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Leaning against a tree, Merlin pants, trying to get his breath back. He should be used to this by now, running for his life, but unfortunately, he still can’t quite manage to do so without needing to rest against a tree afterwards.
Just as he feels like his lungs are no longer trying to escape up his throat, and his stomach has stopped aching, and he thinks that quite possibly things aren’t as bad as they could be, he turns towards Arthur and notices the glower on his face.
“Well,” Arthur starts in his snippiest tone, and Merlin’s stomach sinks into the ground at it. Arthur climbs to his feet, his jagged movements conveying every inch of his displeasure with the situation.
Immediately, Merlin’s aware that Arthur blames him, and he can’t even really blame him for that, because the whole thing kind of was his fault. It doesn’t stop the tone from immediately causing Merlin’s hackles to rise. “Well. Are you happy with yourself, Merlin? Are you pleased with your brilliant plan? Your oh-so-excellent plan, which has left us stranded in the middle of the woods with no food, no horses, no knights, and no hope of getting to Caerleon in time for the meeting. The meeting to sign the formal alliance between our kingdoms and unite us in friendship.”
“You didn’t think it was such a terrible plan when it saved your life!” Merlin yells back, scrambling to his feet, because Arthur does have a good point, but that won’t stop Merlin from at least participating in the yelling. As court warlock, his position has earned him that much.
“Oh, lovely, yes, thanks, Merlin, of course. Except how much use is my life if it won’t get us to Caerleon on time?”
Unfortunately, scrunching his lips up does nothing to keep Merlin from blurting out the snarky response on the tip of his tongue. It only makes him feel like a bit of an idiot when, “Probably about as much use as it was before this,” escapes from his lips.
Arthur gives him a condescending smile. “Still more use than yours is, then.”
Just as Merlin takes a deep breath, ready to give some kind of response that surely would’ve made the situation worse, Arthur sighs, deep and long. “Do we head back to Camelot, or keep moving onwards to Caerleon?”
They had left Camelot two days before with the full complement. Knights, nobles, servants, everybody needed for an extended political stay in another kingdom. Moving that many people, especially those who aren’t used to long periods of time in the saddle, is slow going. They had planned to spread the travel out over three days and three nights, with the last day spent in River’s End to stay the night there before heading into Caerleon.
The campsite was only in the process of waking up on the third day when trouble arrived: A band of sorcerers and soldiers bearing Morgana’s sigil – likely old allies of hers that Camelot’s knights had never managed to find – attacked their camp. Merlin had watched, too shocked to react, as half the knights had fallen to the sorcerers with one awful, wicked burst of magic. As Camelot’s remaining knights pulled their swords, he had felt it. It was like he’d been cut off completely from the magic of the forest around him, but worse yet, also the magic within him. None of his spells worked, and with a quick glance at his apprentice, Lynette, it was clear none of her spells were working either.
The only saving grace was watching the enemy sorcerers take up swords, their magic no longer at hand either.
Camelot’s knights, though highly skilled, were outnumbered and up against a force better prepared. Leon, Gwaine, and Percival were a wall of movement in front of the nobility, their every move a death knell to their enemies.
But Morgana’s renegades had been smart, and Merlin and Arthur had been cut off from the main group, too many soldiers advancing on them.
Which is where Merlin’s plan had fallen into place.
Grabbing Arthur’s arm, Merlin pulled at him. “Arthur, we have to run! My magic is being blocked.” For once, Arthur had seen sense and they had turned and dashed through the trees, some of the soldiers following them.
The running for their lives did get them past the perimeter of what Merlin could only assume was some kind of magic block, only for them to end up running into the precipice of an unexpected cliff. Merlin swore it hadn’t been there before they started running.
So maybe it was a little bit his fault. Arthur had been too busy fending off the three attackers to look where they were going and — seemingly foolishly — put his trust in Merlin.
At least Merlin got rid of their foes before they had to contemplate jumping over the side of the cliff.
Following their tracks back was no help; they didn’t get far before they stopped suddenly, as if Merlin, Arthur, and their attackers had appeared suddenly out of nowhere.
Which is how they ended up where they are. Lost, separated from their party, and unsure of how many made it out alive.
“We should work out where we are before making that decision,” Merlin notes, looking around at the forest. It could be any forest within Camelot’s borders or one even further out, though Merlin is at least sure that it’s not directly around the castle, or the Valley of the Fallen Kings. Those forests he knows well.
Arthur sighs again, and tilts his head to look up the trunk of a tree before turning to Merlin, eyebrows raised, as if to say, well, what are you waiting for? Something must be wrong in Merlin’s head, because he simply returns Arthur’s sigh and gets to climbing.
