Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time it happened, Merlin hadn’t thought anything of it.

Well.

Not really.

He had thought about it, obviously, but in the ordinary sort of way, which ran something along the lines of 'Arthur draws trouble the way his white tunic draws dirt,' or maybe 'this clotpole would wind up worse than dead if it weren’t for me, and then what would the kingdom do,' and then he’d consigned it to the same place in his mind that stored every other oddity he’d encountered in Camelot, and then he’d imagined that soon enough that place would become so very large that he’d run out of room for any other thoughts.

Anyways, yes, he had thought it was strange, but not unbearably so, given that they had been hunting quite close to the edge of the Darkling Woods, and that was the sort of place Merlin would expect this sort of thing to go off.

What had happened was this: Merlin had just managed to scare off a pretty magnificent stag, and what’s more, he’d done it with a really surreptitious bit of magic that caused a noise behind the beast, which wasn’t the sort of thing Arthur could have blamed him for— though the Prince had still glared at Merlin, because he’d assumed, and rightly so, that Merlin was pleased about him losing out on the trophy. Arthur, when he was done sulking, had called for a spot of rest, and lunch, and told the hunting party that they’d circle back away from the border of the Woods and towards Camelot’s Forest proper, because even Arthur didn’t fancy taking his chances with any game he’d find inside the Woods; whatever they found there was just as likely to turn into something truly nasty when shot at as not, after all, so there really wasn’t any point at all in hunting past that bit of tree line.

Merlin had managed to roll a few logs closer to the center of the clearing so they could all sit for a moment, finished passing out the trail bread and salted pork, and was just about to sit down on his own log— and he was really looking forward to it, because the one he’d kept for himself might have been the smallest, but it was also the driest, and that was the sort of subtle one-upping he only rarely got past Arthur, but he had, and he was feeling really satisfied by it— when a twig had snapped, and Merlin had looked up at what was, without a doubt, the strangest person he’d ever seen.

She had hair like a bird’s nest in at least six different shades of grey, skin as pale as Morgana’s apart from a reddish patch just over her chin that wasn’t a wart, but seemed like it ought to have been, somehow, and stood and walked in a way that heavily suggested that one of her legs was shorter than the other, though you couldn’t exactly tell for sure, because it seemed as though she was wearing the equivalent of an average peasant family’s entire wardrobe, or maybe even an entire village’s wardrobe, all at once.

She squinted at them for a moment— Merlin became aware that one of the eyes was a bit larger than the other, too, so maybe it was all of her that was lopsided— and then she said, in a very lovely high voice and courtly tones, like a trained minstrel, “Have you a morsel to spare for a fair maiden traveling on her own, then?” and Merlin went cold all over, and he felt like he’d suddenly become a seer several orders of magnitude higher even than Morgana, because he knew exactly what would happen next.

It would go something like this: Arthur, who was not nearly so arrogant as he once was, but who could be relied upon to show a trace of his old ill humor at the absolute worst of times, would snicker; Gwaine, who could be relied upon to show more than a trace of his ill humor, no “old” or “new” about it, would crack a joke about the woman’s loveliness or lack thereof, possibly something in the order of 'my lady, your beauty is such that it’s left me reeling, I’ve hardly any balance left,' with a significant sort of emphasis on the word balance; Percival would probably just cough and maybe offer her a corner of his bread out of politeness and misplaced guilt— guilt from what, exactly, Merlin would never know, but it’d be there, plain as day— and Leon— and this was absolutely the most frightening and horrible bit— Leon would be practical about it, and realize that 'hey, there’s a barmy strange woman who’s got no business being alone in a forest, particularly here, next to an incredibly dangerous cursed Wood, maybe she’s a bit magic,' because he didn’t just think he was clever, the way Arthur did, he actually was clever, and it made him reliably suspicious.

And then she’d take offense to one or all of those little slights, and there’d be something like a whizz, which would probably be followed by a bang, or maybe a boom; there’d definitely be smoke, and lights, and then, when all was said and done, there’d be the sort of raging unpleasantness that would leave Merlin sore and aching and tired for days or even weeks once he’d finally managed to clear it all up and put them all to rights, and Merlin was absolutely not in the mood for any of that, thank you very much, so he did the only thing he could think of under the circumstances, by way of standing up very quickly and talking very fast and very loud.

“Oh, naturally, naturally! Delighted for the company, you know, simply delighted,” he said rapidly, aiming for excitement and probably landing somewhere closer to panicked, but he could only manage so much under pressure. He strode to her side, politely offered her his arm, and guided her to his own— dry, drat it! — log, and sat her down gently, offering her his own share of bread, saying, “It gets ever so dull with these lot, hardly anything interesting about any of them, even shared between them, and I can see at once you’ve got the sort of wit that wise men would pay to hear! Oh, here, it’s a bit dry, have some wine to go with your bread,” and passed her the skin. “And I’ll offer a bit of salt, here, that’s the thing!” He scattered a quick pinch on the edge of the bread, right near the crust, so she could eat nearly all of the loaf without tasting the salt, if she chose, because he wasn’t really sure which sort she was, them as likes salt, or them as burns at its touch.

The knights were all looking at him like he’d gone completely off his rocker, but suddenly the woman gave a silvery, tinkling laugh that made the sunlight in the clearing splinter off like it’d gone through a prism, casting colors all about them, and stood abruptly, letting the bread fall to the ground. She raised the wineskin and took a great unladylike swig, and when the woman lowered it again, she was suddenly taller, fairer, and absolutely without flaw. She was so pale she actually glowed, her features were perfectly symmetrical, like a Roman sculpture come to life, her hair was piled up in an extremely noble manner, with jeweled hairpins and suchlike, and her overdress was fine velvet with what looked like silk underneath.

Merlin hastily threw back his hands, motioning down and stay at the rest of the hunting party in a desperate sort of way without actually looking back at the knights, or Arthur, because he definitely wasn’t going to take his eyes off the likes of her, and hoped they’d take the hint and leave their weapons put away where they wouldn’t do any harm; luckily, they were in such a state of shock that they did stay put, though probably it wasn’t at all due to his efforts.

“You, my dear, are more than just polite; you’re clever, too! I didn’t fool you an instant,” said the Lady, and her voice echoed oddly, like she was speaking her words three times over, in harmony with herself, all in the same breath. “And you gave me wine, along with bread and hospitality, so I should think you’ll do well with two presents, for kindness and cunning both.”

She held out her hand for Merlin to kiss, and he did, in an unthinking, automatic sort of way, then she pressed her forefinger to his head, just between his brows. “For cleverness, may you always see and find the truth as clearly as you did with me, in all things, even yourself,” and a delightfully cool sensation passed all through Merlin’s body.

“And for kindness, I’ll tell one and all here today that should you circle back now, you’ll run into a boar and her young, and you’d do better by far to move west first, and then south when the sun begins to set, because then you’ll find a den of rabbits, and they will be all the sweeter for you, since they will come without your blood and tears to season them, as the boar-meat would.”

Then there came a whizz and a bang and a great deal of choking smoke as she vanished, because naturally, Merlin couldn’t win for losing, and that was the plain truth.

When the smoke finally cleared, Merlin almost wished it hadn’t, because there were several sets of crossed arms and glowers facing him.

“Err,” he said. “That went well, I thought. Could have been worse, definitely.”

And then he had to field several rather awkward questions that mostly made out to be “Did you really know, before she changed? And if you did, how?” and he didn’t really have an answer other than “Well why the bloody hell else would there be the strangest woman any of us had ever come across right near a haunted wood if it weren’t magic,” which went absolutely nowhere towards cooling Arthur’s temper, since it heavily implied that it was obvious and Arthur should have figured it out when Merlin did.

Luckily, though, just then Gwaine took that as a cue and said, “Oh, that’s nowhere near the strangest woman I’ve ever come across,” and launched into an elaborate and filthy tale involving a case of mistaken identity, a ball, several mice, a walnut that held an improbably large load of laundry inside it, and several root vegetables and gourds, not to mention some really questionable nighttime stream-side activities, and everyone sort of put it behind them in favor of alternately glaring at Gwaine and looking at each other in baffled amazement as they tried to work out just how some of said activities could actually occur without permanently straining the sort of muscles that were best not mentioned in front of Royalty of any sort, for all that Arthur liked to pretend himself as being “amongst his men” while hunting.

* * *

“Gaius,” Merlin started to ask, a bit hesitantly, when he finally reached the tower, late that evening. “What all do you know about faeries?”

Gaius dropped a half-finished potion, turned several fascinating shades of red and pink before moving on to near-purple, and yelled at Merlin for being irreparably foolish for quite a long while before Merlin was able to get a word in edgewise and was allowed to tell him anything more about the afternoon.

Eventually, though, after he’d calmed down and Merlin told him that “Of course I’m not going to try to find any,” and “No, no, not the sidhe, a different sort,” and finally managed to explain what had actually happened that afternoon, Gaius congratulated Merlin’s quick thinking— though he didn’t apologize for jumping to conclusions and yelling at Merlin before hearing the full story— and pressed a thin, old book into Merlin’s hands, saying, quite firmly, “But I’ll have no more talk of them by name, you hear me?”

Then Gaius went off into the shelves at the corner of the infirmary that Merlin strongly suspected carried bottles of things that were no more medicinal than your average jug of brandy, mumbling all the while about years off my life and be losing what’s left of my hair soon, I suspect, and Merlin decided a retreat was in order, so he fled to his bedroom before Gaius could work up to another, louder, lecture.

* * *

If that had been the end of it, Merlin might have gone on not thinking much of the strange woman from the Darkling Woods.

Unfortunately, it was not the end of it.

Chapter Text

“Gaius,” Merlin said as he came down the stairs. “I think there’s something wrong with my teeth.”

“You know where the clove oil is,” Gaius said, absently from bookshelf on the second level balcony.

“Not a toothache,” Merlin corrected. “They’re sort of… tingling? And I might have chipped one, somehow, though I’ve no idea how; it seems sharper.”

Gaius turned at that and favored Merlin with a particularly impressive glower. “You haven’t gotten into another fight without letting me look you over, have you? Because if you have….”

Merlin barely kept himself from rolling his eyes; really, he didn’t do that nearly as often as Gaius’s griping would suggest, especially after Gaius had recruited Lancelot into reporting any suspected injuries or mysterious disappearances for Merlin’s Own Good, as they called it, or To Make Merlin’s Life More Difficult, as he called it.

“No, Gaius, nothing like that. I don’t even remember tripping over anything, and I am asking you to look over me. So, there.”

Gaius narrowed his eyes, then sighed, and said, “I will this evening, but I’m afraid Arthur intends on another hunt, since yesterday’s excursion was so… unsuccessful.”

“Unsuccessful? I stopped the prat and a good portion of his best knights from getting turned into something unpleasant without having to use magic to do it, I’d count it extremely successful,” Merlin said.

“I don’t disagree,” Gaius said, though he did raise his eyebrow a bit further. “But that isn’t the sort of success that fills the castle’s larder. Besides, the Prince-Regent has asked that I prepare a report on the Fair Folk for the knights and council, I’ve a good deal of research to do. Did you finish that book?”

“Great,” Merlin grumbled. “Just what we needed, another reason for Arthur to go hunting after magic, and another threat for me to worry about. And no, truthfully, I didn’t start it; I haven’t been sleeping well for the past few weeks, and I was finally too exhausted to dream, so that took precedence.” Then he frowned, because really, he should have just said he was still working through the damned book, and left it at that. He must have been more tired than he’d thought.  

Gaius’s brow furrowed with concern. “Dreams? Are you having nightmares again, Merlin? I haven’t heard anything.”

And he wouldn’t, because Merlin had had quite enough of Gaius’s sleeping draughts, and spelled his room to lock in sounds so he could avoid them.

“Err, well,” Merlin said. “If Arthur wants a hunt, I’d better get moving.” Then he rushed out, grabbing an apple on his way, and hoped that Gaius would forget about his slip of the tongue by the time he returned home.

* * *

“Dammit, Merlin!” Arthur swore, “I swear, it’s like you’re trying to scare away our prey!”

“Sometimes I do,” Merlin shrugged, “but not that time.”

