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Before the misery can claw its way high enough to clog his throat, Merlin forces himself to say, “No.”
Not what he’d been aiming for, but still better than nothing. He watches as Arthur's mouth snaps closed. Watches the way his jaw clenches and how he grinds his teeth. He doesn’t let his eyes stray to Arthur’s hands—the grip he has on his sword.
“No.”
It’s just that this isn’t how it was supposed to happen. Merlin’s not going to let this be how it happens. Everything has already gotten so overwhelmingly out of his control—this will not be just another thing he’ll let fate or destiny or happenstance or whatever the fuck else take away from him. This is his. It’s supposed to be between him and—between him and Arthur, on his own terms. In his own way and at his own chosen place during his own chosen time.
He bites his lip and thinks he tastes blood. Tries to pretend that the anger and frustration and decisive refusal to accept this is happening are enough to drown out the desperation and fear and horror over the fact that it is.
The tip of Excalibur gleams with some horrible promise, maybe threat. And Merlin really does believe that Arthur won’t kill him, but that doesn’t mean he knows how to handle being on the other end of Arthur and his sword.
He tries to swallow the misery down, but starts choking on the fear instead.
“You saw nothing,” he says, for the first time noticing how silent the forest itself is. Like everything’s holding its breath right along with him. The space between him and Arthur stretches and warps, and Merlin wonders if that’s where all the noise has gone; lost somewhere in that void. He wonders if the words will also get lost somewhere there.
Excalibur wavers, but another wall of blue steel is already up in Arthur’s eyes—the fondness and warmth shut out with a resounding thud that’s hard to interpret as anything other than final—and it’s not the win it should be. Merlin clenches and unclenches his fists. His palms sting from half-moon marks indenting his skin, but at least the sharp pain forces his mind to stay present.
“You saw nothing, just like you never do.” Arthur doesn’t even blink. “Nothing happened, so let’s just—we’re all going to move on and just—”
He almost feels breathless. Maybe slightly hysterical. But his voice comes out cautious and numb, and he’ll take that over sounding afraid. Arthur almost reminds him of a predator like this: focus sharp and intent and fully on Merlin; too still, like he’s cataloging every movement and calculating every available attack plan.
Part of him thinks that any sign of fear might spur Arthur into action, and he doesn’t know if he wants Arthur to move quite yet.
The stillness from him is disconcerting in a way that makes every last hair on Merlin’s body stand, makes his stomach twist even tighter with anxiety. But he thinks even this is better than if Arthur were to—
At least, like this, everything is suspended in time. Nothing’s happened yet. Nothing bad.
His eyes start to sting, too, but he refuses to blink. He can’t risk missing even a moment, in case Arthur builds another wall in that split second and shuts him out further.
“Please,” Merlin begs, voice hoarse and throat dry. It’s too much to ask. It’s too much to ask him to turn his head the other way, especially since it’s Arthur—so duty bound and action-prone—he knows it is, but he needs Arthur to grant him it anyway.
Gwaine is there a minute later with a hand over his back. “I saw nothing,” he agrees, voice light and perhaps tinged with some challenge or threat. Merlin bites his lip and wants to sag into the strong, steady support of Gwaine’s touch, but can’t. For all his trepidation over Arthur’s stillness, Merlin had hardly registered his own rigidity. The two of them stuck, frozen just the same, as if their bodies are in their own separate pockets of time.
Merlin wonders what Arthur’s thinking, and almost flinches. Best not go there yet, he supposes.
Lancelot and Leon step up to Arthur a second later, mostly blocking his view. He can still see Arthur’s eyes though—still locked on his, pupils the size of needle tips, irises blue like the sea during a storm. Merlin swallows and feels himself shiver; there’s almost nothing in Arthur’s gaze but some raw promise of violence at the slightest wrong move.
Lancelot keeps shooting him concerned looks from where he’s gently gripping Arthur’s arm, but Leon’s eyes are for the prince regent alone. He doesn’t know where Percival and Elyan are.
Merlin wishes they were, all of them, somewhere else.
Arthur’s breaths slowly settle with every word Leon and Lancelot murmur to him, but his eyes never waver. The cold fury that had been rolling off of him in cascades gradually subsides, and Merlin wants to know what they’re saying. He wants to know why Arthur’s brow is furrowed; why he looks more uncertain with every passing second.
He’s been talking Arthur down from rash, rage-fueled decisions for half a decade, now. To be on the other end while others take his place is—jarring. It’s something he never even thought about. It stuns him to his core.
With one last murmur from Leon, Arthur finally lets Excalibur drop. A palpable amount of tension from everyone else drops with it. He takes a deep breath and lets his gaze flicker away. At the same moment, Arthur closes his eyes. Gwaine lets out a very quiet, very soft breath.
No one talks, and the sounds of the forest start to trickle back in; every buzzing insect and rustling leaf that his brain had filtered out so that he could focus completely on Arthur and remain standing.
But even with the worst of the tension gone, the dark chasm in Merlin’s stomach remains. Worsens. Gives way for a subtle wave of nausea to roll right over him.
When Arthur opens his eyes, gathering himself and straightening up, his hair catches that stray strand of sunlight that Excalibur left behind. It makes him look crowned and destined, like something out of a desperate man’s final prayers. It’s hard to stand and swallow and focus on breathing, but Arthur catches his attention with the same ease as he always does. Even now. Especially now.
He walks away, not meeting Merlin’s gaze again, and waves at Leon to stay when he tries to follow. Makes it feel like a sort of damning.
