Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Arthur is sunlight, warmth. He is big and shining and golden, so golden that sometimes it's like Merlin can warm his hands just in the glow around him.

Merlin loves him fiercely.

Merlin is moonlight and he's always cold, especially at night. They're out on a long hunt, one night, sleeping on the ground, and Merlin shivers and shivers and shivers and tries not to toss and turn, because Arthur's so damned alert and he'll notice.

Then Arthur sits suddenly, in the firelit darkness, and lunges, and pulls Merlin into his warm embrace. Merlin struggles, startled, but Arthur holds him firmly until he goes still and submits. 'That's better,' he says softly, 'you're freezing, you idiot,' and arranges Merlin to his satisfaction.

He's so warm, so beautifully big and warm, and Merlin lets out an involuntary little sound of content, burrowing a little bit into Arthur's chest, his face pressed into Arthur's shirt and neck. Arthur gives a low laugh, the sound humming soothingly past Merlin's ear, and tightens his arms around him. 'Better?'

'Yes,' Merlin whispers, already slipping off to sleep; and he could almost imagine that before the darkness rolled over him, he felt the touch of lips, softly, on his hair.

Merlin is soft and gentle and not at all a fighter, and it sometimes makes Arthur want to shake him in frustration, but mostly just protect him.

Arthur is hard, and strong, and trained to fight, to hunt, to protect with the sword; but Merlin is something else entirely. Merlin nurtures things and cares for them and worries about them, and Arthur is fascinated by it.

Merlin likes unicorns. And flowers. And children – Arthur sees him go down on one knee next to a little lost crying toddler, and coax her into watery smiles, and then lift her up in his arms and take her home to her mother, little arms clinging trustingly around his neck. He never knew that Arthur had watched him.

Arthur’s training the next day, and he stops and turns to see where Merlin is sitting on the bench, and Merlin’s long smooth neck is craned up at the sky and he’s smiling vaguely. Arthur follows his eyes, and there’s a small wheeling bird, high in the blue heavens, dipping and circling and swooping without apparent intent.

Arthur brings his sword and puts it down; he’s had enough of the practice dummy anyway. He comes and sits down, not on the bench but on the ground at Merlin’s feet, and there’s something oddly intimate about it. He twists his head back and up to look at Merlin, and Merlin’s not looking at the bird now, but at Arthur, the little smile still dreaming at the corner of his mouth. And it feels right.

‘Good training?’ Merlin says softly, and he reaches out to straighten the neck of Arthur’s tunic where it’s bunched itself up under the mail shirt. His fingers feel cool and good against Arthur’s sweaty skin.

‘Good,’ Arthur confirms, and leans back against the bench, his head level with Merlin’s leg. He runs a hand through his damp hair, making it stick up in sweaty spikes; and then Merlin laughs and blows a cool stream of air onto him.

‘Ahh,’ Arthur says happily. ‘That’s good. Do it again.’

‘Yes, sire,’ Merlin says. ‘Your personal fan, that’s me.’

‘It’s an honour, Merlin,’ Arthur says lazily.

Merlin blows gently on him again, long and cool, and then says, soft and provocative, ‘Prat.’

Arthur lunges at him, and Merlin writhes away, almost out of reach, but Arthur’s battle reflexes don’t betray him and they end up wrestling all over the grass, laughing breathlessly. Inevitably, Arthur prevails, and ends up pinning Merlin to the ground, triumphantly grinning down at him. ‘Yield,’ he says firmly.

Merlin stops struggling and drops his head back, still laughing. ‘All right, I yield,’ he says meekly; and as Arthur releases his arms, Merlin reaches out with an easy movement and gently brushes the hair out of Arthur’s eyes.

Arthur is day, and light, and openness, and he's really rather terrible at keeping secrets considering that he's the Prince of Camelot. Sometimes he looks into Merlin's eyes, and his blue eyes are so honest and frank and open that Merlin's heart aches with his own burden of hoarded secrets.

(It is those times that Merlin must close himself up, tight, tight, like a locked chest in a vault, because he knows it would be so, so easy to let it all come spilling out at Arthur’s feet.)

Merlin is dark soothing night, and he closes himself up and keeps his secrets because he must.

But one day, they're out riding in the woods, bantering, and it's so stupid, the kind of inane freakish thing that never happens: a tree branch falls, as they're riding beneath it. And it's heading straight down on top of Arthur, and Merlin reacts on instinct, feeling his eyes glow warm with released magic – knocking the branch away from Arthur. Away from his beautiful Arthur, whom he loves more than his life and his secrets.

Arthur sees. Of course Arthur sees, and when the horses have stopped rearing and quietened, he’s staring at Merlin as though he’s just had a bucket of cold water to the face. Merlin’s shivering, thinking of taking the horse and bolting; but he can’t, he can’t.

‘You’re a sorcerer,’ Arthur says, blank and obvious.