“Today, please, Merlin,” Arthur yells from below as Merlin struggles to get his foot over a branch.
“This isn’t—” Merlin pauses to take a deep breath in as he tries once more to pull himself up, “—as easy as it looks, you know.”
“Trust me, you certainly don't have the grace to make it look easy. What am I going to eat?”
Merlin takes a precious second to look at Arthur down below, examining his nails as he leans casually against a tree, and is filled with the sudden urge to drop a branch on his head. A simple thought would have one careening down, and it’s certainly a large enough target to be easy to hit.
But no. That would be unwise, and with Merlin’s luck, Arthur would live to enact his revenge… or simply haunt him from the grave.
Merlin’s arms quiver as he tugs himself up a branch, and Arthur’s voice rises yet again from below. “Surely your magic could be of use here.”
It stops Merlin in his tracks. He’s never tried to fly. That could be a lot of fun… and very useful. But as he looks down at the ground now quite far away, he decides that in this case, trying is better left for another time. He reaches for the next branch instead. “You could’ve been the one to climb the tree, or has sitting around all day being king taken its toll?”
Merlin smiles through his exertion at Arthur’s growl from below. “I’m in full armour, and I’m the king.”
Just before Merlin opens his mouth, he notices the view around him. “Ha!” he laughs, pleased. “We’re in the White Mountains. We’re only a few days' walk from Caerleon.”
“Then get down here. We still have plenty of daylight to take advantage of,” Arthur yells back, and Merlin takes only a moment to consider how terrible an idea it is to just jump out of the tree before he does so.
As if by magic, he hangs in the air for a moment before his body is dragged down, wind rushing in his ears. He splays his fingers out as the world stops around him, his body hanging suspended a few feet in the air.
Laughter bubbles out of his chest without permission as he looks over at Arthur. Arthur, whose arms are outstretched in front of him as if he were reaching to catch Merlin before he hit the ground.
But his laughter trails off as he stares at the fear written across Arthur’s face. It sets his heart racing more than the fall did, but he can’t find anything to say — or even think — about how it makes him feel. Every part of him is still as he stares helplessly at Arthur’s fear written plainly across his face. He knows Arthur cares about him a hell of a lot. But Arthur doesn’t always show it.
He’s a little too still, it seems, as he goes crashing to the ground.
As if Arthur’s fear was never there at all, he scowls, rolling his eyes and stalks off — in the wrong direction — while he calls out, “Hurry up, Merlin.”
“Yes, sire,” Merlin replies, secretly glad for his tumble to the ground, if only so he doesn’t have to wrestle with the emotions warring in his chest. “You’re going the wrong way.”
By the time they decide to make camp as the sun dips below the horizon, they’re both grumpy, with sore feet and a bad attitude. To make matters worse, it started snowing not long after they set off, the sky falling dark and the world going quiet as snow fell in heavy clumps around them. Walking has become even more difficult as the claggy ice gives way to soft snow up to the top of their boots. Seeing past the thick snow is even worse.
By the time they stop for the night, the ground covered in white, all they’ve managed to accomplish for the day is to stumble over outcroppings of rock and brush against their jagged edges. They’re tired and cross and shivering through their clothes and armour.
“This seems like as good a spot as any,” Arthur says from up ahead. When Merlin catches up, he finds himself in the middle of a circle of standing stones, the ground between them completely flat. Some unidentifiable feeling presses in from every side of the clearing. This place is sacred. Possibly magic. Merlin turns in a circle, trying to see if there’s anything legible in what’s scrawled across the stones, but he doesn’t recognise the markings.
He’s not sure what the feeling is. It’s not bad, not evil. There’s no malice to it, but it certainly doesn’t feel inviting. There’s a solemnity to it, like you would encounter in a druid shrine, but none of the grief. Whatever it is, though, Merlin knows that getting wrapped up in it won’t bode well. It never does.
“Arthur,” Merlin says, grave and solemn. “Not here. We need to find somewhere else. There’s… something here. A feeling, a presence. Like magic, but not. We shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe.”
“How many times do we need to go over this, Merlin? You worry too much,” Arthur says, taking a seat on the ground. “The snow provides a good ground cover to sleep on, and the clearing is the perfect place for a fire. If you’d found a cave, we would be sleeping there, but you didn’t. We’re staying.”
Merlin groans, grinding his teeth. Of all the times for Arthur to suddenly become all lackadaisical about magic. “Arthur,” he presses. “There’s magic at work here. We shouldn’t be here.”
