Archive of Our Own

Merlin watches, tears streaming, as the light fades from Arthur's eyes, locked with his even as every labored breath becomes slower, heavier, blood pouring out of the man before him in a nauseating flow not he nor Gaius nor any bandage can fix. Arthur's mouth forms around the words I love you, but they never come because soon, far too soon, Arthur's hand goes limp in his and with a soft sigh, heavy with regret and love and devotion and exhaustion, Arthur closes his eyes for the last time. Merlin cradles his king, his best friend, his husband, his everything to his chest, tips back his head, and screams into the void as his entire world is ripped to pieces and hurled like knives into the wind.

Merlin holds Arthur's body until it grows cold, until he can’t take it anymore, not seeing the mischievous glint in his blue eyes, not hearing Arthur's friendly teasing or gentle, protective hand on his shoulder or the flash of his sword or his laugh in the cold night air or anything, anything, ever again. He lowers Arthur’s head gently to the ground, smooths his disheveled golden hair back into place and stands up slowly, dazedly, raw from crying and soul blistering in agony. He wipes his eyes for the millionth time, trying to think, to understand.

Arthur looks almost as though he’s simply sleeping, and it’s awful because he isn't, he’s gone, and he would never kiss Merlin or joke with Gwaine or make Gwen smile ever again. He would never do a million things, because he wasn't asleep, he was dead. Dead and empty and cold. Merlin tries to gasp, tries to breath, but nothing comes. His blood roars in his ears, pulsing with the last words Arthur ever said to him.

Thank you, Merlin.

Merlin stumbles away, feels the earth shift and moan in distress as the bare trees and dead grass and the glint of Arthur's armor and golden mop of hair blur dizzying before his eyes, feels Albion’s endless and fathomless despair as his own as the land shudders and chokes on Arthur's blood. Merlin, unable to see, feels the heel of his muddy boot catch on something and he goes tumbling backwards, a silent cry frozen on his lips as the world erupts in a blinding flash of light.

When Merlin finally cracks open his eyes, the first thing he notices, other than the fact that he’s sprawled on the ground, is that Arthur is gone. After a moment of blind panic, Merlin realizes something else. It’s summer. The frost is gone from the grass beneath his crumpled form. No misty puffs swirl in front of his eyes. Even his thick winter doublet is suddenly stifling hot. He looks down to unbutton it before freezing, shaking hands stilling. It’s still soaked in Arthur’s blood, wine red and sickening.

Merlin scrambles to his feet, spinning in messy circles as he looks frantically for Arthur. He’d only fallen to the ground for a few seconds, surely whoever had taken Arthur must still be nearby. But even as he searches, realization dawns on him in mind blowing, heart stopping clarity until he stops cold, breathing ragged.

There’s no puddle of blood marring the warm green grass. There’s no disturbance on the ground from Arthur's body being dragged for him to follow. There’s no snow, because there’s no body. He would not find Arthur here, because Arthur had never been here.

Merlin clenches his hands into fists and lets out a long, uneven breath as he realizes the impossible. Arthur would not be there because Merlin, the most powerful warlock in the world, Ardrí of the druids and gatekeeper of all magic on Earth, had semi-accidentally turned back time.

He can feel it in his very bones, the shift in the universe, the slight wrongness of him being out of place in skin too old and scarred to fit properly in this gap of time. But he can also feel the tug on his heart that he thought he'd never feel again, gentle and barely there, almost like a sixth sense, connecting him to Arthur. Which means, without a shadow of a doubt, that he’s still alive. Probably back at the castle, complaining about his armor or irritating Morgana or roughhousing with his knights and just generally being a stupid, beautiful, alive prat.

Merlin feels tears well up in his eyes, bittersweet but hopeful. He may have lost years of his life, lost a million memories of things that no longer existed because they hadn't happened yet or never would, but he would mourn them later. Right now he’s just numb with gratitude and dizzy with the full realization of what he'd done. He has Arthur back, and that’s all that matters. Merlin sets off towards the castle at a run, adrenaline burning away his exhaustion.

After a few moments, desperation replaces his remaining ounces of caution, and he risks teleporting to the forest just outside of the castle, stumbling when he lands. He’s still shaking so hard he’s sure he’d collapse if the hope and fear weren’t driving his legs on. He runs, possibly faster than he ever has in his life, lungs burning, into the upper town, across the drawbridge, and through the courtyard. He’s not entirely sure where he’s going, doesn’t know what day or even year it is. He sees people he recognizes, other servants, stable hands milling about, a handful of knights, so he knows it must still be within his time at Camelot, but no Arthur. Not Gwen, Gaius, or Morgana either.

No one tries to stop him as he careens down the hallways, only giving him concerned glances and stepping quickly out of his way. He checks Arthur’s chambers, the armory, the practice fields, even the council rooms, where it’s strange to see there’s no longer a seat at the head with Arthur reserved for him. But, still, nothing. No Arthur. His hope shrivels up and drops into his stomach like a lead weight, dragging him down.

Eventually he has to stop, light headed from lack of air. He leans heavily against the stone wall, mind a chaotic mess. All he can feel is terror so deep he almost feels nothing at all, like the eye of a storm. What if he's wrong? What if Arthur isn't here?

Reaching out a hand to steady himself, he’s startled when it slips off the stone. Numbly, he looks down and realizes his hands and clothes are still smeared with dark, wet blood. Oops, he thinks, somewhat hysterically. That might explain all the concerned looks. After all, Merlin careening about the castle in of itself is a fairly common sight. He wipes his hands on his trousers, sick with the knowledge that this is Arthur's blood, his life blood. Sick with the knowledge that after everything they’d been through, Merlin had failed him when he needed him most.

He's so caught up in his own inner breakdown that at first he doesn’t register the voices. Slowly, clumsily, they filter through the fog, and it’s like being struck by lightning. He snaps his head up in time to see Morgana and Gwen, laughing and talking, walk past the doorway that leads into the great hall. They don’t notice him, but he still shrinks back into the alcove, presses himself deeper into the darkness, heart pounding. He thought he’d be ready for anything when he came here, but he still has to fight back the instinctual panic, fear, anger, suspicion that he’s spent so long associating with Morgana.

He forces himself to breath, to think. This isn’t Morgana, or at least, not the Morgana he’s come to know and fear. This is the real Morgana, the one who risked her life for his and spoke to him as an equal and teased Arthur and made Gwen laugh. This is Morgana, his friend. He swallows harshly, memories of poison and fights and knives and hissing, spitting hatred flashing through his mind. She’s still his friend, but he doesn’t know for how much longer.

And then, suddenly. Suddenly. Arthur sweeps past, calling out to someone, relaxed and smiling. And it’s too much, the wave of relief and love and sheer exhaustion that crashes over him. He feels like he’s drowning in it, and for the first time since he watched Arthur die, Merlin lets himself cry. Really cry. It’s not delicate or poetic or dignified. It’s gutteral and harsh and so gut wrenching he actually gags, chokes, gasps for air. He can’t even see through the tears, through the pain as he sinks to the floor, curls in on himself, and sobs into his hands. His tears mix with the blood and slowly, the rivulets of red begin to run. It’s a long, long time before he comes back to himself.

__

Merlin turns himself invisible, but doesn’t encounter anyone when he sneaks through Gaius’s workroom and into his old chambers. His throat aches as he opens the door with the hinge that always creaks and sees his unmade bed, his shoes and tunics on the floor of the small room. In his time, in a time he realizes suddenly and with no small measure of despair may never come to pass, he and Arthur shared chambers up in the royal wing, in his room with the window facing Camelot and the setting sun and their bookshelf lined walls and Arthur’s extensive wardrobe and the one huge poster bed in the center where the covers always magically made themselves, sometimes with Arthur in it, which always made Merlin laugh and Arthur splutter, flailing, and accuse him of doing on purpose, which only made Merlin laugh harder because it was true.

Swallowing around the lump that seems to have taken up permanent residence in his throat, he goes in and closes the door behind him. As much as he wants to see Arthur, to prove to himself that without a doubt he's alive and breathing and safe, he knows he can’t show himself like this, covered in blood, face puffy and red from crying. He knows he looks like he’s been to hell and back, because he has.

He mechanically washes the majority of the blood from his hands and face in the small washbin in the corner. Distantly he’s aware he’s probably still in shock, but he can’t make himself wait any longer. He’s seen Arthur fight, die, traveled in time, seen a non-evil Morgana and had a full frontal mental breakdown all within the span of less than an hour. He think he deserves to see his hus- Arthur. He deserves to see Arthur.

Frustrated at the washing, he ends up just magicing the blood on his clothes away. He doesn’t have time to wash them, and has no idea how he’d explain the stains. He also realizes, with a pang, that they’re far, far too nice for him to be wearing in this time. They’re his normal now, to the point where he doesn't even notice anymore, but in this new light he realizes how starkly telling they are. They’re far too fine, garments of the deepest pendragon red embroidered with a massive gold dragon, lined against the cold for the season he left behind. Clothes for a king.

He strips them off with shaking hands, but can’t make himself burn them. They’re all he has left of his Arthur. The tunic had been a birthday gift a few years back, and he rubs the fabric between his fingers one last time, savering the leftover glow of warmth and love as he remembers. No matter what happens now, even though Arthur is no longer his and never will be now that he’s disrupted the timeline forever, the knowledge that at least once, in one lifetime, in one universe, Arthur had loved him enough to give him this will have to be enough. It’ll just have to.

He regretfully stuffs the clothes and his good black boots deep into the shadows under his bed, spells them with a concealment charm for good measure, and rummages around for a tunic and trousers. To his dismay, when he pulls them on the pants are rather too short, the shirt much too tight. He squirms uncomfortably, and has just enough time to mutter a quick spell to alter the pants when he hears the door outside creak, and Gaius’s voice as he enters the room, bidding someone farewell. Resigning himself to pinched armpits, Merlin tugs on his old, threadbare boots and is about to go out when his eye snags on a glint of metal. His ring.