‘Yes,’ Merlin says shakily, and dashes fiercely at the tears that have started to trickle down his face, waiting. Because if Arthur wants to take him back to Camelot as a prisoner, to a cold cell and death in the grey morning – if that is what Arthur wants, Merlin will let him, because he can’t deny Arthur anything.

‘You lied to me,’ Arthur says quietly, and Merlin presses his knuckles into his mouth and crushes back a dry helpless sob. He can’t meet Arthur’s eyes, now, too afraid of what he will see in them.

‘Get off your horse.’ Arthur’s voice is fierce and hard and Merlin must obey, so he does it, climbing off clumsily and waiting with a bowed head. There is silence, and then a little thud, and Merlin glances up for a fraction of a second, and Arthur’s off his horse. He’s striding towards Merlin with a grim mouth and a tight jaw, and Merlin stiffens and braces his shoulders.

‘God, just – just stop that,’ Arthur sounds sick and angry and strange. ‘I’m not going to hit you, damn you.’ And he takes Merlin’s shoulders in a hard, almost bruising grip, and he’s breathing hard, and Merlin’s crying messily, because he just can’t seem to stop and he’s more scared than he’s ever been in his life.

And then Arthur’s exploding. ‘What – WHAT were you THINKING?’ he roars, and Merlin gulps and shakes and turns his face away; but Arthur just shouts louder. ‘LOOK at me!’ – and Merlin has to obey, and he can’t understand what he’s seeing, because Arthur’s face is wet and furious and his mouth is working as though he’s trying to stop himself from weeping.

‘You’re – crying,’ Merlin gulps.

‘Shut up. Shut up,’ Arthur snarls. ‘You lied to me. You could have died. Every day. Damn you.’ And then he yanks Merlin roughly into something that’s more like a stranglehold than an embrace, and Merlin cries and cries and cries, his knees failing him, tears and snot and wetness everywhere.

‘Sorry. I’m sorry. So sorry,’ he keeps snuffling into Arthur’s shirt, and Arthur’s chest is heaving spasmodically and his face is pressed hard into a damp patch in Merlin’s hair.

It’s a long while they stand there, shuddering and clinging together. Finally, Arthur hauls Merlin out of the way of the horses, to a clear place by a tree, and they collapse against it, rough bark at their backs and twigs poking everywhere and Merlin’s long legs getting in the way. Merlin’s shuddering and sniffling, trying to wipe his face on his sleeve.

‘Don’t,’ Arthur says hoarsely, and pins Merlin’s arms down, fishing around and coming up with a big handkerchief from a pocket somewhere in his clothes. He tips Merlin’s stained face up and starts to dry it off, his own face fierce and wet-eyed.

‘You have to stop crying, you’ll be sick,’ Arthur says after a moment, as Merlin sobs again, and once more. ‘Merlin.’

Merlin gulps and closes his eyes for a moment, but another sob rises up his throat and the tears are still coming, leaking down his cheeks.

‘Take a deep breath,’ Arthur orders. ‘Merlin. I want you to obey me, now.’

Something about Arthur’s commands makes the world steady around Merlin, and he keeps his eyes closed and breathes in, and out, and concentrates on the feeling of Arthur’s tight hard grip on him. One last tiny sob – ‘Merlin,’ Arthur says warningly – and he manages to stop crying, though he’s still shivering all over.

‘That’s much better,’ Arthur says approvingly, and Merlin looks at him; and there’s something wonderful in Arthur’s face, something deep and soft and serious in the way he looks into Merlin’s eyes. And Arthur dries Merlin’s face with the handkerchief, gently, and holds it for Merlin to blow into, and then puts it back into his own pocket when he’s done.

Then they sit, and after a moment Merlin realises that Arthur is rocking him, slightly, back and forth and back and forth, and that gives him a little bit of courage.

‘Are you – are you going to – to –?’ His voice is a tiny thread of sound, but Arthur hears; and Arthur seems to curl himself over and around Merlin as though protecting him with his body.

‘Am I going to turn you in to my father?’ he says quietly. ‘Merlin.’

And he leans down and presses his forehead against Merlin’s, and speaks, slow and clear but very soft. ‘Listen to me. You are mine, and I protect what is mine with the last drop of my blood. Do you trust me?’

And Merlin gives a deep shaking sigh, and presses back against Arthur’s forehead, trembling. His eyes meet and hold Arthur’s, and he listens to the soft soothing sounds of their mingled breathing, and whispers, ‘Yes.’

Chapter Text

Things are different after that. Sometimes it feels as though Merlin can feel Arthur under his skin, so close, so opposite in nature, but so perfect. As though the tiny seed of each of them lies in the centre of the other’s very soul.

Merlin uses his magic, now, in Arthur’s sight; little bits here and there, the lighting of a candle, the warming of a jug of water. The first time, Arthur looks at him with a white face, and then grabs him and pushes him into a chair and lectures him for a long time about being reckless and stupid and endangering himself.

‘Can I not do magic in front of you, then?’ Merlin asks quietly, when Arthur pauses for breath; and Arthur groans and closes his eyes and runs his hand through his hair.