The look Arthur throws him in response has Merlin’s anger on an immediate hair-trigger. It’s filled with such insouciant nonchalance that Merlin wants to throttle him. “And didn’t I just free magic — for your sake, I should add. If it becomes a threat, surely you’ll deal with it, Merlin.”
“You’ve chosen the worst possible time to put your trust in me,” Merlin grinds out, while picturing throwing manure at Arthur’s fat head.
Arthur twirls his sword through the air, before stabbing it forcefully into the ground at his feet. “Well, you said I should learn how to delegate. So, I’m delegating. I’m going to sit here and think about how to hunt us some food with nothing but a sword, and you can do your magic bit and put up some shields or whatever you call them.”
Proceeding to do just that, Arthur thumps onto the ground, and stares at the snow under his feet. Merlin wants to take that snow and dump it on his head. Instead, he holds his hands up, and with barely a thought, makes two rabbits fly into his hand, using half a thought to peacefully end their lives in the process. With that, he chucks them at Arthur and turns to the stones surrounding them, ignoring Arthur’s outraged squawk.
Engraved on the stones are swirls and pictures, but they don’t seem to be in a language, or at least not one Merlin knows. They don’t give any hint as to what the otherworldly presence in the circle is. At least it doesn’t feel malevolent.
He continues staring at the stones as he listens to Arthur trudge around, gathering firewood and grumbling about being the one skinning the rabbit. He waits till the rabbits are roasting over the fire before he settles down, glad to have avoided any of the work.
He feels… strange. Odd. Like there’s a pull on his body, but he doesn’t know why or what for, or from where it begins. Sometimes he feels compulsions like a hook under his navel, or a haze over his mind, or a cord pulling him somewhere. This feels nothing like that. This pull feels disjointed, unclear, like it hasn’t quite settled on what it wants. It sets Merlin’s teeth on edge, a low level of anxiety setting his blood pumping and his skin sweating, but with no clear reason why.
Merlin wants to leave this place. He wants to take his chances of finding somewhere else to camp out amongst the jutting rocks.
“Arthur,” he starts, trying once more, but he hardly gets the word out, before Arthur whirls on him, face set hard in anger.
Merlin freezes.
“We’ve nowhere else to go, Merlin,” Arthur says, the anger on his face giving way to a weariness Arthur doesn’t often let show. It drains the fight from Merlin in an instant. “If we try and find somewhere else now the sun is down, we’re more likely to crack our heads on the ground, or worse, than find somewhere suitable.”
Merlin lets himself drop to the ground beside Arthur. Even by the fire, the cold still settles heavily around them, and Merlin feels himself shiver. Whether it’s only due to the cold or that strange tug, Merlin isn’t quite sure.
They eat their rabbits in silence, Merlin glad for the food to fill his stomach. At some point, his shivering must have become obvious, because Arthur unhooks the cloak from his shoulders and drapes it around them both, causing Merlin to shuffle in closer, let what little heat of Arthur’s that makes it past his armour settle in close.
As Arthur’s warmth hits Merlin, he feels that familiar tug of longing. Longing for the man next to him. The king, the prat, the other side of his coin. He longs for something more. But he’s old friends with longing, and as with every other time, he pushes it down. Far, far down.
The sky goes green around them, slowly creeping in whirls of colour across the sky. Long strokes of light paint the darkness, like a child being given the freedom to paint whatever swirls they wish on the dark canvas of the sky.
“Arthur,” Merlin whispers, saying nothing and also everything he needs to say.
“I know,” Arthur replies, and they say nothing else, simply watching the show of light swirling around them.
It’s beautiful, and strange, and like nothing Merlin’s ever seen before. It’s like the night sky is putting on a show just for them, holed up on this mountain. It almost seems like an apology for setting them on this path.
Merlin’s asleep before the green fades from the sky.
When he wakes the next morning, the first thing Merlin feels is the dig of armour into his cheek. The second thing he feels is the warmth radiating off the body underneath him, and Merlin snuggles in closer to it, trying to get as far from the cold nipping at his ears, his back, his feet as he can.
It’s nice, this warmth. It’s only once the warmth starts to move and shift and a grumpy voice says, “Merlin,” that he puts together the fact that if it’s Arthur’s armour digging into his cheek, then Arthur himself is probably the warmth underneath him.
Merlin scrambles backwards and up as quickly as he can.
“A lot of license you were taking with the royal body there, Merlin,” Arthur quips, looking very pleased with himself as he lounges amongst the snow. His hair is ruffled from his sleep, his voice still husky with it. The image is not altogether unappealing, even if it would take the pain of death for Merlin to admit it.