The sound of Arthur’s steps can still reach them when Merlin’s knees finally give up on keeping him standing. He sinks to the ground with hollow bones, shrugging Gwaine away when he tries to steady him, and tells himself to just breathe. One breath after another, that’s all it is.
The earth is cool and soft beneath his palms, wet from the rain they’d postponed this hunting trip for. He can feel the way it vibrates and shifts—doesn’t know why it’s moving or what it’s moving through, just that it is—and how his own magic responds to its poking and prodding. Maybe it wasn’t his brain, he thinks idly, maybe the forest really had quieted down for him before.
“Merlin,” Lancelot says, voice low and soft; close.
He wants to dig himself a hole and bury himself in it; let the cool dirt cover his face and encase his body so that he can’t see or be seen anymore.
The trees hum and he swears the earth gets softer.
“It wasn’t supposed to be—”
Merlin can’t stop the sob that escapes his throat or the way his body heaves. His face is wet with tears and snot and it’s making his nose and cheeks itch. He wants to rub the skin on his face raw—rub it right off.
Someone says his name again, but he just wants to be alone. He doesn’t know how to say that people finding out about his magic accidentally is an inevitability he’s learned to deal with. It’s something he hates and dreads, but something he’s resignedly accepted, anyway.
He doesn’t know how to say that, despite that, regardless of that acceptance, it was always still supposed to be different with Arthur. No matter how many people found out by accident, no matter how many chances slipped right out of his hands, it was never supposed to happen with Arthur. Arthur finding out was always supposed to be on his terms. He had somehow deluded himself into believing, with complete certainty, that no matter anything else, the Goddess would at least grant him that.
Everyone always assumes his everything else with Arthur is theirs to speak of and control and have a say in, anyway. Their destiny and their roles in court and how they can act and what they can’t do. Merlin had just wanted this one thing—the most personal thing; the most important one—to just be between them.
And now he isn’t sure if Arthur will ever really look at him again. It’s its own kind of execution.
Hours pass, and the sunlight turns to liquid gold, and Arthur still doesn’t come back.
“Should someone…?” Elyan’s question trails off, but no one replies, all of them equally unsure. Arthur knows better than to stray too far—knows to stay near enough that, in case of an attack, his shouts will be heard.
Still. All Merlin can imagine is a silent arrow whirling down from a tree too high to see—its precision deadly and too quick to allow Arthur any chance of escape.
He presses his palms into his eyes until they hurt; until the black bursts with shapes and colours so blinding that every other crimson image fizzles out. Arthur’s fine. Arthur’s fine. He would know if Arthur wasn’t, wouldn’t he? He would feel it.
“Merlin?” Percival asks, tentatively. Gwaine sputters from his place beside him on the log, growls.
“Are you insane, wanting to send him alone? You don’t know what Arthur’ll do!”
“We know what he won’t do,” Elyan snaps, voice angry and hard and completely sure. It makes Merlin want to curl up tighter; bury his head in his arms and not ever uncoil again. He feels pathetic just thinking it.
“Are you sure?” Gwaine challenges, standing up. They’re both drawn to their full heights, chins high and glares unwavering. It’s wrong—the knights don’t fight each other like this, not ever.
“Yes.”
“It’s Merlin’s life—”
“Arthur wouldn’t,” Leon says, quiet but steadfast. Merlin looks up, only for his gaze to still be avoided; it’s the first time Leon’s spoken since Arthur left. “You know that, Gwaine.”
“But he could. If we’re wrong about him—”
Leaves rustle, a twig snaps, and Arthur comes back. His jaw’s still set, the press of his lips unforgiving, but his hand is open and limp by his side; his sword snugly tucked away. It may be wishful thinking, but Merlin likes to think that the tension drawing up his shoulders has loosened, as well.
Everyone goes quiet, even Gwaine.
“Well?” He snaps, voice cold. “Get on your horses. We still have time before the sun fully sets.”
There’s still a storm swirling behind his eyes, Merlin thinks, looking at him closely. He half expects that he’ll see gray clouds reflected in them if he were to get close enough to him.
“But, sire,” Percival starts, cautious and alarmed, “Camelot is hours away. We won’t make it until at least a few hours after the sun has—”
He stutters to a stop when Arthur’s eyes land on him. It’s almost the same dead stare he’d given an hour—a lifetime—or so ago. Merlin bites his lip, looking away from them. He forgets, sometimes, that Arthur is the leader of an army of thousands—that he can be scary. He forgets how disarming it is when Arthur—always either laughing or joking with his men, or at the very least contemplative and worried and quiet—is just detached. Every inch a commander and ruler and nothing else.
“We are not done with our hunt,” he says carefully, after Percival doesn’t speak again. Then he looks at Merlin, like maybe he can’t help it, and every wall, every defense, is still there.
For all the times Merlin’s eyes glowed gold from the magic, Arthur’s now flash a sharp, cold silver in answering betrayal.
“We’re not?” Leon asks, tentative and confused.
“No. We came to hunt. There’s no reason to stop now.”
Arthur turns and walks back to Llamrei without another word. It takes Merlin the same amount of time to feel steady enough to stand as it does for Leon to hide the surprise from his face. It takes everyone else even longer.
Arthur doesn’t speak to anyone for the rest of the day. He barely raises his crossbow, despite the hunt, and even clenches his jaw when Percival kills a few rabbits for dinner.
The whole affair is quiet, and tense, and Merlin cannot stop looking at him the entire time.
They set up camp mostly in silence. It’s the quietest the knights have ever been while in each other’s company. Merlin wonders if it’s more because of Arthur’s mood or his reveal.
When the sun fully sets and the fire’s high, everyone’s still silent and tense and wary—of him, of Arthur, of each other. Murmurs of small conversations spring up every now and again, but no one’s heart is in it, and they die quickly.