‘You’re going to turn my hair grey with worrying about you,’ he says in a low voice.

After a moment he reaches out and takes Merlin’s shoulder in a warm grasp, giving it little shakes to punctuate his words. ‘You can do magic when you’re with me, alone, with the door locked. Only then. And I warn you, Merlin, if I hear or see even a hint – a whisper – of reckless behaviour from you, I will make you sorry – you – were – ever – born. Am I understood?’

His face is implacable. Merlin swallows and meets his eyes. ‘I understand,’ he says meekly, and Arthur relaxes a little. There’s a long moment where they look at each other, and Arthur’s hand is still warm and protective on Merlin’s shoulder, and Arthur has that deep serious wonderful look again, like he’s looking right inside him. And Arthur is moving closer, and his eyes are very tender and his lips are parted–

And the door rattles, and they leap apart. Merlin’s shaking all over, and he twines his fingers together and looks pleadingly at Arthur, who’s smiling rather ruefully. ‘You look like a startled deer, Merlin,’ he says, and touches Merlin’s face very briefly with his hand. ‘You’d better go for now.’

Merlin quivers, and goes, peeping back at Arthur when he reaches the door. Arthur’s just standing, watching him, his eyes warm and soft, and smiling a very little bit.

Merlin takes a deep breath, and flees.

Merlin is innocent, and gentle, and very idiotic, for all his magic.

Arthur loves him. He has known it since Merlin had looked at him with tear-wet eyes in the forest, his face tipped up to be dried off. Perhaps even before that, when Merlin had slipped from his horse and waited in terror for Arthur’s judgement, and Arthur had known that if Merlin were to die, Arthur might as well jump into the flames to join him. Because a life without Merlin in it was unthinkable.

Arthur is honourable and chivalrous, a knight of Camelot, although perhaps not quite so innocent. Merlin must not be scared, or made to get the wrong idea; Merlin deserves more than to be Arthur’s secret in the dark, to be put aside when the next visiting princess or political match arrives in Camelot.

(When Arthur is King, he can change things, if Merlin wants it. He has a vague idea of marriage, or some sort of equivalent union. He’s not sure what precedent there is, but there must be something, and if there’s not, he’ll make something.)

Perhaps it had been the wrong time, before. Merlin had been frightened, perhaps; he had certainly been shaking, beneath Arthur’s hand. Next time must be better.

So Arthur plans it all very carefully. He does nothing more than smile at Merlin, and ruffle his hair, the next time he sees him, though Merlin keeps shooting him little wistful glances that make hope rise up high in Arthur’s throat.

But when Merlin’s finished his tasks (adorably clumsy and flustered, because Arthur’s been watching him) and turns to leave the room, Arthur stands up and stops him with a hand on his arm. Merlin’s cheeks are flushed pink and his lips are quivering; it’s all Arthur can do to stop himself from kissing him then and there.

But Merlin is an innocent baby, and deserves for this to be done properly. Arthur caresses his arm, a very little bit, with his thumb. ‘Merlin,’ he says, ‘I wish to go riding in the forest tomorrow. Will you come with me?’

Merlin looks at him with wide startled blue eyes, because Arthur, it must be admitted, has never really asked Merlin to accompany him anywhere, just ordered it or assumed that he would be there. Arthur holds his eyes with his own, smiling slightly, and Merlin swallows. ‘Yes,’ he whispers.

They go riding, and Merlin’s so jittery and jumpy that it’s a wonder he doesn’t spook his horse. Arthur decides not to take them too far, because Merlin looks like he might bolt at any moment.

‘Do you like this?’ Arthur asks, and Merlin bites his lip and nods, looking rather as though Arthur has grown an extra head.

They dismount, and tie up the horses – at least Arthur ties up his horse, and then looks over at Merlin, and Merlin’s head is bowed over the straps and he seems to be having trouble. Arthur moves up behind him, and says ‘Need some help?’ in his ear, and Merlin jumps violently and swings around.

‘No! I mean, no – yes!’ he stutters, and then says desperately, ‘Why are you acting like this?’

‘Like what?’ Arthur asks.

‘Like – like you’re under – some sort of spell!’ Merlin blurts, and he looks upset and worried, his brow furrowed up and his fingers twisting and pulling in his own hair.

Ah. Arthur begins to understand. ‘Has that happened before?’ he asks.

‘Yes!’ Merlin says miserably, ‘and you’re acting weird and too nice and not insulting me or ordering me about – and – and I don’t know what to think.’

‘Not ordering you about?’ Arthur says lightly. ‘Or insulting you? Well, then. Merlin, you suspiciously minded idiot, I’m ordering you to sit down here, right now, and shut up and listen while I talk some sense into your thick skull.’ He waits, watching Merlin’s face.

Merlin makes a funny little sound. It might be a sob, but it probably isn’t, because he’s starting to smile, joyful and relieved, and the smile spreads all the way to his eyes and his adorable ears.

