Chapter Text
It was an ordinary day in Camelot.
The sun squeezed between fat clouds to shine what light it could. The people went about their work without much thought of the past. The birds chirped as they looked for food, and the laundry flapped gently on its line.
A perfectly ordinary day.
But Arthur, seated at his desk in his chambers and smiling faintly, knew otherwise.
The door opened, breaking him from his contemplation, and Arthur looked up to see Merlin step inside. The man carried a basket of laundry, fresh off the line and stacked with just enough sloppiness that it was evident Merlin had folded it.
Merlin was whistling, and only stopped long enough to send Arthur a smile and a two-fingered wave before resuming the tune as he stepped across the room to the clothes cabinet. The doors slid open on their own, and the clean clothes soared from the basket and to their proper places. Merlin barely waited for all the clothes to exit the basket before he turned away, leaving the laundry to sort itself as he returned the hamper to its proper corner.
Magic, Arthur thought, feeling particularly in awe of the easy performance, and said, “Show me magic, Merlin.”
The whistling stopped, and Merlin turned from the basket with the brilliantly happy, slightly shy expression he always adopted upon such a request. Really? it said. You want to see magic?
You want to see me?
“Now?” he said, curious. “Why?”
Arthur blinked at him, surprised. “A year ago today,” he said, “Magic became legal in Camelot.”
Merlin’s jaw slackened, his eyes growing distant, though not sad.
Arthur shook his head fondly. “You forgot about it, didn’t you?”
“A year,” Merlin breathed, running a hand through his hair with a short laugh.
“A year,” Arthur repeated. “Should we celebrate?”
Merlin grinned, then leapt toward the desk. Halfway there, he reined in his excitement and slowed down, but still, he was smiling ear to ear.
“Give me your hand,” he said, eyes sparkling.
Arthur eyed him, feigning suspicion, but stretched out his hand palm up. Merlin curled Arthur’s fingers down, creating a loose fist, and cupped his own hands over it.
“Bryne−wylm, yfel tôstihtan êower niman wlite,” Merlin said.
Arthur watched the glow of Merlin’s eyes fade, then glanced down. Merlin pulled his hands back, and as he moved away, Arthur felt something inside his fist. He opened his hand.
On his palm, an impossible creature flickered. Six tiny legs, formed of sparks that glowed and faded like embers, rested against his skin, tickling faintly. Two eyes, as beady as a real, living insect, shone up at him. And on the creature’s back, two little wings rose and rubbed against each other, creating the perfect imitation of a cricket’s chirp.
Merlin murmured something, and Arthur raised his head. A second cricket was taking shape on Merlin’s palm, and a moment later, its chirping joined the first. Merlin stared down at it, his expression pure joy.
“It can be terrible,” he said quietly, with the seriousness of a person who had seen the proof. “But it can be beautiful, too.”
Awestruck, Arthur used his index finger to stroke the head of the cricket he held. The sparks didn’t burn, only prickled like grass against his skin. Shaking his head, Arthur looked up again to meet Merlin’s eyes, knowing that Merlin’s thoughts echoed his.
Though a year was not long enough for the novelty of blatant magic in the king’s chambers to have worn off, the fact that neither of them had any reason to fear was still the real novelty.
“A year,” Merlin said again.
Arthur gazed at the magical creature he held, struck by all that it represented, and raised his hand in a slight salute. “Here’s to many more.”