around Merlin’s hips, his entire body goes lax and warm, ready to receive.

A particularly loud laugh from outside jerks them both back to awareness. Just as, above, a shadow darkens the sun.

Merlin yanks himself back, flushed and breathing hard, his eyes more red than any other color. He looks up and his face goes pale. “You have to leave,” he whispers, and it takes Arthur a moment to realize that the edge in his voice is fear. Merlin looks down at him, then at the sword, then at Arthur’s hound. He scrambles back and looks up at the sky, seeking the shadow again.

It comes. Huge, black, winged. Arthur hears a dull roar in his ears.

“Arthur, you have to leave. Now!”

And just like that, Arthur is entirely in his own mind again. He’s throwing himself onto his side and gasping for air – air that is too cold, too plain, too impotent for his lungs. Merlin’s clearing disappears like it never existed. Even the numb stinging in Arthur’s hands ebbs away.

“What…” Arthur shakes his head, tries to focus. He looks at Merlin, finds him scrubbing at his face as though trying to rid himself of the illusion too. He sits up, forcing Merlin onto his haunches, and glares at him. “What in God’s name was that?”

Merlin tenses, his eyes wide and red. Arthur refuses to look anywhere else on him; he will not be distracted by the low, heady scent of Alpha arousal, by the reddened swell of Merlin’s lips, by the very obvious outline tenting his trousers.

“Do not lie to me, Merlin,” Arthur hisses. His voice feels strange when he says it, like he’s speaking with two throats. Merlin’s eyes widen and his head snaps down, such a sudden bow of deference that it takes Arthur’s breath away.

His Voice. He used it on Merlin.

“Dragon,” Merlin mumbles. “It was a dragon.”

He says it like it’s been wrenched from the very pit of his soul, wretched and raw. Guilt swirls through Arthur like a winter storm, relentless and cruel. He swallows and coughs through the second voice, and only when he’s confident that he’s back in control does he speak again.

“There’s a dragon, entering your mind?”

“No,” Merlin hisses, sounding angry. “No. I won’t let him.”

“But it’s what you’ve been dreaming about, isn’t it?” Arthur recognizes the fear in Merlin’s eyes, the tone of his voice when he’s terrified – he’s heard it often enough. “It’s trying to? Are we going into the lair of a dragon?”

“I don’t know!” Merlin snaps. He swallows, working his jaw from side to side, breathes in and scrubs his hands over his face again. “I don’t know, Arthur, I swear. I swear.”

Arthur believes him. It’s impossible not to.

He straightens up, pulling his legs away from around Merlin’s and wincing when he feels a trickle of slick escape him. He’ll have to go overboard on his tincture if Merlin can’t magic the scent away.

“I just… Everything about this feels wrong,” Merlin says, rambling now. “This mission, the bandits. I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it than we’re seeing. It terrifies me, not knowing what we’re up against.” He meets Arthur’s eyes, beseeching. “The dragon has been talking to me in my dreams. And yes, I think the two are connected, but I don’t know how.”

Arthur takes this in, counting out ten heartbeats before he allows himself to answer. “Is that why you wanted to teach me to keep people out?” he guesses. “You think the dragon might try.”

“I think someone will,” Merlin replies. “If not the dragon, someone who has its interests at heart.”

Arthur nods to himself. He’s angry, he realizes. That jittery feeling has grown claws, shredding through his nerves, and he’s furious. “And you didn’t think this was at all pertinent to tell me?” he hisses. “You thought, what, because it was a matter of magic, that it wouldn’t concern me? That your wellbeing is not my utmost priority -.”

His throat is thickening again, Voice coming out with his rage. He forces himself to stop talking, to swallow the feeling down. Just another thing for him to be left out of. Another thing people more powerful than him feel best to keep out of his pretty little head.

Merlin radiates his misery like mist, leaving a sour taste on his tongue.