Heart in his throat, Merlin tugs the silver band embedded with a single, lightning green emerald off his finger with shaky hands. He stares at it in his palm for a long, long time before he tucks it under the bed with his clothes. It feels like losing a limb. But as much as he wants to keep it on him, he knows he can’t do anything to give himself away, and the last thing he wants to be accused of is stealing it. Taking a deep breath and giving his eyes one last rub, he straightens, forces a smile, and leaves his room.

Gaius is standing by the workbench, bent over a book. He looks up and gives him a nod in greeting before going back to his reading. Suddenly emotional at the sight of his old mentor, Merlin hurries over and gives Gaius a bone crushing hug, startling the old man.

“Oof.” Gaius blinks at Merlin as he releases him, but he’s smiling. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing, just glad to see you that’s all.” Giving Gaius his most winning smile and feeling a little more steady, he practically runs from the room, leaving a bemused Gaius blinking after him.

__

Outside of their- Arthur’s, he reminds himself with a sharp shake of his head- chambers he pauses, hand already on the door handle. Does he still knock in this time? He can’t remember, brain fuzzy with anxiety and excitement, desperate to see Arthur again. Giving up, he decides he can just play it off as an accident if he needs to. Quietly, he opens the door and slips inside.

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he sees Arthur sitting in the chair at his desk, frowning down at some reports. The late afternoon sunlight filters in through the window, making him glow golden and timeless, frozen for a moment, alive and whole.

Arthur looks up at the sound of the door, and when their eyes meet all the air gets punched out of Merlin in a rush. Embarrassingly, he feels weepy all over again and has to look away, blinking back the sting in his eyes and taking that precious second to compose himself. When he looks back up, Arthur is still staring at him, but Merlin’s ready this time.

“Merlin,” Arthur drawls, leaning back in his chair. “I thought I told you to fetch me my dinner. Did you somehow manage to lose the tray between the kitchens and here?”

The relief is so strong it makes his head swim, and all he can do is smile dopily at Arthur, who just kind of blinks at him, bewildered.

“Do I have something on my face?” He sets down his quill. “I know you have a mental affliction but this is weird even for you.”

“Sorry,” He says, not sorry at all, but he does try to pull himself together. He can’t make himself completely swallow his smile though, and it flits at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll go fetch that right away.”

“Since when are you eager to do your job.” Arthur squints at him. “Are you ill?”

Merlin just chuckles, shakes his head. “Not that I know of. I’ll be right back.”

He slips out the door, shuts it gently, and leans back against it. The last of the tension drains out of his body as he sags against the wood, lets out a breath and closes his eyes. No matter what happens, what he’s given up, it’s all worth it just to be here, with Arthur.

He’s about to push himself up and go down to the kitchens when he suddenly feels the solid wood behind him disappear. With a rather undignified yelp, he barely stops himself from catching himself with magic, and he thumps against something solid but warm.
That something gabs him, pulls him up sharply and sets him back on his feet. He finds himself looking into the irritated eyes of a certain prince.

“What on earth were you doing?”

“Erm.” Is all he manages, because he’s rather preoccupied with the fact that Arthur’s hands are still gripping his shoulders and it’s making him all tingly and warm. He glances down at them, and Arthur seems to realize simultaneously because he lets go as if he’s been burned. A sharp stab of hurt pierces his heart, and he wonders a bit desperately if it’ll ever get any easier, being around his husband. Ex-husband. The prefix makes his stomach turn.

“Honestly Merlin. You’re a disgrace. How hard can it possibly be to complete a simple task.” His eyes have softened though, more grudgingly fond than anything, and it soothes the harshness of his words. Merlin swallows, refusing to let his earlier happiness dissipate. He can do this.

“Sorry. Just got distracted, that’s all.”

“What were you doing?” Arthur peers around him into the hallway, which is empty. “Decided to take a quick nap did you?”

“Being around you was just so dull, I couldn’t resist.” He can’t help responding reflexively, and then freezes because he can’t remember if this is allowed yet. Are they friends yet? Or still in a tentative tolerance where every step is on the eggshells of feeling each other out.

Arthur does blink at him a few more times than normal, assuming he doesn’t have dust in his eye, but then he Arthur-smiles. Which is to say, he smiles without smiling. Not big, not noticeable, just the barest softening of his usual scowl like he does when he finds something funny but knows he shouldn’t. The corners of his mouth twitch traitorously.

“Ah,” He says. “Insubordinate as ever.” But leaves it at that.

They stand there, smiling but not smiling at each other for a solid couple seconds. Merlin knows he should go, knows he’s already making Arthur suspicious, but he can’t seem to get enough of this, drinking in the sight of Arthur alive and well and back to his pratty self. His sharper edges haven't been smoothed over yet by age and responsibility and the maturity that only comes from hardship, but it's still his Arthur. He can still see him there, underneath all those prickly layers that Merlin is determined to help sooth away again. For the first time, some of the sadness in his chest starts to dissipate. This is still his Arthur. This is still the man who will become a great, beloved king. Even if he does it without Merlin by his side as a partner, at the very least it can be as a friend.

Arthur shakes his head, breaking the moment or whatever it was, and shoves him gently out into the hallway. “Try to get it right this time, Merlin.” He calls, and slams the door.

It’s been quite a few years since he’s brought Arthur food, but he remembers the drill. Usually his enchanted tray waits for the cook to load it up before floating up to their rooms and setting itself on their table, but now Merlin waits in a line of servants with the tray under his arm.

When it’s his turn, the Cook directs her assistants to arrange food on the tray, and with a pang Merlin realizes that in his time, she’s retired, food crippled from a falling cauldron.

“Stay away from falling dishes,” He blurts nonsensically as she hands him the tray, but she just blinks at him in confusion.

“What?”

“Oh, never mind.” On his way out, he mutters a quick shielding spell, hidden in the ruckus of the kitchen, just in case.

__

The days go by, and Merlin slowly gets back into the swing of things. It’s hard, and aches somewhere deep inside him, running around doing thankless chores instead of helping Arthur run a kingdom, but it’s not the class difference that gets to him. It was the way Arthur looked at him, thought of him, turned to him for help and advice that he misses so dearly. The Arthur in this time still seems under the impression that Merlin is somewhat of an idiot, if a benign one. But still, the contrast stings. Also he misses him, somehow, even when he’s right there. Being forced to hide so much of himself once again makes him feel worlds away from Arthur. They used to spend so much time together, and even if the busy day kept them apart, they would always go to sleep curled together, talking hushed and intimate into the early morning hours about nothing and everything, muffling sleep drunk laughter into their pillows.

Still. Any Arthur is better than no Arthur. Merlin never doubts this for a moment. He never once regrets his decision.

Merlin’s one source of hope is that more and more frequently, Arthur rants to him about things his father said, frustrating council meetings, the amount of extra training he’s having to put his knights through in preparation for visiting nobles, in case they should prove to be hostile. Perhaps he is coming to trust Merlin, or perhaps he just thinks him a captive audience and too short sighted to be traitorous, but nevertheless, Merlin savors every second even if he doesn’t think Arthur would appreciate him voicing his opinion in return.

--

He sees Morgana randomly over the next couple of days, but never alone. Whenever he’s not running around for Arthur, he’s trying to figure out how far Morgana has sunken into Morgause’s clutches. He notes that she’s not wearing the enchanted silver bracelet, so things aren’t life or death yet, but it still makes him anxious. Thrice this week alone, Morgana has sent Gwen down to Gaius asking for a potion to help her sleep. That can only mean that her nightmares are getting worse, and rapidly. When she speaks to him at a banquet, he can barely look her in her dark rimmed eyes. It still hurts, even after all this time.

___

Merlin feels like he’s just drifted off to sleep when the alarm bells jar him awake. As always, his first thought is Arthur, and he feels the panic rise up to choke him as he bolts out of bed. What if something’s happened to him all because Merlin isn’t able to watch over him at night anymore? What if someone got through all the protective spells he put around Arthur’s room?

As he frantically hops around his room pulling on his boots and tripping over the books he left on the floor, he wonders if he can somehow convince Arthur that it’s a good, totally normal idea for him to sleep in the antichamber off of his room. The alarm bell, ringing from one of the four main towers, is drilling into his brain, heartbeat matching it's frantic pace. At least it’s only one, not all four, which means Camelot probably isn’t being invaded and this is just an average run of the mill crisis, but still.

But then again, Arthur is much more important than Camelot. Merlin would let Camelot burn if it meant saving Arthur.

Merlin has come to accept over time that his priorities might be a bit skewed.

__

He goes and checks on Arthur first only to find him already dressed, hair still mussed with sleep, strapping his sword haphazardly to his hip.

Arthur looks up sharply when he opens the door, hand going to his sword, but when he sees Merlin some of the tension in his body eases.

“Ah. Merlin.” Arthur strides past him out the door, and Merlin hurries to follow. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard the alarm and came as fast as I could.”

Arthur turns his head to look at him, confusion etched in his features. Along with a pillow crease. Merlin thinks he should get an award for not mooning over on the spot.

“You came?” Arthur says, carefully, like he’s weighing the words on his tongue. It almost looks as if he’s embarrassed, if that were possible, but it’s not. Must be a trick of the lighting. “To my chambers?”

Perplexed, Merlin nods. “Of course. I had to check on you.”

“Had to,” Arthur echoes faintly, shaking his head. After a moment of staring intensely at the floor, he mutters. “You’re a servant. When you hear the alarm it’s for the guards to worry about, not you.”

Merlin shrugs, says “You’re always mine to worry about,” then seems to realize how that sounded and sort of goes a bit ridged and pink around the ears. Arthur most definitely does not notice. After a few moments of awkward silence, all he can think to do is shake his head and repeat “You know that’s not your job.”