Arthur ties up his horse for him, shaking his head at the tangle Merlin’s made of it all. Then they sit down together on the soft pine-needled patch that Arthur has chosen; and Merlin hugs his knees to his chest and smiles happily at Arthur over the top of them.

‘Now,’ Arthur says. ‘I suppose you think I’m under a love spell. I assure you that I’m not. My head’s clear, there are no gaps in my memories and I still think you’re the worst manservant I’ve ever had. I was merely trying to be nice, but it has become obvious that you’re seriously disturbed and enjoy being insulted.’

Merlin’s face is an adorable combination of delighted and confused; he’s flushing and looking down at his knees, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Then he peeps at Arthur from under his eyelashes, and says softly, ‘Prat!’

Arthur wants to reach for him, so badly. Perhaps Merlin isn’t the only one who’s seriously disturbed, because Arthur thinks that he rather likes being insulted by Merlin, too. They smile at each other, and then Arthur remembers something, and jumps up, pointing a finger at Merlin. ‘Stay there.’

He’s back in half a minute, holding his hand behind his back. ‘Part of the reason I chose this spot,’ he says, ‘was this.’

Merlin looks at him inquiringly, and Arthur grins and proffers the blue periwinkle he’s holding in his hand. ‘I want to give you flowers,’ he says quietly.

There’s a long pause, and then Merlin – Merlin is pressing his knuckles into his mouth, hard, and blinking rapidly, and sniffing; and Arthur reaches for him.

And Merlin is scrambling and coming to him as though he belongs there, nestling into Arthur’s chest and flinging his arms around his neck. It’s like all the other times they’ve held each other, and yet different, gentler. Waves of tenderness are rolling over Arthur, and Merlin keeps sniffling, and there are tears on his face.

Arthur cradles Merlin’s head, and places the periwinkle at his neck, tucked in the folds of the red scarf. And then – and then, Merlin’s face is close, and his lips are soft, so soft; and Arthur leans forward and kisses him.

It’s incredible, and amazing, and worthy of a love song that Arthur has no capability at all to write. Merlin’s quivering in his arms, making little contented sobbing noises, and his lips are even softer than Arthur had imagined, and trembling against Arthur’s own. Arthur kisses away the doubt, and the worry, and the fear of Merlin’s magic being discovered; he kisses away the ache of Merlin’s long-kept secrets.

And he kisses Merlin because he loves him, and he always will love him, and they belong together, like two opposite halves of a whole being. And the kiss is a promise between them.

‘I want you to marry me,’ Arthur says. They’ve just broken the kiss, and Merlin’s in a dizzy euphoric daze, half-lying against Arthur’s chest, which is warm and comforting and blessedly solid. Arthur’s arms are strong and reassuring around him, and Merlin snuggles into them, and Arthur laughs softly. ‘You’re an innocent little baby, aren’t you?’ he says.

Really, that’s going too far. Merlin’s tongue feels heavy and slow, but he manages to murmur, ‘I am not.’

‘Of course you are,’ Arthur says firmly. ‘Will you marry me?’

‘Is that – even possible?’ Merlin asks sleepily, frowning.

‘It will be,’ Arthur says, and there’s that mulish, implacable look again, the one that says that Arthur will have his sweet way, if he has to turn half the world to fire to do so. ‘It will be, when I am King. I promise you, Merlin.’ He pauses, and looks into Merlin’s eyes. ‘You’re not going to be my secret in the dark. I’m going to marry you, or nothing.’

Merlin’s heart feels full and light, like it’s going to burst out of his chest; and he turns his face into Arthur’s neck and rubs his nose softly against the skin there, smelling Arthur’s nice warm safe Arthur-smell.

‘I sometimes – sometimes wondered if, if all that honour and chivalry stuff was really true to you knights,’ he says, rather unsteadily, into the hollow of Arthur’s neck, and feels Arthur bend his head to listen. ‘I guess it is. To you.’

Arthur’s hand smoothes up and down his back, gentle. ‘It is,’ he says firmly.

They go back to Camelot, and to anyone else’s eyes go on as they always have, the Crown Prince and his manservant.

Except now there are long soft glances between them, and lingering touches that they can’t quite hold back when they’re in public. And in Arthur’s rooms, behind the barred door, there are sometimes long sweet kisses, and sometimes gentle nestling embraces that go on, and on, and on, and give both of them strength to carry on with everything, day after day.

Sometimes, Arthur falls into a black mood. ‘This will drive me out of my mind,’ he mumbles into Merlin’s neck. ‘This hiding. Lying.’

They’re cuddled up in a pile of blankets by the window, watching rain drip coldly off the stone, and Arthur’s expression has been tight and drawn all day. Merlin runs gentle sure fingers over his face, smoothing out the wrinkles in Arthur’s forehead, running his hands through Arthur’s soft hair. ‘Shh,’ he says, and pulls Arthur in closer to kiss his temple softly. ‘Don’t be a dollophead.’