“Can you magic this smell away?” he snaps, gesturing to himself. Merlin swallows, nods, his eyes flashing gold. The scent of Arthur’s slick fades away. The feeling doesn’t, and Arthur is somewhat glad Merlin didn’t presume to physically remove it, even if he can see the logic. “Good. Now get out of my sight.”

Merlin’s eyes widen. He reaches for Arthur but stops when Arthur pulls back. “Please, Arthur, don’t send me away, I didn’t mean -!”

“I’ll see you in the morning, Merlin,” Arthur snarls, putting the full weight of his authority and position behind his words. Merlin stares at him, but only for a heartbeat, before he swallows and nods, pushing himself to unsteady feet. He doesn’t look back as he leaves the tent without even grabbing his boots. Arthur notices that he doesn’t do anything to lift the silencing spell from the tent – even if Arthur changed his mind and called for him, he would have to leave the tent to be heard.

No matter.

It feels wrong to send Merlin away, but Arthur fears what he might do or say should the Alpha remain. He feels like he used to, back before Merlin changed his medicine – angry and hurting, like an animal with a wound that just won’t heal.

That’s what he is, without Merlin. Some pitiful, wild thing, licking his wounds and hoping no one notices him. Soft, weak-minded, Omega.

He changes his trousers and throws himself down onto his pallet. The tent smells like Merlin, aching on the back of his tongue. In his mind, the hound paces restlessly, whining and confused why Merlin is no longer nearby. The beast in his chest is very unhappy indeed, still salivating at how good it had felt to be pinned under his Alpha, drenched in his powerful magic.

He forces himself not to think about it. He doesn’t sleep.

In the morning, Arthur has calmed, the fury dulled with a heavy-boned regret. He rises first and exits the tent, seeking Merlin out among the pairs of Knights as they rouse from their tents, ready to greet the day.

He frowns.

Merlin is not here.

“Where is Merlin?” he commands of Leon, who approaches him first.

Leon frowns. “He’s…not with you, Sire?”

Arthur shakes his head, panic swelling in his chest. “I sent him out last night. Who bedded down with him?”

He searches the faces of the Knights, finds Gwaine frowning and looking into the trees. Inside his skull, both hound and beast grow restless.

“Merlin!” he shouts, his voice echoing loud enough that Leon winces. No answer. Merlin’s horse is still here, as are all his belongings. He didn’t come back into the tent to take his boots, and he wouldn’t have simply wandered about into the wilderness on his own, no matter how capable he was. “Merlin!” he shouts again.

The Knights join in.

“Merlin!”

“Merlin?”

“Merlin!”

Still no answer.

“Sire!” Gwaine calls, drawing his attention. Arthur goes to him and immediately sees what Gwaine found; evidence of someone, a group of someones, crouched a few yards away from the camp. A sudden motion, snapping a branch. A scuffle – bare feet and boots fighting for dominance. A flat patch of dirt where someone went down hard. A scrap of black cloth, torn free, the kind one might grab if one was being attacked.

A cold chill runs down Arthur’s spine. Frantic, he closes his eyes and tries to search for Merlin’s mind as he did the night before, but he can’t. The hound paces in a circle, unsure of where to go. Without Merlin’s magic to lead him, without his guiding touch, Arthur cannot find him. He shouts for Merlin in his mind, begging for an answer, but nothing comes.

He’s not dead, he tells himself. Not dead. Just unconscious, or too far away. Not dead, not dead…

“I think he was taken,” Gwaine guesses. Arthur opens his eyes as Gwaine sniffs the air. His nose wrinkles. “Gods, they smell like death.”

Death, yes. That’s the scent. But there was no bloodshed, no physical signs of someone being wounded. They must have knocked Merlin out and – yes, they dragged him away. He follows the trail to a small collection of hoof marks. Horses, waiting, far enough away that their own horses wouldn’t have raised an alarm.

Someone took Merlin. Someone that was heading North.

“We’re going after him,” Arthur decides, turning and marching back to the main camp. “Everyone be ready to leave in five minutes, not a second more. We’ll ride spread out, following the trail. We will find him.”