“Okay,” Merlin says neutrally, and then they’re in the chaos of guards and barking orders and he completely misses the way Arthur is staring at him as if he’s never quite seen him before.

__

A few seconds later and they’re in Morgana’s chambers, the source of the commotion. Arthur immediately goes over to Uther and they begin talking in low, urgent tones as soldiers mill around, searching the room. Morgana sits on a sete with Gwen, their hands clenched tightly together. She’s white as a sheet and visibly shaking, jumping at every little noise. His heart clenches at how someone so vibrant and strong could be reduced to such a whisp of her former self. All because of one man and his prejudiced idiocy.

In his time, he’d been so caught up in his own problems that he’d never full realized the toll Morgana’s magic had been taking on her until it was far, far too late. No wonder she turned to the first person who was kind to her for help when her own friend stood by and let fear stay his hand. The guilt is a nauseating, familiar presence, but for the first time Merlin doesn’t drown in it. He lets it fuel him. He can do better. He knows he can. What’s the point of magic, of him being here, of any of it, if not to help those he loves and right the wrongs of his fear and indecision? If his resolve hadn’t already been firmly cemented, it is now. Now he just has to figure out a good way to break it to her that she’s not alone.

Nobody questions Merlin’s presence as he hurries across the room to sit beside Morgana. Where Arthur is, people just expect his Merlin shadow to be somewhere close behind.

He murmurs nonsensical words of comfort as she turns into him, rests her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes. Cautiously, he puts an arm around her shoulders, and she doesn’t shrug him off. He can feel her trembling. He looks across her mess of curls to meet eyes with Gwen, who looks as worried as he feels, lips pressed tightly together. Her hands must be going numb from how tightly Morgana is strangling them, but she doesn’t say a word.

As the three of them sit there, huddled together, Merlin pieces together what’s happened. Morgana had awoken in the night to find her curtains had caught on fire, and her screaming had woken Gwen, who apparently had started sleeping in a chair beside Morgana's bed because she was afraid to leave her alone with her nightmares (cue Merlin’s crippling guilt. Apparently his conscious had decided now was as good a time as any to remind him of everything he had ever messed up). Gwen had pulled a terrified Morgana from her bed as the flames caught on her bed curtains, and the guards outside the door had called for reinforcements and water to extinguish the fire.

Naturally, Uther blamed sorcery for what was now being called an attempt on the Lady Morgana’s life. Hence the alarm bells. Nobody bothered to point out that it was entirely possible for anyone with two brain cells and a torch to accomplish the same thing.

__

Eventually, after what could have been minutes or hours, Arthur comes back into the room. Merlin is embarrassingly glad to see him again. He gets separation anxiety so often now it feels like a part of him. He chalks it up to the permanent disbelief that he still has Arthur. Every morning he wakes up afraid until he's sure he's still in his old chambers, that he hasn't suddenly reverted to an Arthur-less time.

Speaking of, Arthur looks exhausted and strained but not overly worried. “I had the knights take patrols and search the castle and nearby grounds. We didn’t find anybody suspicious, and the guards say nobody entered her chambers after she went to bed.” Arthur pauses, and Merlin can tell he's biting back a sigh at Uther's unconvinced glower. “It’s entirely possible that she merely knocked over a candle by accident, Gwen says she always keeps half a dozen lit through the night-”

Uther silences him with a sharp wave of his hand, and only someone who knows Arthur very well would’ve noticed the flare of anger in his eyes, there and gone in less than heartbeat, before his cool, detached mask slides back into place as his father dismisses him. “Enough excuses. Because of your incompetence, a dangerous sorcerer has nearly killed Morgana and apparently gotten away with it. We cannot let this kind of behavior stand. I expect you to run another sweep in the morning to make up for this failure. Now get these men out of here. Morgana needs rest.”

Merlin watches, heart aching for Arthur, as he bows stiffly to his father and begins giving orders, tense and clipped. The only evidence of his fury is the slight tick in his jaw and the way he slowly clenches and unclenches his sword hand like Merlin knows he does when he's on edge.

For what must have been the millionth time, Merlin hopes Uther would fall into a very deep, very sharp hole and stay there. He doesn't deserve Arthur’s respect, not when he treats him like that. Like his love and approval are things to be won through cruel actions and obedience, not given freely. Like Arthur is a naive child for believing in compassion and justice instead of the strong, beloved King that he will one day become. Merlin’s only solace is that one day, Arthur would shine so bright that Uthur’s legacy would be so wholly overshadowed, so sickly and cold in comparison, that nobody would bother to remember this cruel king. Everyone would remember Arthur, at least if Merlin had anything to say about it.

Even though all the candles had been knocked over by the water, and then from wind through the open windows to air out the smoke so it was impossible to tell, everyone but Uther appears to be convinced that a candle was the origin of the fire as they clear out. Merlin would have agreed, if he hadn’t been able to sense the lingering traces of magic still hanging in the air. And he recognized that magic, too. He’d fought against it often enough to know it deaf, blind, forwards and backwards. That magic belonged to Morgana.

With the room empty, Arthur finally seems to notice Merlin when he goes to check on Morgana. He gives him a sharp look at their positions, but Merlin just shrugs. Like hell he’s going to abandon Morgana just because Arthur has some antiquated sense of propriety. Besides, Morgana is decidedly not his type, for more reasons than one.

Awkwardly, Arthur gives Morgana’s shoulder a pat, which is about as close as he gets to full blown affection and she smiles shakily up at him with none of her usual sharp edges. A swell of emotion has Merlin blinking back the sting in his eyes all over again, this time for entirely different reasons. This is the first time their little family is back together again, he realizes, still friends, still fiercely protective of each other despite their differences. He never realized just how much he missed that until now, and is more determined than ever to see that it stays that way.

Gaius comes bustling back in. “I have the sleeping potion.” He hands it to Morgana, who downs it in one go.

“Perhaps it would be best if you don’t sleep alone tonight,” Arthur says quietly, a worried crease in between his eyebrows, and Gwen immediately offers to stay the rest of the night with her. Morgana flashes her a grateful look, and the three of them stand. Merlin gives Morgana a hug goodnight, and then Gwen too for good measure, and follows Arthur out the door.

“So,” Arthur remarks as they make their way down the hallway. “You and Morgana?”

Merlin has to try very hard to swallow back his laugh. Not only is he wholly uninterested in the fairer sex, he’s already horribly in love. He couldn’t imagine that fading no matter how many years he lost or gained, and the look Arthur is giving him hurts like a wound.

“It’s not like that,” Merlin replies heavily a few beats too late, suddenly tired to his very bones. He’s never felt less and more lonely at the same time. Arthur is so close, walking barely an inch away from him, and yet he feels miles away. Lifetimes away.

“You know it would never happen,” Arthur continues amicably, and Merlin aches aches aches.

“Shut. Up.” Merlin doesn’t mean for it to come out so harsh, but it does, and Arthur shoots him a startled look, but before he has a chance to reply Merlin’s already halfway down the hallway. He doesn’t look back. If he does he’s sure he’ll shatter into a million pieces.

____

Morgana stays holed up in her rooms all day, much to Merlin’s frustration, until he eventually can’t take it anymore and decides he’ll come up with some excuse to be there on the way.

He’s so busy mentally running through plausible explanations that when he turns the corner, he runs straight into Arthur. They both stumble back, Arthur cursing colorfully.

“I’d almost think you were aiming for me,” Arthur says crossly, rubbing his temple.

Merlin winces. “Sorry.”

They stare at each other, traces of awkwardness still in the air. They still haven’t talked about last night. They never do. But Merlin offers up a small, sheepish smile and Arthur seems to understand. Somehow, he always does when it’s important. That’s what Merlin loves about him.

Arthur abruptly steps back, putting a more reasonable amount of space between them. Merlin tries not to be disappointed.

“Unlike you, I don’t have all day to spend bowling unsuspecting people over. Actually, you don’t either, considering how desperately my chainmail needs cleaning. You know my father will probably have a tourney when the nobles arrive. You haven’t forgotten, have you?” Back to his usual brusque self then.

Merlin, in fact, did know, in a vague sort of way, but had, in fact, forgotten. He decides he will not be mentioning that to Arthur. “Of course I haven’t forgotten,” He replies tartly, already mentally running through the horrifically long list of tasks he needs to do in what is suddenly a worryingly short amount time. Also, he can't remember if a sorcerer will be attending this particular tourney, considering how much he's messed up the timeline, so oh gods he probably should to be ready for that too.

“On an unrelated note,” Merlin says with as much dignity as he can muster. “I have to go.”

Arthur snorts, but lets Merlin run off without further comment, which is a minor miracle.

___

Disheartened by yet another failure to confide in Morgana, Merlin sets about his tasks with righteous frustration. He oils, buffs, polishes, and shines until late into the night, for once glad not to be doing something by magic. He needs somewhere to put all his restless energy.

He’s banging around the armor so violently that he almost doesn’t hear the banging on the door. Gaius is spending the night in the lower town, treating a half dozen cases of wet lung, and won’t be back till morning, so there’s no one to answer but him. Stifling a groan, he sets the grieve he’s been polishing within an inch of its life on the table and makes to get up off the bench. He doesn’t get a chance to before the door gets flung open and Morgana rushes in.

“Merlin,” She says, eyes worryingly bright. “Is Gaius here? I need to talk to him.”

“I’m sorry, he’s in town tonight.” Merlin frowns, alarmed. “What did you need?”

“I-” Morgana winces. “I don’t know if I can say.”

“What’s wrong?” He asks gently, even though he’s pretty sure he knows. He gestures her over and she collapses into the chair beside him.

Morgana runs a jittery hand over her face. “I don’t know what to do anymore. I feel like I’m going crazy.”

