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Chapter Text

King Pelles of Corbinec was certainly a terrible threat to Camelot’s stability. Arthur was certain of it, at least, and he’d said it often enough that Merlin was sure he knew the Prince’s speech by heart: the King was old, and stubborn, and didn’t know what was good for him, or for the people.

Really, though, Merlin was absolutely sure that those were all Uther’s words, and that the real reason the Royal Family of Camelot despised the man was the simple fact that Uther couldn’t trample over him, for all that Corbinec was a small kingdom. Because, small though it was, Corbinec was also wealthy, and well-connected, and it sat directly on Camelot’s border.

On, not near, because it had been a vassal state of Camelot, before Uther had gone and offended the King back when he was a Lord, and had to make the sort of political concessions that even Uther couldn’t back out of.

At least, not without having every allied kingdom suddenly reconsidering their own alliances and breathing down Camelot’s neck in unison.

And so, if King Pelles wanted to deny Uther’s requests for new trade agreements, and laugh in the face of Uther’s threats and rages until Uther turned purple, and keep sorcerers in his court, he could, and worse, he did, and was happy doing it.

So, really, Merlin wasn’t at all convinced that the King was a problem; in fact, Merlin found himself fervently wishing that he could kneel at the man’s feet and ask him how the hell he managed it, and how Merlin could manage it, because taking Uther down a peg or two was the sort of dream Merlin only ever had after he’d gone to bed having eaten too much cheese on a feast day.

Merlin was, however, entirely convinced that the King’s son, Galahad, was a dreadful threat to Merlin, or at least, to his sanity.

* * *

Merlin first met Galahad after Uther demanded another audience with King Pelles, and the King, claiming an illness which would make travel inconvenient, had sent his son in his place.

Merlin, who had been running late after a long night spent dealing with the latest magical threat— this time, in the form of enchanted weevils sent to feast on the kingdom’s granaries in the hopes of starting a cursed famine, of all things— arrived in the courtyard several minutes after the delegation from Corbinec had, and so his first sight of the foreign Prince was that of Galahad and Arthur standing shoulder to shoulder, looking directly at him, and Merlin had whimpered as his mind went blank of every thought that wasn’t a horrified ‘now there are two of them!’

Because Galahad was tall— a bit taller even than Arthur— and broad, and blond, and he had a wonderfully deep, rumbling voice, and he could have been Arthur’s brother, and this was something straight out of Merlin’s nightmares.

Only, Merlin’s nightmares were never quite so sadistic as all that, because Uther said, “Prince Arthur’s manservant will be attending you for the duration of your stay,” and Merlin’s heart dropped down to someplace near his ankles, because as much as Arthur was a Problem, he was also a known Problem, and Merlin had spent ages building up a carefully cultivated shell of insults, banter, and grudging respect. This new Prince, though… well, he was an unknown, and all the more dangerous for it!

Arthur, to his credit, looked a little put out by this, but then he just grinned, slapped Galahad’s back, and said “Good luck!” with a particularly prattish grin, and if Uther hadn’t been in earshot still, Merlin would have gladly called him a traitor.

Then Arthur followed his father inside, and Galahad looked at Merlin and gave him a wavering sort of smile, and said, “Right, well, I’m sure you know better than I do how things are done here; I shouldn’t imagine needing you until after dinner, so long as you ready the chambers and take up my luggage.” He hesitated for a moment, then said, “Nice to meet you, Merlin,” and wandered off in the general direction of the other royals.

Merlin watched Galahad leave, noticed that he favored trousers tailored a bit closer than Arthur did, and despaired.

* * *

Merlin tried first to appeal to Gaius’s better nature and convince him that really, if he wanted to protect his ward, he ought to tell him which of his poisons might make him convincingly sick for a week without causing any irreparable damage, but apparently Gaius was an even worse traitor than Arthur, because he only gave Merlin a long-suffering look and told him that it was really very common for servants of the Royal Household to be loaned out when The Court needed to make a good impression, and if he managed to survive Arthur, he’d have no trouble with Galahad, and to get on with it and stop complaining.

Seeing no better options, Merlin took a long, bracing walk through the lower town, complained a bit to Gwen and a few sympathetic guards and stallholders, all of whom actually listened and never asked him to clean a leech tank, and then went to ready the guest chambers and make them fit for a Prince.

To Merlin’s own astonishment, he actually— dare he admit it, even to himself? — enjoyed the work, because, without one of the endlessly long lists of demands Arthur habitually pressed on him, he was able to serve Galahad in all the ways he’d have liked to serve Arthur, but never quite managed to, with Prince Prat getting in his own way.

So, when Galahad finally dragged himself away from one of those endlessly boring banquets where all the royals sat around talking much, but eating little, for all that the tables were laden down with far more food than they should even manage to support, and stumbled into his appointed rooms, the Prince had to stop in the doorway to take it all in.

Because, well, there was rather a lot to take in.

There, on the desk, was a tray with all the things that Gwen had said Galahad reached for first at the banquet when Merlin had cornered her on the way to the kitchen and asked, and a few of Arthur’s favorites besides, because Merlin hadn’t managed to get that much information out of Gwen in the few minutes he’d managed to steal in between getting everything else ready, and he’d figured if the choice tidbits were good enough for one Prince, they were probably fine for another.

There, in the grate, was a wonderfully bright and hot fire— and if the room was warmer than even a fire like that could explain, that was Merlin’s business and no other’s— and next to it was a drying sheet and nightshirt hung out to warm.

There, in the already turned-down bed was a pair of towel-wrapped bricks, fresh from the hearth, and by the bed were a pair of soft, supple slippers that Merlin had nicked from Arthur’s surplus wardrobe and enchanted to be the proper size.

There, at the windowsill, the desk, and on the nightstand, were fresh flowers.

And there, offset from the door, was a privacy screen ready to be unfolded, and Merlin, pouring fragrant oils into a steaming bath that looked altogether hotter than anything Galahad’s own servants could have produced at home.

“Merlin,” Galahad said after a moment of stunned contemplation, “You’re spectacular!”

Merlin dropped the bottle of oil into the bath, and flushed bright red, and Galahad said demurely, “I’m sorry for startling you,” as Merlin fished it back out, and Merlin only just managed to keep from dropping it again.

Really, though, compliments and an apology, all spoken in that deep, rumbling voice, by a tall golden Prince who was apparently about as body-shy as Arthur was, given that he had already stripped off his tunic for his bath?

Merlin was doomed!

* * *

Somehow, probably because Merlin had deeply offended some god or other in a past life, it all went downhill from there.

The next morning, Merlin had yanked open the drapes and cheerfully sang out, “Rise and shine, Your Highness! It’s a beautiful day; the sun is up, and so should you be,” in his most irritatingly chipper tones, and Galahad, the sadist, had laughed and told Merlin that he had a delightful sense of humor.

Then he’d looked at the breakfast Merlin had laid out for him and told him that he really ought to have one or two of the sausages, if he was hungry, and by the way, Merlin was to call him Galahad if they were alone.

“Whenever someone calls me ‘My Lord,’ or something like that, I start looking for my father,” he’d said with a lopsided grin, and Merlin’s heart had leapt into his throat; Merlin thought he’d better have words with his heart the next time he was alone, because, really, a heart certainly shouldn’t be moving around so often as his was when Galahad or Arthur were around, it couldn’t possibly be healthy!

Then Merlin told Galahad he’d polished his armor and sharpened his sword, in case he wanted to join Arthur and the knights on the practice field later for a spot of exercise while Arthur ran drills, and maybe a friendly match or two, and Galahad had favored him with the first frown Merlin had ever seen on the man’s face, and it was so like Arthur’s frown that Merlin had to fight to stop himself from insulting the poor man by way of reflex.

“Merlin,” Galahad said, almost angrily. “Did you do all that last night?”

When Merlin spluttered and didn’t deny it, Galahad pressed on, and said, “Merlin, for God’s sake, man, do you ever sleep?”

Before Merlin had a chance to say that actually, yes, he had, a whole five hours, which was almost twice his usual, Galahad glowered at him and said, “You’re doing plenty by day, at least let the nights be your own!” and Merlin felt so stupidly grateful at being shown actual concern that he very nearly told Galahad he’d like it a lot more if Galahad took Merlin’s nights for his own, instead.

Preferably against the wall, in the bath, and then on the bed, in that order.

Merlin nearly bit through his lip restraining himself, but managed to say, “Thank you, Sire.”

“Galahad,” the Prince had said, in a tone that brooked no arguments. “Please, Merlin,” and Merlin nodded, looked up at the Prince through his lashes, and muttered something about other duties, and left as soon as he was given leave, because having to deal gracefully with a please this early in the morning was really asking far too much of him.

* * *

“Gwen, it’s terrible,” Merlin said. “He’s polite! He’s kind, even!”

“And that’s a problem?” Gwen asked, dryly. “And Merlin, it isn’t that I’m not happy to see you, but if you’re just going to stand there, could you at least help me with this mending? Your stitches are nearly as good as mine; you could’ve been a seamstress yourself! Err, I mean. If you were a woman. Which of course you aren’t, and there’s no real reason a man shouldn’t know how to sew, but—”

“It comes from being a Physician’s Apprentice,” Merlin said, taking pity on her and taking up a needle. “Bodies are a lot harder to stitch up than silk, you know.”

“I suppose,” Gwen said. “Anyway, really Merlin, you’re always saying you wish Arthur would let you just do your job properly without getting in your way and show a little gratitude. What’s so bad about Galahad doing just that?”

Merlin looked at her like she’d said something desperately foolish, and Gwen frowned; she’d only ever seen Merlin look at Arthur like that before. “Because he looks like Arthur, he walks like Arthur, and he sounds like Arthur, but he doesn’t talk like Arthur, or act like him, and I’m going to have to go through an entire week serving the perfect Golden Prince, and then go back to my Prince Prat, and I think it’s going to break me, Gwen,” Merlin said despondently.

“He’s going to get me used to it, and then it’ll be back to mile-long lists, and being called stupid instead of spectacular— he really said that, Gwen, he said I was spectacular, and he wasn’t being ironic at all— and goblets thrown at my head, and how am I supposed to handle that?”

Gwen said, hesitantly, “I thought you liked Arthur?”

“I do,” Merlin said, sounding even lower than before. “I have to.”

He tied off his thread, one hem finished, and passed it to Gwen for her approval before taking up another sleeve.

“But Gwen, I’ve always hoped Arthur would realize how much I do for him, and it’s been years and he never has, and it’s only taken Galahad a day to do it, and sometimes, if I’m distracted, and I’m not looking at his eyes, I sort of forget he isn’t Arthur, and I’ve almost… well…” He looked at her, meaningfully.

“Oh!” said Gwen. “So, it’s—”

“—like you and Lady Morgana,” he finished for her. “But it isn’t, exactly, because I’m pretty sure it’s just me.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Gwen said, and yanked Merlin’s sewing out of his hands to pull him into a hug. “Maybe it’s just because it’s new with you and Galahad, and it’ll get better— worse? — before the week’s out.”

They stayed that way, for a while.

Merlin had just gotten himself under control, delicately extracted himself from Gwen’s embrace, and was thanking her fervently, when Morgana crashed through the door, grinned at them both, and said, delightedly, “Arthur’s in an absolute temper, Galahad managed to knock him down four times!”

Merlin promptly burst into hot, miserable tears; Gwen and Morgana managed to fit an entire conversation into a single look and a sigh, and sent for some wine.

* * *

Merlin raided Gaius’s cabinet, and fetched out some of the better liniments and salves and one of the good pain tinctures, the ones that Merlin had brewed himself, and carefully flavored to taste mostly of mint, because even if Galahad did manage to knock Arthur around, Arthur was sure to have made him pay for it, and if he was anything like every other swordsman and knight Merlin had ever met, he’d probably suffer in silence instead of doing the sensible thing and asking for a remedy, but he’d be glad of it when Merlin gave it to him.

And also, Merlin could surprise him with it, and maybe he’d hate surprises and be offended by the implication that he needed a servant’s help after a battle, and say something rude, and prove himself just as annoyingly human as the rest of them!

Merlin slipped silently into Galahad’s chambers just in time to ogle the Prince’s back as he stripped off his tunic, flexed, and stretched a tense hand out towards the washbasin, and said “Onhaete.”

The surface of the water rippled, a bit, and put forth a single half-hearted bubble, but didn’t quite manage to start steaming; Galahad sighed in clear disappointment, and Merlin dropped the tray of remedies on the table rather more forcefully than he’d meant to.

Galahad spun around, clutching the tunic to his chest, and said, desperately, “Merlin! I— I can explain!”

Merlin stared at him, because his mouth had gone very dry and speaking was suddenly out of the question, and his heart started misbehaving again, and Galahad took a step backwards and tried to look nonthreatening, mistaking Merlin’s stunned silence for fear. “It’s legal, at home, and Merlin, I promise it isn’t evil, it’s not!” Galahad said with passion. “It’s a tool, like anything else, really, and I’m not much of a sorcerer, anyways; I couldn’t even heat a washbasin, for all the effort our Court Sorcerer has put into teaching me! I can usually only manage to warm a cup of tea, on a very good day.”

When Merlin didn’t respond, but also didn’t run screaming, Galahad took a hesitant half step forward, and said, “Please don’t think ill of me,” and the desperation in his voice brought Merlin back to himself.

Merlin drew himself up to his full height and walked, slowly, to stand by Galahad, and said softly, “Onhaete þa waeter,” as he stared directly into Galahad’s eyes, close enough to see his gold reflecting in Galahad’s pupils.

Galahad didn’t look away either, except for a quick glance to confirm that yes, the water was steaming now, and Merlin was suddenly struck by how piercing those eyes were— grey, like storm clouds, but so bright.

“Merlin,” Galahad breathed, dropping the tunic, and his name sounded a bit like a prayer, that time, and really, it was asking entirely too much of Merlin to stop from kissing him now.

So, he didn’t stop himself.

“Merlin,” Galahad said, pulling away after the first long, blissful kiss. “You don’t— I wouldn’t— I won’t say anythi— you don’t have to, Merlin,” and he sounded embarrassed and sad and shocked and full of yearning all at once, and Merlin wasn’t having any of that.

Galahad could be grateful, or pleased, or even arrogant if he wanted to be— and Merlin thought he might ask him to play arrogant, later, if all went well— but Merlin wasn’t going to stand for embarrassed or sad, so he decided to cut off any of that noble self-sacrificing ‘I won’t force you into anything’ nonsense at the pass, before he could say anything else.

Which meant Merlin kissed him again, only this time it was the sort of absolutely filthy open-mouthed kiss he’d learned how to do from a rather friendly guard with nice shoulders and sandy brown hair that you could pass off as blond, if you squinted in candlelight at it, and when he finally pulled back for air, Galahad said, breathlessly, “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Merlin said, sounding very nearly as wrecked as Galahad did. “Oh,” and went back in for more.

* * *

It was terribly messy, and Galahad wasn’t at all skilled, at first; what he was, though, was responsive.

Merlin had hardly even unlaced the man’s trousers when he was gasping and spurting up into Merlin’s hand, and Merlin could see at once that he was about to get embarrassed again, so he decided to do something he only rarely indulged in, because he usually liked his men demanding, for reasons he didn’t care to explain or even contemplate, really.

He looked into Galahad’s eyes, and said, in a lordly sort of way he’d learned from watching Arthur with his knights, “How kind of you, Galahad, to get so nice and wet for me,” and stroked him with a sharp twist to his wrist, and took complete control of the whole thing.

Galahad gasped, and his eyes rolled up into his head, and he shivered all over; Merlin thought, that’s more like it, before pushing him back onto the bed and wrestling off boots and trousers and then set about working on his own clothes.

He left his neckerchief on, though; he’d let Galahad discover how sensitive his throat was next time, when they were past embarrassment and Merlin was more willing to let the Prince take charge.

Naked, or nearly so, Merlin climbed up onto Galahad and pressed more hot, open-mouthed kisses to his lips, his collarbones, and up and down his sides, all the while stroking him with that fast, punishing twist. He waited until Galahad was whimpering and writhing up off the bed, his back so beautifully arched that he was only touching the mattress with heels and head, and then he rose up, letting Galahad look at him in full.

When Galahad dragged his eyes off of Merlin’s own weeping, flushed cock, and met his gaze, Merlin let his eyes flare gold again, and was gratified to see that it affected Galahad in exactly the way he’d hoped it would.

Galahad quivered and gasped, and Merlin had to squeeze the Prince’s cock in a tight, unyielding grip for several long moments, to keep him from spending again.

Then, at last, Merlin rose up and seated himself on Galahad’s cock, knowing that magic had already eased the way for them.

He sank down easily, and then they were both gasping and Galahad was running his big hands over Merlin’s ribs, and thumbing Merlin’s nipples with the edge of his calloused thumbs, sharp and soft all at the same time, and when Merlin finally came, cock untouched, he painted Galahad, the headboard, and part of the wall with thick white ropes, and Galahad followed him immediately, throbbing inside Merlin again and again and again for what seemed like ages before they were both spent. Merlin collapsed onto his chest, sticky and sated, and Merlin was stupidly grateful that Galahad was the sort of Prince with a knight’s build, and thus, could comfortably handle Merlin’s weight.

Eventually, though, Merlin did roll off, but Galahad took his hand and squeezed it, and didn’t let go, so they lay there next to each other until Merlin eventually remembered why he’d come to Galahad’s rooms in the first place.

“Oh, hell,” Merlin said, pulling himself upright. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? I was coming to bring you some salve after training; I’m so sorry, I should have asked first,” and only stopped fussing when Galahad started laughing.

“Merlin,” he said in between pressing kisses up and down the inside of Merlin’s wrist, which was unfairly distracting, “I stopped being bruised right around the part where you started glowing.”

“Huh,” said Merlin, who hadn’t noticed anything of the sort happening, but then, he’d been more than a little distracted watching the Prince come undone beneath him. “That’s new.”

Galahad laughed again, and reached for Merlin’s neckerchief; Merlin didn’t stop him, and he found that Galahad was a very quick study, and seemed to know exactly where on Merlin’s throat to kiss and stroke and bite by instinct alone.

“Oh, yes, Galahad, there!”

* * *

They managed to miss dinner, but Merlin thought Arthur’s own arrogance might be cover enough for the faux pas, because he’d probably spent all day trying to spin their training in a way that made him look like the victor, and Merlin had been seen in the corridor bringing up salves and pain draughts, so that was all right.

Then Galahad wrapped his arms around Merlin, after, and refused to let him leave, so Merlin slept warm for almost the first time since he’d gotten to Camelot, and that was better than all right.

* * *

The next morning, Merlin woke to Galahad’s stomach rumbling, and the man looked at him shamefaced and apologetic and said, “I’d get breakfast myself, and feed you here in bed, while I was at it, if the servants wouldn’t talk.”

Merlin, bleary-eyed and boneless with bliss, waved a limp wristed hand in the general direction of their laps and said, “There,” when a tray came into view with a soft pop of displaced air.

“Gods, you’re perfect,” said Galahad.

Then, a while later, he said, “Merlin?”

“Hmm?” Merlin said, sipping at the mug of mulled wine they’d been sharing.

“Where exactly did this tray come from?”

“Well,” said Merlin after swallowing a bit of bacon, “Let’s just say I’d hate to be Arthur’s servant on this particular morning.”

Galahad tried his best to look reproaching, but Merlin put paid to that effort when he dragged a strawberry across his lower lip and batted his eyes.

* * *

They very nearly missed lunch, too.

* * *

A few nights later, Merlin sat watching Morgana struggle with a particularly difficult incantation, and bit his tongue to keep himself from giving her the proper pronunciation— having been told one too many times to “At least let me try first, Merlin, if it isn’t dangerous!” to attempt a correction, yet— when Gwen looked at him and said, “You seem happier.”

“You do,” Morgana agreed, abandoning the spell for a moment. “Much happier.”