That makes Arthur grin a little bit. ‘That’s not even a word, Merlin.’ He shifts round a bit, disturbing Merlin, who’s nuzzling his cheek like a baby deer, and takes Merlin’s chin tenderly, and kisses him.

Sometimes it’s Merlin who goes quiet and miserable, and it takes a lot of coaxing from Arthur before he will talk it out with him.

‘Come on,’ says Arthur gently, after a dismal morning of council meetings, where Merlin has had to stand quietly behind Arthur’s chair and listen to the King outline new plans for the suppression of scattered magic users, and drop veiled hints about ‘strategic alliances’ with one eye on Arthur.

‘Merlin.’ Arthur bolts the door behind them and reaches out; Merlin’s stiff and chilled and taut, like a spear of ice. ‘Oh, come here.’

He wraps warm strong arms around Merlin, and for a moment Merlin stays rigid and unbending. The next, he’s shuddering and melting and grabbing onto Arthur’s shirt as though he wants to burrow into his chest, and Arthur holds him and makes small soothing sounds and rocks him a little to calm him.

‘I’m sorry, so sorry. It won’t always be like this,’ he murmurs against Merlin’s dark hair.

‘I know,’ Merlin mumbles into his shoulder, and they hold on to each other for a long quietening moment. And their lips seek each other and meet softly, and everything seems somehow brighter, though the sky is misty grey outside the window.

Other times, lovely times, they sit together in the sun, and laugh and tease and talk about all the things they’ll do, one day, together.

Arthur finds that Merlin wants children, someday, and also that he blushes most adorably when Arthur brings the subject up. They end up wrestling on the grass over it, which inevitably leads to Arthur pinning Merlin helpless beneath his body while Merlin fires breathless laughing insults at him, the both of them surrounded by a happy haze.

Merlin, for his part, coaxes out Arthur’s dreams of ruling with Merlin as his Consort and Court Warlock at his side, and it takes a little while for him to become accustomed to the thought of such worryingly high rank. ‘But Arthur! I’ve no idea how to act like a – a Consort or anything! And what kind of awful clothes will I have to wear?’

Arthur’s eyes gleam.

‘Oh, no,’ Merlin says warningly. ‘Oh, no, you don’t, you prat.’

‘Oh, yes, I do,’ Arthur says in a voice of soft velvet; and he drowns Merlin’s objections in another kiss, one that leaves Merlin dizzy and happy and incoherent and quite unable to form any more protests or defy Arthur’s authority in any way.

And so they build their shining dream-castles in the air, for the future and the kingdom they’ll make together. King and warlock, sun and moon, night and day – two halves of a whole, complete, connected, in complement.

And hope is in the very air they breathe, and a promise.

Chapter Text

‘Look,’ Merlin says softly. ‘You can see where the clouds are going.’

Arthur squeezes his hand. They’re lying on their backs, in the long soft meadow grass, three day’s ride from Camelot; and Arthur’s heart feels warm and full and light, and Merlin is by his side. And there is a ring on Arthur's hand that was not there before, and a matching pair to it on Merlin's; silver and gold twining and knotting together in complicated twists.

‘The sky’s so blue,’ Arthur says, and Merlin lets out a little breath of a laugh of pure happiness, and rolls over so he's against Arthur's chest, looking deep into Arthur's face with a smile as blinding as summer sunshine. Arthur bumps his nose gently to Merlin's, and he can't help grinning back at Merlin like a lovesick fool.

And then they’re melting and twining together, body fitted to body, lips moving slowly against each other; and all around them like an embrace are the soft sounds of the grass and the Earth and the trees.

Several months earlier

Sometimes, everything just goes wrong. As though the world is conspiring against you or something, trying to knock you off your feet and drag you down. Merlin feels a bit like that, right now.

The King is pushing Arthur to choose the bride of his choice from three highly eligible princesses and one just-as-eligible widowed noblewoman. He has also been enthusiastically drafting plans to hunt down certain wandering bands of druids that have been sighted in the borderlands, and he’s placed Arthur in charge of their extermination.

Uther holds a large and cheerful session with his council to unveil these new plans, and Merlin stands in the corner and fixes his eyes on Arthur’s face, because he thinks he might scream if he looks anywhere else. So he just looks, and looks, and looks at Arthur, at Arthur’s strong fierce jawline and proud beautiful nose and kind mouth, while Uther’s voice fills up and reverberates around the inside of his head. And every so often Arthur glances at Merlin, and it’s like a lifeline between them.

Finally, finally, it’s blessedly over, and Merlin comes to Arthur, and they leave the hall together, and go to Arthur’s room. There’s no speaking between them, but they’re walking so close beside each other that their shoulders are brushing.

And Arthur pushes the door shut behind them, and bolts it with a fierce thud as though to shut the whole world out; and they turn and look at each other.

‘I don’t want a damned bride,’ Arthur says in a crackly sort of voice. ‘Unless it’s you. You wouldn’t be a bride, I suppose.’