Merlin hadn’t fully imagined how hard it would be to actually get the words out now that the opportunity is looking him right in the face. Not because he's scared, even though he is, but because he realizes that this, right here, is the tipping point. He couldn't mess it up again. This was the moment, in his timeline, where he’d unknowingly sealed Arthur’s death.

But he's never going to lose Arthur. Not ever again.

“You can trust me, Morgana, whatever it is. It’ll be okay.”

Morgana hesitates for so long, Merlin's almost positive he's going to have to be the one to bring it up. Just as he's about to force the words out, Morgana speaks.

“I'm magic,” She whispers, beating him to the punch, clasping her hands together so tightly her knuckles turn white. And when she looks up at him, pleading and desperate and searching for someone to agree, to tell her she’s not crazy, Merlin looks back at her steadily, unflinching. He's not scared anymore. He's sure.

“Yes. You are.”

All the breath leaves Morgana’s body in a rush and she deflates. To Merlin's horror, she begins to weep, silently and steadily, as if a great weight had just been lifted from her chest. When Merlin opens his arms, she crushes him in a hug that makes Arthur look like a weakling. Merlin swears he hears his spine pop.

“Thank you,” She hiccups vehemently, deadly serious. “You have no idea what this means to me. To hear someone say it.”

She suddenly seems to realize what, exactly, had just been said, and draws back. “Er. Well. “ She suddenly looks nervous, guilty. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

Merlin scrambles for a way to reassure her, and then has an idea. With flick of his fingers, the grieve he’d been polishing moments before floats into the air with the rag, and starts cleaning itself. When he turns to look back at Morgana, smiling sheepishly, he finds her gaping at him. He’s never seen Morgana look so caught off guard, and it would be funny if it weren’t such a pivotal moment.

“You have magic,” Morgana says faintly, a shaky hand coming up to her forehead. “All this time?”

“All this time,” Merlin says. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I wanted to, but I didn’t want you to get in any trouble if things go, well, badly.”

“It’s alright.” Morgana sighs. “I understand better than you think. It’s terrifying, keeping it a secret.”

“I know.” Throat tight, Merlin turns to look her in the eye. “But I can help you, if you want. I’m not sure how good at it I’ll be, but I can train you.”

Morgana looks so instantly grateful it’s making him feel guilty. He hopes she never finds out how much of a coward he was the first time around.

“Do you know a lot of spells?” Some of the light is back in her eyes now, and Merlin starts to relax. He’s never had a magical friend, someone to talk with and confide in, and he actually finds that he’s rather excited.

“Well, kind of. I don’t need to use spells as often as other sorcerers do, but I’m also not exactly your typical warlock.” That’s putting it mildly. “Don’t worry about it too much. I know enough to get you started, anyway.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“No one. Well, Lancelot might suspect but that was an accident.”

“Really?” Morgana seems genuinely shocked. Merlin’s not sure if he should be offended by her lack of faith in his secret keeping abilities. “Not even Arthur?”

“Especially not Arthur.” Merlin swallows hard, looks away. It's far, far too early for that. He also wonders, not for the first time, if whatever had made Arthur sway from his loyalty to Uther in the first place, whatever moment had defined his trust in Merlin despite his powers, would never come to pass. Merlin could deal with a lot, but he doesn’t think he could bear to see so much hatred and disgust in the eyes of someone he loved more dearly than life itself. Somehow he thinks that Morgana understands that, or at least some fraction of it. Her eyes soften.

“Really? I thought you and him were, well, you know.” Morgana waggles her eyebrows at him. “Close.”

”We’re not,” Merlin coughs, awkward. “Like that, anyway. You’ve got the wrong idea.”

Morgana eyes him doubtfully. “Really. So you’re not even a little bit interested?”

Merlin is very, very thankful that only a few candles are lit for the late hour, and hopes the shadows hide his traitorously burning cheeks. Nonetheless, he looks Morgana in the eyes, far too serious for what she surely thought was a joking comment, and lies baldly, “No. I’m not. Please leave it alone.”

She stares hard at him for a few seconds, like she’s trying to puzzle something out, and he fights not to squirm. “Alright,” She finally concedes. “If you say so.”

His momentary wash of relief is immediately squashed when Morgana perks up. “Well, if you’re not interested in Arthur, I’ll have to find somebody else you do fancy!”

If possible, his cheeks burn even redder, and he buries his face in his hands. “Morgana,” He groans. “Please, leave it. You don’t need to do anything to repay me.”

“Mm hm.” She taps a finger against her chin, clearly ignoring him. Merlin feels the tell tale signs of impending doom steal over him. “Whatever you say.”

Morgana stands, hands on her hips and looking much more strident. “So I’ll see you tomorrow for lessons?”

Merlin nods. “No matchmaking!” He calls as she leaves, and Morgana’s laugh carries back to him. It’s not overly reassuring.

___
That night an hour after dinner, when he’s sure no one will be around, he turns himself invisible and slips silently past the guards and into Morgana’s chambers.

Morgana’s facing the window, her back to him, so he has time to make himself visible again before she turns around.

“Oh! Merlin! You startled me.” She smiles, though, looking relieved, as if she was worried he wouldn’t show up. “Wait. How did you get in here? I was a bit worried about that. Wasn’t sure how to tell the guards that I’d be, well, expecting a visitor.”

Merlin grins, wiggles his fingers at her, delighted despite the danger to be sharing magic with someone. To be sharing magic with his friend. Morgana gets it with a delighted little laugh and claps her hands together. This Morgana is so different than the one he left behind, he thinks, and the pit in his stomach twists.

“Show me!”

So he does. First he turns himself invisible, to her shocked gasp, then visible again with a little bow. He’s grinning from ear to ear.

“How did you do that? Can I do that?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid.”

She deflates a little, but looks determined. “So, how did you do it? Did you use a spell? I’ve never heard of any sorcerers turning themselves invisible. I image if it was common practice Uther would be much less alive right now.”

Merlin shrugs, a bit sheepishly. “No, no spell. I’m not exactly sure how I do it. I just will it to happen, and it does.”

“Merlin,” Morgana says carefully. She's looking at him, suddenly, as if she's never quite seen him before. “What exactly can’t you do?”

He meets her eyes, thinks of calling down storms on the battlefield, earthquakes and lightning, thinks of making the crops grow on dry years, thinks of turning back time, and says honestly, “I don’t know.”

She shakes her head, letting out a low whistle. “If you’re that powerful-”

“I’m not, really,” Merlin interjects hastily, but she ignores him.

“Yes, you are. Don't try to deny it. The only question is, why on earth is someone as powerful as you spending their days polishing Arthur’s muddy boots?”

“Erm.” Feeling a bit cornered, he shrugs. “I mean, it’s not so bad?”

Morgana ignores him again. This is starting to feel like a very one sided conversation. Suddenly, she snaps her fingers. “It’s Arthur, isn’t it.”

“What?”

“That must be it.” She turns to him triumphantly. “You’re here for Arthur!”

“Well, yeah, but-”

“You little liar!” She smiles at him toothily and Merlin is very, very afraid. “And I almost believed you when you said you didn’t fancy him. Oh, I knew all those lingering glances had to mean someth-”

“I told you, it’s not like that!” As much as he wishes it was. Merlin makes his way over to the table and flops heavily into a chair. “I mean, it is about Arthur, but not about that. I have a destiny.”

Looking a bit contrite, Morgana comes over and sits down across from him. “A destiny?”

“Yeah. Er, well, Arthur has a destiny and I'm just a part of it, but. Yeah.” Merlin takes a deep breath, steels himself. “Arthur is destined to be a great king, who unites all of Albion, and it’s my job to make sure that happens.”

“Your job,” she echoes faintly, searching his eyes for jest, but finds them dark and deadly serious. “Oh my god. I knew Arthur couldn’t be that lucky. All those last minute escapes and out of nowhere miracles. That was you, wasn’t it?”

Merlin nods. “Which is why I need to be his servant. I need to be around to protect him.”

“You could be something else to him and still get the job done I reckon.” She wiggles her eyebrows.

Merlin ignores the sharp pain in the vicinity of his heart, and the ever present urge to cry, and tries to sound annoyed, not heartbroken.

“Morgana.”

“Fine,” She sighs, smooths her dress. “Alright then. Lessons. Where should we start?”

“I was thinking candles. You said you set the curtains on fire, right?”

Morgana nods. “I was having another one of my nightmares and when I woke up, I didn’t know where I was. I wasn't thinking straight, and when I looked over at the candles all of them erupted in flames and caught the curtains.”

Merlin winces in sympathy. “Unfortunately, I’m no expert on dreams but.” He pauses, sudden realization dawning like a bucket of cold water over his head.

“Oh. You don’t know,” he murmurs, mostly to himself, and misses the look Morgana flashes him.

“Don’t know what?” she asks warily. “That’s not usually a phrase that’s followed by good news.”

Merlin tries to smile reassuringly, shakes his head. “No no, it’s fine. It’s, just, do you know what you are?”

Morgana stares at him for a few seconds, like she’s wondering if he’s gone daft. “Um, magic?”

“No, other than that.”

Her eyes widen, almost imperceptibly, the only betrayal of her mounting worry. “No, what do you mean?”

“You’re a seer.” Merlin forces himself not to fiddle with the grain on the table and looks up to meet her eyes. They’re very wide and very dark. “Occasionally, you’ll get prophetic dreams, or warnings. Always, always heed them. And please, tell me when you have them.”

“Are all my nightmares prophetic?” Her voice fights not to shake, and once again Merlin is swamped with love for his friend, so scared yet so strong.

“Of course not,” He rushes to assure her, and she relaxes considerably. Not for the first time, he wonders what she dreams about that’s bad enough to scare the great Morgana. But Merlin’s had his share of nightmares, especially now. He knows how brutal they can be, how debilitating. He's hardly gotten a full night's sleep since he arrived here because he keeps dreaming about Arthur dying and, on one embarrassing occasion, actually had to run up to Arthur’s room just to check on him before he could breathe again. But he doesn’t mention that.