Percival ducks out first, saying a hesitant goodnight which barely gets any acknowledgement. Elyan and Lancelot follow soon after.
Merlin wants to get away, too, but not to sleep. He just wants to be alone—wants to speak to Arthur without the others within vicinity. Without anyone breathing down the back of their necks and hearing every last thing they say to each other, ready to spring up in one or the other’s defense. He’s pretty sure that’s the only reason why Gwaine and Leon are so stubbornly set on staying.
A sudden movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention: Arthur picking his sword up and walking away.
“Sire?”
“I’ll be by the river,” he tells Leon, and is gone before anyone else can say anything, or stop him. Merlin stands as well.
“Merlin—”
He smiles as reassuringly as possible at Gwaine, but resolutely steps away. Part of him is scared that if he doesn’t move quickly enough, Leon might get in the way—either not wanting him to disturb Arthur, or maybe just not trusting him near Arthur.
He doesn’t. Merlin doesn’t linger to see if he’ll change his mind, too tired and overwhelmed with everything else already to also deal with that. Too shaken and angry.
Angry at the goddamn bandits for attacking when and how they did; angry at the knights for not seeing the last attacker until it was too late, forcing Merlin to do something; angry at how obvious and mundane it all was—of course this would be how they found out—angry at Arthur.
Angry at Arthur for choosing today, of all days, to hunt. Angry at Arthur for not bringing more men to protect himself, who would have seen the bandit and saved Merlin the trouble. Angry at Arthur for seeing, when he’s been as good as blind these last five years. Angry at Arthur for reacting exactly as he was expected to react, and yet still catching Merlin off-guard because even when he expected it, he didn’t; angry at Arthur for not getting it, for getting angry, for closing himself off, for ignoring Merlin and yet silently accepting his wish to pretend like it never happened. For being absolutely shit at pretending.
He finds him sitting at the edge of the river, his back to Merlin and his sword lying, untouched, just within reach. The water’s rush fills the silence of the place.
“You won’t say anything?”
Angry at Arthur for not even flinching, like maybe he was expecting Merlin to come. Angry at Arthur for always expecting him to come.
Angry at himself for always proving him right.
“About what,” Arthur says plainly, bitter and resigned. His voice is far away and muffled, lost in the noise. The moon’s full, high above them, and it makes the water gleam from where its light is reflected.
Merlin knows that, regardless of how awful Arthur is at pretending like everything’s the same, since he’s decided to indulge Merlin, he won’t be the first one to mention it. This’ll have to be Merlin’s choice to bring up—to talk about. Just like it should have been the first time.
“Right,” Merlin takes a step towards where Arthur’s sitting; lets his eyes trace the strong line of Arthur’s shoulders, the white glow of his hair. “I want to tell you something, then.”
He sits too close, and relishes the way their sides press together; the way Arthur doesn’t tense away or even look up. They sit too close too often, really, for this to be unfamiliar. Still, Merlin’s pretty sure he’s never not tried getting closer.
A gritted, “Don’t,” comes in reply, sounding a little like a warning.
He expels an annoyed huff. “I want to.”
He has wanted to from the first second they met, and Arthur was a vision set aglow in the morning sun. From the first minute, when the magic started burning his eyes and in his stomach and in his throat, when he wanted to put Arthur in his place.
It’s different now, the nature of the desire, but it’s always been different in one way or another. He’s always specifically wanted Arthur to know.
Only ever specifically wanted Arthur to know.
“Nothing can change,” Arthur spits, the warning crystal clear, now. “Nothing has changed.”
But that’s not true, Merlin thinks. Not when he saw Merlin’s eyes flash gold and still met them, afterwards. Not when he’s letting Merlin press against him now, and is pressing back. Not when he’d let everyone, including himself, pretend like today never happened. Just because Merlin asked.
Merlin takes a breath, steels himself. It is different. It’s so different. Even if Arthur doesn’t want to acknowledge it yet.
“I have magic.”
Arthur shakes his head. “Don’t—”
“I was born with it. I’ve had it from the moment we met—”
“Merlin—”
“—and every day since, I’ve used it for you, Arthur.” Arthur’s face is red, and he’s shaking like he’s angry. Merlin grabs his hand and doesn’t even glance at Excalibur’s blade—he can see the way the moonlight makes it glow from the corner of his eye. Oddly, this is the most steady he’s felt this entire day. “Only for you.”
Arthur turns away from him, silent, but doesn’t pull his hand back. Doesn’t glance at the sword, either. Merlin counts that as a win.
“I don’t know what to do,” he says, after a moment. His eyes are intent where he’s looking at the shimmering water, a little faraway in thought, but present enough. The blue in them has settled a bit, Merlin thinks; it’s softer. His voice is rough, though, like it’s hard to admit. “I can’t just make it—”
Cutting himself off, Arthur clenches his jaw again. Merlin understands.
Of course, no matter what he privately thinks to himself (no matter how long it’s been since he’s started to think of Arthur as king—his king), that doesn’t mean that Uther isn’t still alive, back in the castle.
He’s barely responsive, has gone completely mad, and sits in a chair staring out the window all day, rotting. But he’s still breathing. Still conscious.
Still king.
“That’s not why I’m telling you.”
A frustrated huff; a jump of muscle in his jaw.
“I don’t care why you think you’re telling me,” the corner of Arthur’s mouth tugs down—one of his tells when he lies. “I’m acting regent. This isn’t—I don’t know. I have to do something.” Quieter, almost to himself, he adds, “It feels wrong not doing something.”