“Is Galahad secretly a monster, then?” Gwen teased; Gwen and Morgana both laughed, though they stopped rather abruptly when Merlin sighed and said, wistfully, “No, he’s wonderful,” and ran a hand through his hair, biting his lip, and he couldn’t stop from remembering the way the Prince had bit at them, just before he’d left to meet Morgana— and how much easier it was, to get away, when he could just tell his master “I’m teaching the King’s Ward illegal magic so she doesn’t go batshit insane from uncontrolled visions!”

Morgana thumped the book down on the table, and said, darkly, “Wasn’t that a problem, before?”

“Yeah,” Merlin said agreeably, touching his neck, “before.”

“Before what?” Gwen said, narrowing her eyes.

Merlin looked back and forth between the two women he trusted most in the entire world, and said, “Another secret, then? Just between us? Swear on it?”

* * *

Arthur had finally rolled into a comfortable position, and was nearly asleep, when his door was thrown open hard enough to hit the wall and rebound; naturally, he had his dagger up and out in an instant.

“What is the meaning of— Morgana? Guinevere?” Arthur yelped, tossing the dagger aside in favor of snatching at the covers and pulling them up to his neck.

“Seen it all before,” Morgana said, waving a dismissive hand while Gwen muttered an apology and focused on closing the door and latching it firmly.

“This is highly inappropriate!” Arthur said, trying to sound princely and commanding and coming not at all close to the mark.

“We’ve got bigger problems,” Morgana said in forbidding tones. “Much bigger.”

“She’s right,” Gwen added. “You’ve got to do something to get Merlin away from Galahad.”

“And quick,” Morgana said, “That man is dangerous!”

“Galahad?” Arthur asked, raising a disbelieving brow. “The same Galahad who’s been remarkably reasonable in all of our negotiations, who acts honorably to all of our knights, and who, according to the servant’s gossip, is incredibly polite and fair-minded? The one people have started to call Galahad the Virtuous when they think I’m not listening? That Galahad?”

“That Galahad,” Morgana said, glaring. “You’ve got to!”

“Oh, hell, Morgana, you’re being ridiculous! Even I like the man, and I hate pretty much every noble who comes visiting! I’m sure Merlin’s perfectly fine with serving him for the rest of the week.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely sure he’s fine serving him,” Morgana said in her deceptively sweet I’ve got you backed up against a wall now tone.

Then Gwen drew up next to her, and delivered the coup de grâce, as though they’d rehearsed it. “I’m just not sure he wants it to end when Galahad leaves.”

Arthur said, low, “What, exactly, does that mean?”

The two women just exchanged a very significant look, and said, in unison, “You’d rather not know,” and left, which at least told Arthur that they definitely had practiced, even if it told him precious little else.

* * *

One day before Galahad was set to leave, Merlin attended him in the chambers of the Privy Council, and watched as he, Arthur, and Uther set their seals to both copies of the new agreement.

Geoffrey sprinkled the signatures with sand, blew them clean, and rolled one of them up and set it into a leather case, passing it to Galahad with a bow.

“Your Majesty, Your Highness,” Galahad said, “I must confess, I find Camelot much more welcoming than my father implied; your hospitality,” he glanced up at Merlin and smiled, “is unmatched. I should like to return and perhaps consider our agreement for precious metals and textiles, now that we’ve cleared up this mess with the iron mines, would that be agreeable?”

Uther looked at Galahad with astonishment and a sort of avaricious glee. “It would be.”

“Excellent,” Galahad said, smiling. “Give me a month or so, to work on my Lord Father, shall we say? I shall send word when I’ve talked us into a bit of leeway with what I may offer.”

“Splendid, splendid!” Uther said, nodding vigorously. “Perhaps, upon your next visit, I shall give you use of my own manservant, and the guest chambers that overlook the garden?”

Galahad’s face fell for one flickering moment, then his gracious courtly mask was back in place. “Oh, I hardly think that is necessary! The service I’ve received thus far has been, well, simply exquisite. I don’t think I’d change a thing, really.”

“Of course,” Uther said, pleasantly, with a slight undertone that Merlin couldn’t quite place. “It’s been a pleasure; we shall feast tomorrow, in your honor, and in honor of our renewed friendship with Corbinec!”

Galahad bowed, and, together with Arthur, began to move towards the door, likely heading in the direction of the training yard; Merlin followed, a few steps behind, until Uther called out, “Merlin? A moment.”

Merlin told himself, very firmly, not to show fear, then stood before the table in a proper servant’s posture. “Your Majesty?”

Uther cleared his throat. “Apparently, you’ve comported yourself very well; this is not the first time Prince Galahad has complimented your services. He claims you’re a credit to Camelot.” The King said this as though he’d really like to disbelieve what he was saying, but couldn’t manage to, given the evidence.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Merlin said, fighting the urge to squirm under Uther’s stare; Merlin had thought an angry Uther was intimidating, but, as it turned out, a pleased Uther was almost worse, because a pleased Uther paid attention.

Finally, Merlin gulped, and raised a hand to adjust his neckerchief, which had gone suddenly tight. Uther’s eyes snapped to Merlin’s throat, and something strange passed over the King’s face.

Uther rose, and drew up next to Merlin. “Would you be willing to serve him again, as you did now?” he asked, in a far gentler tone than Merlin had ever heard him use before.

Merlin looked at Uther with eyes wide. “O-of course, Your Majesty! It’s been an honor, naturally; I’d be happy to!”

Uther looked at him again, seriously, then grinned, and clapped a hand over Merlin’s shoulder. “Your loyalty and dedication to Camelot is commendable, boy! I shall see to it that you are given five days off to… recover… before you resume your duties with Arthur.”

Then he strode out, leaving Merlin gawking after him, and Merlin stood, confused, until he remembered why his neckerchief had been so high in the first place, and had the utterly dreadful realization that Uther was convinced Merlin had been… had been… had been closing his eyes and thinking of Camelot!

“I think I’ll need a lot more than that to recover from that conversation alone.”

* * *

The feast had been a roaring success, if a bit tame by Camelot’s standards, given that no one would be needing to spend the next three days washing the walls— Merlin was oddly disappointed by that, given his impending time off would have let him fully appreciate a good food fight, knowing that it would have been someone else’s problem, afterwards— but he enjoyed what came right after the feast far more thoroughly.

The very moment Merlin closed the door behind them, and locked it, he found himself grabbed round the throat and slammed hard against the wood and kissed breathless.

Then Galahad seized him behind his knees, and lifted, and it was the easiest thing in the world to let his magic run free and do as it liked, within the confines of their rooms, and what Merlin’s magic liked, it turned out, was pulling their clothes off of them.

Merlin hadn’t even needed to ease their way, that time; he was open enough, still, from before the feast, and he’d taught Galahad how to magic his own cock slick their second night together, so Galahad was able to slide home in almost the same motion he used to lift Merlin.

Merlin cried out sharply; of all the angles they’d tried, he liked this one best. Every thrust scraped against that part of him inside that set him shining— he’d discovered what Galahad meant by glowing sometime near their third round, and hadn’t ever gotten around to stopping it, not when it made everything so much better and easier— and the way Galahad’s arms held him tight sent shivers all up and down his spine, to say nothing of the way it trapped Merlin’s cock between them, rubbing all over between their bellies.

“Gods, Merlin, you’re perfect,” Galahad moaned into Merlin’s collarbones, “Perfect!”

* * *

After, when Galahad slipped out and lowered Merlin to the ground, leading him to the bed on shaking unsteady legs, he asked, “Are you alright? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“That’s my line, I think,” Merlin shot back, grinning and thinking about their first night. Galahad smiled back at the reminder, then brushed a thumb across Merlin’s cheekbone, just under his eyes.

Oh, Merlin thought, seeing the shine when Galahad drew his hand away.

“It’s just… tomorrow,” Merlin admitted.

“Tomorrow,” Galahad agreed, sadly.

“It’s silly,” Merlin sighed. “I mean, we knew, all along, but….”

“What if it isn’t silly?” Galahad asked.

“I know it isn’t, really,” Merlin rolled his eyes. “These things never are, when you mean them.”

“No, I mean… Merlin, I’m coming back in a month or so. What if… what if, next time, when I leave, you come with me?”

Merlin stared at him for a long moment, then said, slowly, “What, exactly, would I do? If I came with you?”

Galahad pressed a soft kiss to Merlin’s hand, courtly and chaste. “I intend to ask my father for permission to court you, Merlin.”

“Galahad!” Merlin exclaimed. “He’ll never let you! You’re a Prince; I’m just—”

“An extremely powerful warlock who makes me laugh, teaches me better than our own Court Sorcerer ever could, takes care of me with a tenderness I’ve never known, and makes me incredibly, unbelievably, blissfully happy?” Galahad said, gently. “Yes, you are.”

Merlin blinked at him, stunned, and Galahad said, “Merlin, my father isn’t like Uther, he’s always wanted me to marry someone I cared for, and even if he hadn’t, your power would be enough to convince him it was a worthy match.” He kissed Merlin again, this time properly, deeply, on the mouth. “You needn’t answer now. Just… consider it? Please?”

Merlin swallowed around the lump in his throat, nodded, and kissed him back, then slipped out of the bed, dressed, and darted out the door, knowing, as they both did, that the Prince’s own retinue would be coming to fetch him early the next morning to prepare for their departure, and it wouldn’t be proper for him to be seen with the Prince at such an early hour, especially before an announcement of courtship… should Merlin decide to accept his offer, of course.

Laying in his own bed for the first time in a week, Merlin turned the thought over in his mind, thinking of the way Galahad seemed to truly treasure him, completely, and all the times they’d laughed together, sharing jokes that weren’t half-hidden behind a veneer of irritation, and the way he seemed to know exactly what Merlin wanted, without having to be told… all in all, it felt like they’d been together a good deal longer than a single week.

Merlin closed his eyes against his tears, and wished, truly and deeply, that his destiny might accept a different Prince.

Then he sat up, clutching his head, as The Dragon’s voice roared through his mind louder than he’d ever heard it.

* * *

“You cannot do this!” The Great Dragon roared, thrashing its chain so hard that stones fell from the cavern’s ceiling.

“Do what?” Merlin yelled. “I haven’t done anything!”

“You twist your destiny, Young Warlock, and you cannot do this thing! It is— blasphemy! Blasphemy of the worst kind!”

“What are you talking about?” Merlin asked, angrily.

“You and that Usurper!” The Dragon hissed. “How dare you even consider it! It is Arthur’s destiny to become The Once and Future King; you must not give that role to another!”

Merlin rocked back on his heels, and lost his balance. He caught himself, barely, and retreated until his back was pressed against the wall, then slid down, looking up at The Dragon through tear-filled eyes. He pushed a hand up against his chest, and just breathed. “Become? Become!” Merlin said in a thin, brittle voice.

He stared at The Dragon, who looked as unbalanced as Merlin felt, and the implications of that hit him, all at once. “Become!” He yelled, surging to his feet. “Must not! Not can not!”

The Dragon seemed to realize its mistake, and reared back, spreading its wings. “Merlin!” it boomed.

“Enough!” Merlin cried. “Do you mean to tell me it was always a choice? That I’ve spent years of my life here, for something that was never a certainty?!”

“Arthur is the other half of your coin,” The Dragon said, pleadingly, desperately, “that much is certain! Only together can you reach your full potential!”

“And what of Albion? Will it only rise if Arthur and I stand together? Or will it rise if Emrys stands with The Once and Future King?”

There was a pause, one that stretched a little too long. “Arthur must—” The Dragon began, weakly.

“I can’t believe you!” Merlin said, and fled.

“Merlin! Merlin? Merlin!”

The Dragon coiled in on itself, and despaired, and closed its eyes to the world, opening them to the shifting threads of Fate it could see, sometimes, moving beneath the skin of the world.

“Arthur Pendragon,” The Dragon sighed, “You must draw him back in.”

Chapter Text

Merlin stood in the middle of the disarray, and stared. “How?” he cried in astonishment.

“Well, someone decided not to come for nearly a week after Galahad left,” Arthur said, spitefully. “Is it any wonder this place is a mess?”

“Your father gave me the time off, you know that!” Merlin said, doing everything in his power not to lose his temper. “You could have kept whoever was serving as my replacement on in the interim, or at least put your clothes in something, instead of on the floor!”

“I could have,” Arthur agreed. “Just like you could have remembered your duties when you were talking to my father.”

“You— you’re unbelievable, Arthur!”

Arthur picked up a scroll from his desk and let it unroll. “Don’t forget the rest of your duties,” he said pleasantly, handing Merlin the scroll; he nearly tripped over the part of it that was trailing over the floor as he left.

* * *

Somewhere below the castle, The Dragon winced, and felt the Flame in its chest go a bit dimmer.

* * *

“Here’s that armor for you, Merlin,” Arthur said from the doorway, before chucking his mail in the room and onto the patch of floor Merlin had just finished scrubbing.

“Oi, I just cleaned the— Arthur! What did you do, roll in the mud?”

“I’m sure it won’t be a problem for you; after all, you’re all nice and rested now, aren’t you?”

* * *

The Dragon swore, in several different languages, so viciously that a rather nice boulder it would have liked to have kept for a perch melted in horrified embarrassment at the sound.

* * *

“Merlin?” Arthur called from his desk. “Change of plans, I won’t be dining with my father. Bring up two trays, would you?”

“Two?” Merlin asked, looking up from the boot he’d been scrubbing with something like hope.

“Morgana will be joining me,” Arthur said.

Merlin frowned.

“Actually, better make that three,” Arthur said, after a beat.

Merlin grinned.

“She’ll probably want Guinevere to join her,” Arthur said. “So, bring up an extra chair, too.”

Merlin scrubbed the boot harder, and thought about where he’d like to put it once he was done cleaning it.

* * *

The Dragon wheezed.

Then it spent quite some time saying uncomplimentary things about the Pendragon line on the whole, until it started to feel like it was being listened to from Beyond, and decided to stop talking, because it would rather not risk being haunted by Uther’s relatives, because really, the living ones were bad enough.

* * *

Merlin smiled at Gwen and Morgana and helped them into their seats, giving them a playful little half-bow before going to kneel in front of the hearth to stoke up the fire.

Arthur greeted them, and then, glaring at the thin layer of dust on the table before them, said, “I apologize for this… mess,” as he wiped a finger through it, and frowned. “My servant seems to have gotten lazier, if you can believe it, in his absence.”

Behind him, Merlin’s back stiffened.

“Arthur, I don’t think that’s entirely—” Morgana began.

“I mean, honestly, you’d think he wants to be out of a job! I doubt he’s even made it through half his chores today,” Arthur said, maliciously. “I’m not entirely sure what he’s even been doing all day, but it must not have been his job.”

Gwen and Morgana looked at each other, worriedly.

Then Arthur made a dreadful mistake, and said, “It’s a wonder Prince Galahad’s kingdom hasn’t collapsed entirely, if his servants are so terrible that they made him think you were worth anything, Merlin!”

Merlin felt something inside of his chest snap, finally, and surged to his feet. “Or maybe he’s a better master than you!”

“Merlin!” Arthur shouted.

“Don’t you Merlin me, Arthur, I’ve had it with you! You’re being entirely unfair, and pigheaded to boot! If Galahad thought I was a good servant, it’s because I am, when I’m bloody well allowed to be!”

“And what, precisely, do you mean by that?” Arthur asked, ignoring Morgana’s attempts to gesture him into silence.

“I mean that he actually let me do my job, without interfering with my work, and took the time to appreciate my hard work!”

“Your hard work,” Arthur mocked, barking out a harsh little laugh. “I’ve never seen anyone cut as many corners as you do!”

“Yes, my hard work,” Merlin seethed. “You want to know what I’ve done today, you bloody prat? Brought you your breakfast, woke you up, managed to get you up and dressed and out the door on time, despite your best efforts to the contrary, mended two of your tunics, done your laundry, scrubbed your floors, twice, after you decided to throw your muddy armor onto it when I’d just finished the first time, cleaned your armor, mended and polished your mail, sharpened and oiled your sword, cleaned out your fireplace, changed your bed linens, folded and put away your laundry, fed you your lunch, fetched you a bath, picked up your new scabbard from the leatherworkers, aired out and oiled your hunting leathers, finished the reports you’d left on your desk, took a quick break to deliver the remedies Gaius needed me to take round through the castle, then polished four pairs of your boots, fetched up the chairs and your dinners, and lit your fire. And you want to complain about a tiny bit of dust I hadn’t got round to yet?”

Merlin was panting by the time he’d gotten through, but he was hardly done. “To say nothing of my list of chores!” Merlin gasped out, eyes welling with tears as he snatched the scroll up from the desk. “This is obscene, even by your standards!”

He threw it, hard, at Arthur; it missed him, barely, landed on the table, and unrolled, and kept on unrolling, until the end of it hit the wall. Gwen and Morgana stared at it with matching expressions of pure shock.

“Well,” Merlin cried, “you can find yourself another dogsbody, Arthur, because I’m done with this job, and I’m done with you!”

Merlin let the door slam shut behind him, and everything was silent for a long while, until, finally, Arthur said, “I apologize for that… display….”

“You ought to,” Morgana said, flatly. Then, with more heat, she said “You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

Gwen, who hadn’t taken her eyes off the list of chores, said, in soft tones of stark horror, “To think I always thought he was exaggerating, when he complained!” Then she looked up at Morgana with tears in her eyes and said, despairingly, “He’s really going to do it, isn’t he?”

“There’ll be no stopping him, now,” Morgana said, grimly. “We’ll have to make the best of it, and visit, when we can.”

“What are you two on about?” Arthur snapped, or tried to, anyway. His own anger had started to fade, and he was beginning to feel deeply ashamed, just as Morgana had wished. Once he’d heard it all laid out, together, well….

Merlin was absolutely right to call him unfair, not that Arthur would tell him that if he could help it.

Still… “What do you mean visit? And make the best of it?”

“I mean,” Morgana said, furiously, “that you’ve gone and drove him away! He would only have stayed for you; I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he didn’t bother to wait out the month, and I wouldn’t blame him for it, either! If I were him, I’d be on a horse to Corbinec the moment dawn breaks tomorrow.”

“Corbinec?” Arthur said, gasping out the word as though Morgana had driven her fist into his gut and knocked the breath out of him.

“He’ll wait,” Gwen said, slowly, reaching for Morgana’s hand. “For Gaius, if nothing else, he’ll stay the month. But after that….”

“He can’t just run off to Corbinec!” Arthur said. “He has no ties there!”

“He can, Arthur,” Morgana said, “If he has an invitation from its Prince.”

Arthur blinked. “Do you mean to tell me that Galahad has been trying to poach my servant from me? And that’s what you meant by warning me?”

Morgana laughed, and it was an awful, mocking sound. “Oh, Arthur, you’re a fool; Galahad doesn’t want Merlin to be his servant. He just wants Merlin!”

Arthur went pale. “You’re joking. You must be. He’s… he’s just….”

“If you cannot see Merlin’s worth, Arthur, you’re the only one who can’t,” Morgana said, primly, then stood. “If you’ll excuse us, I believe I’d rather dine alone this evening. Come, Gwen.”

Morgana left in a swirl of silk, but Gwen lingered at the door a moment longer, and turned towards him with such disappointment in her face that Arthur had to bite his tongue to keep from flinching away. “Arthur… I’ve been a trained servant in the Royal Household for most of my life, and I hold a high position. And I can tell you right now I don’t know any other servants who could have done what Merlin said he had in a day, not in an entire day. And Merlin’s day clearly hadn’t ended yet; it looked like he was still working, before your fight.”

When Arthur didn’t stop her, she said, firmly, “If you think he’s lazy, or a bad servant, you’re dead wrong. If he’s been cutting corners… well, it’s only because there isn’t a servant alive who could keep up with a set of duties like that without sacrificing thoroughness for speed. And you should probably think about the fact that when he was listing out what he’d done today, he said a great deal about fetching your meals, but never mentioned getting a meal for himself, or taking an actual break at all, and he does have duties for Gaius, as well; probably more than what he talked about today, given that a Physician doesn’t keep regular hours. I doubt if he sleeps like he should if this is how you treat him.”