Arthur glared at Merlin, and aimed a single, threatening finger very close to his face; Merlin had to fight the urge to bite it, and might have lost the battle with himself, if Arthur hadn’t been wearing gloves. As it stood, he settled on giving it his best unimpressed look. Arthur said, low, “If you mess up this hunt for us, Merlin….”

Then he turned on his heels and stalked off through the brush, managing to make far more noise than Merlin had when he’d tripped, though no one complained about him scaring off the game.

Merlin and Gwaine looked at each other, and snickered.

Then Merlin rushed off after Arthur— without so much as cracking a twig, and no one saw his eyes flash gold, which meant it didn’t count as cheating, because it never does when you aren’t caught— and kept up the pace until he thudded into Arthur’s outstretched arm.

“Quiet,” hissed the Prince. “Don’t ruin this for me, Merlin,” he whispered, managing to sound stern and disapproving even at a very slight volume, and raised his crossbow.

Merlin looked up and spotted his master’s quarry, and thought, Not again, because for the second time in as many days, there was what Merlin could only call Imminent Unpleasantness.

Because there was a graceful white hart, of slender, elegant proportions standing in the center of a glade that was far brighter, and far greener, than it really ought to have been here in the thick of Autumn, and while Arthur was looking at it and thinking of a wonderful trophy and a good meal, Merlin was looking at it and seeing that its antlers gleamed as though they’d been gilded, with silvered tips, and that the fur just around the base of the antlers was strangely coppery— the only part of its fur that didn’t shine as ivory.

Arthur’s finger tightened on the trigger, and Merlin thought, Oh hell, and threw himself bodily at the Prince.

The bolt flew, and soared through the exact center of the gap between the antlers before thudding into a tree. Arthur snarled, and shoved at Merlin, getting him half-off of him, before Merlin decided to fight back, just a little, and had them rolling over twice. The hart tensed, looking as though it might run off at any second, and Merlin had a moment of relief at the narrowly avoided tragedy before Gwaine’s crossbow twanged and struck the hart a glancing blow across its flank.

The hart raised its head, let out a bellowing cry, and bounded away.

“Better luck next time, Princess,” Gwaine said, winking; then he charged after the hart, intent on finishing the job honorably.

Merlin tried to stand, but his legs were all tangled up with Arthur’s, so all he could do was shout after him. “Gwaine, don’t!” Merlin yelled, desperately. When Gwaine didn’t respond, and moved out of Merlin’s sight, he sighed deeply, then added, out loud this time, “Oh, hell.”

“What has gotten into you, Merlin?” Arthur yelled. “Really, what’s your excuse this time, because you definitely didn’t trip, there!”

Lancelot drew up next to them, and offered his hands; Merlin took them, gratefully, and finally pulled himself away from the Prince. He thought about going after Gwaine then and there, thought better of it, and reached down to snatch Arthur’s belt-knife right out of its sheath, then stormed over to the tree to dig out the bolt.

“What, nothing to say?” Arthur said, with rising volume. “Not even an attempt at an excuse this time? Oh-ho, I wouldn’t want to be you, today, because we get back to Camelot, I swear I’ll—”

But Merlin turned, and lifted the bolt, turning it to catch the light, and Arthur stopped his tirade and stared, because the tip of the bolt shone gold, the fletching silver, and the shaft bronze, which was decidedly unlike the plain wood-and-steel bolt that he’d loaded into his crossbow.

Merlin walked forward on silent, oddly graceful feet, and said, scathingly, “Would you have preferred it, My Lord, if I had allowed you to unleash another curse upon yourself, and your kingdom thereby?” He arched a brow, defiantly, then tossed the bolt to Arthur, who dropped his crossbow and scrambled to catch it, and marveled at how light it felt, when it seemed as though it ought to have become heavier. “Keep that; I suspect it’ll be useful later.” Then he turned and started to walk away.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Arthur asked, trying to sound irritated instead of dumfounded, and utterly failing.

“To find Gwaine,” Merlin called back, without bothering to turn or to slow down. “Hopefully before he manages to make things worse for himself.”

* * *

Merlin drew up next to a wide tree and moved to go round it when he caught sight of a familiar red cloak laid out over the ground to his left. He moved towards it, speeding up once he saw that the cloak was thrashing wildly on the ground, for fear that Gwaine was hurt.

He reached it, and lifted it, revealing the white hunting dog that was tangled up in Gwaine’s armor just as Arthur and the rest of the hunting party caught up to him. Then he said, again, with a much greater fervor, “Oh, hell!” which really summed up the entire afternoon, as far as Merlin was concerned.

Arthur looked down and, once he realized what had happened to his knight, swore a lot more viciously than Merlin had, using the sort of language that a Prince really shouldn’t admit to knowing, let alone use in front of witnesses.   

Then Merlin turned his head round and glared over his shoulder at Arthur, in a way that told the Prince, quite plainly, that he would be reminded of this exact moment for years to come, loudly and often.

* * *

The council chambers were unusually solemn; Percival, in particular, looked distraught as he stared at Merlin, seated in Gwaine’s usual chair, and at Gwaine, perched on Merlin’s lap and looking as forlorn and regretful as a hound could possibly appear.

Merlin, in an attempt to break the tension, leaned down level with the dog’s ear, and stage whispered, “You always did say I should have a seat at this Table, but really Gwaine, I’d rather it be under better circumstances.”

Arthur glared at him, but Gwaine grinned, toothily, and let out a delighted yip.

“What?” Merlin said to Arthur. “It’s exactly what he would have said.”

“He’s got a point,” Percival said, and his voice was still quite glum, but his face wasn’t quite so dolorous as it had been before, so Merlin counted it a success.

Arthur cleared his throat, refusing to acknowledge them, and called the meeting to order instead. “Gaius, have you found anything at all about this transformation, or about that?” Arthur asked, gesturing first to Gwaine, and then to the gleaming bolt set before him on the Round Table.  

Gaius sighed, heavily, then slowly pulled himself to his feet and clasped his hands before him, which was a clear sign that he did not have any good news to share.

“Sire, there are many tales of the White Hart, and an Endless Hunt to try to claim it, without success, and stories of—” he eyed Gwaine, sighed, and continued, “—a white bratchet that followed in its wake, but I have found no records of transformative magic involved in the Hunt. And as for the bolt… I cannot so much as speculate as to its purpose; I’ve never heard tell of its like. I can only say that I am glad Merlin recognized the danger in time to prevent such a fate from falling upon your head, Your Highness.”

Arthur winced, remembering how he’d chastised Merlin, and said, “It seems that Merlin has some skill in spying out the workings of The Outer Courts,” choosing the euphemism carefully.

Gwaine growled and barked, as though to say, that’s an understatement, and Arthur pressed on, saying, “I wish to remind the Council, before we begin to discuss our next steps, that Camelot cannot under any circumstances afford to make an enemy of the Fair Folk,” and Merlin stared at him, blankly, hardly believing his ears.

“My Lord,” said Sir Geraint, aghast, “surely, we must view this as another attack from the forces of magic, and respond in kind. Your father—”

“That is the last thing we must do. Even my father would not, and did not, trifle with the fae,” Arthur said, firmly. “In fact, Camelot has several old agreements with The Outer Courts; so long as the protocols are not broken, they will not move against us, and even should we cause offense, they will not work against Camelot at large, but its offenders only, unless the offender is the King or Regent. The fae are even exempt from our laws against enchantment, for the sake of those treaties.”

There was silence, for a while, and several stunned expressions on all but the oldest of the advisors, who remembered the old agreements better than most, until Lancelot said, somewhat hesitantly, “Then it seems that we owe Merlin far more than simple thanks, do we not? If he had not stopped you, then….”

Several of the older advisors went very pale, and Arthur’s face had a distinctly sour expression as he said, through gritted teeth, “It seems that we do; perhaps a reward is in order,” though he said it in a way that suggested Merlin would do better not to ask for one.

Merlin abruptly went very hot all over, then cold, and quipped, “Quit sending me to muck out your stables, and we’ll call it square,” and the strange feeling went away at once.

Then they were interrupted by several yips, barks, and growls from Gwaine, who’d put both of his paws onto the Table, and seemed to be chastising Arthur for his lackluster response, and Merlin for letting him get away with it so readily.

“Sir Gwaine, if you cannot control yourself—” Arthur started, but he could hardly be heard over the Gwaine’s baying.

Merlin rolled his eyes, exasperated, and said, “Oh, for the love of— here!” and snatched up the bolt. He stabbed it, shallowly, into the flesh under Gwaine’s chin, before tossing it back down onto the Table. Gwaine yelped, and Percival rose so fast that his chair fell with a clatter, looking positively murderous, as Arthur shouted “Merlin!”

Then Gwaine snarled, and said, “Bloody hell, Merlin, I ought to bite your hand for that! There I was standing up for you, and you bloody well stabbed me!”

Then Gwaine heard himself speaking, and his mouth snapped shut in surprise, and everyone went silent all at once, and stared at them both with nearly identical expressions of shock. Gwaine barely missed a beat before he recovered, scrunched up his face, and said, “You’re a genius, mate!” and then was so overcome by gratitude that he started to pant, wriggle about, and wag his tail.

“One day, you lot will learn to wait until after I explain myself, before you start yelling at me,” Merlin said, dryly, before shaking his head and heaving a theatrical sigh. “And really, Gwaine, would you stop moving about so! You’re making my legs go numb.”

“Merlin,” Arthur said, in a brittle voice that said quite plainly that this really had been one shock too many. “How did you know to do that?”

Merlin looked up at him, and said, honestly, “I’m not entirely sure, but I could sort of see that it was the right thing to do.”

Gaius looked at Merlin with something like awe, then with something closer to horror as the implications of that settled over the room.

Arthur asked, slowly, “Do you mean to suggest that you’ve got some sort of faerie sight?” and Merlin felt as though the room had suddenly gotten smaller, and all the air had gone out of it, and tried to think of a response to that that didn’t involve confessing to the possession of far more power than he knew what to do with, and finding yet another surprising way for that power to come out.

Before he settled on a response, Arthur stood up, a bit suddenly, and beamed. “Do you realize what this means?”

“Err,” said Merlin, who hadn’t realized anything past well, it’s the dungeons for me, if I’m lucky.

Arthur moved, very quickly, to Merlin’s side, and clapped his hands on his shoulders, ignoring Gwaine’s growl at Arthur’s close proximity, and said, “It means you can give us an advantage.”

Merlin looked at Arthur, who was grinning down at him in the way that he usually only grinned at promising new recruits, and felt a pleasant warmth spread through him, before he realized that this was probably going to translate into a lot more work, and tried to frown.

Probably he didn’t succeed.

Then Arthur cleared his throat, backed away a few steps, and said, “Do you think you can do anything else for him, and put him to rights? He can hardly hold a sword like that!”

And Merlin spluttered about, looking here and there at the other members of the council to see if they had, in fact, heard what he thought he heard, and when no one laughed and corrected him, or saw fit to inform him that he wasn’t, in fact, hallucinating, he swallowed, and said, “Arthur, did you really just ask me to do magic on one of your knights in front of the high court of Camelot? Because it really sounded like you asked me to do magic on one of your knights in front of the high court of Camelot!” Then he winced, because it came out rather more shrilly than he would have liked.

Arthur drew himself up to a full height and said, imperiously, “If you can somehow twist a faerie’s charm, I don’t see how that goes against any of our laws, so long as you use their own methods against them, and not sorcery,” aiming his words more towards the other advisors than to Merlin.

Merlin, for lack of a better response, stood up, pushed Gwaine into Percival’s lap— and really, they both looked happier for it, although Percival also looked like he thought he ought not to be pleased under the circumstances, and had that look of guilt again, so probably that should have been the arrangement from the start— and said, “I’ll just go research then, shall I?” and left without waiting on a response.

Arthur let him go, partly because it was a good suggestion, and partly because Merlin had looked like he might faint if Arthur made him stay any longer.

“In the meantime, we should review the old protocols for dealing with The Outer Courts and consider why they have returned to Camelot’s land after so long a time without contact,” Arthur said.