His face heating up, Merlin turns away from Arthur. “Not like you’re making any use of it,” he mutters, hoping Arthur doesn’t hear.
He kicks snow over the remaining coals of their fire, stomping on what's left to ensure the embers don’t relight, mostly just avoiding the man behind him and those thoughts he’s spent a long time running away from.
When he turns back, Arthur is staring into the distance, looking past the trees to what’s below them. “We should make it down the rest of the mountain in a few hours. After that, we just keep heading northwest.”
They share a look, and without another word, set off for the day.
They stop for a quick rest and to drink some water in the mid-morning, once they’ve made it most of the way down the mountain. A river flows past them, waters moving swiftly as some of the snow starts to melt.
As they walk, it’s like the forest wakes around them. Instead of the quiet stillness of the freshly snowed-on peaks, Merlin begins to hear rustling in the ground, the tittering of small animals, the far-off flapping of what few birds don’t migrate. They even find tracks of boar and deer here in the icy remnants of snow.
As they reach the bottom of the mountain, the allure of the water wins, and Merlin begs to stop for a quick dip to wash the grime from their bodies and the dirt from their clothes.
“You want to swim in that?” Arthur says, incredulous. “Merlin, it’s snow melt; it’ll be bloody freezing.”
With a mischievous smile, Merlin holds his arm in front of him and waggles his fingers in time with his eyebrows.
In the end, Merlin wins and Arthur relents, though not without making Merlin enter the water first. Arthur had watched on in awe as he had set up two lines straight across the water, invisible to the naked eye. The first warms the water to a temperature suitable for swimming in, and the second returns it to its usual freezing temperature as it continues its course down the stream. It’s a handy spell, but it takes a lot out of him. Arthur’s clear disbelief and awe at Merlin’s ability make it worth it.
Even if Merlin is feeling the strange urge to blurt out everything to Arthur.
Every time Arthur’s hair catches the light just so, or when he turns to check that Merlin is still following, or pulls his sword out at random to give it a swing, Merlin is filled with longing. Longing to confess to Arthur and just have it be done. Let what may come, happen.
But he doesn’t. He holds it all in, packaging his longing into a box, tying it with a neat little bow and shoving it to the back of an imaginary closet where he never has to look at it and see it. Even though it keeps escaping. Keeps finding its way into the edges of his vision and his thoughts. Arthur could never feel the same way, and Merlin will never risk their relationship. Not for anything.
But as Arthur smiles at him in glee as he steps into the water, Merlin feels that urge once more rear its head. Squashing it back yet again feels like it’s getting harder and harder each time.
So instead of focusing on that, Merlin waves his hand once, and watches as a wave of water soaks Arthur head to toe. He stands blinking after the onslaught, hair plastered to his forehead.
“It’s not going to eat you, dollophead, so just get in,” Merlin laughs, as he watches Arthur still as death, still processing what just happened to him. Under his armour, Merlin can see the way his clothes stick to every inch of him.
It takes Arthur a long, drawn-out moment to come out of his shock, but when he does, he levels quite the glare at Merlin and starts peeling out of his armour quickly.
Merlin suddenly regrets his decision.
With an admittedly awkward laugh, Merlin turns around and submerges himself fully in the water, having already stripped down to just his underclothes.
While the water certainly isn’t freezing, it’s not terribly warm, and it provokes just enough of a shock to Merlin’s system that he feels refreshed when he comes up for air.
Only to be hit with a wave of water careening right for his face.
“Ha!” Arthur laughs, as Merlin blinks river water from his eyes. “And I didn’t even need magic to do so,” he teases, smug and self-satisfied.
Merlin considers a sassy reply, but in the end decides that the element of surprise is more important as he sizes Arthur up, judging the distance between them.
When he’s ready, Merlin smirks at Arthur and then launches himself at the king, catching him round the middle and tumbling him straight into the river. He gets a face full of water himself for it, but it’s worth it.
As Arthur yells and splashes, Merlin gets his feet under him and retreats to the other side of the river before Arthur can get himself back up. He considers briefly using his magic to splash more water on Arthur, before deciding not to add insult to injury. Besides, maybe if he doesn’t, he can get Arthur to wrap his arms around Merlin and Merlin can tell him how he—
He stops that thought in its tracks before it can go too far.
Arthur stands in one not-quite-graceful movement. As if in slow motion, he throws his head back, his hair flying behind him creating an arc of water that the sun seems to glitter off, and for a moment everything in Merlin short-circuits for long enough that the next thing he notices is the feeling of the riverbed meeting his back as his legs are pulled from under him.