The Knights all nod, leaping to action. Merlin is, after all, one of the highest-ranking members of the pack, and even if Arthur were not there to give the order, every single one of them would fall in line and search for their missing member.

It would warm Arthur’s heart, if he wasn’t so frightened. Where the snow was not cold, this fear is bitingly chill.

I’m coming, Merlin, he promises, even if Merlin cannot hear him. He’s not dead, he reminds himself, he can’t possibly be dead. Hold on for me.

Chapter Text

They search. It’s clear that the group that took Merlin was also heading North, following the same trail they would have taken if Merlin hadn’t disappeared. With every passing moment, fear and guilt curl up in Arthur, climbing the ladder of his spine and wrapping around his throat until he’s choking on it.

Another feeling, the kind of instinct too inclined to notice patterns and regard happenings with suspicion, is growing in him as well. It’s too big a coincidence that Merlin would be so anxious coming this far North, hunting down this group of bandits, and then be taken by a group which Arthur suspects belongs to those bandits.

The scent of death grows stronger the farther North they go.

Much to Arthur’s annoyance and reluctance, they must rest the horses at midday. The men are tired, strain thrumming between them like a spider’s web, alerting the monster at the center that something is terribly wrong.

Arthur must be worst off for it. He notices Gwaine keeps casting him worried glances, keeps smiling reassuringly whenever Arthur meets his eyes. Arthur imagines his scent is absolutely terrible with stress, more than what a Prince should feel for his manservant.

Perhaps the truth will come to light much sooner than he’s ready for, and it will not be in a manner of his choosing.

He can’t think about that now. Merlin is missing, his absence like a physical wound in Arthur’s stomach, slowly bleeding out. He’s dizzy with it, swallowing back all the saliva he can’t help but make. His head is frozen and fuzzy, no thought but find him, find him, kill whoever took him, find him echoing in his head like so many war cries.

When he first hears Percival’s panicked shout, he barely registers it. There’s a hand on his shoulder, shaking him to attention, and he blinks to awareness to find Leon looking at him, his face pale, his eyes wide.

Arthur swallows. “No,” he whispers. No, they didn’t… They didn’t find him, did they?

“You need to come see this, Sire,” Percival says behind Leon’s shoulder. He’s a big man, with a natural steadiness that comes from a complete assurance in the fact that he can physically best most living things, but he’s jittery now, shifting his weight and looking nervously beyond their little clearing.

Arthur breathes in, catches the scent of fire and carnage, and follows where they lead.

It’s a pyre. The air around it is cold, and there is no smoke. It hasn’t been lit for a long time. There are no fresh bodies. Merlin is not here.

He exhales, fighting down the surge of panic, and steps closer to investigate. The smell is awful, a lingering heavy cloud of burned flesh and melted armor. This fire was, at one point, hot enough to char the very sigils from shields, to melt helmets into place around open, screaming skull mouths. What bones are still intact are blackened, the rest shattered like too-dry bricks. The dirt around the pyre has been torn to shreds, deep claw marks and many footsteps rendering it impossible to tell numbers or movement beyond the trail leading in, the drag of the bodies, and then the retreating footsteps of whoever made the pyre, leading back the way they’d come.

Arthur frowns at the pyre. There is something odd about it. Not the number of bodies, nor the fact that he is certain from what is left of the armor that this is a pile of soldiers. Perhaps those fallen from the garrison that prompted them to seek the help of the Crown in the first place.

No, what strikes him as odd is…

“There aren’t enough limbs,” Gwaine says, nudging what’s left of a severed leg, its owner lying at the edge of the pyre, mouth opened in a scream. “I count twenty skulls, but not enough legs and arms to match them.”

Arthur cannot help but agree. The pyre is made up mostly of skulls and torsos, the occasional arm and leg, but certainly not enough for twenty fighting men.

Unease curdles low in his stomach. He swallows it down.

“Animals might have taken them,” Leon suggests. “We don’t know when this was lit.”