Arthur swallowed, realizing for the first time that he had been a lot worse than simply unfair, and said, roughly, “What have I done? More to the point, what do I do?”

“You’ve taken someone who was totally and completely loyal to you, and you’ve used him up,” Gwen said, too angry to mince her words. “And I won’t tell you what to do, but if I were you, I’d start with an apology, and then ask myself how I can give something back to him, if all I’d done thus far was take.”

She curtsied, quickly, and said, “My Lord,” and shut the door, and Arthur wasn’t sure how she managed to close a door gently while still somehow giving the impression of having slammed it.

Arthur turned his chair around, and stared at the fire.

* * *

The Dragon had long since passed out.

* * *

Despite what people might think, Arthur wasn’t entirely blind to his own faults. He was vain, and arrogant, and quick to anger, and, while he might plan well ahead in matters of state and think carefully through any decisions he might face that could impact his people, he was wildly impulsive outside of that, and he hated having to apologize.  

Worst of all, though, he hated feeling afraid. Uther had taught him, perhaps too well, to push down his fear, and to never show it, if he could help it, because Princes and Kings must be fearless for their people.

In battle, this was a skill to be proud of: when he compressed his fear, it became a tight, fierce knot of strength that ached in his chest, spurring him on; he was quicker, stronger, and absolutely deadly because of it.

Outside of battle… well, that energy had to go somewhere, and it always ended up making him frustrated, or outright angry.

And if there was one thing that scared him more than anything else, it was being left... left alone, left behind, or just plain left, and he’d felt abandoned, plain and simple, so it really wasn’t a surprise that he’d lashed out.

Because it had been bad enough spending an achingly long week without Merlin and having a rotation of servants, different each day, tending to his needs without even the pretense of caring about what they were doing, or who they were doing it for; they went in, then they went out. It was a job, nothing more, and even though they did their jobs well, it made Arthur feel as though things had been left half-finished, at best.

It was just such a contrast to what Merlin did! Merlin didn’t really care about his job, as far as Arthur could tell— although, if Gwen was right, maybe he did, and that was something Arthur couldn’t think about, yet, especially now that he’d put two and two together and realized that when Merlin was gone, he’d had a team of servants doing for him what Merlin had been forced to manage alone— but still, even when Merlin actually left a job half-done, Arthur had never really cared, because….

Because Merlin would, and did, cut corners when he cleaned, or when he was doing something unpleasant and tedious, but he never did when it came to Arthur’s comfort, or safety. He might leave dust on the table, true, and he rarely cleaned under anything, and he’d complain about nearly every chore Arthur gave him, but at the end of the day, Arthur’s armor always gleamed even in the dimmest light, his sword was always sharp enough to cut paper that was dropped onto its edge, and his food and baths were always the perfect temperature, which was something no other servant Arthur had ever had could manage, and he still didn’t know how Merlin was able to do it.

Arthur always thought all of that added up to mean Merlin cared about him, about Arthur, not just about his position.

So, when, at the end of a long, miserable week, Arthur was greeted by yet another nameless, faceless servant, he was confused, and tired, and a little angry, and when he’d heard that Merlin had been given time off, and apparently hadn’t wanted to see Arthur the way Arthur had wanted to see Merlin, well.

He’d been scared that maybe he’d been wrong; maybe Merlin hadn’t want to come back to him at all, and he did what he always did when he was scared, and shoved it down.

And got angry.

And when Merlin finally came back, and the first thing he did was complain, he went from angry to furious, and delivered the scroll he’d made as a joke as though it had been a real command, because he was stupid when he was angry, and he’d known how it would go: Merlin would yell at him, and Arthur would yell back, and maybe threaten him with the stocks, and then Merlin would say something so outrageously insulting that Arthur’s ire would die instantly, smothered under his efforts to act affronted instead of laughing himself breathless. But then Merlin just got to work, silently fuming, and Arthur missed him, even though he was right there, and tried his best, even through his anger, to get him back, by needling the man, hoping for some kind of reaction that he could use to get them back on track, back to their playful, squabbling dynamic.

He pushed too far.  

What it all added up to was that Arthur was absolutely in the wrong, and he’d practically forced Merlin into finally deciding that enough was enough, and Arthur had no one to blame but himself, and that hurt, and he was scared, and he was absolutely furious, but he was furious with himself.

* * *

The next morning, Arthur dressed himself, something he could do, when he needed to, and went to the kitchens to fetch a tray on his own, and felt another hot rush of shame when he realized just how many flights of stairs were between his room and the kitchens, and how much worse it was taking them when he was still half-asleep, and then thought about how his food was always warm, if not hot, when Merlin brought it, which probably meant that Merlin took those stairs at a run, which wasn’t just unpleasant, but dangerous besides, and it was all so terrible he almost turned round and went back to his room and back to bed. And he might have, if there hadn’t been so much at stake.

It only got worse as he realized how many more stairs there were between the kitchen and the Physician’s Tower; Arthur was nearly panting by the time he stood outside the thin door, and had to wait a minute or so to compose himself.

Then, he knocked, lightly, and stepped inside, and was surprised to see that the room was empty apart from Merlin, who was busy scouring an ancient-looking cauldron clean.

“Gaius, you can’t possibly be back alread— Arthur?” Merlin’s voice, which had been pleasantly surprised, turned cold. “What are you doing here?”

Arthur swallowed, and lifted the tray. “Peace offering?”

Merlin frowned, and set the cauldron down, then went and scrubbed his hands at a nearby basin before sitting at a bench and gesturing for Arthur to sit down opposite him. He nibbled a corner of toast and grimaced. “What, did you crawl up here?”

Arthur dragged a finger through rapidly congealing gravy, touched it to his tongue, and winced; it was very nearly frigid.

“I don’t know how you do it, honestly,” Arthur confessed.

Merlin snorted, and got up to dig through a cupboard, came back with a skillet Arthur had seen him use when they camped out in the forest, and slid most of the food onto it, setting it onto a little metal rack above the fire. “Give it a few minutes, and it’ll be good as new,” he said, and gestured to the rest of the food on the tray, a side of ham and some fruit. “We can have this for now.”

“I wouldn’t have thought to do that,” Arthur said.

“Of course not,” Merlin scoffed. “But we can’t all afford to waste food.”

Arthur winced, and said, “You’re right, of course. Listen, Merlin—”

“Arthur, really,” Merlin said, interrupting, “why are you here?”

Arthur breathed in, deeply, and said, “I realized, Merlin, that you were absolutely right to call me unfair. I was. More than that, I was being utterly boorish, rude, pig-headed, insensitive, and…”

“Prattish?” Merlin offered.

“Definitely prattish,” Arthur agreed. He sighed, deeply, and said, “I was just… when you didn’t come back, after your week with Galahad, I felt like you didn’t really want to return to my service, and I was… hurt… and I lashed out. You didn’t deserve that.”

“No, I didn’t,” Merlin said, softly, taking a sliver of ham.

“I was afraid you didn’t want to be with me, and I only ended up pushing you away, until I made my fears true. I… regret that. I regret hurting you.”

Merlin nodded, and said, “Thank you, Arthur.”

Arthur smiled, and said, “That’s settled then,” and got up from the bench. “When will you be back then? I’ve got training in three hours.”

Merlin frowned, and said, “What the hell are you talking about, Arthur?”

“Well, I mean, I will need help with my armor, Merlin.”

“You have servants for that, Arthur,” Merlin chided. “I’m not one of them anymore.”

Arthur squeezed his fists together. “But… but we talked! I brought you breakfast! I apologized!”

“You didn’t, actually. You said you were wrong, and I appreciate that, but you never actually apologized.”

“Fine!” Arthur snarled, then remembered that he was supposed to be trying to fix things, and said, in very formal tones, “I apologize, Merlin. I’m sorry for the way I treated you.”

“I accept your apology, Arthur,” Merlin said. “It does mean a lot, truly; I know how you hate to apologize.”

“Good,” Arthur said, “I’m glad.”

“I’m still not coming back.”

“Why?” Arthur wailed, and hated himself for sounding so desperate.

“Because a good apology, a real apology, isn’t just I’m sorry, Arthur, it’s also and I won’t do it again. The way you acted yesterday? It was worse than usual, true, but honestly, not by much. And any other day, I might’ve rolled my eyes and carried on, and really, that terrifies me, because if I hadn’t just served someone who bothered to treat me properly, the way I deserved to be treated, I might never have realized how much you hurt me, all the time, without even meaning to, without me even recognizing how hurt I was.” Merlin’s eyes were nearly wild, and he sounded almost as desperate as Arthur had. “I just can’t go back to that, Arthur; I can’t.”

“I’ll do better, Merlin! I didn’t know, either, but now I do, so I’ll do better!” Arthur promised.

“Arthur,” Merlin sighed. “I want to believe that, I do, but…”

“I’ll prove it to you, Merlin, I promise! Besides,” Arthur said, thinking quickly, “you… you can’t leave! I didn’t accept your resignation; I don’t accept it!”

“Arthur, I’m not a slave,” Merlin said, beginning to sound angry again.

Arthur put up his hands, defensively. “I’m not saying you are, Merlin, really, I’m not. But you’re a servant with a high-ranking position in the Royal Household; you can’t leave your post unless your master accepts your resignation, or you submit a resignation with the Steward or Chamberlain, with a week’s notice.”

Merlin glared, and Arthur said, “A week, Merlin; both of them would require a week, and that’s what I’m asking, too. Give me one week to prove to you that I can be better, that it’s worth your time to stay on with me, and if you still want to leave at the end of it, I’ll release you on the spot, and give you the full month’s pay.” He added, hurriedly, “And that isn’t a bribe, it’s the least you deserve, either way, for putting up with me. But, Merlin, please?”

Arthur reached for Merlin’s hand, and said, very seriously, looking deep into the other man’s eyes, “It took a week with Galahad to realize you deserved better; give me a week to show you that I can give you better.”

Merlin’s eyes swept across Arthur’s face, studying him. Eventually, he seemed to find whatever it was that he was looking for.

“One week, Arthur.”

Arthur opened his mouth to thank him, but Merlin put up a finger and said, “I have my own terms, though.”

“Anything,” Arthur said, hoping he wouldn’t regret it, and knowing that even if he did, it’d be worth it, just for the mere chance to keep Merlin in his life.

“Careful,” Merlin chided with an impish grin. “I could do a lot with ‘anything.’ But I won’t.” He waited a beat, and was serious again. “Arthur, all I ask is this: trust me to do what needs doing. Don’t give me lists of chores like you have to hold my hand to make sure I don’t slack off; I never slack off, and I know what to prioritize, and when.”

He held up another finger to forestall any objections. “I’m not saying don’t ask for things, of course you can, and you should. Tell me if there’s anything you specifically need, or if there’s been a change to your schedule; that’s part of my job. But other than that? Trust that I can manage things for you, or outsource, if I need to. And on that note, don’t expect me to do something that isn’t part of my job… the stables come to mind, for instance.”

“That’s more than fair,” Arthur said.

“Shake on it?”

“Shake on it,” Arthur confirmed, and they did.

“Right,” Merlin said. “Thank you, sire. I really do need to finish this for Gaius, though; can I join you in an hour? That should still give us plenty of time to go over your schedule before you have to get ready for training.”

“Thank you, Merlin,” Arthur said. “But take an hour and a half, and finish that breakfast, once it’s warm.”

* * *

That evening, Arthur dismissed Merlin early, and told him to get a tray from the kitchens with his compliments, for himself and Gaius.

Then he called upon another servant to set the table in his chambers, and begged for Gwen and Morgana to join him for a second shot at dinner.

They took a few steps into Arthur’s chambers and froze. “Arthur,” Morgana said, “Since when are your floors white?”

“And was it always this bright in here?” Gwen asked.

“Since Merlin decided to ‘deep clean’ them,” Arthur said, glumly, “and, no, but he also decided to hang mirrors behind the candle sconces, to ‘make better use of the light.’”

The two women looked at the small, slightly-curved discs of polished brass that threw the candlelight back into the room, then back at Arthur, and Morgana asked, “Merlin’s still with you? How on earth did you manage that? And Gwen, do you think we could get some of those for my chambers?”

“I’ll ask Merlin where he got them later,” Gwen said, “and then I’ll ask him how he managed the floors. But really, Arthur, how did you get him to stay?”

“I didn’t,” Arthur said, “Not really; he didn’t want to come back at all. He said that even if I regretted my actions now, it wouldn’t stop me from doing it all over again, but I talked him into giving me another week, to prove I could change. And I—” Arthur swallowed, and looked directly at Morgana— “apologized.”

“You?” Morgana said, sounding disbelieving and nearly scandalized. “You apologized?”

“Don’t rub it in,” Arthur said, low. “The thing is, it’s been less than a day, and I feel even worse now, because he only agreed to come back if I’d let him plan his own days, without me interfering or giving him unnecessary orders, and look what he’s managed already!”

Arthur swept his arms out to indicate the room, and they realized that it wasn’t just the floors, or the mirrors; apparently, Merlin had taken Arthur’s complaint about dust to heart, because absolutely everything in the room had been scoured and polished within an inch of its life, and was gleaming, and the stones of the walls were nearly as white as the floor.

“And that’s on top of readying me for training, getting me out of my armor, and setting out a bath, with herbs and oils, for God’s sake, and setting my towel and change of clothes in front of the fire to warm, without me even thinking to ask for any of it,” Arthur said, sounding absolutely miserable. “I’m beginning to think I’ve had the best damned servant in the Five Kingdoms, all this time, and I’ve just been cutting him off at the knees.”

Morgana and Gwen looked at each other in that way of theirs, the one that packed an entire conversation into a glance that lasted only a few quick seconds. “Arthur,” Morgana said, carefully, “Have you told him that?”

“Not yet; I think I need to, though.”

“Don’t,” Gwen offered. “What I mean is, don’t say so now. He’ll think you’re only saying it to please him. Wait until the end of the week, or close to it, so you can tell him why you think that, and give him examples.”

Morgana nodded, sharply, seeing the good sense of that idea.

Arthur gave them both an absurdly grateful look and said, “Thank you, really; that’s why I’ve asked you both here.” He poured them all some wine, and said, “I want to make this work, with Merlin, and I think I’ll need your help to do it.”

Morgana sighed, and said, “Arthur, I’ve never seen you go to this much trouble for anyone before…. Do you want to make it work so that he’ll stay on as your servant, or do you, perhaps, want something more?” Her tone made it quite plain that she didn’t mean friendship, exactly, when she said more.

Arthur was aghast. “Morgana, he is my servant! I could never— it wouldn’t be honorable! Not when he might feel compelled!”

“Since when has Merlin ever felt compelled to do anything?” Morgana asked. “Hasn’t he just proven he’s more than capable of telling you to go straight to hell when he needs to?”

“He won’t feel obligated. And he might say no, but Arthur, he might say yes,” Gwen said, and looked down with a soft smile, drawing Arthur’s attention to her hand, and Morgana’s hand, laced together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Oh,” Arthur breathed. “You mean….”

“Honestly, Arthur,” Morgana said, rolling her eyes. “It’s not as though we’ve been particularly discreet.”

“But, my father—”

“Which is exactly why you’ll need to be discreet,” Morgana said. “He’ll probably still try to marry you off, again, too; you’ll either need to find a very understanding wife, or stand up to him, for once, or both.”

“Enough,” Arthur said, putting up his hands in surrender. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves; we don’t even know if he’ll say yes, and I can hardly court him now, or he might think I just want to keep him on any way I can, and didn’t really mean it.”

“You’re learning,” Gwen said, grinning.

“I hope so,” Arthur said. “But I still need your help with making this week work, one step at a time.”

“I have a few ideas,” Morgana smirked.

“So do I,” said Gwen.

* * *

The next morning, Merlin kicked open the door and was surprised to see the Prince up and dressed, and stoking up his own fire.

“Arthur? What on earth—” Merlin said, as he put down the tray with a groan. “Honestly, is there something wrong with the whole castle, today, that everyone has just decided to do more? I mean, just look at what the kitchen has done! Even you couldn’t eat all this!”

“I’ll have you know I’m fighting fit,” Arthur protested, “and perfectly capable of looking after my own fire, if I decide to!”

“Yes, perfectly,” said Merlin, reaching for the water jug. “And I suppose you meant to set your sleeve alight, then?”

Arthur rolled his eyes and said, “Very funny, Merlin.” Then he looked down and swore, and thrashed his arm about until Merlin poured out a thin stream of water and made them both cough from the resulting smoke.

“What would you do without me?” Merlin asked, lightly, when they finally stopped.

Arthur swallowed, and said, quietly, as if to himself, “Let’s not find out.” Louder, he said, “I asked for extra food; I thought we could eat together,” and gestured to the second chair.

“Really?” Merlin asked, disbelievingly.

“Really,” Arthur said. “Gwen and Morgana do, why not us?”

Merlin raised an eyebrow, and Arthur blushed as he realized that Merlin had clearly picked up on the nature of their relationship long before Arthur had. He busied himself with the food until his cheeks cooled, then asked, “So, Merlin, what have you got planned for today?”

Merlin narrowed his eyes for a moment, as though he thought Arthur was only asking so he could find a way to add more to his agenda, then said, “I was planning on going to the stables.”

Now it was Arthur’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “And here I thought those were off limits….”

“Prat,” Merlin said, rolling his eyes, at that. “I’m not planning on mucking them out, but, well… you know how it always took me ages to clean the stalls? It was mostly because I never just mucked them out; I always groomed them, and fed them an apple or something, any time I had an excuse to spend time there. And when I was done with that, I’d look over your tack, all of it, to check for any wear in the leather, or any signs of tampering.”

Arthur blinked at Merlin. Finally, he asked, “Why?”

Merlin rolled his eyes, again. “For one, I like horses, so it isn’t exactly a hardship to spoil them, just a bit. But it’s also entirely practical; think about it, Arthur, would you rather have a servant who could help with one or two of your horses, or a servant who’d endeared himself to all of them? And taking good care of your horses means they’ll take care of you.”

Arthur nodded, at that, thinking of how even his fiercest warhorses had a habit of going soft and besotted any time Merlin was near, but would deign to carry his servant, who hadn’t been raised riding horses, far longer and far easier than they’d carry any of his knights. “What about the tack?”

Merlin’s face darkened. “I’ve gone over all of the equipment since Cedric,” he said, low. “You may not have noticed it, but you’ve had three saddles since then, on my orders. I became a bit particular about things, after that mess; I very much doubt anyone will manage to catch me with petty sabotage again.”

Arthur flinched, a bit, remembering how utterly awful he’d been to Merlin, and how right Merlin had been, and wondered how Merlin had made it through all of that without telling Arthur where to shove it, especially when Arthur had categorically refused to admit to any of it. He opened and closed his mouth several times before he finally settled on a response, and said, “I had no idea; there I was punishing you by sending you to shovel shit, and the whole time, you were doing me favors I didn’t even know about… doing everything you could to keep me safe, by looking out for a threat I never even considered.”

Merlin snorted. “Story of my life,” he said, softly, and Arthur felt his face fall again; Merlin caught the grimace, this time. “Arthur,” he began.

“Don’t,” Arthur said, plaintively. “I deserved that. Gods, Merlin, I deserve worse than that. I’m sorry.”

Merlin gaped at him. “Two apologies in one week?”

“As many apologies as I need to make,” Arthur said, seriously. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Well, I know I said I wouldn’t add to your schedule if I didn’t have to, but I would like you to do something for me.”

Merlin smiled at him, and said, “I did say you could ask me for things, Arthur, I just said you shouldn’t be unreasonable about it. What do you need, sire?”