After that, it completely devolves, and Merlin and Arthur spend far too long grappling in the river trying to get the upper hand in their little competition. Arthur beats him in sheer brawn, but Merlin is both wriggly and able to use just enough magic to hold his own. Their laughter echoes across the water, and Merlin’s cheeks hurt from the constant smile on his face. He hardly feels the bruise up his back from one particularly good dunk by Arthur.
By the time they crawl out of the river, the sun is nearing its zenith, they’ve lost more than an hour’s walking time, and deep within his chest, Merlin is feeling the strain of holding up the magical barriers.
He lets them fall, leaving the river to resume its course uninterrupted, and with a few whispered words, dries them both, before groaning at the thought of having to keep walking.
He wouldn’t trade the morning for anything, though.
When they make camp that night, Merlin feels exhausted and jittery at the same time. The walk has been long, and the cold intolerable, but more than anything, what’s making him so jittery is the urge to just talk and let absolutely anything fall out of his mouth. Years’ worth of things left unsaid.
It’s requiring an actual effort of will to not open his mouth, which has left Merlin feeling drained and ready to sleep. It takes only another quick muttering of words for two rabbits to fly into his hands, only this time he uses another spell to clean and skin them and gets them set up on the fire Arthur’s built himself. Using the magic requires little effort, the strain from earlier soothed by the forest around them, reinvigorating him, despite his exhaustion.
Few words pass between them while they eat and drink. It’s not long before they huddle up next to one another and fall asleep.
Merlin wakes up in stages. The first thing that invades his sleep is the very beginning vestiges of sunrise. The next thing that creeps into his consciousness is warmth. Such glorious warmth, radiating all down his back, across his side, and even down to his toes. He burrows further into it, sliding backwards and pressing as far into himself as he can so he doesn’t have to feel the hard ground beneath him.
If he were in his bed back in Camelot, this would perhaps be the perfect way to wake up, but the hard ground beneath him reminds him that it’s less than ideal because they’re walking through the woods hoping to stumble upon Caerleon, with no guards, no food, no water, and no belongings, and the warmth is actually Arthur behind him.
That thought wakes Merlin up the rest of the way.
Arthur and his warmth surround him. It’s Arthur’s breath that tickles Merlin’s neck, where his nose has wormed its way beneath his neckerchief. It’s Arthur’s leg pressing between his thighs and it’s Arthur’s arm that holds him so firmly to Arthur’s chest.
Merlin feels a little faint. The urge to roll over and kiss Arthur, to profess his feelings and throw all caution to the wind, thrums through his body. He can practically feel it like an impulse in his arms, and he knows with certainty that it isn’t coming from his own body.
It must’ve been the stones.
Some kind of compulsion to confess to the one he loves. Or perhaps to give up his greatest secret to those who shared the circle with them.
Whatever it is, Merlin isn’t quite sure, but he would really rather not tell Arthur he has a passing fondness for him.
So he won’t.
None of this explains why Arthur is currently wrapped around him like a leech. Probably the cold.
With one burst of effort, Merlin rolls himself out of Arthur’s arms and leaves him to blink himself awake while Merlin relieves himself in the trees.
There’s an uncomfortable quiet between them as they walk. Merlin had climbed another tree to see which direction they should head in, to try to find any signs of civilisation out there. They should be passing into Caerleon’s territory sometime during the day. In the wrong direction, Merlin had seen a keep and a town far in the distance, possibly the holdings of Lord Bors, Leon’s father.
It’s unfortunate that it was so far out of their way, or they could have sent word to Camelot and to Caerleon of the trouble that befell them; however, it would take nearly as long to arrive there as it would to find Caerleon.
So they had kept walking, at least assured they were heading in the right direction.
They’ve stayed clear of roads to avoid being an easy target for bandits, but it hasn’t made the walk easy. This part of the forest is dense and thick, and the snow still clings stubbornly to the ground as they walk further northwest towards Annis’s kingdom. At times, Arthur has had to pull out his sword to thin the undergrowth out for them to make it through, and Merlin cringes at the mistreatment of Excalibur, but is also quietly glad that its magic resists any scratches or dings.
Focusing on the little things — like the difficulty of their journey, his wet feet, sore legs, and Excalibur — helps Merlin keep his mind off the buzzing in his chest. That bone-deep thrumming and throbbing that he feels every time he so much as glances at Arthur. It’s begun to hurt, holding back the words, but Merlin has spent too long keeping secrets to give in to the urge so easily.
But still. His love for Arthur curls around his heart, sending the errant organ beating out a quick pulse, each thump signalling yet another wave of yearning. He aches with it.