Yes, but what animal takes entire limbs? What animal would not have nibbled on the melted flesh available to it, or perhaps dragged a particularly chosen cut to its lair, not leaving even bones behind? There are no gauntlets without forearms, no boots without feet. There are enough weapons for twenty men, but not enough hands to have held them.

What could have made a fire this hot?

He knows the answer. Merlin basically told him.

A dragon.

This is a feeding ground.

“We’ll bury them,” he decides. These were sons of Camelot, after all, and they deserve to be laid to rest. The ground is soft and broken enough that the pit is dug easily, all his Knights putting themselves to task and carefully digging a large enough hole, then pulling the bodies in, piling dirt on top when the task is done. When they’re finished, all that lingers in the clearing is a giant black spot, the occasional shield or broken piece of armor the only evidence that there were bodies here at all.

Arthur looks up to the sky. The clouds are soft white, more like bubbles on water than actual clouds. The sky itself is a bright winter-clear blue. It’s insulting, he thinks, that the day should be so fair.

The horses seem a little unnerved, but not panicked. The beast is not nearby.

He swings up into his saddle, watching as one by one his men follow suit. Some of them are pale, others steely eyed with determination to see the culprits brought to justice. He should tell them about the dragon, about Merlin’s fears – but how to explain that without giving away Merlin’s magic? How to warn them about what lies ahead when Arthur does not know himself?

He sets his sights on the trail of footprints leading away from the clearing, clicks his tongue, and guides his men to follow him into the dark, oppressive grip of the trees.

Merlin

He’s cold.

He’s freezing.

Instinctively, he reaches out, trying to warm his hands or the air around him, to stop his teeth from chattering and his muscles recoiling from the lack of heat, but when he tries, something draws him up short. There are weights around his wrists, blisteringly cold.

He opens his eyes. He’s in a cave, or rather, a cell that has been dug into rock. There’s a shaft of sunlight illuminating a set of narrow steps on the other side of thick iron bars, worn with time and many footfalls, slightly wet with morning dew. The cave itself is cool, bluish stone, shimmering with threads of quartz and other shining pieces of rock.

There is a blanket around his shoulders, thin and ineffective.

There are manacles around his wrists. He focuses on them, wills them to snap, to shatter from him, but when he tries, the cold bites back into his fingers and makes him seize up, hissing through his teeth.

He knows what these are. Cold iron. Designed specifically for the suppression and incarceration of magic users.

The realization should make him afraid, and perhaps he is afraid, but it all feels numb, as though his fear is another bit of magic being willfully smothered by the grip of the cold iron around his wrists. He flexes his fingers, trying to warm them, and draws the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

He isn’t quite sure what time of day it is. They came for him in the night, no more than an hour after Arthur had sent him away. Stupid, Merlin thinks to himself with a bitter huff, to separate himself from the Knights and be so lost in thought that he hadn’t noticed, but he finds it hard to think about anything at all when Arthur is angry with him. He simply hadn’t been paying attention.

A grave mistake, but hopefully not one that will cost him his life.

His stomach aches sharply with hunger and his head is throbbing dully from a blow that hurts whenever Merlin carefully tests the raised bump on the back of his skull. A coward’s way of attacking, Arthur would say. No one with any decency strikes an unarmed man when his back is turned.

Arthur. Is he alright? Did the group go onto ambush the Knights while they slept. Even now, are they bled out and dying in a clearing somewhere, with no one the wiser? Merlin frantically tries to reach for Arthur in his mind, seeking out their mental connection, but the cold iron tightens around his wrists, squeezes his throat like a serpent, and he cannot. He can’t extend his awareness any farther than his own skin, which is such a disconcerting feeling, he has no idea how normal people stand it.

He hears voices. One younger, soft, with a warm lilt that Merlin registers as Northern, perhaps from beyond the border. Another, gruffer, older. Both of them men. Merlin breathes in deep, catches mingling scents of Alphas, Omegas, women.

How many are there?