Arthur smiled back at him, understanding that the title was Merlin’s own peace offering, instead of the insult it usually was, and slid a bit of folded parchment over to Merlin. “I thought you could go to the archives, and pick out whatever book you think would be the most useful for you; Geoffrey will let you borrow what you need, on my authority, if you show him that. I know you help Gaius, in addition to serving me, but it occurred to me that you probably don’t have a whole lot of time to actually study your craft. Consider it part of your duties, moving forward, to take an hour or so to just read. While I’m at training, perhaps?” Arthur let his smile go a bit crooked, and quipped, “That way you can put some sense back into that head of yours, instead of us knocking it out.”

Merlin laughed, genuinely laughed, and laid his hand over Arthur’s. “Thank you, sire,” Merlin said, with feeling, giving Arthur’s hand a little squeeze. Then he seemed to realize what he’d done, and coughed a little, going pink as he withdrew.

They turned their attention back to their breakfasts, and Arthur tried not to dwell on how good Merlin’s hand had felt on his skin, or how much warmer it felt than his other hand, and how that warmth lingered long after Merlin left his chambers.

* * *

The Dragon cracked open one eye, blew out a thin ribbon of smoke, and dared to hope that all was not lost.

Chapter Text

At first, Arthur had been sure that he was going to see Merlin a lot less now that his servant was able to plan his own days. It would only have made sense, really; the man had been furious at him, with the sort of rage and disappointment that only comes from a long, slow-building resentment, so it followed that he would do his duties, make use of his new liberties, and rub Arthur’s face in it any chance he got.

Instead, Arthur saw Merlin constantly; oh, sure, his duties took him all around the castle, and there were days when they saw each other mostly in passing, as their duties took them in opposite directions. But….

But now, they broke their fast together, in the mornings, and Merlin would tell Arthur what he planned to do that day, for Gaius and Arthur both, and they would review Arthur’s schedule together, too, and would tweak both plans, together, making sure that their priorities were matching for the day.

And it said something that they very rarely had to make any changes at all, and when they did, they were small; Merlin seemed to know precisely what Arthur most needed, without being told, and he often knew it before Arthur did.

They ate lunch together, too, so that Arthur could tell Merlin about training with the knights, and Merlin would, in turn, tell him about whatever book he was reading, in his new dedicated study hour, and then they’d go their separate ways, or go together to the council chambers, and Merlin took to polishing Arthur’s armor and sharpening his sword in Arthur’s chamber, instead of in the armory or— and Arthur was still a bit ashamed of this, now that he knew about it— in his own bedchambers long after Arthur had retired, and Arthur had taken to reading his reports aloud, and actually listening to Merlin’s comments and advice.

Sometimes, he even took Merlin’s advice.

For example, his complaint that “I don’t like the idea of the people suffering any more than you do, but we need the food, Merlin! Our grain reserves are far lower than I’d like, and I can’t exactly argue against higher taxes when they’re so obviously needed,” had led to Merlin saying, “Oh, naturally, and far be it from me to suggest any sort of duplicity on the part of my betters”— that last part was said with a great deal of scorn— “but have you considered assigning a few very trusted knights and clerks to do a cycle of unannounced audits of the outer estates’ supplies, instead of the planned yearly inspections? If your nobles are paying their levies as they ought to be, you can have them take note of any issues or needed repairs on the estates, and claim that was the goal all along, to offer aid, but if they aren’t….”

And that had led to the ousting of no less than four seated council members, and the censure of several lesser nobles, and had resulted in, when all was said and done, an increase of both Camelot’s grain reserves and coffers, when Uther had ordered the offenders to pay a fine or risk losing their lands, and in Uther openly praising Arthur’s prudence, instincts, and dedication to the protection of the kingdom even from itself.

And that praise had put Arthur in such a daze that the end of Merlin’s trial week came and went without Arthur realizing that he hadn’t talked to Merlin about how sorry he was, or how wonderful Merlin was, or how much he wanted Merlin to forget that he’d been planning to leave, until Merlin had long since retired for the night.

But Merlin had showed up the next morning, perfectly on-time, and hadn’t mentioned it, either, so Arthur had only said, “Thank you, Merlin,” when he laid down their breakfast tray, in a more significant tone than eggs and sausages really called for.

And Merlin had said, “You might not be thanking me when I’m putting an extra hole in your belt, sire,” but his eyes had glittered and he’d blushed prettily, and said it almost shyly, and Arthur didn’t threaten him with the stocks for his impudence, so all things considered, it probably went better than Arthur’s original plan.

Because, yes, they did still snipe at each other, and trade barbs and insults at least as often as they traded compliments— “So, Merlin, in your studies, have you found any explanation for those ears of yours, or should we all carry on suspecting there’s a bat somewhere in your ancestry?” Arthur had said, after Merlin had gushed about one of his latest books, and Merlin had returned the sally with “Hmm, I’ve been too busy trying to figure out what to do when that head of yours gets so big that your neck finally gives out on us”— but now that Arthur wasn’t irritated by shoddy service (that was entirely his fault) or doing his best to hide any hints of friendship, they weren’t fighting.

It was a subtle change, really; their banter had usually been playful, even before, but now it was almost always playful, and Arthur never joked about Merlin being useless, didn’t threaten him at all unless he was taking pains to ensure that Merlin could see him grinning when he did it, and didn’t throw anything harder than a pillow. And in return, Merlin had taken to using some of his study time to brush up on court politics and propriety, and had made a real effort at following protocol outside of Arthur’s chambers, so much so that even Uther had remarked upon Merlin finally learning how to appropriately serve a member of the Royal Household.

Really, Arthur was beginning to think that their awful, terrible fight had actually been the greatest thing that could possibly have happened to them, and he was starting to put serious thought towards what Morgana and Guinevere had suggested.

Which was why it was incredibly obvious when Merlin started to pull away about two weeks after his trial week ended, and why, try though he did, Arthur couldn’t come up with a single reason as to why Merlin was putting distance between them.

Then Arthur remembered that Galahad was due to return to Camelot any day now.

* * *

“Right, out with it,” Morgana said, in a commanding, nearly cruel sort of way that reminded Merlin of The Old Arthur, as he’d started to think of him, before they’d made up.

“Out with what?” Merlin asked, losing his grip on the stasis charm he’d been demonstrating; Morgana’s perfume bottle, which had been caught a few feet off the ground, wobbled, a bit, and he ended up having to do an unplanned demonstration of a spell to cushion a fall, instead, and the fragile phial bounced up like it was made of solid wood instead of thin, faceted glass.

“Whatever it is that Arthur’s done now,” Morgana said, barely giving the bottle a second glance, which Merlin thought was distinctly unfair; he still remembered a time, not long ago, when that would have really impressed her. “You’re clearly upset about something, and trying not to show it. What’s happened?”

“Do we need to yell at him again?” Gwen asked, not looking up from her embroidery.

“Honestly, the two of you! I’m starting to think you like meddling so much you go around inventing problems for other people to have, just so you can solve them!” Merlin said. “And even if I was upset, that doesn’t mean it’s an Arthur Problem; I do have a life outside of him, you know, especially now.”

Gwen snorted.

“Traitor,” Merlin muttered. “Really, he hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“Alright,” said Morgana.

“No, really,” Merlin said, significantly, “he hasn’t done a single thing wrong.”

“Sure,” said Gwen.

“Arthur hasn’t done anything to upset me,” Merlin said.

“But you are upset,” Morgana said.

Merlin sighed, and waved a hand carelessly; the flames from Morgana’s candles lifted off of their wicks, paired up, and started to circle round to the beat of a soundless waltz. Morgana did look impressed by that, at least, and Gwen put down her needle long enough to clap, appreciatively. “Arthur has been doing his level best to fix things, and treat me better, and to actually appreciate me and my work.”

“So, it is about Arthur after all,” Gwen said, wryly. Merlin flicked a finger and made one of the grapes from the side table throw itself at her.

“It’s about me,” he said, before she could do more than make an indignant noise. “He’s putting in real effort, and my life is so much better, now, and I’m treating him worse than he’s ever treated me.”

“That’s ridiculous, Merlin,” said Morgana. “You’ve been waiting on him hand and foot, and I’ve seen his chambers, they’re immaculate! Have you gone and hit your head or something?”

“Think about it,” Merlin said, grimly. “One of my main frustrations with my job was that Arthur was expecting me to do my job, and all while making it impossible for me to actually do it, by refusing to understand what actually went into my duties and refusing to give me the support I needed from him in order to support him. I wanted to serve him, properly, and I couldn’t, and it was driving me mad, because I’d see all the places I was falling short of the mark, and I hated it.”

“You only fell short because he made it impossible for you to succeed; his expectations were utterly unreasonable,” Morgana said, angrily. “And you shouldn’t think any of that was your fault.”

“I don’t,” said Merlin. “But, Morgana, do you think he did that on purpose, or because he truly didn’t understand what my duties were actually like?”

Morgana blinked, and Gwen said, “Well, he really did look guilty when it was all laid out for him.”

Morgana nodded. “And he did want to make it right almost as soon as he realized,” she admitted.

Merlin clicked his fingers, and the dancing fire burst apart in a shower of sparks. He twisted his wrists, and the sparks shifted into the shape of a knight in full armor, sword raised and charging. “We talk a lot more, now, and he was complaining about his own duties; he mentioned that one of the Lords didn’t inform him of a group of new knight applicants that were training in the Western Fort.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Morgana asked, confused by the sudden change of subject.

“He said—” Merlin’s fingers twisted again, and some of the sparks left the knight and formed into an outstretched hand; the knight flew back, and lay prone— “’how am I to act as Defender of my Realm if my people don’t inform me of my own defenses?’”

Gwen dropped her embroidery, and Morgana went very pale. “Merlin, you can’t—”

“Keep it from him any longer,” he said, firmly. “I can’t yell at him for cutting me off at the knees when I’m doing the same blasted thing to him, especially not when there are actual lives at stake when I do it.”

“It’s entirely different,” Morgana protested. “Even if he understands, he can’t go about letting you defend him openly, not under Uther’s laws.”

“No, not openly,” Merlin agreed. “But knowing about it would still let him account for it, and he might make different choices, and that might still save lives.”

“And if he doesn’t accept it?” Morgana asked, her eyes wide with worry.

Merlin shrugged. “Maybe he won’t, but it’s still the right thing to do.”

Morgana’s eyes turned cunning. “And how will you protect him, if he doesn’t accept you?”

She had expected Merlin to take pause, and reconsider. Instead, his lips curled into a small, private smile. “I have plans for that.”

* * *

In a cave below the castle, The Dragon woke from the first peaceful sleep it had had in weeks, and snarled.

* * *

Merlin’s hands shook as he tied off the thread; the thick bone needle slipped, again, and pierced his thumb, and he let the blood fall freely. He wore no thimble, nor gloves; work like this was bloody by necessity, and would be bloodier still, when he began to dye the leather.

He held his hand over a simmering camp pot until his wounds closed, and started to dig the trench. When he was finished, the pot was nearly boiling, and the dye was ready. He placed his work carefully, reverently, in the trench, and poured the dye over the soft, supple doeskin. Then he dug in his bag for the Cup, and for his knife.

Arthur had given him the blade, long ago. It was an old belt dagger that Prince had replaced, and had no more need for, or so he’d said, and never mind that Merlin knew the Prince’s weapons at least as well as Arthur did; there was nothing old about this knife. Merlin gazed into his reflection in the gleaming steel, giving himself something for his body to focus on, while his mind slipped free, searching, until he could feel not only the life of the trees and insects and animals in the grove, but the life of the Forest itself.

Then he sent out his call. All his hopes, all his plans and intentions, compressed into two simple words.

For Arthur.

The Forest answered, and Merlin moved quickly, his knife flashing; his magic lifted the bodies, one after the other, holding them upside-down over the Cup until they were drained, and the golden bowl of the chalice was brimming with all the blood of seven king stags; far more than its dimensions should have held.

Merlin raised it up in both hands, and waited, motionless, for many long, torturous minutes. His arms ached and quivered from the strain, but he held fast, until dawn painted the sky as red as his work, and the first rays of light broke over the horizon, gleaming against the gold.

Then he poured the blood into the trench, and smiled when he saw that it flowed out steaming and hot. He could feel the spells settle into the leather, into the runes he’d stitched into it, hidden in the curling, twisting, abstract designs, and he knew they would work.

All that was left was the final sacrifice; he needed a larger fire. His magic flared, pressing into the wards he’d set around his camp, to hide all traces of smoke and light.

Then he dragged the stags into a pile, bowed his head in thanks for their aid, and the aid of the Forest, and said “Forbærne,” and set them alight.  

Blood to bind.

Bones to fuel the forge.

* * *

“Blasphemy,” hissed The Dragon. It thrashed, clawed the air, and spouted fire. Then it roared, “You have corrupted centuries of magic, Young Warlock. How could you do this?”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Honestly, you should be pleased; you’ve always said protecting Arthur should be my main priority. This will protect him.”

“At what cost?” The Dragon bellowed. “You are giving up—”

“I know what I’ve given up,” Merlin snapped. “And I think we’re better off without it. But it’s already done, and what was broken cannot be remade. I do not need your approval, only your blessing. Will you burnish the gold, or not?”

“You would have me contribute my Flame to this… this monstrosity?”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Merlin said. Then, seeing that The Dragon had no intention of helping him, his eyes hardened. “You will do this for me, Dragon, or I will seal this tunnel behind me when I leave, and trust that my spells will be strong enough, even without your aid.”

The Dragon’s eyes burned with rage, then, they narrowed in contemplation. “And what will you do, if I give it?”

Merlin laughed. “Nothing until Arthur is King; I will not free you. The King of Camelot imprisoned you, and only the King of Camelot will release you. But if destiny plays out the way you wish it to, then perhaps, one day, the King of Camelot will take my counsel….”

“Very well,” The Dragon said, letting its Flame build until it gleamed white and silver and gold when it finally spewed forth.

* * *

“You’ve been gone for three days,” Arthur said, without looking up, when his door finally opened without so much as a knock. “Three days, and nothing but a single line on a scrap of parchment as a warning.”

“I—” Merlin began.

“I thought I’d earned better from you,” Arthur said, bitterly. “If you wish to leave my service, now that Galahad will be returning, you could have simply told me.”

“Galahad is returning?” Merlin asked, and Arthur finally looked up, and saw that the confusion in Merlin’s voice was mirrored on his face, and neither seemed feigned. It seemed that Merlin had actually forgotten the Prince’s impending visit.

Then he took in the rest of Merlin’s appearance. “By the gods, Merlin, what happened?” His servant’s clothes were clean, mostly, but they were singed, here and there, his hands were covered in bandages, and he was carrying a large bundle of oilskin.

“You really thought I wanted to leave?” Merlin asked, in a small, guilty voice, ignoring his question. “Arthur, I’m sorry, I just…. I’ve made a mess of things, haven’t I? I wanted to do something special for you, I never meant to worry you.”

“You could’ve said,” Arthur replied, but he knew his face had softened.

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Merlin said, hesitantly. “I… have a lot to tell you. Things I’ve planned on telling you for weeks, but I wanted to finish this first.” He lifted the oilskin, and Arthur narrowed his eyes.

“Finish what?”

In answer, Merlin laid the bundle on Arthur’s desk, and started to pick at the ropes knotting it shut, without much success. Eventually, Arthur rolled his eyes and said “Give it here,” and stuck his knife under the rope, and cut it. Still, it took a long while to untangle the rope and the skin, but when they’d finally unwrapped it, Arthur could do nothing but stare.

Eventually, Merlin said, hesitantly, “D-do you like it? I know it’s a bit showy, but, well….”

“Merlin,” Arthur breathed. “How— where did you get this?”

“I made it,” Merlin said. “Start to finish, except I had to buy the leather. But the dye, and the stitching, the embroidery, and even the buckles, and the gilding… that was all me.”

Finally, Arthur reached out and took it up, and unrolled the belt to look at it all laid out.

It was a scabbard, but it was the finest scabbard Arthur had ever seen; it was dyed a rich red, perhaps half a shade darker than his cloak, and the belt had been tooled with elaborate scrollwork and curling vines. The scabbard itself had also been worked over with vines, but here and there, they parted, and where there were gaps in the vines, there were scenes, worked in miniature, and Arthur recognized them.

The lowest, near the point where his sword tip would be cradled, was a shield with three snakes; above that was a strange conical shape that Arthur didn’t recognize until he’d turned the scabbard sideways, and then it was perfectly obvious that it was meant to be a whirlwind, in the midst of tiny houses and scattered weapons; above that was a pair of goblets, set above a maze.

And in the final scene, just below the gilded opening of the scabbard, was a Cup and a Crown, set above a writhing horror that could only be the Questing Beast.

“Turn it over,” Merlin whispered, and Arthur did; there were four more spaces, but only the lowest was filled, decorated with two slightly crude figures, one crowned and standing with one arm outstretched to the other, who was kneeling and offering a line balanced on its palms.

It only took an instant for Arthur to recognize that the line was meant to be this very scabbard.

“The rest will keep, for when you’re King, I should think,” Merlin said, and Arthur swallowed, dryly, and tried to think of something— anything— he could say that would come at all close to what he was feeling.

In the end, Arthur could think of nothing else but “It’s perfect,” and he had to look away and blink several times, rapidly, after he said so, before he could meet Merlin’s eyes. He added, roughly, “I don’t deserve this.”

“Yes, you do,” Merlin said. He took the scabbard from Arthur, and knelt, holding it up on open palms. “It’s our story, Arthur, it’s us.” He turned it over, and said, “Listen to it, Arthur, please; let me tell it.”

Arthur could do nothing but nod, and Merlin shifted his grip, balancing the sheath with one hand so he could point with the other. He looked down, and his fingers traced the shield, and he said, “This was the first time you trusted me, really trusted me, and against another knight, in front of the entire court, no less. And it was the first time I decided that I’d do anything I could to protect you, even if I risked being caught out at it.”

Arthur wanted to ask what that meant, but Merlin’s fingers were moving. “This,” he said, tracing the whirlwind— tracing Ealdor— “was when I realized that I wasn’t afraid of getting caught, I was afraid of you looking at me differently. And it was when I saw you as a true leader; I don’t think you really understood what you did, Arthur, what you gave us all, when you showed us that we could fight for what we believed in, and that you would back us up when we did it, no matter what other Lords and Nobles might say about arming serfs and peasants.”

“This, though,” he said, touching the Labyrinth and the pair of goblets, “was when I knew you’d sacrifice yourself for your people, and for me, and when I knew that part of me would always be yours. I’m sorry that I forgot that, earlier.”

“Merlin—”

“This is when I decided your life would be worth a hundred of me,” Merlin said, pressing on, “and when I realized that even then, there were limits. But this,” he turned over the scabbard, “this very moment is when I decided you deserved everything, including the truth.”

Finally, Merlin looked up, and his eyes were molten gold. “And the truth is that I am yours, if you’ll have me, and that in all of our stories, I’ve been watching over you, protecting you, as best I could.”

A light bloomed above the scabbard, a familiar blue-white sphere, and some of the threads and tooling lit up, revealing strange shapes hidden amidst the vines and scrollwork.

“I’ll give you the full stories, whenever you’re ready, whenever you want them, but that is the truth I want you to know, Arthur. That I will guard you, as best I can, even if you send me away; even when we can’t stand each other, I’ll protect you. I would never, ever hurt you, or Camelot, and I would never see you hurt, if I could stop it.” Merlin paused, letting that sink in, then asked, “Will you wear it?”

There were so many things Arthur could have said. He could have said Magic is evil, but how could he, when all the evidence he needed to prove that was a lie was shining there, between them? He could have said You lied to me, but did it matter, when Merlin was trusting him now, now that Arthur had finally started to treat him like a friend, instead of a servant? And he could have asked How can I trust this, but really, Merlin’s eyes were bright with trust and hope, so a better question would have been How can I not?