Then Sir Ector, who had only recently returned to Camelot himself, and probably remembered better than anyone else what it had been like the last time a faerie had shown their face, said, “Hmm,” in a considering sort of way, and everyone turned to him, and saw that he was very still, and staring at the door Merlin had gone through with a far-away look in his eye.

“Sir Ector?” prompted Arthur.

The old knight startled, a bit, then huffed and stroked his moustaches, and said, “Two in as many days is nearly unprecedented, even when the lands were practically soaked in enchantment. The only time they’ve ever been so thick on the ground was when there was a changeling to collect, or some half-breed coming into its power.”

Gaius chose that moment to start choking on a mouthful of water, and Arthur looked commiseratingly at Sir Kay, Ector’s son, and decided that he really ought to speak with him later, to see if Sir Ector was going as senile as it seemed he must have gone to see fit to imply that Merlin of all people was secretly a mystical being possessed of unfathomable magic.  

Chapter Text

Merlin had his nose in one of Gaius’s books when his mentor returned from the council and said, almost before he made it through the door, “I needn’t tell you how incredibly foolish that was!”

Merlin turned a page, and said, without looking up, “No, you needn’t,” then yelped and rubbed at the side of his head immediately after. “Gaius!”

Gaius lowered his hand and said, fiercely, “What were you thinking, giving Gwaine back his voice in front of almost the entire court? Honestly, Merlin, only you would think it was a good idea to set a talking dog loose in Camelot, of all places!”

“I’m not the one who turned him into a dog in the first place! Anyway, mostly I was thinking about how inutterably awful it must have been for Gwaine of all people to be changed into something that couldn’t speak and then I thought about all the times Gwaine has spoken up on my behalf and said the things I couldn’t say, to Arthur or to the court, and it just felt like I owed it to him to make it right, somehow. And also, the barking was getting a bit irritating,” Merlin said, all in one go, as if the words were being pulled from him. “I mean, really Gaius, what else was I supposed to do? Once I realized that the bolt could do something, somehow, I just had to!”

“You might’ve waited until you had him alone to do it, and then we could have given the court another explanation; Gwaine certainly would have backed up whatever story you came up with,” Gaius said, crossly. “And speaking of that bolt: here.” He dropped the glittering thing on top of Merlin’s book, and said, “Arthur thought you should have it, to study it and see if it would help.”

Merlin stared blankly at the bolt and considered how utterly absurd the whole situation was; he would never have imagined that Arthur would tolerate any sort of magic in his court— at least, not while Uther was still alive, even if the King was mostly ornamental these days, on the rare occasions when someone managed to bring him out of his rooms so that he could succeed at even that— and he certainly wouldn’t have thought that Arthur would accept it without a great deal of yelling first under any circumstances.

Gaius interrupted his thoughts by saying, “Did you still need me to look in at your teeth, Merlin?” which Merlin thought was probably intended as some sort of olive branch, after the lecture.

“No,” said Merlin, who was looking at the bolt and not really paying attention to his mentor at all; he’d started to poke at it, and to turn it, this way and that, to watch how the light caught on the fletching. “They stopped feeling odd earlier, but now I’m having these bizarre hot and cold flashes.”

Gaius stuck his hand over Merlin’s forehead, then gently tilted Merlin’s chin up, pulling his gaze away from the bolt so he could look at Merlin’s eyes. “You don’t seem feverish,” he said, in deeply concerned tones; it was rare for Merlin to complain of any pains, or to admit to feeling under the weather, and he took it very seriously when he did. He still felt guilty, a bit, for putting an examination off until after the council, and tried to tell Merlin to open his mouth so he could check, for his own peace of mind.

“Really Gaius, my teeth are fine, now,” Merlin said, pulling away. “And I didn’t think I was feverish, they’re very brief flashes. The worst one was in council, but it passed quickly.”

“When during the council?” Gaius asked. “Could it have been your nerves, when Arthur asked for your help?”

“No, it was earlier,” Merlin said, frowning. “When Lance spoke up and tried to get him to admit that I saved his ungrateful arse, again.”

“Merlin,” Gaius said, warningly. Then, abruptly, he went pale, remembering that it had been suggested that Arthur owed Merlin, and remembering Sir Ector’s suggestion after Merlin had gone.

Really, it ought to have been impossible; Balinor had always seemed human, and yet…. Gaius nodded to himself, and decided that this really did call for some experimentation, and another avenue of research.

“What? It’s only truth,” said Merlin, who was looking back at the books, blissfully unaware of his mentor’s growing suspicions. “Anyway, we’ve work to do.”

* * *

 “Right, what’s your excuse for this, then?” Arthur said, as he stomped into the infirmary.

Merlin looked up at him, blinked several times, and rubbed his eyes before saying, “What are you talking about?”

“My dinner, Merlin; where is it?”

Merlin opened his mouth to tell him that it was far too early for dinner, and then registered how dark it was outside of the windows, and said instead, “Oh.”

“Oh?” Arthur echoed back, annoyed.

“I’m sorry, Arthur, I was trying to find something to help Gwaine, like you asked, and I completely lost track of time! I’ll, uhh, go and fetch it now?”

“Yes, you will,” Arthur said, agreeably, and Merlin flinched, because when Arthur sounded agreeable, it generally meant that he was two words away from ordering Merlin to do something unpleasant. “And then when you’re done with that, you can—” Arthur coughed, then frowned and cleared his throat, and tried again. “After that, you can,” he began, only to cough again, harder this time, until he was red in the face and blinking up through watery eyes at Merlin, who had shoved him into a chair and was pressing a cup of water into his hand and fretting.

“I’m fine, Merlin,” Arthur said, a bit faintly. “You ought to open these windows every now and again; the smells in this place are foul. You could choke a horse on the fumes from these potions.”

“I suppose I’ve stopped noticing them,” Merlin said, and stood over Arthur until he finally rolled his eyes and drank the water down. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I will be, once you actually get my dinner,” Arthur.

Merlin looked at him a while longer, before finally saying, slowly, “Right,” drawing out the word and making it quite plain that he didn’t entirely believe Arthur, but wouldn’t question him on it yet. “I’ll meet you in your chambers, I suppose.”

Then he left, but not before back over his shoulder and giving Arthur a look that he hoped conveyed the message that, while he wasn’t questioning Arthur now, he certainly would be if the Prince kept having those coughing fits, and then there would be several unpleasant potions in his future whether he liked it or not, and Merlin wouldn’t be doctoring them with honey to make them more palatable, either.

* * *

Arthur did have another coughing fit, after Merlin finished his dinner; he’d opened his mouth and started to say, “Now that you’ve seen fit to return to your main duties, you can—” and then he was hacking away again, and when Merlin suggested fetching him some cough medicine, he’d blamed it on the bread, saying the crust was a bit dry, and he’d gotten a few crumbs stuck in his throat.

“Oh, and Merlin?” said Arthur, before Merlin could take him to task for that flimsy excuse, and insist on bringing him a tonic. “I’d like you to oil my hunting leathers tonight, and make sure the crossbows are cleaned and oiled as well.”

“Arthur, it’s already past—”

“It’s your own fault for spending the entire day with your nose in a book,” Arthur countered.

“You asked me to look into it!” Merlin said, hotly.

“Not at the expense of your other duties; Gaius will still be researching, too. You can work out a schedule with him to see that you aren’t neglecting your chores but can still help Gwaine.”

Merlin looked at him with anger that flickered, briefly, into disappointment— which was always harder for Arthur to face— and turned to storm out, muttering about royal prats, and Arthur thought better of his attitude, a bit, since Merlin had managed to save Arthur from being turned into a dog, too.

“Merlin?” Arthur called, before he’d made it out the door. “I’ll see that some of your duties are reduced to give you the time to study; we can discuss things that might be best to delegate out over breakfast tomorrow. Ask Cook for some extra food for yourself.”

Merlin’s ire vanished in a flash, and he favored Arthur with a great, beaming smile before he rushed out, presumably to get his last few chores sorted out as quickly as possible.

As soon as he was gone, Arthur took out a sheet of parchment and a fresh quill, and started to write out a list of chores he could give to Merlin tomorrow morning, and, admittedly, made it longer than was reasonable to give them an excuse to negotiate with each other, because a bit of a gentle argument with Merlin was a rather good way to start out the day. Everything went smoothly until, near to the end of the page, his hand spasmed terribly halfway through writing out the word “muck” and knocked over the inkwell, ruining the entire list.

“Maybe Merlin’s right and I am coming down with something,” Arthur muttered; then he looked around to make absolutely sure he was alone, even though he knew full well that he was alone in his own chambers, because if he ever said the words “Merlin’s right” where they could be overheard and somehow make their way back to Merlin, he’d have to fake his own death, assume a new identity as a farmer who knew absolutely nothing of royalty or Camelot, and go into hiding.

Which would never work, because he’d need Merlin to do the actual farming, and even if Arthur ignored that and left him behind anyway, Merlin would probably show up spitting mad within a day or two no matter how well Arthur covered his tracks, so really, it was best to avoid that fate at all cost.

* * *

“You’re earlier than I expected,” Lancelot said as he nuzzled Merlin’s ear.

“Arthur told me to clean and oil his hunting leathers and crossbows,” Merlin said, grinning and melting into his knight’s embrace.

Lancelot hummed, contentedly, and eyed the gleaming weapons laid out in a row on the armory table. “That must have taken you ages,” he said, in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

“A whole two minutes,” Merlin said, deadpan. Then he giggled as Lancelot pushed him back onto one of the other— emptier— tables.

Lancelot swallowed down Merlin’s laughter as Merlin wrapped his legs around his waist; when they drew apart, he whispered, “Been stealing desserts again, love?”

Merlin hummed questioningly, as he bit at Lancelot’s throat.

“You taste like honey,” Lancelot said, before pulling him up for another taste.

Chapter Text

When Merlin came stomping down the stairs— later than he’d like to be, but not overly so; he had time enough to break his fast, but only if he was quick about it— and called out a greeting to Gaius, his mentor waved him over and set a bowl in front of him, saying, “I think you’ll like this, it’s a bit different than what I usually make,” which immediately made Merlin wish he’d stayed in bed for another ten minutes; he’d rather risk Arthur’s wrath than an experimental meal from Gaius’s kitchen. His mind raced as he ran through and discarded a number of possible excuses, before finally he resigned himself to his fate, picked up a spoon, and took a taste of—

Of heaven!

“Good gods, Gaius,” Merlin said, moaning in delight around the small morsel he’d taken before diving back in for a much larger spoonful. “This is wonderful!”

He was so enamored of the meal, in fact, that he lost track of Gaius and his surroundings completely, in favor of shoveling it in his mouth as fast as humanly possible, occasionally forgetting to breathe until he was forced to pause and take in great gulps of air before he could start up again.

He even— and he was a bit ashamed of this, afterwards, because even he wasn’t the sort of man to be so ill-mannered, usually, for all that he did rush his food in the manner of one who’d learned the value of eating when one could— buried his face in the bowl and licked it clean once he found that there wasn’t enough left to collect with his spoon.

Merlin looked up at Gaius, who was staring at him with a distinctly bemused expression, tinged with something that might have been a touch of disgust at the manner he’d eaten with, and said, hopefully, “Is there any more?”

Gaius cleared his throat and said, “Unfortunately not, but now that I know how much you enjoy it, I’ll be sure to make it more often.”

Merlin beamed at him, and said, “Gaius, you’re the best!” He smiled and stretched, contentedly, blinking slowly like some great, blissfully relaxed cat, and said, softly but fervently, “Thank you.”

Almost immediately, a pleasant warmth spread through Gaius, and he felt a dozen old aches and pains—many of them so well-known to him that he scarcely noticed them, anymore, and hadn’t noticed for years— vanish under the slow, sweeping wave of Merlin’s gratitude.

Merlin didn’t seem to notice the magic in the air, and he looked as though he might have dozed off if Gaius hadn’t reminded him that Arthur would be expecting his breakfast, too.

Merlin swore, but it was in an indulgent, good-natured sort of way, and got up to attend his master. Gaius, once he was gone, picked up the startlingly clean bowl that had held nothing more exotic than bits of old bread, soaked in honey and warmed milk, over which he’d softly crooned the words of an old, old song meant to dedicate an offering to the Fair Folk.