‘No, you – you’d be the bride,’ Merlin says, trying to turn it into a joke, although his laugh breaks a bit at the end.

Arthur’s grin is crooked. ‘Not a chance,’ he says. And then both of them move at the same moment; and Arthur rests his palms on Merlin's shoulders, and Merlin cradles the back of Arthur’s head with one hand, and tugs, so that their foreheads meet and they lean together. The sound of their breathing mingles; and Merlin’s free hand comes to rest on Arthur’s chest, rubbing little blunt circles over his shirt.

'I -' Merlin says, and his voice cracks a little, and he clears his throat and tries again. 'I love you.' It comes out quiet, aching, tender.

Arthur's eyes are closed tightly, and he swallows. 'Me, too,' he says. 'But you, that is – I mean…' He trails off, blushing a little and tongue-tied. Merlin snorts a little, at the dear vulnerable idiocy of him, and it makes a little weary smile tug at the corner of Arthur's lips.

He tips his head to take Merlin's mouth with his own, and then they're melting together, lips against lips, hands warm as sunshine on each other's backs.

'I just – ' Arthur says, much later, and stops. 'I just want to go away from everything, sometimes. Just – go, somewhere, where I don't have to be a prince, and no-one wants me to marry anyone I don't love, or hurt innocent people, or anything. You – me – we could run away. Somewhere far away – oh, I know it's stupid, you don't have to tell me that I have my duty to think of, but... But.' He laughs a little bit, self-deprecating.

They're curled up by the window, in their favourite spot, watching the late-winter rains turn the snow to slush. Merlin snuggles against his side, playing with Arthur’s shirt-laces. 'It's your father that tells you things like that, not me, Arthur. And it would be wonderful, why can't we do it?'

Arthur looks at him. 'What? Merlin, you know we can't just elope. What on earth are you talking about?'

Merlin's eyes are very bright. It's his thinking look, the one he gets when he's having an idea. His ideas are split rather evenly between brilliant and atrocious, so Arthur fixes him with a wary eye.

'Go on, spit it out.'

Merlin leans forward. 'Why can't we elope? No, listen, Arthur, really. I don’t mean really run away from everything, but… I've been finding out things, talking to people. The druids – they marry people like – like us. It doesn't matter if it's two men, or two women, it doesn't make any difference to them.' His voice trails, quiet. 'Anyone who wants to, to make... promises. To each other.' He holds Arthur's eyes, a flush rising high on his cheekbones.

There’s a traitorous little stab of excitement in Arthur’s chest, and he swallows hard, because there’s something big and tight in his throat that feels oddly like hope.

‘I’d – I want that, Merlin,’ he says hoarsely. ‘I really – I want that, a lot. Do you – would you – with me…?’

And Merlin’s laughing rather unsteadily, and his eyes are brighter than ever, and his lashes are wet. ‘Of course I do, you big dollophead. And you – you just had t-to make me cry, didn’t you?’

Arthur thinks that’s a little unfair, because he hadn’t done anything, really; but he doesn’t have time to say that, because Merlin’s suddenly turning and flinging his arms fiercely around Arthur’s neck, nestling and pressing against him as though he’s trying to melt the both of them into one person.

Arthur holds him tenderly and dear God, he’s so lucky, so very impossibly blessed to have Merlin, because Merlin is dear and beautiful and the most precious thing in Arthur’s life. And a great crashing billow of feeling surges up inside him, so that he wants to run for miles and fight and dance and bite Merlin softly all over his face, and shout to the world that he loves him, he loves him, he loves him.

He doesn’t say it, of course, can’t say it, because he's Arthur and sometimes it’s hard to make his words match up with everything that’s really inside his heart. But he looks at Merlin, and he thinks that at least some little part of it must be showing on his face, because Merlin’s face is open and wondering, looking into Arthur’s own as though he sees a revelation.

‘Arthur,’ Merlin whispers. ‘Oh – Arthur – Arthur.’

‘I love you,’ Arthur says awkwardly, and feels himself flushing to hear his voice finally say the words. It sounds so – so pathetic, and ordinary-sounding, and not at all like the beautiful deep feeling of it in the core of himself. It’s not like when Merlin says it, either, sweet and heartfelt, his blue eyes intense.

But Merlin doesn't seem to mind, because he's coming and crushing his mouth against Arthur's, kissing him with tender trembling lips, and of course he's crying because he's an innocent sentimental baby who always cries when he's happy or sad. And Arthur kisses him back, and then licks up his tears with tiny gentle flicks of his tongue along Merlin's cheekbones, because it seems like the right thing to do.

It takes months. Months of Merlin going off on surreptitious scouting trips to make contact with travelling druid tribes, months of Arthur staying behind and worrying, months of plans and disappointments and excuses and longing.

'The druids are peaceful,' Merlin says gently. He runs his hands reassuringly up and down Arthur's back, standing behind him as Arthur broods out of the window. Merlin's fingers are long and slender, sure and skilful, and Arthur relaxes into the caress with a little weary sound as Merlin rubs gentle thumbs into the hard tensed bands of muscle in his shoulders.