So, Arthur asked, instead, “Will it change me, if I do?” even though it shamed him to do so; he knew that Merlin would never hurt him, and most of him knew that Merlin wouldn’t enchant him, either, but a small part of him that sounded like his father wasn’t convinced, so it had to be asked.

“No,” Merlin said, “and no one else will, either. Your mind will be your own, as long as you wear the belt, and free from magical influence.”

At Arthur’s nod, solemn and sure, Merlin stood, and pulled the leather around Arthur’s waist. Merlin’s fingers were nimble and sure, as they buckled it on, smoothing the belt in place and positioning the scabbard properly at Arthur’s hip. They lingered, for a bit longer than they needed to, on the gold buckle, and on the gold that framed the scabbard, and Merlin said, softly, “I want you to always be you.”

There was really only one thing Arthur could say to that.

“Thank you, Merlin.”

* * *

When Galahad finally arrived, it was to a much more reserved welcome than before, from all save Uther, who looked at him with greedy hope; Merlin, when he first saw the Prince, gave him a wavering, hesitant smile, but took up his trunks and luggage to ready his room without so much as a word, and Galahad frowned, then thought that perhaps Merlin did not realize how open he intended to be, or that he fully intended to keep his promises. But he would soon prove his intentions, so he was not too concerned.

Prince Arthur, though, greeted him coldly. So coldly, in fact, that the King glared at him when he did not think Galahad was watching.

Soon enough, they entered the castle, and went to a privy council, where only the Royal Family and Lord Geoffrey were present, and Galahad presented his initial offer.

“Corbinec holds to peace, as yet, but we have received word that Cenred’s forces were seen near to our borders,” Galahad said. “It is possible that he intends no treachery, but My Lord Father would have assurances that Camelot would come to our aid, if it is needed. We are willing to offer an increased trade in copper, as well as the establishment of a trade route from our silver mines, if Camelot would make that assurance, and offer us a score of knights, to be stationed in our Kingdom and under our command.”

Uther frowned. “Corbinec is not a vassal of Camelot, but an allied state; to put our knights in your command would surely cause them to give their first loyalty to you.”

Galahad inclined his head, acknowledging the risk, and said, “Yet with the wealth we offer you, you could outfit many new knights; you have the population to do so, but Corbinec is small, for all our wealth and might. The trade is fair, My Lord.”

“We will consider this, and in the meantime, you may enjoy all of Camelot’s hospitality,” Uther answered.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Galahad said with another bow. Then he said, “There is one other matter to discuss; I would ask for one final favor, for my own sake, and not a part of our negotiations.

Uther narrowed his eyes, but waved his hand in assent.

“I would ask your assent to court a member of your household, unto marriage, should my troth be accepted,” Galahad said, formally. “And for the use of another servant, while I stay under your roof, for I would not have Merlin under me while I press my suit.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, then Arthur moved to rise, but before he could answer, or get to his feet, Uther laid his hand on his son’s wrist, and said, “Of course you may; I can see no good reason to deny such a request,” and he glared at Arthur. “Perhaps you may allow me some time with my son, to discuss your offer. As First Knight, he will surely have valuable insight into our forces and how we may proceed, should we choose to.”

Galahad bowed again, deeper, and left, and Uther gestured that the room should be cleared once he did, and waited. When Geoffrey and the guards had gone, too, he rounded on his son, and said flatly, “You would have denied him.”

“Father—” Arthur began, but Uther slammed his fist down on the table.

“We can ill-afford to offend Prince Galahad; he is a weak negotiator, when he is happy, and your servant is a small price to pay to keep him so.” Then Uther paused, narrowed his eyes, and said, very coldly, “I can see no good reason for you to deny him; King Pelles may be foolish enough to allow his son to debase himself with a commoner, and a man, but surely you know that the Crown Prince of Camelot cannot be so weak as to so much as befriend a servant. Were I to believe, even for a moment, that you had been so foolish as to do so, or worse, the consequences for you, and him, would be dire indeed.”

Arthur swallowed, and said, “Of course not, father; it is merely inconvenient. It is, after all, difficult to find a servant so loyal as Merlin, and I have only just trained him to my standards. I will inform him that he is to be available to the Prince of Corbinec’s pleasure, and to make arrangements for another servant, so as to ensure his availability.”

Uther glared at Arthur for another long moment, before granting his dismissal.

* * *

Beneath the tower, The Dragon began cursing the Pendragons again, until it gasped, breathless, and the rocks beneath it had gone molten from the heat of its fury.

* * *

Only yesterday, Arthur had trained with his men and had been absolutely certain of their loyalty.

Today, he saw betrayal everywhere he turned. From the moment he rose from his bed, he’d looked out at Camelot, and at his knights and his guards, and thought, How many of you would haul Merlin off to be burnt? How many of you would regret it, if you did, and how many of you would be sure you did the right thing? How many of you would strike him down, immediately, without even the possibility of a mockery of a trial, for fear of enchantments and danger to the Royal Family?

And now, after his meeting with his father, he had to ask also How many of you would spy for the King, for any hint of impropriety past that which Merlin has always shown? And how long until even that is suspect, in my father’s eyes? It was bad enough that he had to worry about Merlin getting caught doing magic, but now he had to worry about Merlin getting caught for being too friendly with Arthur. And they would get caught, now that they’d grown so close.

It was only a matter of time before Uther decided that he had to get rid of Merlin, one way or another.

Arthur had always been protective of Merlin, but now, knowing what he did— he hadn’t asked many questions, but he knew, a little, about prophecies he only half-believed in, about a half-dozen times that Merlin had secretly protected him, and had Merlin’s oath that it wasn’t just the prophecies— he’d decided that hurting Merlin really ought to be treated as treason, the same as if they’d hurt Arthur himself.

And that meant that there was really only one thing Arthur could do, now.

When Merlin finally arrived at his chambers, confused by the summons, Arthur stood, facing his window, and told him, “You will no longer be serving Prince Galahad. Nor will you be serving me.”

Merlin’s confusion deepened, and he asked, “Arthur, what’s happened?”

“Prince Galahad has asked permission to court you, and my father and I have granted it.” Arthur said, simply. “Another servant will attend to Galahad in your place. You may make those arrangements; I will make arrangements for my own service for the week…. And for after, when you go with him to Corbinec.”

“Arthur, you can’t possibly think I’d still want to—”

Finally, Arthur turned, and the look on his face stopped Merlin’s words in their tracks. “Merlin,” Arthur said, fighting to keep his tone harsh, to convince Merlin that anger was at the root of this. “He would not have asked if he didn’t think his advances would be welcome, would he?”

Merlin flinched, and his fingers found the hem of his shirt, and twisted it, nervously. “There was… something… but that was before—”

Arthur waved him off, and said, “Magic is not illegal in Corbinec; he can do you honors, and give you a place in his court.”

Merlin’s eyes blazed, and he said, hotly, “I don’t want honors, when have I ever sought honors? And I don’t need a place in his court, not when—”

“You do,” Arthur cut him off. “Because you no longer have a place in mine. You have my thanks for what you have done for me, and for Camelot, up to now, and for whatever protection this is—” he laid his hand on the scabbard— “but I cannot offer you anything else. He can. Go with him, Merlin. Because I won’t allow you stay with me any longer.”

Arthur watched Merlin look up at him through tear-soaked lashes, and for one hot, glittering moment, he hated his father with everything he was.

* * *

The Dragon looked at every possible future there was, at that moment, and decided that desperate measures were called for. It waited until night had fallen, and then it bent the full force of its considerable will into the shape of a summons, and Called.

* * *

“Arthur, how could you?” Morgana said, slamming the door behind her. “What did you even say to him?”

Arthur sighed, and tipped his head back, finishing off the better part of a cup of wine, and thought about drinking straight from the jug; instead, he refilled his goblet, and set one out for Morgana. “It’s better this way,” he said.

Morgana glared at him, and said, “If this is about his magic—”

“He told you!” Arthur cried.

“He told me months ago,” Morgana said cooly, “when I told him about mine.” Arthur blinked, stunned. He opened his mouth to speak, but Morgana said, “And you cannot send me away for it, now, can you? So what will you do, Arthur? Do you hate magic enough to turn me in, or will you see sense?”

“I am seeing sense!” Arthur yelled. “I think I’m the only one who is! Morgana, he can’t stay here; Uther will kill him if he does; he hinted at as much, already, when he saw the look on my face when Galahad asked to court Merlin!”

Morgana blinked, and took the wine she’d been ignoring. “You’re trying to protect him?”

“You said it yourself, Morgana. The only way anything would work between us is if we were discreet, and we’re long past that. It would be one thing if we only had to hide one secret between us, but hiding magic and my feelings both? It’s doomed to fail. And Morgana, I cannot ask him to keep another secret, not after seeing how happy he was to finally unburden himself of the first.”

Arthur took a deep breath, and said, again “It’s better this way.”

Then he scowled at her, and said, “And I might not be able to send you away, but you should leave, too. To your father’s estates, if nothing else.”

“Are you trying to convince me,” Morgana asked, quietly, “or yourself?”

* * *

Morgana left Arthur’s chambers in a flurry of silk and rage, and had to duck into an alcove to compose herself. She understood where Arthur was coming from, but she also knew that he was wrong, but she didn’t know what to do about it.

Unless….

Uther.

It all came back to Uther.

Chapter Text

“How dare you summon me?” Uther snarled as he stepped onto the narrow stone ledge and glared out into the cavern. “I can still kill you; chained as you are, you could not stop me.”

“Indeed, you are safe from my flame while I remain shackled, such was the oath I swore for my Lord. And yet, you have not killed me,” The Dragon rumbled as it lifted its head. “And we both know why; you may say, if you like, that I am here as a sign of your victory against the Old Religion, but we both know the truth: my prophecies are too valuable for you to allow my death.”

Uther glared, and crossed his arms. “Yet you have not earned your keep. You have not spoken a single word since Balinor fled. Perhaps it is time for you to join your kin in death.”

The Dragon did not rise to Uther’s bait, though it wanted to, badly; in its mind, Uther was already burning, but the shackle heated, warningly, as The Dragon imagined it, so, instead, it spoke softly, suggestively. “Then what must it mean, Uther Pendragon, for me to break my silence now? Truly, I say to you, your Kingdom stands on the brink of ruin. Even now your son plans to throw away his Destiny—”

“Never!” spat Uther. “My son will take the throne; he knows his duty.”

“Indeed, he will,” said The Dragon. “But duty is not Destiny. Your son is more than the future King of Camelot. He is the Once and Future King, destined to unite all the lands, but he cannot do that without his other half… without Emrys.”

That was not a new prophecy, but Uther had never before heard it applied to Arthur.

“My son will never stand with magic,” Uther said, firmly, but he was thinking of how grand it would be for his son, a true Pendragon, through and through, to be seated as the High King, and wondered if the sacrifice might be worth it, particularly if he could be persuaded to grasp magic ruthlessly, in an iron fist; bring it back, maybe, if that’s what it took, but bring it back crippled. Something in that thought did have some appeal….

The Dragon shook with laughter, and smoke drifted through the cavern, lazily, carrying its mirth. “Your son has known of Emrys for days, and has he come to you, to report a sorcerer? No; he seeks to protect Emrys from you, but he does not realize the consequences of his actions. By Arthur’s orders, Emrys is to leave Camelot, but this must not take place! If it does, Camelot, and all of Albion, is doomed.”

Uther glared at The Dragon, and said, firmly, “You lie,” but his hands were shaking as they inched closer to his sword.

“I am still shackled, Bound, as you requested, under the pretense of negotiating a treaty. So long as I bear these chains, I cannot lie to one who carries Pendragon blood. You know this, Uther. Do not insult me by pretending otherwise.”

“Why would you tell me this? Surely, you must wish to see my Kingdom fall,” Uther said, slowly.

“It would bring me no greater pleasure to see you and all of your works fall to ash, and be forgotten,” The Dragon growled. “And if things were at all different, I would do all that was within my power to ensure it! But if Emrys chooses to place another on the High King’s throne to act as the Once and Future King, all will be lost. I do this not for you, but for the fate of this world. You must convince him that Emrys will be safe, here, in Camelot.”

Uther sighed, wearily, and rubbed his forehead. “You would have me make an exception for this sorcerer? One whose identity you still keep secr—”

Suddenly, The Dragon cocked its head to one side, then reared back, and blew flame into the air in a panic. “Hide! Quickly! Down the stairs, Uther, get out of sight!”

Uther looked at The Dragon, and saw real fear in those ancient eyes, and obeyed. He crept halfway down the concealed stairs that led to the heavy iron ring securing The Dragon’s chain, then froze, out of sight, as he heard footsteps above him.

Someone else was entering the cavern!

* * *

 A hot gust of wind, redolent with sulfur and burning metal— brimstone and molten iron— rushed into the tunnel; Morgana was pushed back on her heels, and, unbalanced by the force of it, nearly fell back as her skirts tangled around her legs. Her torch flared in the wind, instead of guttering, and she fumbled it, managing to keep hold of it, barely. Bracing herself against the wind, she put out her hand and shrieked a spell to part the gale.

But even Dragons must breathe, eventually, and so, the creature ceased its attempt to ward her off, and she stepped down off of the stairs, onto the ledge.

“Leave!”

The cavern shook from the force of The Dragon’s command, and Morgana pressed her free hand up to her temple, wincing; the word struck her mind in the same instant that it struck her ears, drawing blood from her nose, and if she had not spent several long months in Merlin’s tutelage, she would have turned and fled, helpless against the compulsion in the Dragon’s voice. But Merlin had taught her something to resist enchantment, so instead she tightened her mental shields, whispering a series of wards in rapid succession, and fought to keep her voice level when she finally called back in defiance.

“No! I have need of you; we have a common enemy, you and I!”

The Dragon growled, and she felt the vibration behind her breastbone and under her feet. “You do not know what you risk in coming here.”

“I know what I’d risk by staying away,” Morgana snapped. “Arthur is in a panic; he’s gone half-mad with worry, and he’s even tried to send me away! But I can’t do this alone… I need your help to deal with Uther.”

“Witch,” The Dragon began, but Morgana didn’t give it a chance to speak.

“I want to enchant him, but I don’t know the spell. We have to make him see sense, and accept that—”

“And do you believe that Arthur would accept such an abrupt change? He would know full-well that Uther was ensorcelled, and where would he turn his eye, then, to look for the culprit?” The Dragon asked, in a dry tone, as though it were almost amused that Morgana hadn’t thought of that herself.

And perhaps it was right to be.… Well, if not an enchantment, then—

“Then Uther must die,” Morgana said, flatly. “Once he’s gone—”

“Wait,” said The Dragon, consideringly. Then it curled in on itself, and closed its eyes, and a strange sort of lightless shimmer passed over it, turning its scales a hundred shades of gold and bronze and white.

Several moments passed, slowly, and then it rose up again, and said, “No; it pains me to say this, but you must not kill Uther.” The Dragon’s regret was a horrible, aching thing that buffeted all the cavern in a rush of hot, swirling air, and then it spoke again.

“I, above all others, would relish his death,” said The Dragon, looking, for a single instant, down at the cavern floor, “but if you use magic to kill the King, Arthur will turn forever against it, believing it to be as corrupt as Uther said it was, in his grief, and will never again condone its use, though he, at least, will not hunt its practitioners. Should you turn steel against him, you will be caught, and your betrayal will break Arthur; he will begin to think that no one can be trusted, no matter how highly he holds them in regard. And if you poison the King, Arthur’s mind will be clouded with paranoia, seeing enemies everywhere in the castle as he hunts for the assassin.”

The Dragon allowed that prediction to settle over her, then said, “You must cease your plotting, Witch; your interference here has greater consequences than you know, but now, we must let the dice fall and settle as they may. We have, both of us, lost our chance to change things. Perhaps we face our Doom, or perhaps, somehow, Destiny will yet have its way. But we must step down.”

“Damn you,” whispered Morgana. “And damn Uther, too!”

Then she turned on her heel, and fled, desperately, to find Gwen, in the hopes that she could draw her back from the depths of her despair.

* * *

There were several minutes of silence, before they were sure that Morgana was gone. Then, slowly, leaning heavily against the wall, Uther climbed the stairs.

“Uther—”

“Don’t!” said Uther, weakly. “If you speak another word, I will have you killed.” Then, drawing on the long practice of a King who must, on occasion and by necessity, completely ignore the demands of his subjects, he closed his ears and his mind to The Dragon, and left.

It was a long, agonizing walk back to his own chambers; each step pained him. There was a growing ache in the very core of him, and it throbbed, as the weight of all his years, and all his decisions, pressed down upon him.

He settled, at last, in the chair before his window, and took up a bottle of wine, drinking deeply from its neck, not bothering with a cup, or even to decant it into a wine-jug.

“I should have known,” Uther whispered to himself, thinking of the Lady Vivienne, with her visions and her small magics, and her hints of the greater powers that she had relinquished, when she married Gorlois, for love, and for fear of intimidating the man.

He had not loved her, exactly, but he had cared for her, in his way; he cared enough, at least, to ignore his suspicions that she had not, in fact, given up her Art when sorcery was banned, and to let her live— at least until after Gorlois’s death, when she’d refused to send Morgana to Camelot… to him.

And then….

Well, he did not regret the order he gave, because he could not allow himself regrets, but he had mourned the necessity of it, and mourned her.

Truthfully, Morgana resembled her mother a great deal, but he’d ignored all the warning signs, and the nightmares, because she was also so very like her father, too, and he loved her for it; even when she drove him mad with her irreverence and stubborn nature— so very like her father— he loved her.

And he would not see her burned.

He nodded, sharply, and finished the wine, then rose, and sent a servant for more, and to arrange for Gaius to visit him in the morning, to deal with the consequences of indulging so much in spirits.

Tonight, he would get spectacularly drunk; tomorrow, he would press that weak, besotted fool of a foreign Prince until he bent or broke, and then, once he’d wrung out all he could get from him, he’d be rid of him, and, hopefully, Arthur’s bizarre relationship with his servant besides.

And once Galahad and Merlin were gone, he’d tend to his children.

It was fitting, really, that Arthur would rise to become the High King, with his sister, his Emrys, at his side.

* * *

The Dragon curled into a tight ball, and settled itself on the rock; it had its chance, and lost it to The Witch.

Once again, and not for the first time, The Dragon wished fervently that Merlin had listened and killed her, instead of changing her fate and turning her away from the path of vengeance and fear.

But now, there was nothing more to be done; The Dragon would sleep, until Destiny corrected itself and Emrys returned, or until the End of Albion began. 

* * *

Arthur spent three days in his chambers after Prince Galahad’s retinue departed, feigning illness to keep out any visitors. Uther had become like a man possessed, and forced their negotiations through with a speed Arthur could hardly fathom. Gaius’s aid, given freely, perhaps because he knew what Arthur had given up, and why, allowed him to turn aside even his father’s summons, for a time.

But finally, knowing that he had drawn things out as long as he could, Arthur rose from his bed, and called for a servant to fetch hot water. He bathed alone, dressed alone, and sat down to eat, alone, and left word with the guards that he had recovered.

The summons, as expected, came quickly. Arthur finished what he wanted of his dinner, hurriedly, leaving the better part of it on the plate— he had very little appetite, these days; it seemed, somehow, that food had become tasteless, now that Merlin wouldn’t be bringing it— and went to meet his father in his chambers.

He had expected the King to be waiting, glowering at him and ready to berate him for the dereliction of his duties, and for sulking over a servant.

He hadn’t expected Morgana to be there, too.

“Father,” Arthur said, his voice rough from disuse and— though he would not admit it— weeping. “Lady Morgana.” He inclined his head, and tried to ignore the stricken, concerned look on Morgana’s face, when she caught sight of him.

He sat, mechanically, when Uther gestured for him to do so, and tried to focus on the King’s words.

“There are things we must— It has come to my attention that— You should both know—" Uther began, and Arthur frowned, and eyed the King with trepidation; it was not like Uther to be indecisive.