“Then how do you tell the difference, between a normal dream and a prophetic one?”

Merlin thinks it over. “Well, I’m not a seer myself, but I have had prophetic dreams, and-”

Morgana raises an eyebrow at him.

“I’m a bit of an abnormality,” Merlin says sheepishly, and she snorts.

“I’m starting to see that.”

“Anyway, prophetic dreams usually feel scary only because they feel so real. They’re like watching a memory that hasn’t happened yet. You’ll be able to look people in the face and see more than a blur. They might be scary, but they don’t have to be. Usually they’re just unsettling.“

Morgana nods. “Alright. That makes sense.”

“I think-” He hesitates. “I mean, I’m not sure, but I think you suppressing your magic is causing what’s basically an overflow into your dreams, if that makes any sense.”

“So if I get my magic under control, my dreams might follow?”

Merlin nods, then shrugs. “Hopefully.”

“Alright.” She rubs her hands together, gazing warily at the candle by the corner of the table as Merlin moves it over to the center with a flick of his fingers. “Candles. Is there a spell to light them or something?”

He nods, and lights the candle with a glance. Morgana flinches back, ever so slightly. “The spell is forbearnan.”

“Did you ever struggle with your magic?” She asks, a bit tensely.

“Not really.” Merlin chuckles ruefully. He doesn't want to frighten Morgana anymore than he probably already has by telling her he’s been doing magic since birth and only needs words for spells the first few times he uses them, so he simply says, “Practice.”

She nods, and visibly steels herself. “Forbearnan.”

The candle stays unlit, and she frowns.

“It's alright. I didn't get it on my first try either,” Merlin reassures her, even though it's a lie. “This time, try not to say the word like it’s a word. Let your tongue curl around it like a flavor, or idea. Focus on your magic, wherever you feel it inside of you.”

Merlin holds his breath as Morgana stills, staring so hard at the poor little candle it’s a miracle it doesn’t just topple over out of pure terror. Then, so soft he almost doesn’t notice, forbearnan slips from her lips on the tail end of a breath and with a quiet whoosh, the candle begins burning merrily.

Morgana beams at him, and he smiles back. It’s a little spell, the most basic of the basic, but Merlin is so proud it nearly hurts. This is what magic is supposed to be about, he thinks, joy and discovery and learning about a wonderful aspect yourself like it’s something good and miraculous and natural. There’s nothing dirty or dangerous or conniving about magic any more than there is about a simple sword.

“I did it!” Morgana laughs. “On purpose and everything!”

“Well done!” Merlin enthuses, grinning.

“Thank you,” Morgana tells him seriously. Already she looks lighter, less haunted, and she sets about trying again. By the time their one-hour lesson is finished, Morgana has managed to laboriously light and put the candle out a handful of times, a struggle that gets a little easier with each repetition.

“I should be going,” Merlin says eventually, yawning.

Morgana sighs but nods, absently waving away the smoke from the recently extinguished candle with one hand. “Alright. Probably best if we don’t upset the princess.”

“Arthur hates it when you call him that.”

Morgana grins. “I know.”

“Besides, you get it easy. When he gets cross with you he takes it out on me,” Merlin informs her macabrely, even though he knows Arthur, knows he never means the prickly things that he says, knows that he’s only irritating and difficult because he enjoys having someone to talk to and yell at and insult who will talk, yell, and insult right back. “Though to be fair, I think I just have one of those faces. Gwen told me last week I look like a startled baby deer.”

Sometimes, though, Arthur does say something that cuts a little too deep, comes out a little too harsh, and Merlin will swallow his hurt, give Arthur space and time to bang around grumpily until he happens to mention a particularly brutal fight with his father, or the knight who got hurt in training, or his latest spat with Morgana. And Merlin will casually ask him about it, nudge him until he’s ranting it all out and when he’s done, he always looks over at Merlin, as if he feels like he shouldn't have done that, shouldn’t have said so much, and Merlin just smiles softly at him, willing Arthur to understand that it’s okay, it’s alright, he doesn’t have to carry everything on his own.

Arthur never says sorry, not outright, but he always apologizes in his own roundabout way with a slightly too genuine smile, a carelessly complimentary word, Merlin’s favorite foods mysteriously finding their way onto the breakfast tray that Arthur pretends not to notice Merlin knick from each morning. This consciousness is a new occurrence. Arthur used to never give these things a second thought, and though it puzzles Merlin, what’s caused this change, he cherishes the progress more than all the silver and gold in the world.

“Still,” Morgana continues, bringing him back to the present. “I appreciate that you’re helping me anyway.”

“Of course,” Merlin says earnestly, and means it. “This is far more important.”

As they go through the door, Morgana links her arm in his and leads the way. The guards posted at the end of the hallway start when they see them walk past, exchanging a startled glance at the sight of Merlin.

“He was taking me a potion from Gaius to help me sleep,” Morgana offers as they sweep past, and they nod quickly, eager to agree. After all, this was only Merlin.

Once they’re safely out of earshot of the guards, Morgana sighs. “He acts so differently around you, you know. I never thought I’d see the day, but I really do think he’s maturing. Did you know the other day, he came up to me and apologized for an argument we’d had the week before?”

Merlin did know that they’d had a rather monumental spat, because Arthur had told him, and he also knows he chewed Arthur out for a good half an hour about how he owed her an apology before Arthur threw a pillow at his head and crossly told him to mind his own business. Merlin practically glowed with the knowledge that Arthur had taken his advice after all.

“Really?

“Really really. I was so shocked I asked him if he was feeling alright, and he told me not to be so meddlesome and stomped off.”

Merlin can't repress a grin. “That sounds about right.”

“It was because of you, you know.”

Merlin scoffs. “Yeah right. The only thing he does because of me is step in as many mud puddles as he can find.”

“You know that’s not true.” Morgana looks over at him, and her face is unexpectedly serious. “When Arthur looks at Uther, I see the change in his eyes. The spark of admiration is gone. More and more he challenges his decisions, and rightfully so. Who do you think has been pushing him that way since day one? He tells you everything, because he wants to hear what you have to say. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re somehow the third most informed person in the kingdom, right behind Uther and Arthur himself. Maybe even more so than Uther. You are important to him. Don’t ever think differently.”

“I-” Overwhelmed, Merlin swallows hard. He hadn’t thought anyone noticed how much he tried to help, and the fact that Morgana was validating all the progress Merlin had been telling himself he was imagining meant more to him than he knew how to say. Before he can say anything else, they’re at Arthur’s door.

Before Merlin can knock, it swings open to reveal a tired and annoyed looking Arthur, who eyes the two of them. Morgana rolls her eyes at Arthur and gives Merlin a hug. “See you tomorrow,” she says with a wink, and floats off down the hallway.

“Really, Merlin, again?” Arthur asks as Merlin slips inside and heads over to bank the fire. A shadow Merlin hadn’t noticed before lurks behind his eyes.

“What?” Maybe it was because of all of the questions that night, or because the magic lesson had exhausted him, or because he was tired of pretending like he didn’t feel anything and the whole encounter was chafing against some gash in his heart in a way that physically hurt him to stand there and look at his hus- prince. At his prince. Maybe it was all of those things, or maybe it was just that the love of his past life, current life, and every life after that thought he wasn't good enough for any love at all that was making him feel brittle and angry, strung far too tight. “It’s nothing, Arthur, gods. I don’t care who you think you are, you need to learn to mind your own business!”

“Merlin!”

Merlin snaps his mouth shut, swallows hard. He can’t make himself meet Arthur’s eyes and trust himself not to either burst into tears, confess his undying love, or both.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” Arthur says softly, after a heavy pause, and it’s so unexpected Merlin snaps his head up to look at him. "You know Morgana's, well, a handful."

“I didn’t know you cared,” Merlin blurts, because it’s true, he always though Arthur didn’t really care about him until later, many more misadventures later, and knows he imagines the way Arthur flinches, because Arthur Pendragon never does anything of the sort. And, since he can’t say It’s too late, I’ve already been hurt, being around you hurts every single day, he just says “And I won’t get hurt. I’m not an idiot.”

They sit there in silence that feels far too heavy. Somewhere outside, an owl hoots and Merlin feels a breeze of warm night air brush against his cheek, ruffling his hair. He feels the last of his anger and irritation fade with the wind.

Merlin looks up to see Arthur sitting at his desk, staring hard at the wood. His lips are pressed in tight line, and Merlin forgets, suddenly, where he is, who he his. In his mind's eye, this Arthur and his Arthur blur, fade, overlap, until he’s looking at Arthur, just Arthur, surly and contrite and so full of caring and stupidity and loyalty that he argues when he means to care and Merlin is swamped with love so deep he can feel it in his very marrow.

He rises from his place by the hearth, wipes his sooty hands on his trousers, and makes his way towards Arthur. He grabs a chair from the table and tugs it over to sit across the desk from his prince. Arthur still hasn’t looked at him, and the shadow on his face is starting to scare Merlin.

“What are you working on?” He asks simply, just now noticing the piles of papers littered across the desk, and Arthur finally looks at him. Merlin smiles, small and soft, and after a moment's hesitation Arthur smiles back. It's unlike his other smiles. It's private, exposed, like a secret laid out between them. Some of the tension finally melts from his shoulders.

“Father asked me to look over some crop reports.” Arthur picks up a page and drops it, watches it float back down to the table, and admits ruefully. “I must confess I haven’t been making much headway.”

Merlin loves Arthur like this, loose and warm with tiredness and the late hour, and he smiles. “How unlike you, to confess such a glaring flaw in your royal tutoring.”

Arthur blinks at him. “What?”

“Why, your illiteracy of course,” Merlin replies cheekily, and Arthur snorts, shakes his head. It feels like a bigger victory than it probably is.