Five words are all it would take to release the tension. Five little words. ‘I’m in love with you.’ That’s all it would take. But Merlin refuses to let them out. He refuses to jeopardise their relationship with that confession.
It doesn’t help the way the sun gleams off the snow, turning Arthur’s hair golden and his skin a pale white. His armour practically glows, even covered in dirt as it is. And even worse is when Merlin catches sight of the perpetual frown now lodged firmly between Arthur's brows. He wants to run his finger down the middle of it, soften it, and replace the frown with a kiss.
“Merlin?” Arthur asks, drawing Merlin out of his reverie.
Taking stock of himself, Merlin realises his hand is reaching out as if to do just that, take Arthur’s face in his hands and smooth down that little crease. Wipe it away until Arthur is left smiling softly and lovingly at him. He drops his arm, shaking his head.
“Sorry, got lost in thought,” Merlin mutters.
Arthur only hums in reply, before turning back to continue walking.
As Merlin looks up at the sky, noting that the sun hasn’t even yet reached its apogee, Merlin groans internally. It’s going to be a long day.
As they begin to settle in for the night, it’s taking a conscious effort not to reach out to Arthur.
They had crossed into Caerleon earlier in the day, though neither was sure exactly when, and by the time they make camp, the forest is no longer one of Camelot. It’s a little alien to him, a whole kingdom away from Ealdor.
It’s not helping the steady increase of the spell that has taken hold in his heart, moving from a jittering to a full-blown beehive stuck right between his ribs. He practically shakes with it, this desire to just blurt out his feelings to Arthur. He’s moved so far past being on edge that he jumps at every little thing, every scurrying animal, every whistle of a bird song, every stiff breeze. A branch had broken off a dead tree earlier with a crack, and Merlin had set it aflame before he knew what was happening.
He volunteers to collect firewood, if for no other reason than it gets him away from Arthur.
Merlin allows himself to drift further away from their campsite than he normally would as he collects wood for the fire. He lets himself walk completely out of earshot of Arthur, and then a little further past that.
Even then, he keeps his voice to a whisper as he speaks his greatest secret into the wind, desperate for release.
“I’m in love with Arthur,” he whispers, hoping, despite himself, that just saying the words aloud will free him from the spell. “Isn’t that what you want to hear?” he says, louder. “That I love him? Haven’t I satisfied your magic?”
But there’s nothing. No relief from the ache, the yearning in his chest, tugging him insistently towards Arthur, making him want to scratch and scratch and scratch at his skin until there’s nothing left.
He’s not sure how much longer he can last before the urge drives him to madness. He’s already feeling jumpy and paranoid, like the beehive in his chest is a real horror following him as he walks, keeping just out of eyesight.
“Merlin, what’s taking you so long?” a voice yells through the forest, and wood rains down around his feet as Merlin’s throat tries to claw its way out of his mouth at the shock.
It’s just Arthur, Merlin tells himself as he struggles with the urge to vomit, the fright his voice had given him is so bad. It takes Merlin a full minute just breathing as he stares at his knees to get his heart back under control.
Arthur is already sitting by a cleared area of ground, a pile of dry leaves and grass next to him, ready for Merlin to light the fire.
He can see that Arthur has laid out a place for Merlin next to him, the ground suspiciously clear of debris, but Merlin sits down across from Arthur, unsure he’ll be able to keep himself from running his hands through Arthur’s hair or leaning into him or possibly something even worse like simply leaning over and licking a stripe up his neck, right where his pulse jumps.
He watches confusion flicker across Arthur’s face, before he distracts himself with building the fire manually. His hands shake as he does, and when he tries to light the fire with his magic, it takes a couple tries to get it going.
It’s affecting every part of him now. He can’t hold his hands still, can’t stand straight, can’t think clearly, and now can’t even muster the focus for the smallest bit of magic. It can’t go on like this, but Merlin refuses to give in to the magic of the spell that easily. Perhaps the magic won’t send him mad, and it’s merely a test to see how long he can hold out. That might explain why Arthur doesn’t seem to be feeling any adverse effects.
Sitting down again, Merlin curls into himself, pulling Arthur’s cloak further around himself and tucking his hands further into his side. His whole body is wracked with shivers, the cold wearing him down. Normally, he would simply warm the air around him, but with his concentration as poor as it is, he doesn’t want to risk it.
“Merlin, just—” Arthur cuts himself off, voice frustrated. When Merlin looks up — that ache in his chest tripling as he meets Arthur’s eyes — he can see the concern etched into the lines of Arthur’s face. “Just get over here.”