The sunlight streaking through the opening to his prison breaks, bodies moving across it, and then a set of boots comes into view, swiftly followed by a second. Two men walk carefully down the steps, mindful of slipping.

They could be father and son. Hell, the older man could be Merlin’s father, if Merlin didn’t know any better. They have the same nose, the same face shape, the same thick dark hair, though the older man wears his longer, to his shoulders. He’s an Alpha, the red in his eyes mild and thin. The younger man, an Omega, has a round-faced youthfulness to him, his eyes a deep ocean-blue almost completely eclipsed by gold, his hair a wild mop of ink atop his head. They’re both wearing old travelling garb, frayed at the edges and marked with mud stains that never quite came out.

The older man smiles. “Good, you’re awake,” he says, as though Merlin is a poor injured vagrant he rescued from a storm and not someone who was attacked and beaten and dragged into cold iron against his will. “Can I get you anything? Water?”

“I’d settle for your name,” Merlin replies, though his mouth is very dry and water would be most welcome. “And perhaps a key to these cuffs.”

The man shakes his head, smiling fondly as though they are not strangers, prison guard and captive, as though he has known Merlin all his life and is familiar with his idiosyncrasies. “Emrys, I think we both know I can’t do that.”

Emrys.

Merlin’s eyes narrow. The fear tries to rise up, but it’s shoved down again, smothered by that awful chill creeping through every inch of his bones. He forces himself to rise to his feet, shivering though he is, and bares his teeth in a snarl.

“If you’re calling me by that name,” he says, stepping close to the bars, “then surely it’s in your best interests to stay on my good side.”

He notes with pleasure how the Omega swallows, eyes darting nervously to his companion, his shoulders naturally curling in with the instinct to gentle and soothe an angry Alpha in his midst. Even behind the bars, even chained as he is, Merlin intimidates him. Good – he can use that, if he can ever get the Omega alone.

The older man presses his lips together, eyeing Merlin with no wariness, more something like resignation. “Mordred,” he says, turning to the Omega, “go fetch our guest some water, would you? There’s a good lad.”

Mordred bows his head, steals one last look at Merlin, then hurries back up the stairs and out of sight.

Merlin fixes his eyes on the older Alpha, squaring his jaw when he sees that the man is watching him closely. “Do I get to know your name, then?” he challenges, refusing to be cowed. He might be behind bars, he might have cold iron stifling every weapon he has, but he’s yelled in the face of Kings and faced down a dragon in his mind. He refuses to be broken by the regard of this strange man with a too-familiar face.

The man tilts his head. “My name is Balinor,” he says, heavy, weighted, like Merlin should know that name. He doesn’t, at least not that he can remember. His lack of recognition makes Balinor’s eyes grow soft, dark with regret. He clears his throat and straightens, folding his hands behind his back. “I have reason to believe you’ve been speaking with Kilgharrah.”

Merlin stiffens at the dragon’s name. He wets his lips, looking Balinor up and down. Now that he knows to look for it, he can smell the faint scent of ash clinging to Balinor’s skin, the heady press of a power that can only come from a creature of old magic hanging around his shoulders like a second cloak.

Fear prickles along the back of his neck. He does not trust a man who invokes a dragon’s name so lightly.

“Am I supposed to know that name?” he asks, keeping his voice as level as he can.

Balinor smiles, shaking his head fondly. It’s really starting to irritate Merlin, how Balinor looks at him. Like Merlin should be happy to see him, like Merlin’s lack of recognition is more painful than his anger might be.

Mordred returns, carrying a waterskin and a bundle of what Merlin sincerely hopes is food. His stomach rumbles, giving him away. He watches as Mordred comes close to the bars of his cell, crouching down to place the items within reach before quickly stepping back.

Merlin’s fingers twitch. If he could get Mordred close enough, if he could draw blood, it would be enough to give him a temporary Voice. He rebels at the idea of any Omega giving him a Voice that is not Arthur, but Arthur is already angry with him, what’s one more sin? What price would Merlin not pay to see himself back at Arthur’s side?

