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Being a peasant, and a poorer, farming one at that, Merlin had always just known that hope was dangerous. Having the powers he had, suffering the lonely childhood full of fear and hiding, made it even more so.
That's just how it had to be. Hope was dangerous. Hope was unattainable. Hope was for people with riches and stability. Not for those who scraped to survive, not for those who knew in their bones that one hard winter could be their end.
And yet, Merlin still hoped. Deep down in his muscles, in the sinew and blood. Hidden just as deeply, just as fervently as his Magic. He packed his meagre belongings with the hope that Camelot could bring him new life. With the hope that Gaius could teach him, not just how to hide, but how to utilize his power, safely. He kissed his mother goodbye, hoping her life would be easier without so much of the strain and stress his peculiarity had always put upon her shoulders. He journeyed alone, through new and unknown, and beautiful land, hopeful that Camelot would be better. Hoping he would find his place in the world, and that he'd feel he actually belonged in it.
Hope was dangerous, and unattainable. Sharp, painful. Full of claws and fangs and steep ravines on either side.
When Merlin met Arthur, and was thrust into his service without choice, all his hope fell low in his belly. The young Prince was arrogant, selfish, a glorified prat. Who could hold onto hope with a pillock like that poised to take over when Uther died?
It was a long time before Merlin realized he felt it, fluttering with sharp wings in his breast. His days were busy, and long, and exhausting, his attention divided. Between his duties, their hunts, the attacks, and trying to squeeze in those important lessons, he barely had time to think.
But standing there, watching Arthur teach his new knights complicated sword work, watching the sun light his hair gold like a halo, like a crown, watching his Prince - his friend - his future King laugh as he dismissed them, watching as his eyes cast about for Merlin, the young warlock realised it hadn't left him at all.
As Arthur spotted him, as his face lit with more than sunlight, as he strode eagerly towards him, Merlin felt it.
Hope. Deep in his bones, in his sinew, in his blood.
As he stood beside his Prince with bandits spitting curses in the woods, as he flicked whatever magics he felt he could escape notice with, he felt it.
It was restless when Arthur paced in his chambers, speaking treasonous words about his own father, his King.
It fluttered when he watched Arthur knight Gwaine, knight Lancelot.
It flapped frantically as he stood against the wall and watched Arthur seat their friends, their Knights, at a table round and even. As Arthur took his seat, no higher than the others, no more ornate, among them.
It soared as he stood upon sacred ground and watched his King speak tentative peace with the Druids.
Hope had always been dangerous. He knew it wasn't something that was allowed him, not in his place, not with his low birth and his illegal existence.
But when Arthur settled peace talks, when he fought against the kidnapping of magic-bearing children, when he stood regal and sweating after every battle to better their kingdom, that hope in Merlin's abdomen grew wings and tails and teeth and claws and rent him inside.
It screeched and soared and flew all through his limbs when Arthur looked at him, no longer as a Prince to a servant, but as a man to his friend.
It expanded in every fibre of his being the first time Arthur looked at him with quiet, thoughtful eyes, as he closed the door to his chambers and bid him sit with him at the table to share their evening meal. It called to his blood when his King looked up from his goblet, braced himself, and asked.
"Is it foolish," the words sang to every thread of hope he'd ever felt, "to reconsider Uther's stance on Magic?"
It choked him, felt as though as any moment it might burst from him and split him in two, wings chasing away the years he'd hidden, to dive and swoop around the room, as he met the steel in Arthur's eyes.
"Am I insane, to consider that all these years... He was wrong?"
Hope was dangerous. But with a friend, with a companion, with a King such as Arthur, it had always been inevitable.