Finally, Uther sighed, and said, “Perhaps it would be better to start with this,” and passed a folded missive to Morgana.

She opened it, warily, and though Arthur was not close enough to read it, he was close enough to recognize the King’s Seal pressed into it, near a looping, oversized signature; whatever it was, it was an official writ. Morgana gasped, reached up to cover her mouth, and a tear fell onto the page.

“How?” she croaked.

“Does it matter?” Uther asked, flatly. “You should have come to me when you first realized that you were… afflicted… and perhaps we could have done more to manage it, or even to stop it. As it stands, we must endeavor to keep it secret, for I will not change the law, not for anyone; but at least with this you will have some surety.”

“What are you on about?” Arthur asked, lost. Wordlessly, Morgana passed him the document, and he scanned it, quickly, picking out pieces of phrases, here and there, and that was enough to understand what it was that he held.

By order of the King— official pardon— Morgana Pendragon— for all acts of magic, past and present, in defense of Camelot.

“You— you know?” Arthur said, a bit stupidly; obviously he knew, though Arthur couldn’t understand how, or why he was pardoning Morgana, when he’d never shown any indication that he would ever bend the law for anyone before.

And then, Arthur went cold all over, registering exactly what it was that he had read.

“Pendragon,” he said, sharply, and Morgana’s eyes snapped up to meet his; he saw the moment she realized it, too, past the shock of the rest of the edict, and then they both turned to glare at Uther. “You named her Pendragon.”

Uther kept his gaze, and his voice, level, and addressed Arthur, avoiding Morgana’s stare. “She is my daughter,” he said, simply. Then, finally looking at his ward— his daughter— he admitted, “And I love her.”

If Arthur had learned of this weeks ago, he might have raged at his father for his infidelity— with Morgana’s age, so close to his, it could have been nothing else— but now… now he was angry for an entirely different reason.

“And that is enough to cast aside the law? To throw out every protocol you’ve pressed on the court? For your love?” Arthur said, with rising volume.

“Arthur!” Morgana said, shocked.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, Morgana, I’m thrilled that you’re safe. But I never realized until now just how much of a hypocrite my— our father truly is!”

“I am the King,” Uther said, coldly. “The law is what I declare it to be.”

“What about me?” Arthur asked, softly. “You would change the law for her; what about me? It isn’t even a law, only a tradition. Do you care about me at all?”

“I do care about you,” Uther said, and some part of Arthur had always suspected that it was care and not love, but still, it hurt that he would parrot Arthur’s word back, instead of admitting to a greater feeling, when he could so freely say it to her.

Then, proving that he understood the source of Arthur’s wrath better than Morgana, who was looking back and forth between the two of them, Uther said, “Which is why I will do what is best for you, and keep you from distraction. The boy will not return to Camelot; if he does, he will be brought before me, and I will try him as a traitor and a spy for Corbinec.”

Morgana’s breath hissed out between her teeth, and Arthur could see that Uther had finally broken through her shock to the rage that had been bubbling up beneath it, but before she could speak, Arthur held up his hand, asking her to wait, and she did.

Arthur looked at Uther, and had another of those hot, glittering moments where he really and truly hated his father, only this time, it wasn’t just a moment, because instead of passing through him, it just kept going and going; the moment dragged on and on and on, until Arthur was breathless with it, and at last he realized that it would never end. This was a wound that would fester; it would not heal, and would instead have to be borne, as best he could bear it.

Arthur stared at Uther, and Uther at Arthur, until at last Arthur straightened his spine and looked to be every inch Uther’s son, cold and hateful and resolute, and then, in that final, flat way that he’d grown up hearing Uther use in Court, Arthur pronounced judgment.

“I shall never forgive you,” Arthur said, simply, and climbed to his feet. “You are King, and your word is law, and I am the Crown Prince. I will do my duty by you, sire, but from this moment on we shall never again be as father and son.”

Then he bowed, formally, and left, ignoring the King’s calls for him to wait, or come back, and because he moved quickly, and did not— would not— look back, he did not see the way that all the color drained out of Uther’s face, or the way that the King clutched at his arm, and had to lean, heavily, against his desk, to keep from sliding out of his chair.

* * *

Morgana watched Uther, consideringly, and thought about helping him for a very brief moment; he had, after all, clearly taken a turn.

Then she thought of all the lies, of the heartbreak she’d seen on Arthur’s face before he had gone cold, and of how distraught Merlin had been, when he’d realized that Arthur left specific orders with his guards to keep him away from Arthur’s chambers, after Arthur had decided he needed protecting, and of how near she’d been to killing the King herself.

So, rather than comforting him, or sending a page or a guard to fetch Gaius, she leaned back, arranged her skirts and her shawl around herself, and said, “You brought that on yourself,” in a voice that was cold as the grave; a voice far, far colder than either Arthur or their father could ever have managed to produce, for all their efforts.

“I don’t understand what he sees in that boy, but surely, he must understand that the Prince of Camelot cannot be seen to have a catamite as a servant; people have seen Galahad court him. They would speculate, and Arthur will need a wife, one day,” Uther said, grimacing.

“I doubt very much that Arthur will be able to perform with a woman,” Morgana said, allowing herself a small smile when Uther looked taken aback by her directness. “And I doubt even more that he will be understanding of anything you say. You’ve made an enemy of him, Uther, and he will keep this grudge.”

“Then you must help him.” Uther said, stunning her again. “You have magic, you can… correct… that difficulty. Consider it part of your duties, if you must; Emrys is, after all, meant to protect the Once and Future King.”

Uther smirked at Morgana, expecting her to be even more surprised that he knew of the prophecies, and had worked it out that, naturally, it could only have referred to her, now that he knew of her magic; it made a sort of poetic sense, really, that both of his children would be united as rulers over all of Albion.

He did not expect a sharp peal of laughter.

“You think that I am Emrys?” Morgana gasped out, in between bouts of almost painful cackling. “Oh, Uther, you truly have no idea how badly you’ve handled this, do you?”

Uther stared at her, as dread built up in him, twisting his guts and sharpening the pain in his chest and arm.

* * *

Merlin stretched, and dressed himself, slowly; he had never thought that he’d be the sort of person to care a whit about what he wore, but, well… the feel of silk slipping across his skin had changed Merlin’s mind about that, though he still refused to give up his kerchiefs. He sighed as the shirt— deep blue, a gift from Galahad— fell over him, and reached for the dark leather trousers, and the feathered cloak— a gift from Galahad’s father.

Truthfully, Merlin wasn’t really being courted by Galahad anymore.

No, from the moment he’d stepped into the castle, Merlin had been courted by all of Corbinec, more or less.

King Pelles’s Court Sorcerer and, more importantly, his Sorcerer’s daughter— who was far more powerful, though less learned, than her father— had taken one look at Merlin and declared that he was fantastically powerful (though Merlin doubted they knew exactly how powerful), and that had been enough for the Court; in very short order, Merlin had received several welcoming gifts, dozens of invitations to dine, hunt, socialize, and study, and an offer to sit in on the King’s council meetings.

Merlin might have protested, because he certainly didn’t need all of this, only he was absolutely desperate for something to take his mind off of Camelot, and all the people he left behind.

All of them; no one person in particular.

And if he told himself that often enough, maybe he’d start to believe it.

 And really, it did distract him from thinking about Camelot, by way of making him feel like an absolute ass, if only because Galahad was being so incredibly sweet about it all, and kept telling Merlin that he understood how hard it must have been to leave his home and all of his friends, and how grateful he was that Merlin chose to come anyway, and how he would wait until Merlin was ready, and felt like he had a place in Corbinec, before pressing his suit further, as long as Merlin needed him to, and they didn’t have to go to bed again until he wanted to, either, and Merlin hadn’t the heart to tell him that absolutely none of this had been his choice.

Although, really, he probably should tell him, and tell him that it might be better if they had separate chambers, too, because it really wasn’t fair that he slept curled up next to Galahad, but couldn’t bring himself to allow things to progress any further than letting himself be held, but he couldn’t, because Galahad holding him was the only thing stopping him from crying himself to sleep every night, and if he didn’t have someone there to be strong for, he’d collapse entirely.

Merlin did realize that even someone as fundamentally good as Galahad could only stay patient for so long, and what’s more, he deserved to know what was really bothering Merlin, some three months later, and Merlin could only keep up the pretense that it was homesickness, and not heartbreak, for so long.

And speaking of things to be strong for….

“Merlin?” Galahad called softly. “Are you sure that you—”

“Yes, Galahad, it’s fine,” Merlin said, trying not to sound as irritated as he was. “Really, it is; I’ve been in actual battles before, I’m hardly going to be bothered by a war council.”

“I know, but… look, I know you’ve added to the wards, and reinforced our armor, and we’re all thankful for it, but that doesn’t mean that we expect you to fight,” Galahad said, plaintively, with worry in his eyes.

“You haven’t asked me to fight, nor has your father,” Merlin pointed out. “He’s only asked that I sit in, and suggested that he’d welcome any contributions I might have.”

“Still—”

“Let’s just go, Galahad; I promise, I won’t agree to anything I’m not entirely comfortable with.”

Eventually, Galahad nodded, and followed Merlin out. “Alright. I’m sure everyone will be glad to see you there.”

* * *

Corbinec did not hold its war councils in the council chambers; instead, King Pelles and his closest advisors (and Merlin) filed out into the garden, and sat on stone benches around a small, ornamental pond. There, the Court Sorcerer, Gar, and his daughter, Nynyve, paced several circles around the pond, and cast handfuls of powdered herbs into the water, until it roiled and bubbled and finally stilled, reflecting an image of Corbinec’s western border from above.

“Those are Cenred’s forces,” King Pelles said, grimly, for the benefit of those who had not already been informed of the threat. “He has long resented our wealth, and power, but he has never before sent men to scout so near the border.”

“We don’t know why they’ve come, Father,” Galahad said, hopefully. “It may not be war; perhaps his men are seeking something within his own Kingdom. And even if they do ride for Corbinec, perhaps there is something we can offer to maintain the peace.”

“It’s more likely that he’s heard about the new treaties with Camelot, and feels left out,” Merlin said, grim as Pelles had been. “It’s exactly the sort of selfish aggression I’d expect from Cenred.”

If it hadn’t been so quiet, they might not have heard Amergin mutter “You’d know all about selfishness.”

Merlin flinched, and hoped that he was the only one who’d heard, or that, at the very least, no one would respond to the insult, or question its cause; Amergin had been the one member of the Court who hadn’t welcomed Merlin. Instead, he’d taken to glaring at him ever since he first arrived in Corbinec, and Merlin couldn’t blame the man.

Amergin had been a druid, before he came to Court, and the druids had every reason to be angry with Merlin, now; they had probably felt what he’d done, as it happened, and Merlin understood what it meant to grapple with an anger born of mourning lost choices and what might have been, if someone else hadn’t decided what would be best for them.

That didn’t stop him from being angry right back, though, and it was only getting harder to keep his temper in check. If someone openly questioned the man’s disregard for him, and forced him to speak his accusations openly… well, Merlin would probably lose his grip on his temper entirely.

Quickly, trying to prevent any outbursts, Merlin said, “And those don’t look like scouts to me; the numbers are all wrong. You might see three or four for a scouting party, but a dozen men, and ten of them full knights? No, they’re expecting a fight, or at least prepared for one. Whether it’s a fight with Corbinec, or with something in Essetir, I can’t say for sure, but the timing is suspicious.”

Luckily, Sir Dian, one of Galahad’s knights, followed Merlin’s lead. “Is there any way for us to get a closer view, or to listen in on them?”

Gar frowned, and Nynyve shook her head. “Not that I know of,” she said, hesitantly. “Sound is difficult to transmit at the best of times, and over such distance…. I haven’t the power. Though, perhaps,” she trailed off, and looked to Merlin. “You have the strength of a Priest, at least, perhaps you could—”

Merlin knew what was coming, then, before Amergin even spoke.

“How dare you compare that— that blasphemer to a Priest! That defiler! He is an afront to the Old Religion—”

Merlin lost his grip.

“I am the Old Religion!” Merlin shouted, and the sky darkened as clouds rushed in, drawn by the force of his unleashed temper.

Amergin swallowed, and shrank back as the others whispered, frantically, but still, he persisted. “You have destroyed one of our most sacred relics, for your own gain, and—”

“And the world is better for its lack! There were too many who would have used it as Nimueh did, playing with a Balance that they did not understand, and unleashing consequences far beyond themselves! It is gone, Amergin, melted down and transformed, and not, as you believe, for my benefit! Accept it, and move on, or keep your anger, if you wish, but do not speak of it again, to anyone, or question my judgment in this!”

Nearly everyone was staring at him, now, confused and worried: Galahad, King Pelles, the councilors, the other mages… everyone but Amergin himself, who was staring down at his own feet, before, at last, he nodded, met Merlin’s glare again, briefly, and nodded again, whispering “Emrys,” to acknowledge his defeat.

Galahad’s eyes snapped back to Merlin, and Merlin’s anger flared again; his other name was one of the many things that he had not yet told Galahad, and he resented the druid for revealing yet another of his secrets, though Merlin considered that perhaps he should at least be grateful that the relic he’d destroyed had not been mentioned by name. Even Galahad might have reproached him, if it had been, for melting down the Cup… it had, after all, once been held in Corbinec’s own Keep, before the Purge, and was still a part of their sigil.

“There are more of them!” cried Sir Dian, the only one who was still paying attention to the scrying pool.

The troop they’d been spying on had converged with another, larger unit, and there was another still, coming over a hill. Before long, there was a full three-score of knights, and a few dozen squires, and at the front was a man Merlin had seen twice before, leading Cenred’s raids, and he knew him to be one of Cenred’s more vicious generals.

“That,” said Pelles, gravely, “can be nothing else but an act of war. They are likely an advance party, and Cenred may be holding more in reserve. This is a test of our defenses.”

“Camelot has not yet sent the forces they promised us,” Galahad said. “They are not due for another week, and though they have agreed to come to our aid, by the time they arrive….”

Corbinec’s council watched in horror as Cenred’s forces crossed the border, riding hard; Nynyve spoke a charm, and passed her hand over the water, and the view pulled back, rising. “I can’t get closer, but I can draw further back,” she said, and murmured more magic, until at last, she had drawn their viewpoint far enough above the attackers to see the narrow stream leading into a small village right in the path of Cenred’s men.

“They’ll be slaughtered,” whispered Galahad, in horror.

Merlin watched, equally horrified, and thought of the times that Cenred had sent his men charging through Ealdor, on the way to some of the more prosperous towns, or out into Camelot, and how they had almost always taken the time to snatch up some of the food from their already meagre stores, and bully what favors they could out of the people. He thought of Kanan, and innocent men and women being forced into battle they were ill-prepared for, men and women who would have died if it weren’t for his magic, and thought about how much worse off this village was, without Arthur to guide and guard them, or any forewarning whatsoever.

Then he thought: No! and all the rage and despair and pain he’d been holding back for months came rushing out, hot and thick and red as blood.

The sky darkened again, and the clouds that rushed in grew thick, and black, and spread out in a line, growing as they spread westward. Eventually, the image in the scrying pool darkened, too, as the clouds reached the army, and Merlin leaned in, and blew at the image in the still water.

The water did not shift, but the trees and banners in the vision did, and the dust of the road flung itself into the eyes of Cenred’s warriors in the sudden gale.

The horses reared, and there was probably a cacophony of whickering, snorting, and men screaming; many of the riders stayed seated, pulling at the reigns to stop their mounts, but several of them fell back, unhorsed in the sudden chaos.

Then Merlin clenched his fists, and the lightning fell in a sheet, without warning, without even a drop of rain to presage its coming, and then Merlin was thankful that the vision did not carry sound; Nynyve’s screams and Galahad’s quiet oaths were bad enough, he had no need to hear the soldier’s screams, too.

Still, he pressed on.

Men fell in droves under Merlin’s thunderous wrath, and then a bolt struck a tree, and he added fire to his arsenal, letting the wind sweep the flames down and out, carrying it through the air, a few feet above the ground, to wash over Cenred’s small army.

He felt a hand on his arm, and he was vaguely aware of Galahad saying, “Merlin, Merlin, I think that’s enough, really, please,” in a soft, cautious voice, but it wasn’t quite enough to snap him out of it, lost as he was in the twisting maelstrom of his power.

The clouds in the vision began to spin, echoing the funnel he’d called up to fight off Kanan, but larger.

Then Nynyve shrieked out an incantation, and threw a chunk of stone into the pond, breaking the image and her scrying spell, and Merlin felt the thread of his own spell break, too, as he lost sight of his targets, but not before he finally realized that there was only a bare handful of knights left.

A full three-score of knights, sixty soldiers, and their retinue, demolished, reduced to perhaps six, in a matter of minutes.

The sky brightened, rapidly, now that Merlin had lost his grip on the spell and the unnatural clouds, and it seemed wrong that there would be a beaming, cheerful sun above them, looking down on such dark deeds.

Merlin swallowed bile, realizing just how far he’d gone, and looked around; Nynyve and Gar were horrified, as well they should be, but Amergin was staring at him with reverence, all his previous anger forgotten in the face of Merlin’s power, and King Pelles and many of his councilors were watching him, measuringly, and seemed pleased, in the way that Uther had watched Arthur, occasionally, when he’d acquitted himself particularly well in a tourney.

And Galahad… Galahad was looking at him with a faint, nervous smile, as if to say, I do not condone what you have done, but I will not argue its need, nor will I question your judgement in doing it, though the Prince was terribly pale, and looked a bit sick.

“I— I have to— I’m going to— I just—” Merlin started, but, since he had absolutely no idea of what exactly he’d been planning to say, or even what could be said, after that, he stopped, bowed as quickly and shallowly as courtesy would allow, and fled.

 * * *

Merlin sat in his chambers, in the rooms he shared with Galahad, and stared at their bed, and thought of The Dragon, and its words: ‘without Arthur, you will never reach your full potential.’

Merlin had been sure, absolutely sure, that The Dragon had never lied to him. Oh, misled him certainly, with its riddles, but he was sure that it had not directly lied to him; but now he knew that, at least once, The Dragon had.

It wasn’t that Merlin would not reach his full potential without Arthur, oh no; it was that, without Arthur, he would be nothing but potential.

Unrestrained potential.

He’d crossed so many lines over the years he spent protecting Arthur; he’d fought, yes, and killed, certainly, but never before had he slaughtered, and if Arthur had been there, it would not have happened!

Galahad, upon seeing the full force of Merlin’s fury, had watched him respond to a threat with excessive force, then offered him a gentle touch and suggested that he’d done enough.

Arthur would have ordered him to stop the moment the enemy had started to retreat, and Merlin probably would have listened, but if he hadn’t, if he’d been lost in the magic the way he had been today, Arthur would have boxed his ears and told him off, loudly, until he came out of it and did as he was told.

That, Merlin realized, was why this arrangement could not continue; Galahad was a sweet man, a good man, and Galahad would care for him, certainly; and, if Merlin let him, he could probably make Merlin very happy, once he had been away from Camelot long enough for his memories to lose their shine.

Hell, given enough time, Merlin might even grow to love Galahad! He was, after all, the sort of man who was easy to love.

But, no matter how much time they spent together, or how hard the Prince might try, Galahad could not match him. He could never grind down the sharpest parts of Merlin’s nature, because he would never understand them, and how could he, when he was, for all his own skill at swordplay, a gentle creature at heart? It would break Galahad’s soft heart to be harsh with Merlin; he would never understand that Merlin needed a firm hand, at times, as much as he needed careful handling at others.

Merlin had avoided the study of scrying and foretelling; he had not dabbled in crystals, or scrying pools, or true visions in fire, but there were some futures that could be glimpsed without magic, and he saw one clearly now.

Without Arthur….