Merlin clutches his hand tighter. No, you don’t, he wants to say. This is between us; it can just stay between us.
It’s them here, together. Not Uther and his guards and council, or anyone else in that damned city—just him and Arthur. Expelling another breath, Merlin squeezes his eyes shut. Him and Arthur, the prince regent. Never not the prince regent. Never not duty-bound to his people and king first, and everything else second.
“It’s a breach of the law,” Arthur continues, in that same private way. Like he’s giving himself a lecture, a stern reminder. “The same law I expect everyone else to follow and adhere to. I can’t just—”
And it’s not like he wants Arthur to move on and ignore it—he didn’t tell him for him to pretend it never happened, anyway—he just. He doesn’t know. He should’ve expected Arthur to put his duties as prince first. That’s what he loves about him, anyway; what he first began admiring about him.
“Arthur,” he swallows, looking down at their hands. No longer clasped, but not losing contact, either. “I—”
How many times has Kilgharrah told him that destiny comes first? How many times has Kilgharrah told him that destiny will prevail? How long will it fucking take for Merlin to stop expecting destiny to stop, just for a second, and leave some room for him. For what he wants. For Arthur to just be his.
“But then what?” Arthur snaps, catching him off guard. Directing a blazing glare at him, like he’d been the one giving the pep talk. “I put you on trial? At best I banish you, at worst I burn you at the stake for saving me? I commit treason against my own father and risk civil war? I pardon you and allow any other hidden, nonthreatening sorcerer in these lands to live in fear until my father dies? I kill my father so that—”
Arthur rips his hand away, hunches over and grips his hair, instead. His breaths come out ragged and quick, and Merlin, too stunned to really process the outburst, tentatively rests his now-empty hand across Arthur’s back. This whole day feels too big to process, really.
“I can’t justify betraying my duty to my people by keeping this between us. I can’t.”
“But it was fine when I hadn’t told you? It was okay for you to pretend you never saw that?” Merlin asks, voice faraway and confused even to his own ears.
“That wasn’t the same.”
“How was it any different?”
“Because no one had accused you, and no one had outright stated anything yet, especially not you to be taken as a confession, and for all intents and purposes, it could’ve been a trick of the mind.”
Merlin stares at his bent head. “That’s rubbish.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s flimsy, but it’s enough.”
Arthur rubs his face, hard like he’s trying to wash off a bloodstain, and then straightens up again, looking steadfastly ahead at the water. It’s hard not to stare at his profile: the sharp, defined jaw; the jut of his cheekbone; the slope of his nose; the curve of his lips.
He has had Arthur memorized for a very long time. These features, the feeling of yearning to touch and kiss and trace each one, is as familiar to him as the magic is. No less hard to resist, either. Merlin’s hand sweeps down his back in a pathetic, slightly selfish attempt to soothe him.
“But I—“ Arthur shakes his head, breaking the moment. He sounds miserable and desperate in a way he never has before. “I can’t justify betraying you even more.”
The words snatch his breath away with the same violence that Merlin’s feared for his whole life. He wishes Arthur wasn’t born a prince. He wishes they could just spend their nights like this forever, and follow them with days of quiet boredom and contentment. He wishes he could touch Arthur and have it just be about him and Arthur; no destiny or kingdom or duty or expectation involved.
“So, what?” Merlin asks, weary and cautious. “You pretend you don’t know, go against your father and resent me more everyday? I don’t want that, Arthur.”
A deep exhale, almost self deprecating and amused. “If resentment was going to come into it, it would’ve come hours ago.”
Merlin doesn’t mention the fact that he’s pretty sure it did come hours ago. With the way Arthur had looked at him, it’s hard to imagine that it was anything else.
“You can’t know that for sure.”
He watches Arthur turn towards him, eye him in contemplation. Merlin looks back—he couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.
“Do you really believe I could hate you?”
Kilgharrah’s voice, from years ago, washes over his memory like the finest silk. A half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole. It was even said about Arthur’s feelings towards him, but Merlin had always only looked at it from his own perspective. Of course he could never hate Arthur; there are so many things he knows—so many ways he knows him. That hasn’t been an issue since their third week together.
But Arthur genuinely not being able to hate him—it seems like it’d so easily be disproven. It’s not just the magic anymore.
“You don’t know what I’ve done,” Merlin rasps out. “You don’t know what I am.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Arthur mutters. He sounds tired; sounds weary. Bitter, almost. Merlin wonders, if it’s really true that Arthur can’t hate him, whether he would choose to be able to, if given the chance. If the inability is more of a burden than not. The thought makes him deeply ill. “If the magic didn’t, nothing will.”
Arthur glows in any light he’s under, the moon is no exception, and Merlin can’t help but think that he wouldn’t blame him, if he would choose that. Certainly, it’d be easier for them to be enemies. To want each others’ deaths. Sometimes Merlin thinks maybe he’d choose to be able to hate Arthur, too.
“I won’t leave.”
“You might not have a choice.”
“I won’t leave, Arthur. Between the two of us, you’re the one who won’t have a choice, there.”
It would be a mistake, though, the choice to hate him. He tilts his head back to trace lines between the stars with his eyes, throat burning. What ifs aside, Arthur’s assertion, in his own way, that there’s no scenario Merlin could mess up beyond repair is - comforting. Really. It’s something Arthur himself hadn’t given him before. Not in so many words, anyway. And though it would not have changed his resolve either way, he sure as hell will not let it slip through his fingers, now.
Arthur will need to come to terms with the fact that Merlin is with him unconditionally, too. Even if it means Arthur’s duty being compromised. Even if it means forcing Arthur to break his own code.