To his surprise, Mordred flushes, dipping his head to one side in a demure gesture – mistaking Merlin’s quiet appraisal of him as genuine interest. He turns away with an angry, disgruntled hiss, tugging at the cold iron around his wrists and hissing again when they don’t budge.

“You can deny the dragon’s influence on you all you like, Emrys,” Balinor says mildly, “but I can see it. Smell it on you.”

Merlin whirls around again, glaring at the older Alpha. “You don’t know a thing about me,” he snarls. “When I get out of here, I’m going to leave a hole in the Earth where you stood so deep and dark not even the sun itself could find your bones.”

His attempt to goad Balinor doesn’t work. If anything, the man smiles even wider. “We’ll see.” He nods to the food and water. “Eat. Rest. I’ll have someone fetch you more blankets, some proper boots. It’s cold in here, aye?”

Merlin doesn’t bother with an answer. He doesn’t move towards the food and water until Balinor and Mordred are gone. The cloth the bread is wrapped in stinks of death, like the shroud of a corpse, but the fare itself is hearty and calms the cramps of hunger in his belly. The water, too, soothes his parched mouth.

He looks around him, searching for a particularly pointy rock or something heavy enough he can try bashing the cuffs open, even though he knows it’s no use. They are locked and require a key, but that doesn’t mean Merlin can’t try.

His cell is utterly barren. He has only the cloth and waterskin to his name. He contemplates the items. If the cloth were wet enough, he might be able to bind it around the bars, might be able to twist and compress it enough that the metal bends. The bars themselves do not look particularly well-kept. They are enough to keep in a man of his admittedly average strength when not imbued with magic, but they might buckle or warp given the right kind of pressure.

Alas, the cloth is not long enough to make a knot. Even when he manages, he has nothing to twist it with, no excess to exploit. When he tries anyway, the shroud tears in his grip, falling in tatters to the feet of the bars.

He snarls to himself, slamming his fist against a bar and relishing the way pain radiates hot up his arm, soothing the chill bite of the cold iron, if only for a moment.

These men, whoever they are, are in league with a dragon. He cannot let Arthur get close to them. He has to get out.

He thinks of Mordred, his natural submission, the way he’d looked at Merlin with something close to admiration. If they call him Emrys, and if the dragon can be believed, then he is their King, isn’t he? They will want to obey him, they must on some level. Just a few drops of blood would be enough, and then Mordred would have no choice. He didn’t have a mating bite, there is no Alpha whose word could overpower Merlin’s Voice, should he get one.

The thought of touching Mordred makes his chest ache unhappily, impotent rage making his heart race, making the hard knot of bread in his stomach sit heavy as stone. If Balinor is smart, he will not let Mordred speak to Merlin alone. If Merlin is convincing enough, Mordred might be compelled to try.

Such is the way of Omegas, he’s found. They are endlessly curious creatures.

Arthur

They reach the garrison with no more interruptions, much to Arthur’s annoyance. There had been no sign of Merlin or his captors on the road – the path they followed led right to the main road and became impossible to differentiate from the natural traffic of normal folk.

He swallows back his aggravation and greets the Captain when they arrive.

“Your Highness, it’s good you have come.” Captain Rhys is a gaunt-looking man, and not in the way that appears natural. He is not normally so thin, Arthur thinks, nor so pale. His armor sits on him like it once belonged to a much larger man. “We lost another half dozen men this morning. They simply never returned from patrol.”

How many pyres have been burning up here, Arthur wonders. How many men have been lost to the ravenous appetite of a dragon.

“I need to know your normal routes, places where your men have disappeared, and every sign of bandit activity, related to this group or not,” he says, orders sharp. “If they even sneezed near here, I want to know about it.”

Rhys nods and gestures for Arthur to follow him. “I have it all compiled for you, Sire. Right this way.”