“Obviously I can read, you idiot,” Arthur says, fond and exasperated all at once. It’s one of Merlin’s favorite expressions on him. He tries not to think about the fact that he even has favourites in the first place. “It’s just, I don’t know what to do about all these grain shortages.”

Arthur gestures in frustration at the rows of numbers and doesn’t stop Merlin when he picks of some of the pages. “The drought in the north has been wreaking havoc.”

Merlin studies the papers, and is relieved to find it’s nothing he hasn’t helped Arthur deal with before. In the future, that is.

“Didn’t Lord Byron's land have an especially bountiful crop last season?”

Arthur nods wearily. “Yes, he did. Father was very pleased.”

“So, they probably stored a good portion more than they needed.” Merlin nods, matter of factly. “In case the winter was extra harsh, but it wasn’t. And this report says that while their crops suffered this season, it wasn’t nearly as much as these other towns in the north. You should have them distribute the grain they saved from last season to those hit by the drought. Lord Byron won’t have as much backup insurance, but at least those northern towns won’t starve.”

Merlin finally looks up from the pages, satisfied with his plan, to find Arthur staring at him.

“Merlin,” Arthur says slowly. “How many farms does Lord Byron have?”

“Thirty six,” Merlin replies promptly, confused. Arthur should know this. “What, did you hit your head and forget? 33 bushels per acre, considering the growing season is a bit longer up there. Plus they don’t raise cows like Lord Racor and Lord Willis, so they’ll have stored more of it rather than use it for livestock.”

Arthur is still staring at him.

“What?” Merlin mutters defensively, dropping the papers.

“How do you know all that?” he demands, and Merlin immediately feels his happiness at being able to help drop like a pit into his stomach. What if he’s gone too far, blown his cover? What if Arthur’s suspicious of his diligence?

Trying to keeps his cool, Merlin shrugs, says casually, “I watch you do it and talk about it all the time. What, like it's hard?”

Arthur shakes his head, but he’s not yelling. In fact, the corners of his mouth twitch. “I knew you weren't really as dumb as you look, but this is genuinely impressive.”

Merlin is deeply relieved to not see even a modicum of suspicion in Arthur's eyes. In fact, he's looking at him appraisingly, and if Merlin didn't know any better, proudly.

“What?” He crosses his arms over his chest protectively, feeling his cheeks warm at the scrutiny.

“Nothing. Just make sure you're here at noon tomorrow.”

“Why?” Merlin asks suspiciously, but Arthur just waves him away.

“Don’t be late,” is all he says, and ushers Merlin out of his room with instructions to go to bed. It isn’t until Merlin is halfway back to his room that he realizes Arthur didn’t ask him to dress him, polish his armor, or do any other chores. Feeling a bit lost, Merlin mutters something about mercurial princes and decides to heed his instructions to head to bed. It has been an excruciatingly long day.
___

The next morning, Merlin shows up bright and early with the breakfast tray. He means to go about making a horrible ruckus and waking Arthur up just to annoy him, but when he sets the tray down on the table and turns to look at Arthur, he feels his heart clench painfully at the sight.

It looks just like any morning back home, in his time, Arthur’s sleep rumpled form warm and lax, sprawl taking up too much space on the bed, one arm flung out almost as if it were meant to be resting over someone.

Merlin swallows hard, leans up against the wooden post of the bed, half hidden behind the bed curtain and feeling strangely guilty as the square of early morning sun creeps across the floor and pools on the covers, making Arthur’s hair and skin look golden and ethereal. If this were his time, Merlin would crawl back into bed with him, curl up into his large, warm form, and feel Arthur’s sleepy shuffle as he pulls Merlin back to him, reflexive and easy.

The real Arthur shifts, dissipating memory Arthur into a cloud of guilty smoke and Merlin jumps, comes back to the present. Embarrassingly, his eyes blur, and he wipes them quickly with the back of his hand before Arthur shifts, turns over, squints up at him with hair that looks as if hands have been running through it repeatedly. Merlin aches.

“Merlin?” Arthur’s voice is quiet, too quiet, questioning and something else, and Merlin realizes he’s just standing there, staring down at him, and the way Arthur is studying him, far too serious for just having woken up, is making him jumpy. He hopes fervently that his eyes aren’t red, can’t imagine anything worse than Arthur noticing, and turns away abruptly, forcing a cheerful, “Good morning sire. Wonderful of you to finally join us.”

He quickly strides over, yanks the rest of the curtains in the room open to let the light stream in, and then Arthur is groaning and complaining loudly and the strange moment disappears into the early morning air.

--

Once Arthur is dressed and fed and off to training with the knights, Merlin goes about his usual duties. He does use magic for most of it. He’s careful, he’s always careful, has had to learn how to be all over again after years of being so free with himself and his gifts, but fear, mostly for what would happen to Arthur (and now Morgana, he realizes) if he were caught, are a good reminder. Merlin doesn’t think he’ll ever shake that fear, no matter what time he’s in.

So he’s well and done with all his tasks by the time noon rolls around and he shows up at Arthur’s chambers, punctual only out of curiosity. Usually he’s late either due to extenuating circumstances outside of Arthur’s knowledge (saving Camelot), sleeping in (after saving Camelot), or purely to annoy Arthur because he’s eternally amused by the way Arthur’s face scrunches up when he’s irritated and indignant.

Arthur isn’t in his rooms yet when Merlin slips inside, which is good because he forgets to knock again. Not that he was ever particularly good at knocking, but it’s extra hard now to get into the habit of knocking on the door of his own old bedroom. Future bedroom? Ex-future bedroom? Regardless, he’s still a little disappointed to find the room empty and quiet. Ever since he got here, every time he sees Arthur, even when he’s being irritating or difficult or rude, feels like the first time all over again. Like the best and only right thing he’s ever done in his life, and he’s awash with love so stark and intense it leaves him breathless, burning, leaves him wondering how on earth Arthur doesn’t see it shining from his eyes.

Everything is still clean and tidy from this morning, so Merlin goes to sit at Arthur’s desk, pulls out the heavy wooden chair, and starts sorting through the papers. He briefly worries that Arthur will be upset with him if he finds out, knows they’re not at this level of trust yet, but looking at the haphazard stacks of reports and taxes and castle itineraries and bills written in pin neat handwriting makes something in him loosen, relax. He almost expects to look up and see Arthur sitting across from him in the afternoon light, frowning down at some paper or another, about to hand it over to him with a question, a comment, a sarcastic remark about the spending habits of one of the lords that he and Merlin will snicker about, eyes dancing despite the strain and exhaustion of having a warring kingdom on their shoulders.

Merlin’s so lost in the memory that he doesn’t notice Arthur come in until he clears his throat loudly. He jumps guiltily, looks up to see Arthur standing on the other side of the desk, arms crossed, looking down at him with an inscrutable expression.

“Reading state secrets, Merlin?” He asks blandly, taking the paper Merlin doesn’t realize is still clutched in his hand and glancing at it. “Ah, yes, a grain report. Clearly full of sensitive information.”

Merlin's heart threatens to beat out of his chest, mind frantically searching for an explanation beyond honest curiosity and desire to help, which Arthur would never buy, when he forces himself to meet Arthur’s eyes and finds them amused rather than angry. After a couple of terrifying seconds, the corner of his mouth twitches, and Merlin relaxes. Of all the things he could rightfully get thrown in the dungeons for, reading some papers would be a rather stupid way to go.

Merlin opens his mouth to explain, but Arthur beats him to it. “Come on.” Arthur starts for the door, motioning for him to follow. “We’re already late.”

Merlin scrambles up, chair squeaking on the floor, and hurries after him. Out in the hallway, he falls into step beside Arthur, sneaking glances over, trying to read his expression.

“I wasn’t stealing state secrets you know,” Merlin says quietly, and Arthur snorts.

“I know Merlin. I never thought you were.” He waves a dismissive hand, says with mock solemnity, “You’re much too simple to be so cunning.”

“You’re much too sloppy to even call that cunning,” Merlin fires back, and Arthur snorts again.

“Touche. Maybe your next task can be organizing my desk.”

“You already have a secretary for that.”

“Eh.” Arthur shrugs. “Always having everything alphabetized is boring. I’m sure you’d do something quirky instead, like organize everything by ink color or something.”

Merlin fights not to blush. “That was dangerously close to a complement sire.”

“Oh, shut up,” Arthur drawls, without heat. Merlin smiles over at him tentatively and Arthur finally cracks, smiling back at him. It’s like the sun coming up.

“So you’re not mad?” He doesn’t mean for his voice to sound so small, but that’s how it comes out. He can’t bear the thought of all the trust they’ve built up crumbling over a moment of homesick weakness, can’t bear the thought of losing even more of Arthur than he already has.

“Don’t be ridiculous Merlin. I have plenty of other perfectly reasonable things to be mad about, like the state of my favourite tunic, but you reading state secrets isn’t one of them.” Arthur gives him a friendly shove, and Merlin shoves him right back, muttering prat through his smile, and dares to relax.

They turn the corner, and Arthur glances over at him, once, quick then away. “Besides,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “I’m pretty sure you know all of them already anyway.”

Merlin jolts, stares at Arthur, wonders with a pounding heart if that was accusation of some sort, but he doesn’t seem upset. “What?” He stutters, but doesn’t get any farther because Arthur is pushing him down the advisor’s hallway and he’s immediately distracted. “Wait, what are we doing here?”

“Going to a council meeting.”

Merlin nearly trips. “What? Why do I have to be here? I have other things to do, you know. You’re not an infant, you don’t need an escort.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Obviously not. You’re not escorting me, you're joining me.”

“I’m what?” Merlin is having a hard time keeping his cool, because he wants to help and he wants this so badly, but he’s also terrified to draw too much attention to himself. It could ruin his mission, and he does have an awful lot to hide. “But, why?”