* * *

Arthur, for once, was not jarred awake by a loud, forceful appeal to follow the sun’s lead and shine, or by being beaten over the head with his own pillow, or from the feel of his arse hitting cold, hard stone after he was unceremoniously yanked out of his bed.

Instead, he came awake slowly, to gentle, firm hands kneading his shoulders and back, which had stiffened abominably from the awkward position he’d lain in; the hands dug in, harder, until Arthur felt the tension drain completely out of him. Then the hands seized him and flipped him over, and dragged him up, into a sort of half-seated position, before shoving several pillows behind his back to prop him up.  Finally, he cracked open his eyes in time to see Merlin put a little footed tray onto the bed, balanced over his waist, and his eyes went very wide in shock.

“Good morning, Arthur,” Merlin drawled, rolling the r’s with a touch of that soft accent of his that was usually indiscernible unless he was very, very angry; today, it was present without the sharp heat of Merlin’s temper, and it made Merlin’s voice into a low purr, and Arthur felt as though his servant’s words were massaging the inside of his skull, just as he’d unexpectedly massaged his shoulders. He sighed, a bit, as a hundred different worries that he hadn’t been consciously aware of became somehow more manageable in the wake of Merlin’s cheer and comforting ways.

“Who are you and what have you done with Merlin?” Arthur said, a bit warily, and Merlin’s laugh was free and joyous, and unexpectedly high— Arthur fought, very hard, not to compare it to a bell.

“Oh, don’t worry, Arthur; I’m sure I’ll get back to disappointing you with shoddy service sooner or later. I just figured you should wake up as well as I did this morning.”

Arthur lifted the cover off of his plate, and sighed; the food was still steaming, somehow, hotter even than Merlin usually managed— and Merlin had an uncanny knack for ensuring that everything was as close to the perfect temperature as was possible, not that Arthur ever told him so— and Arthur said, “Alright, I’ll bite; what’s got you in such a good mood?”

“Gaius made me breakfast,” Merlin said, a bit dreamily, as he picked up the clothes strewn across the floor, and he did it without even wrinkling his nose at Arthur, or staring pointedly at the basket he’d installed for Arthur to use for his laundry— the one Arthur had never actually used, on principle. It was a bit eerie, actually, if you asked Arthur.

Then Merlin’s words registered.

“Gaius?” Arthur said, in tones of flat disbelief. “You’re pleased about something Gaius cooked?”

“I could hardly believe it myself,” Merlin said. Having finished ordering the laundry for later, he retrieved a dust rag, and set about cleaning Arthur’s bookshelf. Arthur watched in abject shock as Merlin actually moved the books and trinkets on the shelves and dusted under them, instead of just brushing over their tops and spines. “But it was wonderful.”

“What was it?” Arthur asked, perplexed.

“I—” Merlin frowned, and said, “Huh. Actually, I don’t know what it was; it’s hard to describe, I guess. It was sort of like a porridge, but it didn’t taste like one? It was… sweeter… and… warmer somehow. Like— like sunlight!” Merlin finished, triumphantly.

“I think he dosed you,” Arthur said, matter-of-fact. “Testing a new pain potion or something. Either that, or you managed to get so tippled last night that you’re still drunk, and I’ll be getting a bill worth half the kingdom.”

Merlin giggled— actually giggled— and then said, “No, I don’t think so, and I had a quiet night in. Just hurry up and eat your breakfast, Arthur, you wanted to talk to me about— oh!” Merlin looked at Arthur with a sudden sadness, and said, “We were supposed to eat together, I completely forgot, Gaius just had it all ready for me and everything, I’m so sorry, Arthur.”

Arthur couldn’t really explain it, but seeing Merlin upset after he’d previously been so radiant with happiness was almost painful; everything seemed colder, and dimmer somehow, and he wanted that pleased smile back, so he said, with open gratitude— a tone he only rarely used with Merlin, as part of an effort to try and keep him at least somewhat in line— “Merlin, you more than made up for it with that wake-up; I’d forgive you even for a spot of light treason, if you’ll keep waking me up like that.”

“Deal!” Merlin said, delightedly, and shivered oddly, a bit, before turning away to poke at the fire.

Arthur shivered, too, because…. Well, clearly, he was seeing things, but for a second, when Merlin had answered him, the angles of Merlin’s face had seemed somewhat sharper, somehow, and then he’d felt an odd heat, and then a cool sensation replaced it, a bit like meeting the air when you rose out of a hot bath, and there was a strange ringing in Merlin’s voice that had caused Arthur’s brain to latch onto the word, and replay it.

And so, Arthur ate with the word deal echoing strangely through his mind, and it was distracting enough that Merlin managed to walk all over him when they negotiated how much of his time could be dedicated to studying faerie lore in an attempt to help Gwaine regain his original form, and to prepare for any other incursions on the part of the Outer Courts into Camelot’s territories.

* * *

Gaius was a patient man, and he knew Merlin very well. Specifically, he knew that Merlin had an astonishing ability to split his focus; Merlin could, when he chose to, carry on full conversations while also managing to perform complex tasks to a very exacting standard. He could even read while he talked to someone, and still respond logically to what was being asked of him, while most of his focus was still on his book. There was a catch, though: he wasn’t always entirely aware of the conversation, and he often forgot completely that a conversation had taken place after it ended, since he was more likely to remember what he was reading than what he had been hearing.

Gaius was absolutely counting on that distraction now, to keep Merlin’s suspicions down, and so, he was extremely patient watching Merlin read.

He watched, and waited, until he could see that his ward was entirely absorbed by the old legends he was devouring, and once he saw that Merlin had lost nearly all of his awareness of what was going on around him, he said, “Merlin, I was just thinking about how grateful I am for your presence here, and your assistance. This research would have taken me twice as long without you, and you’ve saved me a great deal of time in the past as well.”

Then, steeling himself and drawing up the tiniest flicker of magic, enough to let him sense the presence of other magic, if it was used, he said, “Really, Merlin, I owe you a great deal,” and waited.

Gaius felt it immediately; not a spell, as such, but a sort of weight to the air, and a draw on something at the core of himself that built up until it was almost unbearable. And then Merlin said, casually, without looking up from his book, “Gaius, don’t be ridiculous, you’re like a father to me; you don’t owe me a thing, and anything you did owe, you’ve paid back a hundred times over, and anyway, I’m not keeping track. Why would I want to? You’re family, and family doesn’t need debts,” and the feeling vanished so quickly that Gaius could have collapsed.

That was enough already to confirm his suspicions, but he had to know how far it went, so Gaius said, leadingly, “It does my heart good to hear that, Merlin. You’ve said it once or twice before, but sometimes I fear I’m too hard on you, and that you resent me, a bit.”

Merlin did look up, at that; in fact, it brought him completely out of his stupor, and he closed his book with a soft thump, turned the full force of his piercing eyes on Gaius, and said, “Resent you? Why would I resent you?”

“Sometimes I fear I’m too old and cautious, and that I hold you back.” Gaius hesitated, but ultimately pressed on with his plan, and said, “And then, of course, there’s your actual father.”

Merlin’s eyes darkened, but it was with old grief, not resentment. He pursed his lips, clearly thinking very carefully about what he wished to say.

“Gaius,” he said, gently, “There are times when I need to be held back. I know I can be reckless—careless even— and even if I don’t always like it when you stop me from doing something, or lecture me, I don’t resent it, because I know you’re only doing your best to take care of me, and protect me. And, yes, I did resent you for keeping my father a secret, for a while. For a little while— only a little while, mind you— I very nearly hated you. But I’ve forgiven it all, truly, I have. You were only doing what you thought was right, and I know you wouldn’t keep something like that from me, now.”

Gaius swallowed, thickly, and was far more affected by Merlin’s expression of trust than he thought he’d be. “Right,” he said, and tried not to feel guilty for testing his theory in secret instead of discussing it with Merlin. “Of course. I’m very glad, Merlin. And it goes without saying that you’re like a son to me, as well.”

Merlin grinned at him, and said, “I’m a bit glad we’re only like father and son, though, because I’d hate to think I’d be losing my hair like you are when I get older,” in response to the heavy atmosphere in the room.

“Insolent!” Gaius said, with a great deal of mock-offence. Then he said, “Well, since I have you to help me, I think I’ll go and visit Geoffrey in the library; he has a few texts that might do us good.”

Merlin nodded and went back to his book, and Gaius took the reprieve he’d bought himself and left as quickly as he could without seemingly to be in a rush, and he was deeply glad of the break, because, between the offering this morning and this little test, he was absolutely sure of himself: somehow— and he still couldn’t fathom out exactly how— Merlin had a touch of the fae about him, and it was awake now where once it had been dormant. It couldn’t be doubted, really, because Gaius had felt the geas waiting to snap its jaws shut around him when he’d put himself in Merlin’s power by claiming that he was owed something, and because he knew Merlin very well, and knew that Merlin would never have admitted to nearly hating him if he had been able to offer a pleasant lie instead.

And, given the strength of the compulsion he’d felt when he tried to acknowledge a debt, Merlin probably had elven blood, not just the blood of some minor creature of Faerie.

The problem now, Gaius realized, would be deciding how to tell Merlin that, because he doubted very much that Merlin would be pleased with the revelation.

Chapter Text

By the end of the week, Merlin was ready to stand in full view of Geoffrey and Gaius both and burn every single book that so much as mentioned the Fair Folk one page at a time.

It wasn’t that he resented study, far from it! Merlin loved to read, and he was getting out of his most unpleasant chores to do it, which was something of a coup, really, given that, somewhere down the line, Arthur had decided he had to keep Merlin busy and mostly in sight to keep him out of trouble. The only problem with it was that so many of the books were so patently ridiculous, so much so that he’d gotten into several increasingly bitter rows with Gaius, who kept insisting that he read the slim volume he’d provided after the first incident, the one that Merlin had taken up and promptly discarded when they’d first started their joint research.

“Gaius, enough! I’m quite sure that book is worse than useless,” Merlin snapped. “It’s absolute rubbish as far as I can tell.”

“Merlin,” Gaius said, severely, having long since lost his patience with Merlin’s opinion on the subject, especially since, if Merlin were to actually study the book, he’d surely come to his own conclusions, and then Gaius wouldn’t have to actually tell Merlin about his suspicions, and the proof of them, because he’d figure it out himself. “That book is a celebrated treatise on the Fair Folk; it’s full of first-hand accounts of their habits, weaknesses, powers, and their magical practices, and it even has several of the verses they use to work their charms, copied down by—”

“By a bloody lunatic,” Merlin said, harshly. “Honestly, Gaius, I can’t see how those spells could possibly work; they aren’t even in the Old Tongue!”

“They’d work for one of them,” Gaius said, significantly, putting odd emphasis on several of his words, seemingly at random, as far as Merlin could tell. “I couldn’t work one of them, of course, nor could any mortal sorcerer, but for elves and the like, those spells are worth more than gold. And it does have record of encounters with the Fair Folk throughout history; perhaps, if you actually read it through, you might discover something useful... maybe even a way to help Gwaine.”

Merlin rolled his eyes, and took the book from Gaius, to Gaius’s pleasure and hope, only to set it under a large stack of books they’d already read cover to cover, to Gaius’s dismay.

“Well, Gaius, if you’re right, which I doubt, then I don’t think it would be much of a help to me, anyways, if the spells only work for one of them, and the rest of these books have plenty in the way of recorded encounters, so I’ll stick to them, thanks anyway.”

Gaius opened his mouth, then closed it, because he hadn’t decided on the best way to break the news to Merlin yet, but he knew full well that doing so in the middle of an argument wouldn’t be at all wise.

“If you like it so much, you may read it, but I’ve got to go; there’s a Round Table meeting, and Arthur wants me to attend and update them on my progress. I just wish there was actual progress to report!”

Then Merlin stomped out of the room, and Gaius sat, heavily, and muttered to himself for a very long while after he’d gone.

* * *

Merlin opened the door to the privy council chambers carefully, balancing a large tray on his hips, and Arthur immediately started barking at him.

“You’re late, Merlin!” Arthur said, eyes glittering.