When did we become this, he wants to ask. When did they start prioritizing each other above everything else, backing each other into a corner in the process? When did leaving Arthur become more unbearable than being hated by him? When did staying with him become more important than letting him be the prince—king—he grew up to be? When did Arthur’s duty start battling what he owes Merlin; when did what he thinks he owes Merlin start to win? I can’t justify betraying you even more. Wasn’t this meant to be about destiny, about the people? Wasn’t it supposed to be a means to an end?
“You can’t make anything easy, can you?” Arthur asks, quietly, eyes far away again. Merlin feels the lump in his throat return.
He forgets sometimes, how scary Arthur can be to others. He catches glimpses of it now and again, very rarely: during council meetings against other nobles; during tournaments against his opponents; during tense battles of wills against his knights. He knows that Arthur doesn’t like when people are afraid of him, which is what makes it all the more jarring when he does it on purpose. Merlin’s never felt that type of fear, though—not in relation to Arthur, anyway.
Mostly because he knows that Arthur’s never more scary than when he doesn’t do it on purpose—when it’s not a fear of him, exactly, but a fear of the lack of him. This, Merlin has felt before. Just a few hours ago and now. Now, when Arthur’s soft and close and in danger of slipping completely out of reach. In danger of building a wall too sturdy and high between them and getting lost on the other end of it.
Without meaning to, Merlin scoots closer. “No, you’d get bored.”
At one point in time, he’d said those exact same words and meant them as a goodbye. He doesn’t want to ever have to say goodbye to Arthur again.
Met with silence, Merlin looks over to see Arthur’s head bent lower than before. The back of his neck is paler than his hair under the moonlight, but where his hair always seems to glisten, his skin just looks translucent and frail.
“So where are we supposed to go from here,” Arthur asks plainly. He throws a clump of dirt into the water and watches as it crumbles under the force of the current.
Merlin shakes his head. There are, of course, a million roads ahead of them, all with varying degrees of appeal. All with varying degrees of possibility to make it out on the other side unscathed.
Merlin can’t imagine that he’ll burn—knows now, more comfortably than before, that he definitely won’t by Arthur’s decree. He supposes banishment or exile are still possible, because as difficult as he will make it for Arthur—as much as he’ll do to not let it get to that—he knows that at the end of everything, if Arthur asks, genuinely, he will not be able to deny him. Part of him hopes Arthur isn’t aware of just how incapable Merlin is of denying him anything, for fear of exactly this being asked.
There are brighter roads, though. Ones that flash in his mind unbidden:
Arthur’s face, lit from the magic Merlin shows him. Arthur’s eyes, soft and unafraid and comfortable, tracing the tendrils of magic from the spell that Merlin’s casting. Camelot, sunbathed and boisterous in the wake of the repeal of the ban. His friends coming to him, conspiring to use his magic for ridiculous pranks and to be done with bothersome chores.
He aches for it. He has been aching for it since he was a child being begged by his mum to be careful, be cautious.
Arthur’s eyes are weary and dim and lost, and Merlin aches for him, too. Has been aching for him since his third week here.
“I don’t know,” Merlin replies, quietly. The truth is that he knows what he wants: to tell Arthur about every way this could go right; about the destiny they share and the world they could build together. He wants long and frustrating nights spent in Arthur’s chambers trying to figure out a plan to bring magic back the right way. He wants to show every small thing he can use his magic for to Arthur, mesmerize him with it, and then show him all the big things, too. All the impossible things that leave others gaping, he wants Arthur to see them and get used to them in a way no one else could be used to Merlin’s magic, but only after being dazzled by it all.
And maybe that’s selfish, but Merlin thinks he’s a little entitled. They’re not past the consequences of him having magic yet, but they could be; after half a decade of hiding, they are past Arthur finding out, and that had always been the impossible bit, in his mind. He doesn’t want to tell Arthur everything he’s had to do, but he wants Arthur to know, anyway. He wants them to get past it.
“No?”
Merlin’s eyes snap to Arthur’s profile. There’s something self-deprecating and dead about the reply.
“I mean—” he stops. “It’s up to you, really.”
At the end of the day, it’s up to him. At the end of the day, it always will be. He’s more okay with that than he ought to be, Merlin thinks.
He can see the way Arthur’s jaw works, how his eyes dart around the view in front of them. He can almost hear Arthur’s breathing, and traces with his eyes the way Arthur’s throat works when he swallows.
Finally, he says, quietly and a little unexpectedly, “My father has been wrong about a lot of things.”
Nonplussed, Merlin nods. “Yeah.”
Arthur clenches his jaw, eyes intent but unwaveringly staring ahead, like maybe he wasn’t expecting Merlin to agree so easily. It’s not like the expectation is unfounded. Merlin is well aware of how much kinder he has been to Uther than what was deserved, before, for Arthur’s sake.
Still, Arthur doesn’t falter. When has he ever, really, in the face of a challenge. “Things he can’t afford being wrong about, as king. I don’t want to be like that.”
Merlin scoffs, shakes his head and throws a rock in the river. “You’re nothing like him.”
“Merlin.”
“I’m being serious.” Arthur turns to look at him, exasperated. Merlin stares back, defiantly. “Arthur, if you were anything like your father I’d either be dead right now or in chains ready to be dead tomorrow.”
He gets a shaking head and narrowed eyes that eventually turn away. “I’ve done—other things,” Arthur snaps. His shoulders tense.
Merlin wonders if those things Arthur’s done are anything like the things he has—setting a vengeful dragon free to murder hundreds of innocents; attempting to murder a friend to whom he promised trust and safety; contemplating and very nearly letting a child die for something he might one day do.