“If I have to sit through that mind numbing boredom then so do you. Plus I'll admit, on the rare, once in a blue moon occasion, you do give decent advice. Might as well know what you’re talking about if you’re going to keep interfering.”

Merlin is deeply pleased, traitorous cheeks heating as he bites back a smile. But as delighted as he is to have an opportunity to prove himself to Arthur and help him in a way he can actually see, rather than just with behind the scenes magic, he knows this is a bad idea. Uther is still king, and in his time Arthur didn’t bring him into council meetings until after he was king and it was safe to do so.

Merlin stops in his tracks. It hurts, but he forces himself to say, “Arthur, I don’t think this is a good idea. I’m a servant,” as if Arthur had somehow forgotten. Honestly, he might have. Yet another thing Merlin loves so much about him, even if it’s not particularity to his advantage right now.

“Oh hush.” Arthur grabs his arm and tugs him along. “Don’t get all subservient on me now. It doesn’t suit you.”

Merlin continues to protest half heartedly, but Arthur ignores him, which is. Fair. They reach the door to the council meeting room and Merlin snaps his mouth shut abruptly as Arthur ushers him in.

Everyone stares, all the richly dressed nobles sitting around the enormous table just short of glaring at him, but nobody speaks up. When Uthur enters the room a few minutes later and starts the meeting, he doesn't even notice Merlin standing behind Arthur’s chair, frozen, until a good couple minutes in.

Uther pauses mid sentence ominously, and everyone at the table follows his gaze to rest on Merlin. Merlin fights not to fidget, and stares back in a way he hopes comes across as innocently curious and not confrontational.

“What is he doing here?” Uther barks, gesturing at him with his quill. “These are state affairs. Get out, boy.”

Merlin stands frozen, but Arthur saves him. “I require him to attend me,” he says, like it’s obvious, and stares resolutely back at Uther as he pulls a goblet out of the folds of his cloak and sets it on the table. Merlin's heart pounds with fear, for himself and for Arthur. This is exceptionally bold, even for him, and it takes Merlin a long second to realize Arthur is gesturing for him to pour him some wine. Merlin snatches up a nearby pitcher and does, willing his hands not shake.

When the glass is full, Arthur takes a sip without breaking eye contact with his father. Merlin doesn’t know whether to laugh or scream. And Arthur always insists that Merlin’s the drama queen.

Uther just stares at him, eyebrows raised, but Arthur doesn't back down, jaw set and strong back ramrod straight, covered in pendragon red and aglow with the midday sun shining through the window. He looks, suddenly, every inch the king he will one day become, and Merlin has to remind himself that now’s not a good time to get emotional even as he feels a fierce wave of pride wash over him at the sight. This is his Arthur. This is the Arthur who unites Albion, who stands up for what’s right even when there’s nothing in it for himself, who abolishes the ban on magic and strengthens his kingdom to never before seen heights.

For perhaps the first time in this timeline, Merlin sees the first seeds of unease begin to grow in Uther’s eyes and knows, suddenly, that he’s seeing it to, the man who will become his better in every conceivable way.

Finally, Uther asks, “Do you trust him?”

“With my life. And yours. Both of which he's already saved multiple times,” Arthur replies coolly, smoothly, and staunchly ignores the gaping stares of the other members of the council. Merlin tries hard to fight back the blush that’s threatening to overtake his cheeks. Arthur defending him to his father is touching a place deep inside him that’s been cold and dormant since he’d left his time.

To the genuine shock of everybody present, it's Uther who breaks off the staring contest of wills first. He gives a short, jerky nod and launches back into whatever he was saying as if he'd never paused. Merlin senses more than sees Arthur relax, and before he can stop himself, reaches forward to brush his hand briefly against Arthur’s arm in thanks. He doesn’t think Arthur notices, but when everyone is sufficiently distracted arguing about the latest import tax, Arthur turns and flashes him a lighting quick smile that crinkles his eyes before his princely composure slips back down over his face and he turns back to the table, speaking up to voice his opinion over the fray.

Merlin has to bite his lip to keep from beaming for the rest of the meeting.

____

When they leave, Merlin says, “I think you should ask Morgana to join you next meeting.”

“Why, trying to get out of it already?” But Arthur does look a bit guilty, like he might be questioning his decision, and Merlin can’t have that. It’s already too late, the council knows who he is, so he might as well make the most of this privilege.

“No no,” he says hastily, and hopes he isn’t imaging Arthur looking relieved. “I just think that as your sister she deserves to know what’s going on too.”

To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur nods. “I agree.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do, don’t act so surprised,” Arthur bites out crossly, then sighs. “I’d never say it to her face but Morgana is easily twice as clever as all the members of the council combined. I think she’d be a good asset, but.”

His face twists, and Merlin knows he’s reliving an old argument.

“But what?”

“But my father thinks otherwise,” Arthur finishes, a bitter note in the twist of his mouth. “And Uther always knows best, right?”

“He doesn’t,” Merlin says fiercely, and Arthur looks over at him, a bit startled. Merlin swallows down his anger, composes himself, lowers his voice. “He doesn’t always know best. He’s one man. No one is always right.”

“You don’t sound very loyal to your king,” Arthur comments, but his voice lacks bite, and Merlin’s already in hot water so might as well go all the way. Never let it be said that he's one to half-ass bad decisions.

“I’m not,” Merlin says quietly, surprised at his own vehemence. “I’m loyal to Camelot, and I’m loyal to you.”

“You shouldn't say things like that.” Arthur is staring at him now, and he sounds a bit dazed. “You could get thrown in the dungeons for treason.”

“I don't care,” Merlin retorts stoutly. “It's the truth.”

Merlin expects him to yell, to rebuke him for his blatant disrespect, but Arthur stays quiet. Merlin realizes, suddenly, that maybe Morgana was right. Maybe Arthur has been seeing his father in a new light recently.

Arthur is quiet for so long that Merlin almost thinks he’s furious, or ignoring him, so when he finally speaks it startles him. “When I’m king,” Arthur murmurs, so quietly that Merlin realizes, heart pounding, that these words are meant only for him. “Things will be different.”

They stop outside Arthur’s chambers and Merlin looks over to find Arthur already watching him, gaze more serious than he’s ever seen it, and Merlin can’t help but hope for the millionth time that maybe, maybe, things could change for the better again, that he really could get lucky a second time. That Arthur could forgive him a second time for all the lying and magic and failure. He swallows, throat dry, and forces himself to look back without flinching.

“I know,” He replies, so sincere his voice nearly cracks. He reaches out his hand, hesitates, rests it on Arthur’s arm. He doesn’t shake him off. “I know they will, Arthur.”

___

Between his normal chores, teaching Morgana every night, and running around after Arthur, who insists he attend all council meetings, hearings, and the weekly audience with the king where all manner of people from peasants to nobles come to air their grievances, Merlin is kept so busy that he actually groans aloud when he hears the news that visiting nobles will be staying at the castle for a week.

“I'd be excited for the food if it didn't also mean more work for us,” Merlin complains to Gwen, who's sat next to him in the courtyard, mending a torn hem. She nods in agreement.

“I know, but at least there's the dancing after the final feast. Everyone gets to go to that.

“That’s true, I guess,” Merlin concedes, scrubbing a little extra hard on a particularly stubborn scuff on Arthur’s armor as he tries to remember if these visiting nobles caused any trouble in his timeline. “Still. There’s so much to prepare for. And between Arthur dragging me along to all his courtly business and helping-”

He stutters to a stop, forgetting for a moment that Gwen doesn’t know about Morgana’s lessons.

“And Morgana,” Gwen says, quiet but steady, setting down her sewing to meet his eyes. “I know.”

“It’s not what you think,” Merlin blurts hastily, but Gwen holds up a hand to shush him.

“I know it’s not like that,” She placates him, then looks around the courtyard. It’s deserted except for an empty horse and cart awaiting a rider and a few sleeping hounds. “I know you’re helping Morgana with her, well,”

Gwen looks around again furtively before leaning in and whispering, “Her magic.”

Merlin freezes, and seriously considers bolting, but Gwen seems to realize. “Don’t worry,” She says urgently. “It’s okay. I won’t tell. I’m just so glad Morgana’s found someone to help her.”

“What you’re doing for her is so brave.” Gwen actually looks a bit teary. “She hasn’t had a nightmare in weeks, you know, all thanks to you.”

Merlin gapes at her. “You know?” Is all he manages to say, and she nods.

“Of course I do.” She starts. “Wait, did you think I didn’t? Merlin.” She laughs. “Really, this whole time?”

Merlin nods sheepishly. “How’d you find out?”

“That first week, when you drank from that poisoned chalice. I helped Gaius take care of you when you were feverish, and you kept muttering in druidic. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together, honestly Merlin.” Gwen wags a finger at him. “I hope you’re more careful than that usually.”

“Don’t worry, I am.” Mostly. “Still, I’m sorry I didn't tell you. It’s not that I don't trust you, I just never wanted to burden you with the truth. I know it’s asking a lot to keep a secret that big.”

“It’s okay.” She looks at him seriously. “I understand. And I just want you to know, because you don’t hear it enough, but I’m eternally grateful for all that you’ve done over the years. You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met, and I’m proud to call you my friend.”

“Gwen,” Merlin says, emotional, and then they’re hugging and giggling through wet eyes. “I’m the lucky one, to have a friend like you.”

“You can count on me Merlin,” she vows. “If you ever need help with anything, magical or otherwise, please let me know. Morgana and I are here to help.”

____

The nobles arrive early the next morning, when the day is still chilly and damp with dew in the pale dawn light. Arthur had insisted Merlin accompany him to receive the group, so there he is, fighting back a yawn, standing on the steps behind Arthur as the caravan approaches in a cloud of dust. Beside him, Gwen stands at attention behind Morgana, who is doing a much worse job than Arthur at hiding her boredom. Having lived through this particular visit before without any major occurrences, Merlin is barely awake himself.