“You’ll forgive it when you see why,” Merlin said, cheekily. Then he strode forward, put the tray on the center of the Table, and pulled off the cover with a grand flourish.

Everyone went very still, and stared at the platter, and there were several gasps, and possibly something like an excited sob from someone; Merlin decided he’d attribute it Arthur, simply because it was more amusing to imagine it that way.

Finally, Arthur said, “Is that Cook’s spice cake? The one she flatly refuses to make outside of a great feast? The one she wouldn’t make for me when I took regency, because, in her words, ‘it isn’t your coronation yet?’”

Merlin grinned, nodded, reached for the knife to cut the slices, and started handing out the plates.

“How did you manage that?” Gwen said, with something like awe in her voice, and Merlin was extremely glad that she’d been invited to join in on the meeting, because, while the cake was everyone’s favorite, it was especially her favorite.

“I suggested that it would be a good way for her to make it up to me, for all the times she used her ladle without need, and blamed me for something I hadn’t done,” Merlin said, smugly.

“And she bought that?” Gwaine said, standing up on Percival’s lap and trying to hold himself back from lunging at the platter; his tail wagged so fiercely that it struck Percival full in the face, several times, before Percival finally took hold of it to keep it still and flicked Gwaine’s ear gently but admonishingly.

Merlin shrugged, and said, lightly, “Maybe she felt she owed me the apology.”

“I certainly think you’re owed something, for bringing us this bounty,” Lancelot said, with a subtle, slightly heated undertone as he reached for his plate, and Merlin leaned in a bit closer than he needed to, to pass it to him, and said, softly, for Lancelot’s ears alone, “I’ll gladly take payment in kisses, if you feel you owe me anything.”

Then Merlin started to move around the Table, ignoring yet another hot and cold flash that ran suddenly up his spine, to give Arthur the last— and largest— slice (apart from the one he set aside for himself, of course), and came to an abrupt halt when Lancelot caught his wrist and pulled him into his lap, and set about kissing him breathless.

And, since kissing Lancelot was as familiar to him as breathing, Merlin forgot himself, for a moment, forgot that they had an audience, and responded to him with the familiar ease of comfortable, longtime lovers, until several exclamations and a wolf whistle— or as close as a dog could come to whistling— interrupted them.

Lancelot drew back, looked at Merlin with wide eyes, then blushed fiercely as he looked around, and said, “My apologies, I, erm, couldn’t resist?”

Merlin blinked rapidly and grinned, a bit stupidly, because Lancelot gave the sort of kisses that could easily render a person witless, and said, softly, without thinking, “Never apologize to me for that, love.”

“Love?” asked Arthur, incredulously.

“How long has this been going on?” asked Gwen, sounding at once pleased and somewhat disappointed.

“Off and on since we met, and I had to nurse him back to health the first time, really,” said Merlin, to Lancelot’s delight and astonishment. “But more seriously since we retook the castle.” He smiled at Lancelot, and trailed a finger along his side. “And he had wounds that needed my careful tending, again.”

“So those were love letters,” Percival teased.

“Merlin, why—” Lancelot said, in a shaky, hopeful sort of voice.

“I don’t know, exactly,” Merlin said, “but maybe I’m just tired of hiding it,” and Lancelot pulled him in for another kiss, one that was far more chaste, but only because Lancelot couldn’t stop himself from grinning long enough to deepen it.

Arthur cleared his throat, and said, “Well, congratulations to you both, I suppose, though we will be discussing your intentions later, Sir Lancelot,” but of course Arthur didn’t really doubt that they were honorable, given that it was Lancelot. “In the meantime, Merlin, let’s get down to business. How goes the research? Have you and Gaius found anything?”

“Mostly we’ve found cause for disagreement,” Merlin said, darkly, shaking his head in disappointment. “Nothing useful, though.”

“Disagreement?” Gwen frowned. “It’s not like the two of you to argue, not really,” she said, and several of the others nodded.

Merlin sighed, deeply, and snuggled closer to Lancelot by way of reflex before he realized that he should probably take his own seat, or, more properly, stand, instead of staying on his knight’s lap, but Lancelot felt it when he shifted, and tightened his grip on Merlin’s waist, so ultimately Merlin decided that if Arthur wasn’t going to call them out for improper conduct, he’d let it lie, for now, and leaned back into him instead, letting Lancelot steady him.

“There’s a book that Gaius keeps vaunting as a preeminent source of faerie lore, but I’ve read part of it, and I think it’s nonsense. It claims to have accurate records of faerie charms, but I can’t see how that could possibly be true.”

“What’s so unbelievable about it?” Arthur asked. “And wouldn’t Gaius know more about the subject than you do?”

“Because they’re all in verse, and not in the Old Tongue like you’d expect any self-respecting spell to be in,” Merlin explained, rolling his eyes. “Gaius claims they’re real, and that they’d work for the Fair Folk, but they’re such doggerel that I just can’t bring myself to believe it. I mean, Arthur, if you read them, I’m sure you’d agree with me!”

“They’re that bad? Really?” Arthur asked, astonished by Merlin’s vehement denouncement, and thought that they couldn’t possibly be so ridiculous as Merlin claimed them to be, if Gaius was willing to believe in them.

“Really,” said Merlin, dryly, then he cocked his head to one side, remembering one of the more absurd passages, right near the beginning of the book, and laughed.

“Take the Traveler’s Charm, for instance; it’s supposed to take a faerie wherever they wish to go, within a good twenty leagues, which would be incredibly useful, I suppose, if it worked. I mean, according to the book, if I were a faerie, I could get to Ealdor to visit mother in a flash, just by picking up a candle, like this,” he said, reaching for one of the candles on the Table, “and holding it like this.”

Merlin held the lit candle aloft and tilted it sideways above his head about an arm’s length away, like a man might hold a torch before him to find a footpath, and Arthur decided he’d let Merlin finish his little demonstration, but would have him scrubbing and polishing the Table from top to bottom after the meeting to make up for the wax he’d just spilled on it.

“And then all I’d need to do is say, ‘Can I get there by candle-light, yes there and back again; if your heels are nimble and your toes are light, you may get there by candle-light,’” Merlin said, reciting the verse in an exaggerated, sing-songing sort of way, with wide, mocking eyes.

Then he clicked his heels together under the Table, and as soon as he did, the pupils of his eyes flashed silver, a bit like a cat’s eyes catching the light in a dim room, and he vanished with a soft pop of displaced air and a slight shimmer.

Arthur stared, openmouthed, at Lancelot’s empty lap and the fading light, then yelled, in a very shrill voice, “Merlin’s a fucking faerie?” at almost the exact moment that, many miles away, Hunith started shouting about “Giving your poor mother some warning before deciding to appear out of thin air in her bloody kitchen!”

Chapter Text

There are men in the world— Merlin, as an example, if you needed one— who seem to make it their mission in life to find your every expectations and trod on them, one at a time, until you don’t know your ups from your downs. It is nearly impossible to predict what men like that will do.

Then there are those men who have a set number of responses for whatever life may throw at them, and only deviate from those prescribed strategies when they are made to do so forcibly, and only then with a great deal of protest.

Arthur knew full well he was one of the latter.

And his response to being surprised by something typically fell into one of three categories: first, to find the thing that had made the incredibly poor choice of surprising him, and fight it until it was beaten or broken; second, to shout about it at Merlin, until he felt better; and third, to ask Gaius what the bloody hell he ought to do about the surprising thing, and then to either do that or, if he found the Physician’s advice to be in poor taste, to circle back to the first option, a bit more forcefully than he might’ve done if he had started with it in the first place.

So, since Arthur had absolutely no desire to fight Merlin under any circumstances, outside of playful ones, of course, and since he couldn’t shout at Merlin after he’d gone and vanished into thin air, presumably taking himself out of shouting distance thereby— which seemed deeply unfair, to Arthur, given how badly he wanted to yell at the idiot— he sent for Gaius.

Well, first he shouted at the air above the Table, and at his knights, as a sort of pale stand in for Merlin for quite a while and then, feeling only marginally better, he sent for Gaius.

“Sire,” Gaius said, as he stepped into the room, bowing slightly. “How may I—” Gaius’s eyes narrowed as he took in the tension in the room. “What’s happened? And where is Merlin?”

“Excellent question,” Arthur growled.

“My Lord?” Gaius asked, furrowing his brow.

There was a very tense silence, for a while, before Gwen spoke. “He— Oh, Gaius, please don’t be mad! — he was telling us about a book you wanted him to read, and sort of making fun of it, and how unbelievable it was, and he just… well, he just vanished!”

“Vanished?” Gaius said, raising his brow.

“He called it a Traveler’s Charm,” Leon said, a bit hesitantly, and Gaius abruptly went very pale, and Percival had to shove Gwaine down off of his lap so he could help the old man to a chair.

“So he knows, then,” Gaius said, softly, once he’d settled. “You all know.”

Arthur blinked at him, then said, “You aren’t surprised by this at all, are you.”

It wasn’t a question.

Gaius sighed, rubbed his forehead, and muttered something about Merlin and his sense of timing that was probably distinctly uncomplimentary, in tones of deep exasperation, before he looked up and said, “Little things started to add up, and I tested the theory and…. Sire, for what it’s worth, Merlin truly didn’t know; I’ve been trying to decide how to tell him, but—"

“But how do you tell a man that everything he thought he knew about himself is a lie?” Percival said, with a great deal of sympathy, and just like that, Arthur felt all of his anger and shock drain out of him, all at once, because Percival was right; however shocked and angry Arthur had felt, learning that his servant— alright, fine, his friend— was something Other, it had to pale in comparison to whatever Merlin was feeling about himself just now.

Gaius nodded, and said, very seriously, “You must understand, sire— Arthur— he is loyal to you; incredibly so. If you would only—”

“Enough,” Arthur said, sharply. He glared at Gwaine, who was growling at him, and said, firmly, “There’s no need; I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that Merlin is, and will remain, loyal to Camelot.”

“To you,” Lancelot said, earnestly. “Just as we all are.” Then his eyes went very wide and he said, “Wait, Gaius, Merlin didn’t think that spell would have any effect, how do we know he’s safe?”

Gaius rested his chin on his hands, frowning, for a while; then, at last, he said, “I am no expert on fae magic— it is entirely different from sorcery, you understand, and I’m no expert on that, either, for all that I have a bit more experience with it— but from what I have read, it is driven by the shape of the caster’s desires. Did Merlin say anything at all before he recited the charm?”

“Something about Ealdor, and his mother,” Leon said, sounding relieved.

Gaius laughed, ruefully, and said, “Oh, he’s certain to get an earful from Hunith, then.” Then he paused and said, low, “Or she from him.”

“I think we’re all forgetting one very important fact, here,” Gwaine said. He waited until Arthur looked as though he was about to yell at him, for the delay, then said, “Princess, he just did magic in front of you. You know he’s loyal to you— which is good, because otherwise I’d have had to test out these new teeth— but what if he doesn’t know that you know that? I mean, up until this mess with the Fair Folk, you’ve never so much as hinted that you’d tolerate any sort of magic at all, so…. What if he isn’t planning on coming back?”

Arthur started to scoff and to tell him that of course Merlin would know better than to think he’d hold something that was entirely out of his control against him when he saw Gaius and Lancelot both flinch.

“What was that?” Arthur asked, dangerously, looking back and forth between his knight and the Physician.

“It isn’t our place—” Gaius began, but Lancelot held up a hand and said, “Gaius, stop; it’s better if he knows now, to prepare for if— when— Merlin comes back.”

Lancelot rose, and looked at Arthur, hard, and said, gravely, “Remember his loyalty.”

Arthur nodded, puzzled, and then Lancelot said, “He never suspected that he was fae, but he did know that he was different; he was born with certain… gifts.”

“Gifts?” Arthur said, a bit nervously.

“Magic,” Lancelot said, bluntly. “He was the one who killed the griffin when I first came here, and, during the siege to retake Camelot, he was the one who truly defeated Morgause and the immortal army. And those are just the times that I was there as a witness myself; I know he’s done a lot more than that, to protect you and Camelot. Truthfully, I doubt any of us would still be here if he hadn’t been protecting us.”