“No. No, I’m good,” Merlin mumbles, tucking his chin back into his chest.
“Merlin, you stubborn arse, just come here.”
“I’m fine.”
“Merlin,” Arthur all but growls. But still, Merlin refuses to move.
He’s not sure what he’ll do if he goes over there, but he knows it will involve embarrassing confessions of feelings, or perhaps the previously considered neck licking, and Merlin won’t allow any of that to happen.
“Would you leave your king to freeze in the snow, when shared body heat might keep him alive?” Arthur asks.
With a flick of his fingers, and not enough of a thought to get distracted from, Merlin makes the air around Arthur balmy and warm.
Arthur splutters but Merlin ignores it, focusing everything he has on not blurting the dreaded words out. Distantly, Merlin hears Arthur yell, “Well, why didn’t you just do that the past two nights?” and truly, it’s a good question. Merlin didn’t think of it. Perhaps because the idea of snuggling up to Arthur was more pleasant, or perhaps because he’s never tested whether it will stay warm while they sleep, or possibly just because he didn’t want to.
A deep shudder wracks Merlin’s frame, and he’s worried his teeth may fall out if they keep bashing together, but he still refuses to move, and gives Arthur no reply.
“You blithering idiot, Merlin, why can’t you just, for once in your life, do as I say?” Arthur yells from across the fire, getting to his knees so he can stand, and something in Merlin just snaps.
He throws his arms wide, the cloak falling off his shoulders, as he yells loud enough to startle what few birds hang around out of nearby trees, “Because I’m in love with you!”
The only noise in the clearing for the next few moments is the skittering of wildlife as they all run from the sound of Merlin’s voice. He holds himself as still as possible, some ancient impulse causing his every muscle to freeze as if Arthur couldn’t see him if he didn’t move. It would be a wonderful time for a sinkhole to open up beneath me, he thinks. He’s not quite ready to open that sinkhole up himself.
But more than the stillness of his mortification, is the instant relief as it feels like the giant hand constricting his chest, his heart, his lungs, retracts and he can think and breathe again.
Arthur sits stunned across from him, Merlin’s eyes not willing to move higher than Arthur’s feet, but when he does move, he does so in a great loud burst, as he yells, “Well, that doesn’t make any sense!”
It’s possibly the only thing Arthur could have said to get Merlin to forget his embarrassment and instead become enraged as he flies to his feet. “It’s not supposed to make any sense; everybody claims love is some mystical thing.”
They’re both yelling, stepping closer to one another across the fire.
“No!” Arthur says, shaking his head. “Not that. That being in love with me would make you less likely to listen to me. Aren’t you meant to be seduced by my… my— I don’t know— my handsome visage, and agree with whatever I say?”
“What?” Merlin says, stunned. This conversation has just taken the most ludicrous turn. “No. That’s not what’s supposed to happen. Where did you even— You’re such an arrogant prat!”
“Well, apparently my handsome visage worked on you.”
Merlin’s not entirely sure how the conversation got so out of hand, but he’s not particularly happy about it.
“You’re being a— a dollophead! A clotpole! A complete and utter ass!”
“But you love me,” Arthur shoots back, a teasing lilt to his countenance now, and while Merlin wants to drop a tree full of snow on him, he also kind of wants to kiss that smirk off his face.
“And you’ll never get me to admit it again.” Merlin turns away from Arthur, or at least he tries to, when his arm is grabbed and he’s spun round, his chest hitting Arthur’s as he stumbles. The space between them has never felt so charged as Merlin stares into the blue of Arthur’s eyes. He has a gentle smile on his face.
“Not even if I do this?” Arthur asks, and then Merlin’s being kissed.
It’s not a perfect kiss by any means, both their lips are chapped and dry from their days spent walking the forest, and if he’d ever imagined his first kiss with Arthur — which he wouldn’t admit even under threat of execution — it wouldn’t be with him feeling so dazed and confused.
Despite that, Merlin feels like he comes awake as Arthur kisses him deeply, soundly. His lips are thick and full, and Merlin melts into them for all of a moment, before he remembers everything that happened and pulls away.
“What?” is all he manages to mumble, before Arthur’s shooting him another one of those soft smiles Merlin finds himself so easily addicted to.
“I love you,” Arthur says, with such surety that Merlin dives in for another kiss.
But as the sky flares green around them, Merlin pulls back.
It’s like being back in the clearing with the stones. Merlin hadn’t even noticed the relief of that pull, that tug dissipating.
“It’s beautiful,” Arthur whispers, looking awed at the sky around them. It really is. Like stripes of green light have been painted across the night sky. Just as before, they swirl in and around each other, like the waves of the ocean or long grass when it’s windy.