Without Arthur, Merlin would become exactly the sort of sorcerer Uther preached against. Oh, he wouldn’t be ruled by revenge and cruelty and a thirst for power, no, but he’d be ruthless in his protection of those he cared for, and, sooner or later, he’d stop measuring his responses against the level of threat that stood before him, and when he did, if he had no one there to pull him back out of the magic….

How long before, instead of leveling armies, he leveled kingdoms?

 He sat, staring, until the light streaming from the window changed, going dim and orange. Then he hissed at a sudden, sharp pain in his guts, and felt a horrible, sucking drain on his magic.

Arthur.

Merlin sighed, and stood, readying himself for the awful necessity of breaking Galahad’s heart, but there was nothing else for it.

He needed Arthur, and now, Arthur needed him.

He had to return to Camelot, and damn the consequences.

Chapter Text

“Leave it!” Arthur snarled, pushing away Gaius’s hands.

“Arthur, be reasonable!” Morgana said, just as Uther said, “You must let him treat you!” and Gaius said, “Sire, this is a serious wound! I must see to it,” all at the same time.

Arthur rested his hand on the buckle, and said, “Then do so, Gaius, but leave my belt alone. Cut the shirt off or tear it, if you have to, but leave me my belt and my sword.”

Gaius lifted his eyebrows reprovingly, but went for his shears, and, seeing his Physician’s surrender, Uther took up the argument. “Arthur, you are injured; don’t make it harder on Gaius than it needs to be, and let him— Dear God in Heaven!”

For a long while, nothing was said, and there were no sounds at all in the room, apart from the clang of Gaius’s shears falling to the ground and the sound Morgana and Gwen gasping and sobbing into each other’s shoulders, overcome by the sight of Arthur’s injury.

Arthur looked down, saw it, and said, in a stunned sort of way, “Ah.”

Uther stared at the wound, and felt a hot prickling behind his eyes; he had seen its like before, many times. He had even caused wounds like it, albeit only rarely, for even he thought them barbaric and dishonorable to inflict.

It was a belly-wound, and a bad one: the sort of blow you give only when you wish to be absolutely certain that a man will die of your strike, and equally sure that he will die badly; for the death caused by such an injury is slow and agonizing.

In this particular case, the sword had entered at an angle, cleaving through Arthur’s stomach and leaving an awful, gaping wound, red and inflamed; it seemed likely that the blade had missed his spine only by the width of a single fingernail.

Uther could see the intestines pulsing clearly through the jagged, gaping hole in Arthur’s flesh, which was wrong and unnatural; he ought to be seeing them spilling out of the wound; Arthur ought to be losing a great deal of blood, be bleeding out, even; he ought to be writhing and thrashing, mindless with the agony of it, because this was the sort of wound that made cowards out of even the strongest of men.

Instead, not a single drop of blood fell from the wound, and there was a fine, nearly invisible tapestry of formless immaterial threads that caught the blood and pushed it back in in an endless cycle, like a living fountain, and those same shimmering threads held Arthur’s guts securely in their proper place, and Arthur seemed more annoyed by it than anything else; if he felt any pain at all, he did not show it.

In short, it was the most hideous wound Uther had ever had the displeasure of seeing. It was also a blatant sign of utterly impossible magic that his son yet lived; it was probably the most powerful magic that Uther— or, indeed, anyone— had ever seen wrought, and while the King could not bring himself to be glad of the evidence of such a power, nor could he truly say that he was ungrateful for it.

“How is this possible, Gaius?” Uther asked, softly.

“Forgive me, sire,” Gaius said, thickly, “But I haven’t the faintest idea.”

Uther swallowed, and then looked at Morgana and said, “Can you do anything for him?”

Morgana looked at him with a hopeless, regretful expression, and said, “I wouldn’t know where to begin—”

“Can you try? Please?” begged the King.

Morgana looked to Gaius for guidance, or encouragement, and received instead a shrug; she had half a mind to yell at Uther, for making Arthur send away the one man she knew who might have been able to do something for her brother, and half a mind to yell at Gaius, too, for being so consistently useless when she needed him, but she did neither. Instead, she reached for Arthur’s wound, and let her power rise, slowly, carefully, and sent forth tiny creeping threads of it.

Then she yelped, and yanked back her sore, stung fingers after the buckle crackled and let loose a brilliant blue spark in warning.

“Hmm,” said Gaius. Then he took up a needle and thread, to do what he could do by science— which admittedly was next to nothing, given the wound in question— and when he brought it close to Arthur’s side, it hit an unseen wall and bent clean in half. “I’m afraid,” said the Physician, dryly, “that whatever magic this is will not allow for any interference.”

Then he looked hard at Arthur, and said, leadingly, “I know how you came by the scabbard, and from whom, but I haven’t heard anything about its construction, or its properties and limitations.”

“No one has,” Morgana said, sourly.

“And no one will,” said Arthur. Then he twisted away and stepped down from Gaius’s operating table, ignoring the various sounds of protests. “I will be more comfortable in my own chambers, if you can do nothing for me.”

No one wanted Arthur to leave, but they wanted even less to risk injuring him further in trying to stop him, so he went without any trouble, and Morgana and Gwen followed him out, determined to help make him comfortable, if they could do nothing else.

“This is my fault,” Uther confessed, once they were gone, speaking with a reedy, cracking voice.

“Sire, no one could have predicted the assassin, and you could not have done anything diff—” Gaius began.

“You don’t understand, Gaius; he hesitated.” Uther collapsed onto the bench. “He hesitated!”

“Sire?” Gaius asked.

“The assassin was lunging at me, and when Arthur saw him, he… he hesitated, before he went to parry him. I wasn’t sure if he was going to defend me or not, and I don’t think he was, either.” Uther shook his head, and slammed his fist down on the table, upsetting several jars and phials before he continued. “I know well my son’s skills; if he’d moved as quickly as I know he is capable of moving, he wouldn’t have taken that blow. He’s been dealt a mortal wound because, for a moment, at least, he didn’t think I was worth defending.”

“Sire, you mustn’t think that—”

“I don’t think anything, Gaius,” Uther said, firmly, looking back at him with empty, dead eyes. “I know.”

* * *

“Arthur! The scabbard!” Morgana cried.

Arthur looked down and saw a thin plume of smoke rising from the leather. He smiled and tilted it away from his body, nodding at it. “The second panel, on the back; is it filled?”

“It’s a castle,” Morgana said, craning her neck to look at it. “And a rider.”

“What does it mean?” Gwen asked, her eyes wide with worry.

Arthur settled himself more comfortably onto his bed. “It means he’s coming home.” He stretched a hand out to Morgana, who took it, immediately, and held it tightly. “Don’t let Uther stop him,” he said.

And then he closed his eyes, and fell into a sleep deeper than any he’d ever known.

* * *

Arthur had been struck down during a private audience; only Arthur, Morgana, Uther, and two servants— and one of them was Gwen, who would never speak of such a thing— had seen the fight with the assassin, and only Gaius had been told of it, after the fact, which really meant that there was only one servant in attendance who could possibly have told anyone about the Prince’s injury, and he had been thoroughly cautioned against gossiping about the fight, or its results.

Naturally, the rumors were spread throughout Camelot within an hour. Within two, there wasn’t a soul alive in the kingdom who hadn’t heard the story, and it was beginning to spread outwards, into the nearest three kingdoms along the border.

Two days later, the rumors reached Merlin, saddle-sore and coated in travel-dust, and he spurred his mare, muttering spells to speed their way, and he heard them, again and again as he tore through the kingdom, whenever and wherever he was forced to stop by the irresistible command of flesh demanding rest.

The Prince was injured— no, the Prince is dying, he took to bed after the first night, and has not risen since— the Physician has given up— the King is mourning— an assassin— an untrue knight— a sorcerer— several.

The rumors were conflicting, but they all agreed on one thing.

Arthur has fallen.

* * *

Merlin was surrounded as soon as his horse reached the courtyard, and he dismounted stiffly, clutching his aching stomach, and shoved the reins into the chest of the nearest knight.

“Where,” he said, low, “is the Prince?”

Sir Colgrevance stepped forward, and said, “You are to come before the King, immediately.”

“I don’t have time for that,” Merlin snapped, and turned in a slow circle, eyeing each of the knights in turn. Finally, he stopped in front of Sir Leon, and said, “Let me pass,” in a cold, dangerous voice that Leon would never have associated with Merlin.

There was the whisper of a sword being drawn, and Merlin’s shoulders rolled; he twisted his wrists, gently, and angled them out, spreading his hands, but kept his face impassive, readying himself, until Leon barked out “Stand down!” and the circle around him widened.

“Please, Merlin,” Leon said, entreatingly. “We’re under orders; don’t make us fight you.” Then, carefully, giving Merlin a pleading look, he said, “Arthur wouldn’t want us to fight you, or you us,” and Merlin sighed, and nodded.

“I will go with you,” Merlin said, then rounded on a pair of lesser knights who stepped forward to take his arms, and snarled. “I said with him, not with you,” and something in his face cautioned the men to retreat.

“Stand down,” Leon called again, more forcefully, before taking Merlin’s arm himself, but gently, the way he might take Morgana’s arm when he was acting as an honor guard, and not at all the way a knight would lead a prisoner.  

“Waste of bloody time,” Merlin muttered as they mounted the steps into the citadel. “But it’s lovely to see you again, Leon.”

Predictably, the whispers started as soon as they entered the castle; Merlin’s position as Arthur’s manservant, and as Gaius’s apprentice, meant that he was well-known in Camelot, and a few months away and a change in wardrobe was not enough to make him unrecognizable, though it was definitely enough to set tongues wagging. His silks and leathers were travel-stained, yes, but still obviously fine, and the rich black cloak with its feathered shoulders was the sort of thing that only royalty ought to possess, and the knight at his arm would only add to the mystery of his cloth.

Finally, they reached the throne room, and Leon pushed open the doors without announcing them; the King was arguing with Morgana, who was leaning over him, menacingly, very close, and Gaius was standing behind the throne and watching them both with a familiar put-upon expression, but they all fell silent as soon as they turned their heads as one to see who would dare to interrupt them.

Leon bowed, hastily, and pulled the doors shut, making his retreat.

Merlin strode forward with his shoulders back and his chin held high, his eyes fixed on Uther, and when he had come just a bit closer than protocol would allow— close enough that he was declaring himself to be equal to one of Uther’s own Lords in status— he said, bluntly, “You look terrible.” He waited a beat, then finished with a perfunctory “Your Majesty,” that forced an unladylike snort out of Morgana and drew a frown from Gaius.

It was true, though; this was not the King that Merlin remembered.

Merlin had always known Uther to be strong. He was a warrior, and had always been hale, if past his prime. Now, though….

In only a few short months, Uther had grown old; his skin had an unhealthy, greyish pallor, and the lines in his face were deeper. His mouth was pursed in a permanent scowl that spoke more of pain than anger, and his hair had more white in it than gray, now. The King shifted, and Morgana stepped aside, giving Merlin a fuller view; Merlin immediately caught sight of a cane, propped up against the throne, and that made him curious enough to Look at the man.

He narrowed his eyes, and Saw at once that Uther was in far worse health than he’d imagined.

“Your heart is failing, sire,” he said, without inflection, as though he were only commenting on the weather.

Uther started, blinked, and then slumped further into his chair. “It has troubled me since you left.”

Merlin narrowed his eyes again, this time in a glare. “I never—”

“I know,” Uther said, weakly. “I’ve myself to blame for it, I suppose. Angina pectoris, Gaius calls it; I suspect the poets would name it a broken heart. I do not expect it should mend, but my son— can he be mended?”

“He is not broken.”

“He is dying,” Uther snarled.

“Does he wear the scabbard?” Merlin asked, and then, without waiting for an answer, because he already knew it, said, “Then no, he is not; he cannot die, so long as he wears it, and stays true to his heart. He will not lose so much as a drop of blood with it on, nor can he be enchanted, or lose a limb, and I will take his pain from him as my own. He is as protected as I could make him. But if he is injured, badly, then he may be sent unto sleep, until I can heal him.”

They all stared at him, until, finally, Gaius said, horrified, “Merlin, what have you done?”

Merlin stared at Uther, and finally registered that they had been speaking of Merlin’s magic—without using the word, perhaps, but the meaning was clear enough— since he entered the throne room, and Uther had been neither surprised, nor enraged.

“You know,” Merlin said, softly.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’ve done to that thing,” Uther snapped, with a trace of his old strength that flickered into and out of existence in a bare instant, and left him looking older and weaker than before, from its lack.

“You know about me,” Merlin clarified.

Uther closed his eyes, and tilted his head down. He mumbled inaudibly, as if to himself, for a while, then said, without looking up, “I find that I no longer care. I do not wish to see it, but if you can save my son, and stop this from happening again….”

Finally, he looked up. “He won’t ever forgive me for forcing his hand, and forcing you to leave—” and finally, Merlin had his answer as to why Arthur had made him go, and the relief of it washed through him, and drowned his anger at Uther’s meddling before it had fully formed, because it meant that Arthur still wanted him, and had only been trying to protect him, and he could have wept for the joy of it— “but perhaps I can try to do right by him now, even if he… even if he won’t forgive.”

Merlin nodded, and said, simply, “His chambers?”

Uther nodded back.

“Clear the halls leading to his chambers, and leave strict instructions that no one is to interfere, no matter what they see or hear; set guards at the ends of the halls to ensure it,” Merlin commanded. “I will not be held responsible for what may happen if we are interrupted.”

Morgana sprinted to the door, opened it, and delivered the instructions to Leon, who was still waiting outside; Merlin glanced back just long enough to see a look of profound relief spread over the knight’s face before he turned, intent on seeing Merlin’s instructions done.

“Oh, and flag down a few servants to send up my saddlebags and fetch me a bath!” Merlin called after him, before Morgana shut the door and returned to stand beside him. Uther spluttered, and might have had something to say about the necessity of that, and about Merlin’s priorities, but Merlin simply raised an eyebrow and said, sharply, “Surely you can see the wisdom in the order; a sickroom is no place for several days’ worth of dirt,” and that fact simply could not be argued.

Merlin turned to leave, but Morgana caught his arm, and asked, “Merlin… what did you do to make that scabbard?”

“Well,” Merlin drawled, “If you wish to know that, you must ask Arthur; he made me swear never to speak of it, and if there is anyone alive who can keep a secret, it’s me, so it’s useless to try and get it out of me.”

Then he pulled away, and left before anyone could ask again.

The walls and the doors were thick, and some of Sigan’s old spells against eavesdropping— fixed into the stones when Camelot was first born— still lingered over the threshold of the throne room, and still Merlin could hear the sounds of Gaius’s and Morgana’s frustration through them.

And so, Merlin found himself chuckling as he made his way to Arthur’s chambers.

* * *

A while later, thoroughly scrubbed and dried, but not dressed, Merlin made his way to Arthur’s bed, and gazed down at Arthur with soft eyes. His hands lifted, almost of their own volition, and traced the line of Arthur’s jaw, in a way Merlin never had before, but had wished to, almost from the start.

“Always getting into trouble without me,” he murmured, “though you did last a lot longer than I thought you would, prat.”

Merlin reached down, and tugged away Arthur’s shirt, glad of the long cut through its center that made the work simple. Then he loosened the belt, enough to pull the trousers down below it without taking it off, which was not so simple as the shirt had been, and took several minutes of careful work.

Carefully— very carefully, mindful of his own weight, and Arthur’s injury— he draped himself over Arthur’s sleeping form, and kissed his Prince awake.

When Arthur finally opened his eyes and returned his kiss, Merlin was already shining brighter than he ever had with Galahad.

* * *

Arthur came back to himself slowly, in bits and pieces.

First, there was the awareness of his own breath— slow and deep— and his heartbeat. That, too, was slow; slower than it had ever been, slower than Arthur thought a heart could beat.

Then there was a tingling in his hands and feet that spread, harshly, up his limbs, before changing into a low, lingering heat.

Eventually, that, too, faded, and he became aware of something warm outside of his skin, pressed up against him, and of a pleasant, soft pressure against his lips, and a sweet, intoxicating taste.

He chased it, going after that sweetness with lips and tongue and teeth, and found that it was strengthening him beyond the efficacy of any tonic that ought to have existed. He drank down the vitality that was offered to him, until, at last, he found that he could move, and opened his eyes to find its source; when he saw that it was Merlin, he felt as though he’d already known, before he looked.

Merlin drew back long enough to whisper, gratefully and earnestly, “Arthur,” and long enough for Arthur to drink in the sight of him.

Merlin felt like the sun, and looked like the moon; his skin gleamed all over, with a rippling silver light like the reflection of the night sky in mostly still waters, and his hair ran with an indigo and violet sheen, and his eyes were blue and gold all at once, in equal measure, and the distance between him and Arthur, small though it was, could not be borne, so Arthur found the strength to reach up and draw him back down.

The first kiss had been deep and slow and giving; with this kiss, Merlin took; he plundered Arthur’s mouth, and there was a frantic wildness about him that spoke to Arthur without words: never again; I will leave you never, ever again, and you will never, ever leave me.

Arthur spoke back to him, with the same wordless tongue: Yours. Mine. Ours. Always.

When Merlin drew back again, Arthur growled, but Merlin put his hands flat against Arthur’s chest, and held him down until he stopped fighting it, and then he sat on Arthur’s thighs, and reached for Arthur’s belt, and unbuckled it. Arthur flinched, in spite of the bone-deep knowledge that Merlin would never hurt him, and he looked down and saw that the wound was very nearly closed, and pink, mostly, with the barest hint of red at its heart.

Merlin took off the belt, slowly, and dragged the tail end of it over the wound as the soft leather slipped away from his skin; the wound was covered by the belt, and then uncovered, and when it was, there was only a faint scar to show for it.

“The scar will fade before we’re done,” Merlin whispered, and leaned in.

This time, Arthur stopped him, and said into Merlin’s confusion, “Can you leave it, instead? I want it to stay, to see it; see the way you protect me.”

A sob tore itself from Merlin’s lips as he nodded, and then Arthur showed him just how much of his strength had returned, by flipping him over, pinning his wrists over his head with one hand, and sticking the first two fingers of the other into Merlin’s mouth as he dragged his own over Merlin’s throat and behind his ears, alternating at random between gentle kisses, slow, dragging licks, and sharp, sucking nips, and each one drew a gasp or a curse or a tiny, breathy whimper from Merlin’s mouth and made the light under his skin flare. Tiny, popping sparks crackled under Arthur’s hands and mouth, fizzing against his skin in a strange, unspeakably wonderful static.

“Merlin, good gods,” he told Merlin’s neck.

Arthur drew his fingers out of Merlin’s mouth, and reached down, probing; Merlin lifted his hips to meet him, and Arthur laughed when he found that his servant— no, his sorcerer— no, his warlock— no… his other half— was already slick, though not entirely open.

He slid them in, met some slight resistance, and pushed harder— he could feel Merlin under him the way he could feel himself, and knew what Merlin wanted, what he needed, and knew he couldn’t wait for easy, not this time— and said into Merlin’s collarbones, “Yesssss,” in a breathless hiss that Merlin echoed, not with a hiss but with a loud, ragged yell.

“Yes, Arthur!”

His fingers scissored, curled, and withdrew completely, then entered in, one after the other, alternatingly, one entering the moment the other left, until Merlin’s moans came so close together that Arthur could hardly tell the start of one from the end of the other, and he kissed Merlin’s lips again, sweetly, and said, staring into his eyes, “You are perfect.”

Merlin came, and his spend was molten where it touched Arthur’s skin, and Arthur kept both fingers buried deep, massaging relentlessly, until he finally stopped, and then he pulled them back, and asked, “Merlin, where is the oil you used?”

Merlin only laughed, and the gold in his eyes overtook the blue for an instant before it shrank back to give the two colors equal standing again, and Arthur stroked himself to spread the slick that had appeared over the crown of his cock, before seating himself in Merlin completely with a single long, slow thrust.