Gwaine was growling again, more fiercely than before, but Arthur hardly heard him over the blood rushing in his ears. Eventually, he came back to himself when Guinevere slapped him, none too gently, then apologized profusely and drew his head into her bosom and cradled it, by way of apologizing for the hit, before realizing that was even less proper and jumping back, knocking over her chair in the process.

Arthur couldn’t help it; he laughed, long and loud, half at Guinevere and her continued struggle between seeing him as Arthur the Prince and Arthur the Man, even after all they’d shared, and half at this latest revelation and its implications. Then, finally, he said, a bit ruefully, “That… makes a horrible amount of sense, actually.”

Abruptly, he sobered, and said, harshly, “And no one else can know about it; not while my father is alive. I think we could still argue effectively in Court that, even if he didn’t know he was fae, he would still fall under their treaties’ protections, legally, but I’d rather not chance it. As far as anyone else is concerned, he only now discovered his powers, and his nature, while working under my command to reverse Gwaine’s transformation.”

“You…” Lancelot started, then swallowed, hard, and said, with something like hope in his voice, “You plan on recognizing him?”

Arthur let a slow, slightly malicious grin spread over his face, before saying, “Oh, far worse than that; I’m going to bloody promote him.”

“You’ve got to get him back, first,” Gwaine huffed, and a silence fell again, until Gaius cleared his throat.

“Well,” said Gaius, “I may have an idea about that.”

* * *

“Mother, I—”

“Years off my life, Merlin! Years! I nearly cut off my finger, too, and— no, I’m not actually hurt, you don’t need to heal me, but I might’ve been, what with you popping in like that while I was cooking— what were you thinking?”

“It was an accident, Mother!” Merlin said, and hated that it came out with a bit of a whine in his voice. “It was a faerie charm; I didn’t think it would work!”

Hunith stumbled over to the chair, fell into it heavily, and said, “Oh.”

“Oh?” Merlin said, suspiciously. “Oh?”

“Well, it’s only that—”

“Why don’t you sound surprised by this?” Merlin said, and it wasn’t quite a shout, but his voice gave the impression that it could become one rather easily.

Hunith sighed, and motioned for him to sit across from him, and favored him with an extremely unimpressed look when he tried to ignore the command. Eventually, since even he couldn’t outwait his own mother’s stubbornness, Merlin sat.

“Merlin,” she said, calmly, “There’s something I think you should know about your father….”

* * *

Arthur eyed the scrap of fabric in Lancelot’s hands dubiously, and said, “Gaius, don’t you think this is just a bit ridiculous?”

“Merlin thought the charm was ridiculous, too,” Leon reminded him, “and look where that got us.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, but nodded, precisely once, conceding the point, and Lancelot closed his eyes, and put Arthur and the rest of them out of his mind. Instead, he filled his mind with thoughts of Merlin, until they drowned out everything else, and it wasn’t at all difficult to do; Merlin was always in his thoughts, and it was easy to fall into his memories of all the little ways Merlin made him feel greater than he was, and treated him as though he was even greater than he’d made him feel.

Lancelot thought of the way Merlin reached for him even in his sleep, so that they often woke with their fingers laced together; the first time Merlin had called him Lance; the first time they’d kissed, shyly, tasting of mead and triumph and the secret pleasure of getting away with what Merlin had called just a teeny tiny bit of treason, nothing special, as though committing forgery to help fulfil the lifelong dream of a man you’d just met was something an ordinary person would do; the way that Merlin’s fingers— almost supernaturally soft, but equally as strong— would trace over all of Lancelot’s scars, over and over, as he stared at them with a look that was halfway between lust and envy.

And that memory made him think of how much Merlin probably needed him, now; even on a good day, when Merlin was able to remember the joy of his magic, he hated how different it made him from the rest of his friends.

Focusing on his need to have Merlin there, to comfort, to protect, as best he could, Lancelot lifted the old, tattered neckerchief that Merlin had wrapped around his arm after he’d told him he had to leave, but that he’d guard his secret with his life even at a distance, and breathed deeply, letting the lingering scent of his lover make his thoughts feel more urgent, more solid, more real.

Then he whispered Merlin’s name three times, and waited.

He heard someone groan, and knew it was probably Arthur deciding that this whole thing really was ridiculous after all, so he lifted the favor again, and held it so that it covered his face, this time, hiding the shape of his lips.

Then, as quietly as he could, he called for Emrys.

Chapter Text

“I never meant to upset you, Merlin, I honestly didn’t think it would ever come up!”

“I don’t want to hear it, mother! You should have told me!” Merlin shouted.

“Merlin, please, I didn’t think—”

Merlin threw up his hands in exasperation and stalked out of the house, ignoring Hunith’s calls for him to stop and come back to talk things out; he didn’t want to stay and talk things out. If he did, he’d forgive her, because she was his mother, and because she had been trying to protect him and make things easier for him, and honestly, he wasn’t ready to forgive her.

He needed to be angry.

He needed to be furious, really, because if he wasn’t, then he wouldn’t be thinking about the way that his family kept insisting on lying to him about him; if he wasn’t furious, he’d be thinking instead about the fact that he didn’t have a home anymore, or the fact that he’d been trying to fit in all his life when that was an even more impossible goal than he’d thought it was.

So instead of sitting down and being reasonable, he walked into the woods, and sulked, and swore, using the sort of oaths he’d heard Gwaine use when the knight had gotten spectacularly drunk after they’d retaken the citadel.

His words turned into spiders, and scurried off under the fallen leaves; bright red and white mushrooms grew in his footsteps, and wildflowers twisted and shivered and became nightshades and wolfsbanes under his glare.

“Great,” he muttered, glaring at the poisonous results of his own anger. “Felling trees was bad enough, now I’m changing the bloody forest.”

Merlin kept walking, until he came to a little stream and realized that he’d walked farther than he should have been able to, because he recognized the land. He was much closer to Jarl’s fortress than he really should have been. He stopped, leaning against a tree, and considered what to do next. He couldn’t transport himself again— not without a candle, anyway, and he’d left that behind in Ealdor in his rush to escape his mother’s apologies— but apparently, he was moving faster than anything mortal could. At this rate, he could probably make it back to Camelot by nightfall.

But he couldn’t go to Camelot, could he?

Even if Camelot did have treaties with the Fair Folk that excused their magic, Arthur couldn’t possibly want one of them in his Court, and even if he did, Uther’s advisors wouldn’t; he’d have to find a way to protect Arthur from magical threats at a distance, and trust that the knights could handle any everyday problems. Arthur would still be well-guarded, after all, and Lancelot would probably refuse to leave the Prince’s side now that—

Lancelot.

Merlin clutched at his throat, holding back a sob. The air suddenly chilled, and the forest darkened as thunder started to rumble somewhere in the distance, growing as it sped towards him. He wouldn’t be able to see Lance; after Arthur knighted him, Merlin had made Lancelot swear that he’d stay in Camelot to protect Arthur if Merlin ever had to leave. It had been the right thing to do, he knew that, but….

But he’d never thought he’d actually have to leave him behind.

“You seem troubled.”

Merlin pushed away from the tree and turned to face the voice, snapping up an arm to aim a threatening palm at the stranger; lost as he had been in his thoughts, Merlin hadn’t heard anyone approaching.

“Easy now,” the man said, holding up his own hands placatingly. “I don’t mean any harm. Maybe I can help, even?”

“And I should trust you? A stranger in the middle of the woods?” Merlin said, raising an eyebrow. He didn’t lower his arm. The stranger was odd; he was dressed all in white, and none of it was stained, not even the shoes, which shouldn’t have been possible as deep as they were in the forest. His eyes were the lightest grey Merlin had ever seen, nearly silver, and his hair was so blonde it was almost colorless. The effect was startling, and Merlin didn’t trust it one bit.

“You can call me Rowan,” the man said, flashing a smile filled with perfect white teeth. Then he stepped forward, stretching out his hand as though Merlin might wish to shake it. “May I have your name?”

Maybe it was the fact that the teeth were just a bit sharper than they should have been, and far whiter than a peasant’s teeth ought to be, or maybe it was because Merlin had spent days researching the fae, but something about that turn of phrase seemed somehow threatening.

“No,” Merlin answered after a moment that had stretched on just long enough to become uncomfortable. “But you may call me Merlin.”

Rowan laughed, but he looked a bit disappointed. “Clever youngling; who taught you manners, you who have been raised up in this mortal world?”

Merlin blinked at him, and let magic pool dangerously in his palms, in case he needed it. “I take it you’re from elsewhere?”

Rowan stepped towards him again, and Merlin took a step back. “What do you want?” Merlin demanded.

“You’re new,” Rowan said, hungrily. “We don’t often get new things in the Court. Come with me. We’ll honor you; I promise.”

The air thickened, growing heavy with possibility; the oath was a true one, and if Merlin accepted it, Rowan would be forced to do everything in his power to make sure it was kept.

“There’s nothing for you, here,” Rowan continued. “But we can give you anything you want, everything you dream of.”

The alarm bells clamoring in Merlin's mind grew louder still; if there was one thing he’d learned in his time protecting Camelot, it was that anyone who promised you anything definitely didn’t have your best interest at heart.

“No,” Merlin said, firmly. “I don’t need your help, and I don’t want to go with you.”

Rowan hissed, and his teeth grew sharper and longer still. The air thickened again, and there was movement to either side of them. Merlin looked, quickly, not willing to take his eyes off of Rowan any longer than he had to, and saw large black cats with white stars on their chests prowling towards them. Merlin took another step back, and ran into the tree. Between the things that were shaped like cats, the fae in front of him, and the tree at his back, he didn’t have anywhere else to go.

Merlin waved his hand and sent a gout of flame rushing towards Rowan; it struck him full in the chest, but it didn’t even manage to scorch his shirt. There was a cloud of steam, and the sound of ice cracking, then Rowan laughed again. “Mortal sorcery? You’ve learned less than I thought.”

“You will come with us,” Rowan said, reaching out with both hands and stepping forward to grab at Merlin’s shoulders.

As Rowan approached, Merlin felt a curious tugging sensation beneath his ribs, as though something was pulling at his bones; it felt… loving, and familiar, for all that it was a bit painful, and Merlin reached for it with his magic, desperate for anything that might aid him, even if he didn’t know what it was.

Rowan’s hands closed on empty air as Merlin gave himself over to the Summons, and vanished.

* * *

Without the tree to lean against, Merlin fell back, suddenly off-balance, and was caught by a pair of strong arms. Merlin’s power rose, and he very nearly struck out with a wall of solid air that would have thrown whoever had grabbed him back twenty paces at least, but before he could let loose the spell, he realized that he knew those arms, and then he registered what he was seeing in front of him. Somehow, he was back in Camelot, back in the Privy Council, and Lancelot was there standing in front of him and holding one of his neckerchiefs. And it was Arthur behind him.

“How?” Merlin asked, staring into Lance’s eyes. “How did I get here?”

“Lancelot Summoned you, apparently,” Arthur said, letting Merlin go as soon as he found his balance. “Are you alright?”

“Barely,” Merlin said, reaching out for Lance; whatever Lancelot saw in his face was enough to have him surging forward to take Merlin into his arms, running his hands over him to check for any hidden injuries. Someone else in the room coughed; Merlin thought it was Gwen. “There was another faerie,” he said, clutching at Lance’s shoulders. “He… I think he wanted to take me to their kingdom.”

“They can’t have you,” Arthur said, firmly, putting a hand on Merlin’s back and angling himself so Merlin could see him over Lancelot’s shoulder. “You belong in my kingdom, Merlin.”

“What?” Merlin said, nearly choking on the word. “You— you still want me here?”

Arthur frowned at him, and flicked him in the forehead, right between the eyes. “Don’t be stupid; I don’t care if you have magic, you’re still my servant, and—”

Several people cleared their throats significantly.

“Alright, you’re my friend; don’t let it go to your head. You’ll always have a place at my side.”

“But… but you hate magic! You think it’s evil,” Merlin said, plaintively.