He can’t help thinking that maybe it’s good they’ve both done unforgivable things, because maybe they’re the only people that can really look past the other’s actions.
Merlin nudges Arthur’s shoulder with his own and puts an arm behind him to lean back on. Arthur stays where he is, leaning forward and motionless. Not moving away, but not getting closer, either.
“It doesn’t matter,” he replies gently. “You’re nothing like him.”
“Merlin. Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m not the one being stupid here, sire.”
“Shut up.” Arthur looks down, the corners of his lips quirked. They fall before he looks back up again. “I’m serious.”
Merlin exhales, annoyed. “I am, too. You can tell me anything and it’s not going to matter. You’re not him. How can you doubt that?”
“Because.”
“Because what, Arthur?”
“Just—” Arthur glares. Spits, “Just because.”
Merlin scoffs out a disbelieving laugh, so fucking annoyed and frustrated and—and desperate for the goddamn prick in front of him. “Well how can I argue with that,” he drawls, sarcastic and mocking.
“How can you believe that?” Arthur demands. “How can you say I’m nothing like my father when just hours ago you were looking at my sword like you actually thought i’d use it against you?”
“Because you didn’t!”
“Only because—”
Merlin huffs out an annoyed breath. “Gods, Arthur. It doesn’t matter why. You didn’t. You could’ve had it over with before Leon and Lance got to you, and you didn’t. That’s more than your father will ever be able to say.”
That, at least, makes Arthur shut up for a second. Before long, though, voice curious and no longer defensive, he asks, “Would you have let me?”
The question catches Merlin off guard.
“What?”
“You just stood there,” Arthur says, quietly. He sounds like he can’t figure something out. “Staring at the sword I had pointed at your throat. You didn’t even try to move.”
Merlin shrugs, looking away. For some reason, the observation makes his chest burn with shame. “Nothing felt real, I guess.”
A leaf rides a passing breeze right into the rushing river. They both watch it get swallowed by the water.
“Yeah,” Arthur agrees.
The place they’ve come to isn’t too far from their makeshift campsite, so in their intermittent silences, they can hear the odd, muffled noises from Gwaine and Leon’s conversation. They’re not close enough to make out any words, but eventually the footsteps and shifting that reaches them makes it clear that one or both have gone to sleep.
“We could start with the druids,” Merlin suggests. He’s lying down, staring at the mostly clear sky trying to find constellations. They’re still trying to figure out what to do after today, but most of the tension and sense of urgency has bled away.
“I don’t think they’d be very pleased with seeing me,” Arthur refutes.
“They’re peaceful people,” Merlin disagrees. “They’ll jump at the chance to help you learn more about magic.”
“The last time I faced the druids, I held a dagger to a child’s throat.”
Merlin fights to keep down the automatic instinct to defend him. Not that he doesn’t think threatening a child is wrong, necessarily, but he hardly has room to judge. Not with the way things between him and Mordred went down in the past. Besides—there’s something about the way Arthur sounds; something about how avoidant and subdued his body language suddenly is. Feels like it’s bigger than what happened while they were trying to get the cup of life. Bigger than just what his father stands for.
“Come on,” Merlin pokes Arthur’s waist just to annoy him into getting out of his head. He keeps doing it until Arthur shoots him a glare over his shoulder, and then rests that hand on Arthur’s lower back, pleased that it worked. The heat of Arthur’s skin under his tunic is addictive; he’d gotten rid of his armour and chainmail a few minutes ago (despite Merlin’s fervent objections—“What if we get attacked again,” he’d pointed out reasonably. “You can use your magic again, then” Arthur had shrugged in reply, like that wasn’t a crazy thing to say. Like it didn’t make Merlin’s brain go quiet and strike him dumb. The conversation had been a revelation), and Merlin can’t stop trying to lay a hand on him at every opportunity. “I’m sure they won’t hold it against you.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow. Merlin concedes the point. “Well, alright. But what’s the worst they can do?”
“They’re sorcerers, Merlin, I don’t want to know what their worst is.”
“Do you think they’ll turn you into a toad?” He smirks. Arthur’s glare intensifies. “I bet you’d be a really ugly one.”
“And yet I still wouldn’t have you beat,” Arthur scowls. Merlin grins at him. He wants to sit up and gather Arthur in his arms—wrap him up tight and pull him to his chest and not let him go. Snog him silly until they both can’t breathe. This conversation feels impossible.
“That’s quite harsh, sire. Especially to the only person who could help you in that situation.”
Arthur rolls his eyes before tilting his head to look at him curiously.
“How powerful are you, anyway?”
Merlin drops his hand, moves it to his stomach, and looks back up at the sky. It feels good talking about magic with Arthur, but every question about himself is one he doesn’t know how to answer.
“A lot,” he shrugs. Arthur stays silent, probably expecting him to elaborate. “I don’t know, Arthur. I—haven’t really measured it.”
“Roughly, though, what would you say?”
“I don’t know.”
Arthur huffs out a frustrated breath. “Come on, stop trying to be interesting. What’s the most powerful spell you can do?”
Taking a deep breath, Merlin releases it slowly. He doesn’t know why it’s so hard talking about this. It’s a bit embarrassing, he supposes. Just because Arthur’s an arrogant prat who’s always too pleased with himself, doesn’t mean Merlin wants to come off that way, too.
And, well. He’s partly afraid Arthur won’t believe him. Or will believe him but get too spooked and take everything back.
“It’s not really a—a spell,” he says cautiously, swallowing. “But I can sort of—slow time. A bit.”
Silence. Then, “Gods.”