Merlin had still been laughing, and he nearly choked when it turned into a gasp midway through, and then he was clinging to Arthur’s shoulders and kicking his heels into Arthur’s arse like he was spurring a horse, and Arthur was laughing back at him as he moved, following Merlin’s lead and setting a desperate, frantic pace; Arthur might’ve thought he was giving Merlin too much, if Merlin’s nails hadn’t been digging into him, leaving welts that healed under the light of their cause an instant later.

They tore each other apart; they stitched each other back together.

Eventually, Merlin arched under him, in a desperate wave, ground his cock against Arthur’s stomach, and came again, and he was angled such that he came all over Arthur’s newest scar, and Arthur would never be able to say if he came in response to that realization, or because Merlin was bearing down on him, squeezing his cock with impossibly tight, astonishingly warm muscles.

When he was finally done, he didn’t roll off of Merlin; instead, he rolled them together, so that Merlin was on top and draped over him, as he had been in the beginning, and rocked his hips in slow, easy circles until he finally softened enough to slip out, guiding them both through the aftershocks until it was almost too much, and he held Merlin tightly for a long while after, daring him to try and climb off, supporting his weight with ease.

He felt stronger than he ever had; he felt as if he was whole for the first time in all his life.

Chapter Text

Merlin had run the gambit of human emotions; he’d known agony, and bliss, and every shade of feeling in between, but he was learning, now, that he’d never before known peace. There had always been something to worry about, some threat to remove or problem to solve, or the promise of a better future to fret over, and prophecies to fulfil; and so, a sense of tranquility had always eluded him.

But as Merlin woke in Arthur’s arms, to the feeling of Arthur trailing his fingers up and down his chest, something inside of him slotted into place, and he was, for the first time in his life, entirely at peace with the world.

“I love you,” Merlin whispered, and Arthur froze. “Sorry. I know it’s sudden, I mean, we only just—”

Arthur lowered his head to kiss Merlin. “I think I fell in love with you when you drank poison for me. I was so furious with you for putting yourself in danger, and so terrified I’d lose you no matter how hard I tried to bring you back; I think it had to be love. Nothing else could hurt like that.”

“It isn’t all painful, though, is it?” Merlin asked, reaching up to cup Arthur’s face in his hand.

“No,” Arthur said, turning his head to press a kiss into Merlin’s wrist. “I missed you,” he confessed.

“I missed you, too,” Merlin said. Then something complicated passed over his face, and he added, “Arthur, I didn’t just miss you, I realized that I need you; we— we're a pair, aren't we? Merlin and Arthur. I don’t think there’s anyone else in the world who can keep up with me.”

Arthur grinned, wickedly. “I know that wasn’t meant to be a challenge, but….” He wiggled his brows lecherously, and Merlin laughed and slapped at his chest.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Merlin retorted. “Though that’s true, too, I suppose. I just meant that I—” Merlin swallowed, and blinked back tears. “Arthur, I’m too powerful. I’m dangerous. I—”

“Stop that,” Arthur said, firmly, tugging Merlin’s hair until his head fell back, exposing his throat. Arthur bit at it, then dragged his lips over Merlin’s collarbones. They were sharp, like he knew they would be, but that was fine: Arthur liked sharp, dangerous things. “You’re a good man, Merlin; you’re dangerous, yes, and powerful, but so am I. So is Morgana. So are most of our friends, one way or another— yes, Merlin, I am admitting a Prince can have friends, you’re a terrible influence— It doesn’t matter that you have power. Only what you do with that power matters.”

“I slaughtered an entire army, by myself,” Merlin said, bluntly.

Arthur narrowed his eyes, consideringly. “Unprovoked?”

Merlin blinked at him. “Well, no, it was incredibly provoked, but I didn’t let up! I didn’t let them surrender, or retreat, and it wasn’t a fair fight at all! Galahad was terrified; I think everyone was, really, even if a few of them were pleased with the results.”

“Hmmph.” Arthur grunted. “I’m sure you had a damn good reason for doing it, but I’d have smacked some sense into you if you were under my orders.”

Arthur expected Merlin to roll his eyes or call him a prat; instead, Merlin’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears and the most profound look of relief Arthur had ever seen spread itself over his face. He blinked, slowly, until one of the tears fell. Arthur leaned in to kiss it away.

“I know. That’s the point,” Merlin said. “Thank you. That’s— that’s what I need, Arthur; when I go that deep into the magic, it’s like I’m a part of the earth itself. I’m… I’m bigger than a person, and I start to see things on the same scale as the earth. Individual people don’t matter to the earth, because people will rise and fall and then do it again, over and over, and the land has seen it happen a hundred times already and knows it’ll see it a hundred times again. I need someone to remind me that I’m still me, still a person who cares about people, and snap me out of it.”

Arthur cocked his head to one side and studied his lover for several long moments. Then he said, very seriously, “I don’t know, Merlin, you are pretty big,” as he let one of his hands slide under the sheets.

Merlin laughed delightedly, and then he did call Arthur a prat, but he knew that Arthur understood.

And then they were both blissfully distracted.

* * *

“How long must I wait to see my son?” Uther growled, glaring at Morgana and Gaius. “How long will this healing take?”

Morgana and Gaius exchanged worried glances, then Gaius stepped up and said, “My Lord, Arthur was very seriously injured. I do not know how long Merlin’s magic will take to heal it, but I do know that even at the height of my own power, before the Purge, I could not have saved Arthur on my own; even with Alice’s help, it would have taken us weeks to heal an injury like that, if it could be healed, and that certainly wouldn’t have been guaranteed—”

The doors opened. Arthur strode in, wearing an open hunting jacket and matching leather trousers; his belt and scabbard rode low on his hips, and he’d eschewed a shirt, displaying a well-healed pink scar that shone silver when it caught the light. Merlin followed, dressed in clothes even finer than the ones he’d worn to return to Camelot: a doublet of dark blue velvet with pearl buttons over a grey silk shirt, belted loosely with a simple braided silk cord, only a shade or two lighter in color than his doublet. But the finest— and most shocking— part of Merlin’s ensemble was the brooch, pinned over his heart.

Uther stared at Ygraine’s sigil, and squeezed the arm of his throne as the muscles in his jaw clenched rhythmically. “How—”

“I’m doing quite well, Father, thank you for asking,” Arthur said, smiling. His smiler grew colder, and he said, low, “That is what you were going to ask, wasn’t it?”

Uther opened his mouth to try again, to ask his son how he could dare to disgrace his mother’s memory by giving her sigil to that creature; then he saw his son’s hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, and the thin, crackling lines of lightning dancing over Merlin’s knuckles, and shut it again. “Of course,” said the King, pleasantly. “It is good to see you up and moving, my son.” He inclined his head to Merlin. “You have our thanks, of course.”

“Of course,” echoed Arthur, wryly. “You know, Father, it occurs to me that Merlin saved my life. Not only today, you understand, but countless times over the years that have as yet gone unrewarded; he received a position the first time he saved me. It seems only fitting he should receive a higher position, now.” Arthur reached for Merlin’s hand and lifted it to his lips, heedless of the static that still arced between Merlin’s fingers.

It did not burn him. If his smile was any indication, it did rather the opposite.

“Arthur, I understand that the two of you are… close… but surely you must understand the need for an heir, and an alliance—”

“Can you really think of any marriage that would provide Camelot with something better than an alliance with a man who made it nearly impossible to kill its heir apparent? To say nothing of his other powers.”

Arthur let that sink in.

“I really would prefer to give him the title of ‘Consort,’ Your Majesty, but if you think I’ll need an heir, we will accept Court Sorcerer and Favorite.” Arthur threw the words down like a gauntlet, and Uther raised an unsteady hand to massage his left bicep, breathing shallowly.

The King’s lips went pale as he pressed them together, tightly. He looked to Morgana, and to Gaius, and found that his daughter was frowning down at her hands in concentration, flexing them and trying to produce the same little flickers of lightning that Merlin was effortlessly maintaining; she managed a few stray sparks, but nothing like Merlin’s steady self-contained storm. In Gaius, he found an unusually communicative eyebrow, one that said quite plainly: you’re on your own, sire.

Uther deflated, and said, “Gaius, summon my manservant, and have him bring us parchments, quills and ink, and my seal.” He reached for his wine and drank, ignoring the stray droplets that fell onto his robes; his hands were shaking worse than ever this morning. “Arthur, I will never openly acknowledge magic in my Court.”

Arthur’s eyes blazed, but before he could protest, Uther coughed, and it was deep, and wet.

When he stopped, he laughed, lightly, until the laugh started him coughing again; when he finally recovered from that fit, he said, “But I am not well.”

Everyone present heard what Uther left unsaid: that he would never be well again, and that he did not have much time left.

“Perhaps it is time for you to take the Throne. Perhaps you are ready to be King.”

Arthur took a step back, and seemed to finally register how much his father had declined. The King and the Prince eyed each other, and Uther saw that this would not earn him true forgiveness, but perhaps it would at least be enough to let them put away their grudges.

“You have my blessing, Arthur. I will address the Court tomorrow, and send those Lords who would offer you the most resistance into retirement. I only ask that if you do intend to marry—" Uther grimaced, swallowing down his distaste— “Merlin, that you wait until after I am gone.”

* * *

Arthur announced his intention to repeal the ban on magic to the Council in a private session, shortly after his Father had retired; he had glared fiercely at the remaining Lords, and tried to impress upon them that he would brook no resistance, because he badly wanted to change the law immediately after his Coronation, and that meant he needed the Council to agree.

He’d expected arguments, shouting, and accusations of enchantment or corruption.

Instead, it turned out that his glares were entirely unnecessary, because the Council was split down the middle between grudging acceptance and outright agreement, and it baffled him. If Merlin’s frown was any indication, he was just as confused as Arthur.

When the Council had shuffled out of the room after being told that a draft of the new laws would be required for the next session, Merlin said, “I thought they’d fight you,” and Leon, who had lingered— who, in all honesty, had hardly left their sides since Arthur first left his chambers— laughed.

“They were all expecting it,” Leon explained. “They’re either pleased or resigned to it, but they all knew it was coming.”

“How—” Arthur began.

“Sire,” Leon said, in a tone that was nearly reproaching. “Every man, woman, and child in the kingdom knew you’d been injured, badly, and most of them thought you were dying. Only two days ago they were buying candles to hold a vigil, and then, before they could gather in the square, Merlin comes tearing into Camelot on an expensive looking horse, dressed like a Prince in his own right after spending months in a kingdom known to be a haven for magic, and was ushered in to see your Father before spending the night in your chambers. Then you walk out the very next morning in perfect health, showing off a new scar that looks like it’s been healing for the better part of a year, instead of a little less than a week; what other explanation is there but magic?”

“Oh,” said Arthur.

Leon nodded, smirking slightly. “Yes, oh; your people are expecting the repeal, and most of them are quite pleased. Truth be told, I think the majority of Camelot were ready to stage a revolt if Uther had decided to pretend magic hadn’t saved his only son once they knew it was Merlin who wielded it. And with the people backing you… the Lords might be stubborn, but they can see which way the wind is blowing.”

Merlin grinned, and tapped the sigil pinned to his chest. “D’you think we at least surprised them with this?”

Leon laughed again. “Not if they’ve been around the two of you for more than five minutes.”

One of the guards, whose presence had been entirely forgotten up to that point, spoke up. “Begging your pardons, My Lords, but he’s right. Most of us in the castle have thought you’d wind up together since he drank that poison meant for you, sire, an’ you rushed out for the remedy against the King’s orders.”

Arthur gaped at him, astonished that a Royal Guard would break protocol so thoroughly, and be so right, as Merlin laughed delightedly and poked Arthur’s ribs, whispering, “Clever man,” as he did. Leon covered his face with his hands, which did absolutely nothing to hide his own laughter.

The guard shrugged. “May as well say it; I’m retiring, see? Soon as I collect my winnings. You lot ‘ave made me a very rich man.”

“Winnings?” Arthur said, aghast.

“Oh, aye; I bet he wouldn’t last a year in Corbinec, and that you’d propose either the night he came back, or the mornin’ after,” he said, grinning down at Ygraine’s sigil. “The other guards were stupid enough to think you’d court him publicly, first.”

The other guard broke protocol, too, at that, by way of grumbling something about sore winners under his breath, complete with a few adjectives that should never have been said in front of nobility, much less royalty.

“Right,” Arthur muttered, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “Well, Sir Leon, if you’re still determined to escort us, we need to get Merlin to the tailors.”

Merlin frowned at him. “What’s wrong my clothes, Arthur?”

“They aren’t in my colors.” Then Arthur smiled at him, in exactly the same way he used to when there was mace training involved. “Besides, if you think I’m going to let you keep anything you got from him—”

“I’m keeping the cloak,” Merlin said, firmly. “The one with the feathers.”

“Fine,” said Arthur, pleasantly, and Merlin narrowed his eyes and realized that he probably could have negotiated a few more of his favorites, but decided not to push it. Halfway down the hall, Arthur muttered, “I can’t believe people were betting on us.”

Leon snorted. “Oh, please, betting on you and Merlin is Camelot’s greatest vice. Everyone does it; it’s the source of at least half of Morgana’s jewelry fund.”

“Leon,” Merlin said, slowly, over Arthur’s aggrieved spluttering. “You don’t bet against her, do you?”

“Sometimes,” Leon shrugged. “Why?”

Arthur grinned at the chance to get back at the knight. “Leon, you’re one of the few who have been trusted with the fact that Morgana has magic; have you really never made the connection between she can see the future and she almost always wins when she gambles?”

Leon missed turning the corner, and ran into the wall.

* * *

They waited three weeks before holding Arthur’s Coronation; ostensibly, it was a show of respect for his Father, who was ill, not dead, and therefore, there was no real urgency in shifting the Crown.

In reality, it was entirely Merlin’s fault.

He’d taken one look at the proposed law to repeal the ban, and declared it to be woefully inadequate, and then went on a long tirade about treating magic with respect. Making it legal wasn’t enough; they had to regulate it, for everyone’s safety.

“If people begin to practice magic for the first time, who will teach them? How will they learn? When there are accidents, which will be inevitable, how will we hold the people accountable for the results of their actions while also ensuring that we are not treating them too harshly for honest mistakes? How will we punish magical crime? Will it differ from non-magical crime? How shall we address crimes against magic?” Merlin had demanded, with growing passion. “And what aspects of magic shall remain illegal, or, at the very least, restricted? There are practices that are not meant to be used outside of the Priesthood, and others that are forbidden to all except the High Priests and Priestesses, and only used with extreme caution even then. If we are to bring magic back, we must do it safely, and judiciously.”

Ironically, the fact that Merlin, of all people, was the first to speak out against the first draft of the new law was the very thing that endeared him to the Council. Up until that point, they’d only known him as Merlin the Servant. Now, they saw his wisdom, and his passion for defending Arthur and Camelot, and realized that he cared about all of their citizens, and not only about bringing magic back.

They also saw that he was fully prepared to be brutal in his defense of their kingdom; Arthur had to speak out and soften some of the punishments Merlin proposed for the misuse of magic, but between the two of them and their advisors, they came up with a law that was as complete as they could make it.

It might have grated on Arthur that much of the inspiration for the new legislature came from Corbinec’s laws, if it weren’t for the fact that Merlin kept giving him stupidly grateful looks after each and every argument against his own protective instincts wound down, and the fact that Merlin had categorically refused to accept his own chambers.

“If we’re ever apart for more than a single night,” Merlin had said, “it will be entirely against my own will.”

So Arthur accepted the delay with grace, and when he finally stood on the balcony and announced the new law to his kingdom shortly after being crowned, Merlin was at his side, dressed in gold and ruby silks, still wearing Ygraine’s sigil proudly.

And when his people cheered louder for the appointment of his new Court Sorcerer than they had for him, he found that he didn’t mind it at all.

* * *

Arthur stood on the battlements and squinted at the air over the walls. As it turned out, he had absolutely no talent for magic— though he had tried to learn a few basic shield charms at Merlin’s insistence— but he did have a talent for seeing Merlin’s magic, if he tried.

He could see it now: a slight rippling haze, like a heat shimmer, was spreading itself over Camelot’s main gates, stretching itself from one watchtower to the next.

Merlin had promised him wards, but it had taken months of long days and hard work to raise the spell over the gates. He didn’t really understand the theory of it, but Merlin had explained that he couldn’t just create new wards; apparently, there were still traces of magic in the stones that had been used to build Camelot, and he had to learn to coax that magic out, and convince it to obey him, and Arthur, before he could add to the protections.

Arthur smiled at the sight of it, of Merlin’s devotion to protecting their Kingdom, until his eyes started to burn with the effort and he had to blink away the Second Sight. He stood and waited until he heard footsteps from the tower, and Merlin came into view, descending from the vantage point he’d needed to perform the enchantment.

“How long have you been up here?” Merlin asked, coming to stand at Arthur’s side.

“Since you started the spell,” Arthur admitted, taking Merlin’s hand and threading their fingers together.

“You really are a hopeless romantic,” Merlin teased, leaning in to Arthur until he was forced to let go of Merlin’s hand in favor of wrapping an arm around Merlin’s shoulders.

“You should have brought a cloak,” Arthur chided, feeling Merlin shivering under him. “It’s cold tonight.”

“Didn’t think it’d take this long,” Merlin said. After a moment, he said, “Arthur?”

“Yes, love?”

“I saw a contingent leaving the citadel today, and I could have sworn they bore Corbinec’s standard.”

It was and was not a question, and Arthur took a moment to consider his answer. “Galahad delivered a new treaty personally; he’d heard of your new position as Court Sorcerer, though apparently he hadn’t heard the rumors about us.”

Merlin snorted at the word rumors, because they’d done everything short of an actual wedding to make it clear that they belonged to one another; ‘rumors’ was too simple a word.

“I know,” Arthur agreed. “But he took the fact that you were with me to mean that I was the King in the prophecy; apparently some druid or other told him your other name.”

Merlin winced, remembering how that had come to light. “How did he take it?”

“King Pelles has sent word that Corbinec will consider itself to be Camelot’s vassal again: the first to go willingly under the banner of the High King.” Arthur paused, and debated telling Merlin the rest, before he realized that he had to, because Merlin would find out, eventually, and he’d be upset either way, but he’d be even more disappointed if Arthur kept it from him….

“Prince Galahad asked if he could serve as both ambassador and knight in my court, now that Corbinec is part of Camelot once more, and asked again for permission to court you; he said he understood that your new position changed things, and promised he would do whatever he had to in order to prove that he would stay loyal to Camelot, and to prove that he was worthy of you.”

“Poor man,” Merlin said, softly. Then his voice hardened, and he asked, “I suppose it would be asking too much to hope that you let him down gently?”

“Actually, I accepted his offer to serve in my court, on the condition that he did prove himself; if he manages to succeed in his quest, I’ll even let him court you, assuming he can pull it off before Father dies and we make our relationship binding.”

Merlin glared. “You shouldn’t have given him false hope, Arthur; what impossible quest did you set him on?”

Arthur grinned, unrepentantly. “If he can deliver the Cup of Life into my hands, I’ll let him ask for your hand.”

“Arthur!” Merlin cried. “That’s literally impossible; you’re wearing what’s left of the Cup! You know full-well I melted it down to make the fittings for your belt! That’s— that’s cruel!”

“Exactly,” Arthur said, bending down to pull Merlin in for a kiss; Merlin made a show of resistance, pushing against his chest for a moment or two, before he rolled his eyes and melted into Arthur’s touch. “He deserves it, for thinking he can take you from me again. Hell, maybe if we’re lucky, he’ll find someone else on his travels, and let you go.”

“A former Prince styling himself as the Grail Knight setting out to find the holiest relic of the Old Religion and finding true love instead?” Merlin said, raising an eyebrow. “Really, what are the odds of that?”

* * *

Beneath the castle, the Dragon woke, sensing a new thread of destiny.