Merlin would stare at it for hours, but he has a more pressing question.
Smacking Arthur’s chest, Merlin draws his attention back to him, ignoring the way Arthur rubs his chest and complains. “Why didn’t you just say that back?”
“Say what back?” Arthur asks, confused, eyebrows pulled together.
“I love you,” Merlin replies.
“I love you, too.” A small smile spreads across Arthur’s face. “But say what back?”
“No, you utter prat, why didn’t you just say ‘I love you,’ back?”
“I did!”
“You didn’t! You started talking about things making sense and your visage and all that other nonsense.”
Merlin stands panting a little, now halfway across the fire from Arthur and not quite sure how he got there. He can see the green fading slowly from the sky, but Merlin only has eyes for Arthur. He’s feeling a whole confused well of emotions, joy and elation side by side with dread and longing and wrapped up with a bow made of stark fear.
“You surprised me,” Arthur replies, and for all that he looks a little smug and altogether pleased with himself, there’s a little hint of vulnerability in his voice that draws any ire from Merlin’s sails.
“Oh,” is all Merlin can come up with as a reply. But his feet move of their own volition and he finds himself standing next to Arthur again, unsure whether he can reach out and grab Arthur’s hand, or lay an arm around his shoulder as he wishes to. Ordinarily, Merlin would expect to be pushed away or to have Arthur run from his comfort, but…
Merlin’s not so sure now. Would it be allowed, now that they kissed? Now that they have admitted they love one another.
He’s really not certain.
Before he can decide what to do, a nervous hand grasps his own, and as Merlin looks down in awe, Arthur only holds on tighter.
They stand like that for a while, just holding on to one another, that fragile peace between them, before they eventually lie down by the fire without a word. Arthur curls up into Merlin, letting Merlin hold him around the waist. It’s warm and comforting, and hope blooms in Merlin’s chest.
He’s not sure what’s going to happen when they get back to Camelot. Or even what happens tomorrow when they reach Annis. He’s not sure what the future has in store for them; whether whatever this is will survive within the confines of Camelot.
But Merlin will take this night. He will accept what Arthur is allowing by letting Merlin hold him. And he will accept whatever they can hold on to in Camelot.
When Merlin finally falls asleep that night, he does so with hope lodging in a permanent place in his chest.
Waking the next morning is a wonderful thing. Not only is he warm and comfortable, but when Merlin opens his eyes, Arthur is already awake and looking right at him, a gentle smile on his face. His lips rise to greet Arthur’s, both in a smile and a kiss.
It’s a short thing, merely a brush of lips, casual, as if they do this every day. But when Merlin catches sight of the goofy smile on Arthur’s face, his cheeks flame red and he remembers how new and weird this all is. Arthur. In love with him, Merlin, with his ears and his excuses and his insouciance.
They pull apart, and Arthur jumps up immediately, holding out a hand for Merlin as he does, even though his eyes look resolutely away from Merlin’s own, a blush staining his cheeks and curling up and around his ears. “Right, we’d better get on then. We shouldn’t be too far from Caerleon’s castle.
Merlin smiles, glad he’s not the only one feeling at least a little discomfited. It takes no time at all for them to stamp out the fire and get their bearings. They set off with a small, hopeful smile.
About an hour into their journey, Arthur speaks up. “So,” he says, long and drawn out. “The green in the sky last night.”
Merlin hums. “I think it was from the compulsion spell lifting. Beautiful though.”
Arthur’s feet trip over something on the ground, but he catches himself before falling. Merlin is instantly suspicious. “Wait, you did notice that, right? The uncontrollable urge to spill your big secret.”
His voice is just a little high when he answers. “Yeah! I did, yes.”
Sometimes, Merlin would admit only to himself that Arthur is quite intelligent, although he’s currently reevaluating that belief, if the red curling around Arthur’s ears and the unconvincing smile on his face are anything to go by. He’s not missing his chance here, though, and he says, “So next time I say something feels off, you’ll listen to me, right?”
The smile Arthur gives him at that is full of smug condescension. “You know the answer to that question, Merlin.”
Just as Merlin turns to whirl on Arthur and give him a piece of his mind, he notices the trees starting to part up ahead, and the sight of a castle waiting beyond.
Merlin runs, bursting through the brush as he throws a smile over his shoulder at Arthur, and there, waiting for him, is Caerleon Castle.
Coming up behind him, Arthur grabs his hand for a moment, his smile full of promises for the future, and together they step forward, hands parting, ready to face it head on.