“You aren’t evil, Merlin,” Arthur said. “Maybe you’re a little stranger than I thought you were, which is saying something, but you’re a good person, and—”

“Ha!” Merlin laughed, mirthlessly. “I’m not even a person, Arthur, I’m— ow!”

Arthur drew back his hand; he’d flicked Merlin again, harder. “I said don’t be stupid, Merlin. I don’t care if you’re an elf, a gnome, or a bloody pixie. You’re still a person, you’re still good, and if you talk like that again I’ll send you straight to the stocks!”

“And I won’t even argue with him about it,” Gwaine said, and Merlin flinched. He’d almost forgotten the rest of them had been in the room.

Gwaine might have been the first to speak up, but Gaius was the first to approach him. He came up to them, and Lancelot let Merlin go so that Gaius could pull him in. “I’ve said it before,” Gaius whispered into Merlin’s ear. “You aren’t a monster, Merlin.” Drawing back, he said, louder, “Merlin, you’re the same man you were before all of this started; nothing has changed, not really, you just have a few new tricks up your sleeves, that’s all.”

“And I fully expect you to show me some of them,” Gwaine added, grinning toothily.

“As long as he saves the best tricks for me,” said Lancelot with a wink, startling a laugh out of the rest of the knights.

Gwen stepped up, looked somewhat hesitantly between Merlin and Lancelot, who was still standing very near Merlin, then threw her arms around Merlin’s shoulders. “We’ll handle it,” she said into his neck. “We’ll just take the changes as they come. You’re still our Merlin. We trust you.”

Elyan and Percival only nodded, firmly, meeting Merlin’s eyes over Gwen’s shoulders, but they were smiling at him, and Elyan didn’t look at all nervous to have his sister so near a faerie, so Merlin started to believe them.

Maybe it would be alright, somehow.

“Thank you,” Merlin said, softly, and a rush of warmth spread through the room with his words. “All of you.” Then he swallowed, and said, “There’s something I think you should all know, something my mother told me while I was gone.”

“What, that there’s faerie blood in you?” Arthur asked, sneering a bit. “I think we’ve worked that out, Merlin.”

“Well, yes, prat, there is,” Merlin said, rolling his eyes. “But it’s not direct? Apparently, both of my grandparents on my father’s side were half-elves, and everyone sort of assumed that there wasn’t anything left over from them, apart from the—”

He trailed off, looking at Arthur, nervously. “Apart from the magic,” Arthur finished for him. “Which we will be discussing,” he said, darkly, but it was his I’m going to be unreasonable about your chores tone; there wasn’t anything truly threatening in his voice, and his eyes were still soft and worried, not accusing.

Gaius rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. “Perhaps your encounter in the Darkling Woods woke something up in you?” he offered.

Merlin blinked, and said, “She did say something about knowing the truth, even in myself; maybe she didn’t realize what that would mean.”

“They certainly know what it means now,” Gaius said, significantly. “Merlin, this faerie you met, did he say what he wanted?”

“Only that the Courts valued new things,” Merlin said.

“They’ll get new things, alright,” Arthur said, grinning toothily. “A new ambassador, to be precise.”

Then, before Merlin could react to that, Arthur furrowed his brow and said, slowly, “Is it just me, or have your ears gone a bit pointy?”

Chapter Text

Gwen yawned, stretched, and slowly opened her eyes. She turned over in her bed and managed to find the perfect spot— that spot that cradled her perfectly, the one that only seemed to exist just after she woke up— and froze, knowing that if she moved again, she’d never find it again. She blinked and carefully judged the soft light streaming in through the slats in between the wooden planks that served as her shutters, and sighed happily. She was early— it wasn’t quite dawn— which meant she could have a lie-in for an entire hour before she really had to get up.

Bliss!

Then a firm hand knocked at her door, and she thought very uncharitable thoughts in the direction of whoever had decided to interrupt her so early, and debated rolling over and ignoring them entirely. Yes, a servant’s day did start early, but this was ridiculous. It would only serve them right to be ignored!

Then she realized that there really were only a scant handful of people who would have any reason to find her at home, and if any of them had come in the early hours of the morning, it must be important!

Grumbling, she rose, scrubbed her face quickly in cold water, and hastily threw on a simple dress before going to the door.

“Gwen!” Merlin cried, happily. “Oh, I hope I didn’t wake you, but look what I’ve brought to make it up to you!”

Merlin lifted the cloth covering his basket, and the scent of honey, spices, and fried bread filled her little cottage. Gwen narrowed her eyes, and said, “Are those Cook’s sweet rolls?”

Merlin nodded; suddenly, Gwen’s thoughts were a lot more charitable.

“Well, come in then!”

For a few minutes, they bustled around the house, busying themselves with setting the table and bringing out a jug of milk that was still good and the last of the fruit Gwen had been saving. Merlin moved effortlessly around her, almost as if they were dancing, as he helped; he knew where everything was as well as she did, and the ease of their synergy brought a smile to her face.

They tucked in, and Gwen waited until they had made it through a handful of grapes and a roll each before she held out her cup for Merlin to pour her some milk and said, “Merlin, dear, it isn’t that I’m not pleased to see you— especially when you’ve brought such a treat! —but why are you here so early?”

Merlin poured perhaps a thimble-full into her cup, then frowned at the jug until condensation appeared on its edges. Then he filled the cup the rest of the way up, pouring out a thick, creamy milk that tasted far fresher than it ought to have done.

“That’s handy,” Gwen said, before Merlin could say anything else, as he poured for himself.

“Thanks Gwen,” Merlin said, beaming, with a far brighter smile than Gwen felt was really warranted by the comment; Gwen figured he was still getting used to having people compliment his… talents… and resolved to do it as often as she could, anytime she saw the chance. “And, honestly, I was hoping to ask for a favor.”

Gwen cocked her head to one side and looked at him. “You can’t possibly need me to cover for you with Arthur’s chores, not now that he’s got you working on undoing Gwaine’s transformation and studying fae magic and protocols full-time; what could I possibly do for you?”

“Actually, Gwen, I was hoping you might spend a little time in the forge for me,” Merlin said. He held up a hand, forestalling her response, “I know there are other smiths, Gwen, and you aren’t one, not really, and you haven’t taken commissions for years, but you’re the only one I’d trust with this!”

Gwen blinked at him, and realized he was holding himself with an incredible amount of tension; she had been right the first time— whatever he needed, it was incredibly important. “Merlin, of course I’ll help, if I can, but what is it you need?”

Merlin blushed bright crimson and reached into a bag she hadn’t realized he’d brought in, and came up with the gleaming bolt that had started this whole mess with Gwaine, and a folded sheet of parchment. He passed them to her, and she unfolded the parchment and stared at his carefully labeled sketch.

“Merlin,” she said, slowly. “Is this what I think it is?”

Merlin’s blush deepened. “It is,” he said. “And I know it’s ridiculous— I’m starting to think all faerie magic is— but I’m pretty sure it’s about the only thing that’ll actually fix Gwaine, short of tracking down the White Hart again. And I’d really rather not.”

Gwen giggled a bit— not because she really thought it was ridiculous, but because Merlin clearly did, and she could only imagine how much he’d blush when Arthur saw him with it— then nodded. “I’ll do my best, Merlin; I’ll bring it by when it’s done.”

Merlin reached for her hands and clasped them, gratefully. “Thank you, Gwen,” he said, smiling at her. Then he turned his head and looked hard at the little cabinet she kept her fruit, milk, and cheese in, and muttered under his breath. For a moment, the room was very, very cold— so cold she could see her breath hanging in the air— and then the cabinet flashed with a soft white light for an instant before everything went back to normal. “I think you’ll find things keep a bit better when you store them there.”

Then he stood, pulled her into a quick one-armed hug, and said something about needing to check up on Arthur— “Because, Gwen, you know no one else will manage to get him out of bed as early as he asked to be wakened, or worse, they will, and then they’ll be no living with him!”— and rushed out.

Gwen went to stand by the cupboard, opened it, and stuck her hand in; she pulled it out, quickly, reflexively, in response to the chill. It felt like the heart of winter in there!

“Huh,” she said. “I suppose that would help.”

Then she cleared the table and rummaged through the little coffer that held some of Morgana’s old jewels that Arthur had insisted she take, even though she’d tried to tell him she couldn’t possibly wear any of them. She selected a lovely ring, because Merlin wasn’t the only one who could give a surprise gift.

Then she went to fetch Percival and Elyan, because she’d need help.

* * *

“Gods, Gwen, are we being punished or something? What did we do?” Elyan panted. She glared at him, though it was a bit half-hearted, because she was notorious for giving her brother make-work when he irritated her, and because even Percival looked strained.

But really, she’d never have managed to drag the stone in without them.

Gwen eyed the large chunk of stone sitting in the middle of the forge, next to her father’s anvil and nearly as tall, tested it with the ancient but still serviceable bronze hammer she’d dug out of the castle vaults— with permission, of course— and smiled as she felt the stone hold firm.

“No, Elyan,” she said, almost absent-mindedly as she started planning out her work. “But this is for Merlin, and the anvil is iron, you know; I could hardly use it, or my usual hammer.”

Elyan frowned. “He’s roped you into his magic then?” he said, a bit crossly.

Gwen gave him one of her best warning looks, the one that said he would find himself risking her ire if he took another step out of line. “And what,” she said, icily, “is that supposed to mean? Are you implying that we can’t trust Merlin’s magic? Because if you are—”

Elyan’s eyes flew wide, and he backed up a step, holding up his hands placatingly. “No, no, that’s not— I just meant— I just meant I’d rather not see my sister mucking about with magic! I’m sure Merlin wouldn’t do anything bad, but magic is just so dangerous! I mean, you saw him just vanish that first time!”

Percival cleared his throat, and Gwen started; she’d nearly forgot he was there. “I’m sure he wouldn’t ask Gwen to do anything dangerous.”

“He didn’t,” Gwen agreed, smiling at Percival. She smiled at Elyan, too, reassuringly. “It’s forge-work, that’s all. The magic comes before and after; I won’t be touching it, myself. Now out with you both! You’ll be late for training if you keep lingering, and I don’t need you looking over my shoulder offering suggestions, Elyan!”

* * *

And so began the strangest commission Gwen had ever worked on. Not necessarily in design; nobles had requested far stranger things when she had still been helping her father— but certainly the strangest in execution, because the metal didn’t behave like it should have!

At first, she had been worried about how she’d manage to heat the bolt properly to work the metal, given that bronze, silver, and gold all heated at different rates, but she discovered quite quickly that she needn’t have worried at all, because they didn’t all heat at once.

No; the bronze shaft heated to red hot quite readily, and easily, and it shaped beautifully under her tools, for all that they were improvised, but the golden arrowhead and the silver fletching stayed entirely cool— so cool, in fact, that she was able to forgo her tongs as long as she was careful to grasp it by the silver and avoid touching the bronze.

Gwen furrowed her brow and frowned at the bolt, and decided that there was probably some trick to it, and focused on working with the bronze while it wanted to be worked on; she could figure out the gold and silver later. She hammered it carefully, and stretched it, until— slowly— it began to take on a delicately tapered shape, instead of the thick unlovely shape of a heavy bolt.  When she quenched it and set it aside, the bronze had deepened into a shimmering, lovely red-copper hue that was nearly the color of that morning’s dawn.

Gwen froze, and tapped her fingers against her new forge-stone, smearing them with soot. “It can’t possibly be that— or maybe it can be…. It is magic after all! Well! I suppose there’s an easy way to test it.”

She set the bolt aside, and turned to Morgana’s ring, carefully prying apart the prongs until she could pull out the stone— a large, lovely sapphire that reminded her of Merlin’s eyes.

Then she left the forge and went about her usual chores, overseeing the underservants and working with the steward to revise the budget, keeping careful track of the time as she did.

Shortly before the Noon Bell, she rushed back to the forge and stoked the flames high. The moment the sun had reached its zenith, crowning the sky above her, she put the bolt back in the fire, just as the Bells rang out. She held her breath, watching… waiting….

The bronze and silver stayed cool, but the golden arrowhead started to glow brightly in the heat.

Gwen let out a little cheer, then composed herself, focusing on the work; she watched until it had reached the temperature she wanted, then she took it out, and started to shape it, even more carefully, because this part was tricky! She followed Merlin’s sketch, right up until the end of it, and then she added her surprise.