'Yes, the druids are peaceful,' Arthur says, his eyes closed, 'but the bandits and raiders aren't. I want to come with you.'

Merlin sighs and leans forward against Arthur so that his firm chin rests on Arthur’s shoulder, turning his head in and sort of nestling the tip of his nose into Arthur’s hair, inhaling. ‘I want you to come, too,’ he admits, and his arms come around Arthur’s body. ‘But you can’t, Arthur. Not every time. There’s only so many times you can use the same excuses to your father. And I can take care of myself, you know.’

‘Could have fooled me,’ Arthur says darkly.

Merlin leaves again, and Arthur waits – again.

Merlin returns, rather bruised and battered looking, but happy. 'I found them,' he says, his voice full off suppressed exultation. 'They will – they'll marry us. Arthur.'

Arthur runs his hands are all over him, wanting to touch as much as he can, sitting Merlin down in his big chair, gently brushing his hair away from a shallow crusted cut on his forehead. 'You're hurt,' he says.

'Just scratches.' Merlin closes his eyes, basking in enjoyment as Arthur's fingers card through his hair. 'No bandits - well, except for that little hungry one.'

'Little hungry one?' Arthur says. 'Merlin, what the hell are you talking about? Did he give you that cut?'

Merlin sighs. 'No,' he says. 'That was a tree. He was little and scared and only about fourteen or something, so I took away his knife and gave him supper. Look Arthur, please can you not ask me lots of questions because I'm really, really tired. Just... shh, all right?'

'I'm sorry,' Arthur says quietly, and puts his arm around him, perching on the table. Merlin turns his face in to Arthur’s arm, just sort of hiding there and breathing in Arthur’s scent, and it does strange shivery mushy things to Arthur’s insides. He rubs his thumb in gentle circles over the soft sharp bump of Merlin’s shoulderblade, over and over, feeling Merlin relax more and more against him.

After a few moments Arthur goes and catches a passing palace servant, ordering food to be brought, and warm water in a bowl. He takes a cloth and kneels by Merlin, carefully washing his face and hands, dabbing very gently at the dried blood on his forehead, feeling Merlin’s gaze on his face. When he looks up from the task to meet Merlin’s eyes, there’s such a look of raw naked adoration there that it makes Arthur catch his breath. It’s so like Merlin – giving everything, not holding any tiny scrap of himself back.

Arthur finishes cleaning Merlin’s hands, between each slim finger, and then bends his head down and kisses each one separately. I love you, he thinks with each kiss. I love you. I love you.

Go to the Grove of Frithgeard, ten days hence, the druids had said, the words slotting softly into Merlin’s mind without need of spoken voice. Meet us beneath the Great Oak of Trysting. Let neither you nor your plighted one, the Prince of Camelot, carry weapons into the place of peace.

I – what? I never said who he was! Merlin had spluttered in his mind, lurching back a little, wary.

A warm chuckle filled his head. The druid chieftain was smiling, but gently. You do not have to, Emrys, for he fills your mind like golden sunlight. Even you cannot hide it. But you do not have to fear us, for we bear no ill will toward the Prince, who will bring peace and kindness and magic back to the land when he is King. We are honoured to help him, as we are honoured to help you.

And Merlin couldn’t help blushing and smiling a little, and when he looked up the chieftain had an oddly soft, fond look on his face. You are… not quite what we expected, Emrys, when we heard the old tales. You are both younger and more wise, and love shapes all that you do, which is the greatest wisdom of all. You are like us, Emrys, and we are glad to meet you in a moment of peace and happiness.

My name is Merlin, Merlin thought, impulsively.

A warmth swept through his mind, the warmth of many smiles. We thank you, Merlin. To us you will always be Emrys, but it brings us happiness to be given your other name.

Thank you. Merlin had bowed his head and spread his hands in the druid’s own gesture of peace and goodwill. Thank you.

Merlin and Arthur wait alone in the Grove from the early morning. Sunlight dapples down through the branches of the Great Oak, making patterns on the grass beneath it where they lie.

They had been woken when the dawn had just begun to streak across the night sky; woken with gentle hands and led to a sacred spring, stripped and bathed side by side in chilled water that made them gasp, and then dried with unbleached woven cloths.

They’re dressed, now, in soft white shirts, open-necked and comfortable; weaponless. ‘Wait here together,’ the robed attendants had murmured, smiling a little. ‘You will not be disturbed, the next few hours. When the day reaches its climax and the sun its zenith, the tribe will come, and Iseldir our chief will bind you together beneath the living sun.’ Then they had dipped their heads and left.

‘This is… good,’ Arthur says quietly. ‘I – thought it would be strange. Druids. My father talks about them as though they’re evil incarnate, and he – he doesn’t know anything about them.’