“But it’s—!” Merlin sits up quickly, trying to explain. “It’s only by accident, usually! Kind of instinctual—”
“You can stop time by accident,” Arthur yelps.
“Slow it down,” he corrects weakly. They stare at each other for two minutes without moving.
“Shit,” Arthur hisses, eventually, and turns away again. He doesn’t move away though, or start yelling and screaming bloody murder, so Merlin relaxes. He flops back down on his back, and forces his hand to stay on his stomach.
“I think I can also control the weather.”
“I’m really sorry I asked, Merlin.”
“Mostly I just make it windy,” he clarifies conversationally.
“Merlin.”
“Once I caused a lightning storm, though.” Nevermind that it lasted a few seconds at most, just long enough to kill Nimueh.
“Right,” Arthur clears his throat, sounding strangled. “So it’s—not an insignificant thing, then.”
A blush creeps its way over his neck. “Er. Not really.”
“I see.”
Merlin squeezes his eyes shut. He wants Arthur to know these things—he does. But he’s also spent so long hoarding all these facts to himself that he thinks he may’ve forgotten how to share them. Just the thought of having to sit through telling Arthur about destiny is enough to make a chill run up Merlin’s spine.
“You’re making that up,” Arthur says after a second. He sounds sure, but he’s giving Merlin a startled look that belies his uncertainty. Merlin grins up at the moon.
They’re both lying down beside each other now, on their backs. They’ve slept like this a million times, on other excursions away from the castle. It’s nothing new. Still, Merlin’s body has been thrumming from all the possibilities it’s been coming up with ever since Arthur laid down.
“You’re just jealous.”
“Jealous—!” Arthur scoffs. “What kind of a name even is Emrys, anyway.”
“Oh, that’s nothing. They call you the Once and Future King.”
“They have one for me too?” Merlin snickers at the horror in his voice.
“You have your own lore.”
“What the fuck.”
“That’s for another day, though. My point is, they won’t try and pull anything on you. They probably wouldn’t anyway, but especially not with me there.”
He’s been trying to convince Arthur that the druids are the best place to start for nearly half an hour, now. Eventually, he’d run out of ways to avoid destiny. At least, parts of it.
“So you’re not just really powerful, you’re basically like a god to them,” Arthur deadpans. He puts his hands over his face and rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands. His ring gleams on his forefinger. Merlin licks his lips. “That’s just—you can’t even walk properly.”
Merlin turns on his side just as Arthur’s hands fall back to his stomach and rests his head on his arm. He lets his eyes trace Arthur’s profile, admires the way the moonlight outlines his adam's apple. He bites his lip to keep himself from doing something stupid, like leaning over to trace the bump with his tongue, too.
“You are jealous.”
Arthur scowls at him, giving him a loathing look. It makes Merlin’s grin widen. “Merlin,” he says, impatient and annoyed, “if I ever prayed to a god and you showed up, I’d kill myself.”
Merlin sputters, offended a bit more than is perhaps a reasonable amount. He pokes Arthur’s cheek and feels slightly gratified when Arthur shoots him another glare and swats his hand away. He feels even better when Arthur turns on his side, too, so they’re face to face.
“You don’t have to be jealous you know,” Merlin assures him, lips loose from feeling drunk on the proximity and topic of conversation. “I already told you my magic’s all for you, anyway.”
Something flickers in Arthur’s eyes, and suddenly Merlin feels just as pinned under them as he had that afternoon. Here, Arthur’s closer and softer, and Merlin’s breathless less from fear and trepidation and more from—well, he doesn’t know.
No, he does.
He shuffles closer gracelessly, until their breaths mingle. He watches as Arthur’s eyes flicker down, and can’t stop his own from doing the same.
“Show me something, will you, Merlin?” Arthur asks quietly, gaze still just below his eyes. He means the magic.
Merlin licks his lips again and leans forward even more, until their lips are centimeters from touching.
“Of course, sire.”
He closes his eyes before Arthur can see the gold wash through them, and presses their lips together in a slow kiss. Arthur tries to follow him when he pulls back, but Merlin tilts his head so that their foreheads bump and rest against each other, instead. “Look up.”
He leans his forehead against Arthur’s temple when he does as he’s told, and then uses his nose to nuzzle Arthur’s cheekbone. A huff of laughter makes him grin against Arthur’s skin.
“Not bad.”
“I’ll have you know, I’m quite the artist.”
“I should be impressed, then?”
Merlin turns his own head, watches the way the gray cloud slowly moves across the black sky. It looks solid, like he knows clouds aren’t. The Pendragon crest looms large above them, passing over the moon and glowing silver for a moment. He thinks of campfire embers turned dragons that he’d made when feeling lonely; a horse of smoke that’d almost gotten Gaius killed.
“I don’t see why you wouldn’t be,” he says reasonably, smiling. He can see Arthur’s head shaking from the corner of his eye. It makes the smile grow.
“I guess anything you do with a modicum of success is impressive in itself.”
“Oh, very nice, sire. Nevermind that I might as well be showing my undying loyalty, or anything.”
Arthur laughs, turns to raise an eyebrow at him. “So I should be flattered, too?”
Merlin shrugs. Hums, “I said might be, anyway. Maybe I just really like dragons.” And oh, that’s another story he’ll have to eventually grit out, isn’t it?
“Ridiculous,” Arthur mutters to the sky. Like he’s despairing to the bloody Goddess about him.
Rolling his eyes, Merlin uses his hand to turn Arthur’s face towards him, again. “Enough cloud watching,” he murmurs, before claiming Arthur’s mouth in another kiss. A harder one, this time.