Once it had cooled, she set the project aside, and gave the silver a mock-glare. Playfully, she said, “Leave it to Merlin to find a task to disturb my sleep twice-over; I suspect you’ll keep me up late, just as your fellow—” she tapped the bronze— “had me up early near to sunrise!”

She was, of course, entirely right; the silver refused to heat until there was moonlight streaming in from her windows, but when she had finally finished it and found herself turning a veritable work of art over in her hands, this way and that, watching the light gleam across the three different metals that seemed to give off a little of their own light, she found that she didn’t regret a moment of it.

She couldn’t wait to see Merlin’s face when she gave it to him tomorrow!

Chapter Text

In spite of her excitement, Gwen managed to oversleep; she’d kept herself up long after midnight forging and polishing, and it was such finnicky careful work that it had drained her more than she’d expected it to. At this rate, she was going to be late for the Round Table meeting Arthur had asked her to sit in on, and Merlin was probably going to tease her for it mercilessly; after all, she’d teased him about being late for years, and his argument had always been that he had to work well into the night to keep up with Arthur’s demands.

Thinking about that gave her a new burst of resolve, one that translated into a burst of speed; she hiked her skirts up a bit higher, nearly up to her knees— shocking, really, but this was the servant’s stairwell, and it would hardly be the first time a maid ran with her skirts lifted scandalously high on her calves— and started taking the stairs two at a time. It was a good thing she had a servant’s constitution— Merlin always said the servants were in better shape than most of the knights, and she was inclined to agree with him— because if she hadn’t, she’d never have made it. As it was, she only slowed once the privy council chambers were around the corner of the next corridor. She allowed herself a few minutes to focus on slowing her breath and recovering, then turned the corner, nodded to the guards, and entered. The door shut behind her just as Arthur said, “Haven’t you found a cure by now, Merlin?” in a tone that said he wasn’t actually annoyed, but wanted to start an argument anyway.

Gwen slid the package she’d been carrying under her arm in front of Merlin on her way to the chair Arthur had set aside for her and said, “I think he just might have.”

Merlin beamed at her and bent over the silk bundle, his nimble fingers working to unknot the cord she’d used to tie it shut. “Gods, Gwen, what did you do, work on this all night? I can’t believe you finished it so quickly!”

Arthur narrowed his eyes, looking back and forth between the two of them. “What did you do?” he asked, somewhat cautiously.

Gwen rolled her eyes at him. “Relax Arthur, I only—”

They were interrupted by a rough gasp; Merlin had lifted a corner of the fabric and was staring down at it with wide, wet eyes. “Oh, Gwen,” he whispered. “It’s perfect!”

Gwen felt herself flush. “Do you really think so?”

Merlin nodded, slowly, not trusting himself to speak. After a moment, he reached down and lifted the reshaped bolt out of its covering. He turned his wrist, and Gwen felt herself smile as the light caught the edge of the sapphire. Elyan whistled through his teeth, and Gwaine nudged at her hand with his nose. She stroked his muzzle absently and watched Merlin, basking in the clear and open joy on his face.

Arthur shifted next to her, and she didn’t even need to look at him to know he was wearing what Merlin called his dolt grin. “Merlin,” he drawled, “is that a magic wa— oof!”

Gwen elbowed Arthur before Merlin managed to tear his eyes away to glare warningly at him. Merlin only spared him a moment before he turned his attention back to the wand in his hand.

Because, yes, it clearly was a magic wand, though Arthur certainly didn’t have to say it like that! Gwen had stretched and shaped the bright bronze into a lovely, delicate taper; the silver fletching had been melted and allowed to run over the bronze as she’d turned it, slowly and carefully, until the silver coiled around it as if it were a vine growing against a stake; the gold arrowhead had been softened until it looked more like a teardrop, and she’d pressed Morgana’s sapphire into its tip with the point facing out. Taken together, it had an elegant, almost otherworldly grace to it, which was only amplified by the slant of Merlin’s own delicate wrist as he held it out at an angle.

Percival cleared his throat, eyeing the wand with something in his eyes that seemed to be half hope and half hunger. “It really is lovely, Gwen,” he said. “But… will it really turn Gwaine back, Merlin?”

“I think so,” Merlin said, still studying the sapphire carefully. “The gem was an excellent touch, Gwen; I think it’s made it more… more mine, somehow. You put some of your own caring into it, I think.”

Gwen found herself blushing all the more fiercely, but luckily, Merlin pressed on quickly enough that it had probably gone unnoticed by the other men in the room. She was certain Merlin had noticed, though, because he flashed her a rather cheeky grin.

“Anyway, Percival, I can’t swear to it— this is all still so new to me, you know? But I think it will work; the bolt was changed by the same magic that changed Gwaine, and we already know that magic can still affect him, otherwise he’d still be communicating in barks and growls.”

Gwaine lifted his head and howled on cue. Arthur and Merlin both glared at him for a moment, but Gwen had to cover her mouth to stifle a laugh, and some of the other knights didn’t even bother to hide their amusement at all.

“By reshaping the bolt, we’ve… how can I put this? We’ve made it easier to reshape the magic that was left behind in it. If I’m right, I should be able to use that same transformative power to my own ends, now.”

Something dark passed over Arthur’s face. “Merlin, that sounds incredibly dangerous; what if it falls into the wrong hands? Could someone else use that power?”

Merlin shook his head, grinning even wider. “Not with this on the end,” he said, brushing his thumb over the sapphire. “Your instincts are marvelous, Gwen. Not that I’m surprised; faerie magic seems to mostly come down to feelings, and Gwen’s got the biggest heart out of everyone I know.”

Gwen darted her eyes in Lancelot’s direction, wondering what he thought of Merlin complimenting her like that; if what she saw was any indication, he wasn’t at all bothered. If anything, it seemed that he approved and agreed.

“Well, then, what are we waiting for?” Gwaine said, wriggling in Percival’s lap. “Change me back!”

Merlin laughed. “You might want to climb down, then. Come on, let’s give ourselves some room; I don’t know how fast the transformation will be.” Merlin stood and walked a few paces away from the Table, considered the spacing, then backed up a few more steps and gestured until Gwaine stood where Merlin wanted him. He lifted the wand, shut his eyes, and let out a slow, whistling breath. Then his eyes shot open and he twisted his neck to look at Gwen. “Err, Gwen, would you mind stepping out before I cast the spell?”

Several people gasped. Arthur stood, his face thunderous, and Gwen ducked her head to hide her own hurt expression. She couldn't believe what she was hearing; she couldn't believe that Merlin didn't want her there to see his first big success as Camelot's faerie advisor, especially not after she had helped! She looked up at Merlin through her lashes and saw the moment he realized that he’d managed to insult her and offend Arthur and most of the knights.

“Trousers!” Merlin blurted, nonsensically, stopping whatever Arthur had been about to say.

Gwen blinked and found herself looking up in confusion. “What?”

“Gwaine isn’t wearing any,” Merlin said, blushing fiercely.

“Well, no, but he’s a dog,” Gwen said, slowly. “He could hardly fit into any, and it’s not like it’s altogether improper, given that he’s a dog. I don’t see how that has any bearing on— Oh!” Immediately, she felt herself flush brighter than Merlin was, and Arthur went nearly as crimson as he too realized what Merlin was getting at. “I’ll just, uh, go and fetch him some, then? From his chambers. And then I’ll wait outside.”

With that, she bustled out of the room, and made her way down the corridor in the direction of the wing that housed the knights’ chambers.

* * *

Arthur cleared his throat and avoided looking at Gwaine, who appeared to be doing his best to wiggle his eyebrows, which didn’t quite have the right effect on a canine face.

“Well,” Arthur said, after a while. Then he reached out a hand and said, “Your cloak, Percival, if you don’t mind?” The other knight clearly didn’t mind, but he didn’t give his cloak to Arthur, either. Instead, Percival took it off, worked the clasp out of the cloth so it wouldn’t snag during the transformation, and knelt down to carefully drape the cloak around Gwaine’s shoulders. Gwaine laid himself down on the floor to make it easier for him. Once he’d arranged the cloak to his satisfaction, Percival ruffled Gwaine’s ears, leant down further to whisper something to the other knight, then stood and backed away until Merlin nodded at him, indicating that he’d gone far enough.

Merlin shut his eyes again, breathed deeply, and rolled his shoulders. He turned his neck from side to side, shook out his hands, then raised the wand again. Slowly, he extended his arm, and gently tapped Gwaine with the wand, right between his eyes.

The air vibrated; every piece of metal in the room sang out a note like a wet finger being dragged along the rim of a crystal goblet, and a dim blue light flashed around the tip of the wand for the barest instant as Merlin’s pupils lit up with that strangely beguiling silver glow. Then Merlin staggered back a few steps; Lancelot was behind him in an instant, supporting Merlin with one hand on his waist and the other wrapped around his upper arm. For a moment, Arthur was sure the spell had failed, because nothing at all had happened to Gwaine.

Then Gwaine twitched violently, thrashing about as he curled in on himself under Percival’s cloak. Percival took a few steps forward, and only stopped when Merlin put out a hand and let a bit of gold bleed into his irises. “Give it a moment,” Merlin said, lowering his hand once he was sure Percival would heed his words.

Gwaine kept moving underneath the cloak, making soft snuffling sounds that eventually became a howl, then a whine; then, finally, it became something like a moan.

A pair of hands came out from under the cloak, adjusting it. Then Gwaine sat up, clutching the cloak around himself and shivering. “Merlin, you did it,” he said, grinning widely. “You actually did it!” He shivered again, his teeth chattering. “Gods, it’s so cold, though!”

Merlin stared at Gwaine. He cleared his throat. “Err… maybe because you got used to the fur?” He edged a bit closer to the Round Table, pulling Lancelot along with him.

“Well, I’ll get used to its lack, I’m sure,” Gwaine said, easily. He ran a hand through his hair and shuddered; this time, it clearly wasn’t because of the cold. “Damn, I need a bath! Percy, tell me the truth: how bad does my hair look right now?”

Arthur couldn’t help it. He huffed out a short laugh, tried to disguise it as a cough, and failed.

“What was that?” Gwaine asked, narrowing his eyes. “I’d like to see you come back from being a dog with perfectly coifed hair, Princess; it can’t be that bad.”

Merlin and Lancelot edged closer to the Table.

Arthur grinned. He took up one of the empty plates, lifted it to study his own reflection in the silver, then said, “You sure about that?” Then he turned it to face Gwaine.

Gwaine paled. He leapt to his feet, reaching for the plate with both hands, abandoning the cloak in his haste. “Oh, dear gods,” he cried. “It’s still white!” He ran the fingers of one hand through his hair several times as he studied his reflection, and his eyes went wider and wider with panic the longer he looked at it. “Merlin, Merls, please tell me you know how to fix this!”

“Actually,” Merlin said, brightly. Then he stuck the wand into his pocket and lunged for one of the candles on the Table, pulling Lancelot into a tight embrace as his fingers closed around the wax. He spoke the charm so rapidly that the syllables were almost meaningless, and then he and Lancelot were gone.

For a moment, the room was utterly still, and completely silent.

Then Leon snorted, and that was enough to set the rest of them off. Elyan clutched his sides, wheezed, and fell out of his chair. Percival turned away, tucking in his shoulders as if he were ashamed of his own amusement. Arthur didn’t bother holding back his own laughter at all; he threw back his head and chortled loudly.

Gwaine stamped his foot, looked up, and yelled, “Bloody coward,” as if he thought that Merlin would somehow hear him. Then he turned on his heels and stomped towards the door.

“Wait, Gwaine—” Leon started. He was too late; the door opened, then shut again. Someone outside the chambers— hopefully only a passing maid, and not Guinevere returning with a set of clothes— screamed, and Leon shook his head and said, softly, mostly to himself, “Trousers, Gwaine.”

Arthur wiped the tears from his eyes, laughed until he felt like he might pass out, and thought that no one, not even his father, could have possibly imagined Gwaine's bare arse as one of the possible dangers of allowing magic back into Camelot.