Merlin nestles his head into the crook of Arthur’s neck, taking his hand in his own and playing with it, fitting their fingers together. ‘Arthur, you are not your father. They’re honoured to do this for you, you know. They said so. Because you’ll bring peace and magic and – kindness back to Camelot.’ He rubs his thumb, softly, over the back of Arthur’s hand.

‘They remind me of you, you know,’ Arthur murmurs. His hand wanders to Merlin’s collarbone, tracing gentle swirling patterns across his skin and making him shiver. ‘Kind. Wise. Gentle.’

Merlin swallows and tries to grin. ‘You’re very – complimentary – today.’

And then Arthur’s everywhere, his mouth suckling warm kisses into Merlin’s neck, his hands threading through his hair. ‘It is – my wedding day – after all, Merlin. And they said we wouldn’t be disturbed.’

Merlin laughs, rather breathlessly, because it’s hard to think straight with Arthur’s lips just there – and there. And then Arthur’s fingers dip beneath his shirt – and he – dear God, he bites, softly, and, oh… Merlin stops thinking at all.

The ritual is almost silent. Merlin and Arthur stand beneath the oak, hands clasped together, the druid tribe forming a quiet half-circle around them.

A small girl appears, a small smiley brown-eyed girl, and the people part to make way for her. She’s only about five years old, and she’s carefully bearing two circlets of leafy green.

Iseldir is standing a little to one side; he smiles encouragingly at the child, and murmurs to Merlin and Arthur, ‘Kneel now, so Frytha can crown you.’

It’s gentle, familiar, friendly; the gathered people smile lovingly as Iseldir guides the little Frytha through her part in the ritual. She places a garland on Merlin’s head, and one on Arthur’s shining hair, beaming proudly at them. Merlin can’t help smiling back at her, and when he glances at Arthur, he sees that Arthur has a soft look on his face that makes Merlin want to kiss him right then and there.

Frytha kisses them both heartily on their cheeks, flinging her little arms around each of their necks in turn and squeezing affectionately. ‘May the Earth bless your handfasting,’ she says carefully, a line learned by heart; and then makes a wobbly little druid peace-sign with her hands and scurries away with a flurry of brown curls.

Iseldir comes forward, a wooden cup held in his hands. He offers it first to Arthur, who’s closest; Merlin sees that it’s full of deep red wine. Arthur drinks deep and long, meeting Merlin’s eyes gravely across the rim of the cup. Merlin smiles a little; and then Iseldir is offering him the cup, and Merlin fits his lips over the place where Arthur had drunk.

There’s a murmured sound of approval from the druids around them, but Merlin doesn’t look away from Arthur’s blue, blue eyes, endless as the sky. Iseldir takes the cup back when Merlin has drunk, and sets it down, coming to stand beside them again.

‘Take each other’s hands,’ he says softly.

Arthur’s hands are warm and steady and comfortingly familiar. Merlin squeezes them a little, meeting Arthur’s answering smile with a quirk of his own lips.

A long trailing wreath is wrapped round their hands. ‘Beneath the Sun I bind you together,’ Iseldir chants quietly, and the voices of the clan mingle together with his. ‘Let the Earth around us bear witness.’

This is their cue, as they had been instructed beforehand, and Merlin says softly, ‘Let it be so indeed.’ Arthur repeats it after him, his voice husky.

‘Frytha,’ Iseldir murmurs, and the little girl is there again, tongue stuck out the corner of her mouth in concentration as she carefully takes away the wreath. Then Iseldir gives something into each of her small hands, and she comes forward again, brown eyes wide and intent.

‘By the Sun, and the Moon and the Earth awound us,’ she says lispingly, and then beams in triumph at having said her line correctly, offering them her outstretched hands. A ring rests in the careful cup of each small palm, gold and silver twisted and twined together.

They fumble a little, together, as they exchange the rings; Merlin gives a tiny huff of warm laughter at Arthur’s unsteady hands, and Arthur glances up, meeting his eyes with soft amusement for a moment. But then the bands slip onto their fingers, cool and fitting and right.

Then Arthur’s arms are around Merlin, and Merlin’s hands are clutching Arthur’s back, bodies melding against each other. And they kiss each other’s lips, there beneath the Great Oak with the sound of the Earth all around about them, and the soft glad murmurs of the watching tribe.

Arthur curls himself more closely around Merlin, resting his face in Merlin’s soft dark hair. They’re nestled together, blissfully spent from making love over and over again, close to sleep. The full moon is white and softly glimmering above them where they lie; their cloaks make a scant barrier beneath them, but the grass is soft.

‘Do you ever feel so happy that you could just – burst?’ Merlin murmurs.

He’s soft and pliant and dreamy, and he turns his head languidly against Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur can see him in the clear wash of moonlight – the dear familiar line of Merlin’s cheekbone and jaw, the light catching in his eyes, the soft question of his lips. And Arthur’s heart is full, so very full, and it feels like liquid shining happiness is filling him up all the way through to the core of his being.

‘Yes,’ Arthur says into Merlin’s hair, and drops a kiss there, very, very gently.