Arthur tilts his head, parting his lips to lick across the seam of Merlin’s, and tangles a hand in Merlin’s neckerchief. Merlin grips his hip and pulls their bodies closer, then runs his hand over Arthur’s ribs in order to palm his back. He lets the magic go; feels the cloud’s enforced shape dissipate and smooth out.
Arthur groans lowly when Merlin licks into his mouth, and uses his grip on Merlin to tug at him until they’re both rolling over. A twig and a few tiny rocks dig into his palms, from where they’re pressed beside Arthur’s shoulders on the ground. He’s fully present and yet feels like he’s experiencing everything through a haze of stunned exhilaration.
Arthur’s on his back and Merlin’s hovering over him, trailing wet, hot kisses down to his throat. He blows a cool breath on a spit-slicked patch of skin under his jaw, reveling in the strangled groan Arthur fails to suppress.
“Of course I’m the one who had to get up,” Merlin pants, more to be contrary than caring at all. Arthur laughs at him, and Merlin has to bury his head in his shoulder to smother the stupid smile creeping on his face, making his cheeks ache.
“Do you ever not complain?”
“There’re a couple of things I’m not complaining about right now,” he answers suggestively.
“Is that right,” Arthur deadpans, raising an unimpressed eyebrow when Merlin shoots him a smirk. “Will wonders never cease.”
Merlin leans down to kiss him again.
The sound of rushing water makes him wish he had a pillow to bury his head under. He doesn’t know exactly what woke him, but he can guess well enough.
“Why can’t you be normal,” Merlin groans, grabbing at the space in front of him blindly until his fingers catch and tangle in soft fabric. Twisting it in his grip, he pulls mercilessly. Another hand tries to bat him away, but Merlin refuses to let up. “I bet the bloody sun isn’t even up.”
“Just because you refuse to open your eyes and face reality, doesn’t mean the sun isn’t up,” Arthur replies. Merlin would bet his life that he’s rolling his eyes. His tugging gets more insistent until Arthur huffs out an annoyed breath.
Merlin does not try to tamp down the smug smile stretching his lips when he feels Arthur lie down again. Not that it lasts overly long anyway—Arthur flicks his forehead.
“Ow. Prat.”
“It’s unbecoming to be so smug, Merlin.”
“Oh, please. Like you can say anything.”
“I’m prince regent,” Arthur says smartly, “I have certain privileges.”
Merlin has one arm under Arthur’s neck and the hand of the other still twisted in his tunic. Without opening his eyes, he wraps both arms tightly around the prince’s person and squeezes so tightly that one might be able to argue, in a hearing, that he’s trying to strangle him. Of course, Merlin would never do that.
“I had to bodily drag you out of bed a few days ago,” he complains into the skin of Arthur’s neck. Arthur’s rubbing a slow hand up and down his back that feels really nice, nearly lulling him back to sleep. “Why’re you so prompt now?”
“There’s no bed now.”
“That’s stupid.”
He thinks Arthur’s laughing at him, but that’s okay. Regardless of Merlin’s and Arthur’s hand’s best efforts, he is starting to wake up, and the previous day’s catching up to him quickly. Despite the early hour and small rock that’s digging into his ribs, he doesn’t think he’s had a better morning than this one. Merlin wonders if this new situation will ever stop striking him dumb every time he gets a second to think about it.
Arthur and he have woken up beside each other a thousand times by now, on missions or quests or even during hunts. But, usually, waking up is—not this.
They barely even hug. All those hunts and missions—five years of waking up on cold, hard forest floors; eyes immediately searching for Arthur. Always having him be the first thing he sees during those mornings, and never being able to have him as anything else, anything more. Five years of those mornings spent killing himself just so he wouldn’t accidentally reach out and ruin everything. And now he just dragged Arthur into his arms.
“You really are a useless manservant,” Arthur grumbles. Merlin can feel the way the words make his chest vibrate. “I’m not supposed to be the one doing the waking up and readying.”
“It’ll do you good gaining some independence,” Merlin mumbles dismissively. He burrows deeper into the heat of Arthur’s body. “You’ll be more in touch with your people this way.”
Arthur snorts loud and unattractive right next to his ear, but that’s alright too because Merlin’s pretty sure the smile on his own face looks demented and scary. He pulls back slightly and peaks one of his eyes open.
It’s light out, unfortunately disproving his earlier prediction of the sun not yet being up, and slightly foggy. Arthur’s hair is messy and soft-looking, more a silvery blond in the cool light than its usual gold. Merlin runs his fingers through it just because he can.
“You’re a lot needier than usual,” Arthur observes.
“And I’m only just waking up,” he replies gravely.
“Is that a threat?”
Merlin shrugs, leans forward to peck Arthur’s cheek, the corner of his jaw. “I’m just on an honesty streak.”
Arthur smiles at him—private and fond. He cups Merlin’s face and his palms are rough from all the calluses years of training with a sword and a million other weapons have given him. It’s not a chilly morning by any means, but his ring’s still cold where it rests against the back of Merlin’s ear. It makes him shiver.
The next kiss is deeper and slower, and makes heat pool in Merlin’s stomach; makes his hands clutch Arthur’s arms.
“Come on,” Arthur says, voice lower than before; hoarse. “We’ll be missed. And you have to show me where we can find druids in these woods.”
Merlin clings tighter to him and tugs at the soft, fine hairs at the back of his neck suggestively. “I know for a fact that we won’t be missed for at least another hour.” Then, just to get the point across, he wiggles his eyebrows dramatically.
Arthur’s laugh rings through the forest, loud enough to probably wake the knights at the campsite. It’s nothing compared to the other noises Merlin drags out of him before either of them finally get up, though.