Leon follows him, leaving the others to tend to their horses and unpack their things in the barracks. Thankfully, there is plenty of room for them – it is a bittersweet silver lining, but Arthur has learned to accept those when they come, no matter how much it pains him.

Rhys leads him to a central room, a large table dwarfing the space, covered with maps, lists of fallen men, reports of sightings and interactions with this particular group of bandits. Arthur strides to the head of the table and, at a nod, Rhys leaves them to it.

Arthur’s hands are shaking. He didn’t realize it until he tried to pick up the first page. He breathes out as slowly as he can make himself, setting the parchment down, and sinks into the nearest seat, his head in his hands.

Leon’s warmth comes closer, his hand firm and reassuring on Arthur’s shoulder. “We’ll find him, Arthur,” he says, and Arthur could break down in tears over how easily Leon can read him. He knows Arthur is an Omega, and Arthur doesn’t care what he thinks about Arthur’s regard for Merlin – it is enough to have him acknowledge it, to try to soothe Arthur’s distress.

“If there is one thing I know about Merlin, it is that he is very bad at dying,” Arthur says, the joke falling flat.

Leon squeezes his shoulder and takes a seat beside him. Arthur forces himself to look up, to meet his eyes. Leon’s face is soft with sympathy, his eyes gentle on Arthur’s, as fond as they have ever been, in a way his own father so rarely is.

Leon is quiet for a moment, considering what he says next. Then, “I know Merlin will do everything he can to make it back to you.”

Arthur swallows, closing his eyes. He shakes his head – Leon can’t know that. Arthur can’t even hear him anymore, can’t find him inside his own skull. How is he supposed to find Merlin in all of Camelot’s wildlands? That is such a larger space to search.

He shouldn’t have sent Merlin away. This is all his fault, and he can’t even blame Merlin for getting himself captured like a fool. He wouldn’t have been out there if it weren’t for Arthur, his anger, his inability to handle the idea that Merlin would still keep secrets from him. He thought they were past that!

They could have gotten past it, but Arthur had to screw it up. Again.

He runs his hands through his hair again, a little less shaky but no calmer. How could this have happened? How could he have not seen this coming? He’d even spoken to Morgana before he left, like he always does, and she hadn’t said a damn thing.

He looks up suddenly. “Leon,” he says. “I need you to do something for me.”

Leon frowns, nervous in the face of Arthur’s sudden fervor, but he nods.

“I need a raven,” Arthur tells him, searching the table for a spare bit of parchment and a quill. “I need to send a letter to my sister.”

“…Morgana?” Leon echoes, frown deepening in his confusion, but Arthur is already writing. With a sigh, Leon gets up and leaves the room. For a long moment, there is only the frantic scratching of Arthur’s quill. His penmanship is awful, ink splattered about all over the page, but it doesn’t matter. He needs to send this off as soon as possible.

When you are asleep, he writes, search for a house in the middle of a clearing. It is guarded by a black hound. I need to speak to you.

It’s as much as he dares write, so openly. He tears the parchment so it resembles the size of a scroll, dusts sand onto the ink so it dries quickly, and rolls it up.

He pauses. He has no wax, nothing ready to melt and seal this. He twines some string around it, binding it tight.

He stares at the scroll, lower lip caught between his teeth as he considers.

Because of Merlin’s magic, Arthur can walk through other people’s minds. Because of Merlin’s magic, Arthur has been able to find him with nothing but a pull in his chest. Because of Merlin’s magic, Arthur is…different. Not magical, but perhaps he is not trying hard enough.

He looks to the door.

He puts his thumb against the sharp nib of the quill, pressing down until he draws blood with a hiss.

He smears it across the knot of string.

“No one may read this but Morgana,” he says, in a voice that is too monotone to sound like his own. He doesn’t feel anything when he does it, no surge of power, nothing unlocking in his chest to indicate he’d done something any more significant than dirty the string. Nothing to suggest that his little incantation might have worked.

But it’s better than nothing.

Perhaps the power of belief, of hope, can be magic enough for now.