He’s startled back to attention by the sound of trumpets and straightens up to watch the first couple of carriages in the procession pull up into the courtyard.

The first to emerge is Lord Byron, who steps out of his carriage in order to assist the real guest of honor, his niece Princess Adelina, sent as a gesture of good will to smooth the way for the border negotiations Lord Byron would be overseeing for his brother, King Jerrod of Mercia, who was busy quelling uprisings in the south of his kingdom.

When Princess Adelina steps out of her carriage, the whole courtyard seems to sigh in appreciation. Unfortunately, the rumors of her beauty had not been exaggerated, and Merlin glances worriedly over at Arthur, but from what he can see of the side of his face he looks as passively polite as ever.

The princess flicks her dark curls over her shoulder and gestures impatiently for a servant to pick up the the train of her long red dress. Part of Merlin, the bitter, achy part, wonders if she wore pendragon red on purpose, as a less than subtle hint, or if it really was just an accident. As Princess Adelina walks proudly across the cobblestones towards Arthur and the King, Merlin has a sudden flashback to greeting all sorts of nobles on these very steps, only then he stood beside Arthur, not behind him, and he was the one in pendragon red with the ring on his finger, not her.

Giving himself a shake, he reminds himself to be nice, that Uther hasn’t announced any engagement plans yet, as much as Merlin is sure the king wouldn’t say no to them. He remembers the princess to be fairly benign, if a bit spoilt and airheaded, and he reminds himself that everyone deserves a fair chance. Even if the thought of her getting to have Arthur makes something hot and painful gnaw at his insides.

Princess Adelina curtsies to Arthur and the King, graceful and confident, and Arthur bows back. Uther inclines his head, and welcomes her to Camelot.

“Thank you, your Majesty. It’s wonderful to finally be here.”

“I trust the road treated you well?” Uther inquires politely as they make their way inside, and Merlin follows silently even as most of the other servants disperse.

“As well as it can,” She laughs, the sweet, clever sound of a shared inside joke, and Merlin is quickly losing the battle to jealousy. Her eyes are dark and lovely, and they sparkle as she adds, “But I must say, the company was quite lacking.”

“I trust you find it improved now,” Uther says dryly, and Adelina’s eyes are fixed on Arthur when she smiles and agrees.

“Very much so.”
__

Merlin attends Arthur at the welcome feast that night, and to his dismay, finds Arthur has significantly warmed up to Princess Adelina, laughing at her jokes and chatting with her throughout the meal. Merlin has to try very hard not to scowl as he refills Arthur’s goblet, and resists the urge to dump the whole pitcher over Arthur’s head on ‘accident’. He only catches himself when Morgana catches his eyes and raises a single, knowing eyebrow. Merlin feels himself flush and quickly schools his features. The only thing worse than watching Arthur and Adelina flirt is Morgana’s knowing expression. He thinks he’d rather die than hear Morgana gloat about being right, thank you very much.

Arthur glances back at Merlin a couple of times during the meal, perplexed by Merlin's unnervingly blank expression as he works to keep up his side of the banter. Princess Adelina is flirting so hard Arthur’s a bit worried her eyes will fall out from all the eyelash batting, but she’s an honored guest and crucial to the negotiations, so Arthur forces himself to laugh, to keep the conversation rolling. To get through the boredom and awkwardness, he’d told himself to think of her as he would a friend, like Gwen or Leon, but every time her dark hair flashes in the torch light all he can think of is Merlin, and how much more genuine Merlin is when he laughs, with his whole body and soul.

__

After the feast is over, the tables are cleared away and the dancing and music start up as the fires are banked and the warm, misty night creeps over the castle. Merlin stands with the other servants in one corner of the room, chatting with Gwen and keeping a close watch on Arthur out of the corner of his eye, just in case anyone tries to attack him amidst the festivities.

But Arthur remains un-stabbed and un-poisoned, and as he takes up his third dance with the Princess (not that Merlin’s counting) a man slips out of the throng of spinning nobles as one song ends and another begins and comes to lean against the wall beside Merlin, breathing hard. Merlin offers him the pitcher of water he’s holding, and the man grabs it gratefully and gulps down a few mouthfuls.

“Ah,” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thanks. That hits the spot.”

“Dancing getting the better of you?” Merlin asks wryly, before his common sense can remind him that servants don’t talk to nobles. His common sense always does manage to stay two steps behind his mouth, but the man just laughs.

“I suppose so. I must confess, I have two left feet,” He admits ruefully, shuffling the feet in question. “It’s quite hard to keep up when your appendages decide to rebel. The poor lady I was dancing with must have quite a few bruised toes by now.”

He grins over at Merlin goodnaturedly, and Merlin is reminded of Gwaine in the easy playfulness of his smile. He smiles back.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Merlin reassures him. “I’ve seen plenty of dances and let me assure you, you’re far from the worst.”

“Oh yeah?” The man looks amused, so Merlin nods and leans in conspiringly.

“One time, I saw a noblewoman sweep her dance partner quite literally off his feet and bowl over a neighboring couple swinging him around.” Merlin chuckles, remembering how he and Arthur had laughed themselves to tears over it later that night. “Everyone was horrified, it was hilarious.”

The man laughs too, and seems to relax, leaning back against the stone wall beside Merlin.

“Not one for dancing yourself?” He asks, and Merlin gestures to his clothing, and the pitcher now back in his hand.

“Ah,” The man winces, having the grace to look sheepish. “I’m sorry. I must confess I didn’t notice.”

“It’s alright,” Merlin assures him. “You were a bit busy remembering how to breathe.”

The man barks out a surprised laugh, then clamps a hand over his mouth, eyes dancing. “You’re a cheeky one, aren’t you?”

Merlin smiles sheepishly. “Guilty as charged. You take it better than most.”

“Ah, they’re missing out.” The man angles himself towards Merlin, and Merlin doesn’t know if he imagines the way his eyes rake him over, assessing. “I’m Sir Rowan, by the way. What’s your name?”

“Merlin,” He replies, and shakes the offered hand. “Resident manservant to a certain prince and certified dance critic.”

Sir Rowan lets out a low whistle. “The prince, eh? That must be a tall order.”

Merlin shrugs. “It has its days.”

“Is Prince Arthur as great as everyone says?”

Sir Rowan looks like he’s expecting a joking reply, but Merlin just says simply, “Better.”

Sir Rowan opens his mouth to reply, looking skeptical, when Morgana swoops in and grabs Merlin’s arm.

“Merlin!” She exclaims, all polite and gracious host. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I need your assistance.” Morgana nods politely to Sir Rowan, as if just noticing him. Merlin knows for a fact that Morgana’s sharp eyes have never overlooked anything a day in her life, and has to swallow back a snort. “Oh, Sir Rowan! I didn’t see you there. I hope you don’t mind if I steal him away.”

“Not at all,” Sir Rowan replies, pushing himself up off the wall. “I think I’ve imposed myself on poor Merlin long enough. I should get back to the dancing.”

Sir Rowan holds out his hand to Merlin, and Merlin thinks he’s going for another shake, but when he grasps his hand, he brings it up to his lips and kisses his knuckles. Merlin has to swallow a gasp, stiffening, as Sir Rowan grins at him cheekily. “Until we meet again, dance critic.” He dips a bow at Morgana, winks at Merlin, then disappears back into the fray.

Mortified, Merlin rubs his knuckles against his shirt frantically, as if he can somehow wipe off the kiss, and whacks Morgana when she laughs at him. His traitorous face burns as she chortles, wiping tears from her eyes. “Oh this is just too good. You and Sir Rowan? Wait until Arthur hears about this!”

“Don’t you dare!” Merlin hisses, wishing his face was just a little less on fire. “If Arthur finds out about this he’ll never let me live it down. Besides, there is no me and Sir Rowan. He was just being friendly.”

Morgana’s gleeful expression isn’t exactly reassuring. “Why would I tell him?” She bats her eyes innocently, but Merlin doesn’t buy it for a second.

“Because you’re evil? Ruthless? Cold hearted-” His grumpy list is cut off by her laugh.

“Oh, hush you.” Morgana grabs his arm and tugs him out of the hall and into the deserted corridor. “It’s for your own good.”

“I think we have different definitions of good,” Merlin grumbles, but Morgana’s not listening to him anymore. She glances furtively down the hallway, then gestures him a bit farther away from the doorway.

“Listen. I have something to tell you.” Her tone is more serious now, and Merlin is instantly on the alert.

“What’s wrong?”

“Well,” Morgana suddenly looks nervous. “I don’t know if anything’s wrong, per say, but, well, I had a dream last night.”

“Like, a dream dream?”

“I think so.” Morgana glances over her shoulder, then leans in and continues in a low voice. “I saw someone in armor running through the courtyard, a screaming crowd, and Arthur lying on the ground and…” She pauses, swallows hard. “Blood. Lots of it.

"Well,” Merlin hedges carefully. “People do get injured all the time in tourneys, maybe it's that? Arthur mentioned we might have one.”

“I know,” Morgana says, “But what about the rest of it? And even if it is a tourney, I’m worried. What could make it go that wrong?”

“I don't know.” Merlin can't remember anything bad happening during the Princess’s visit in his time, but then again, he has drastically altered the timeline since then. He can't count on anything for sure.

He meets her eyes, and sees the nervous edge flickering in their depths, as if she's worried that he won't believe her.

“I believe you, Morgana,” He assures her, and some of her anxious edge seems to ebb away. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll keep an extra close eye on Arthur, and you should too. Let me know if you dream or see anything else suspicious.”

“I will,” She resolves, looking determined and steadied by their semblance of a plan. “I’ll have Gwen keep an eye out too. She hears more talk around the castle than I do.”

“Good idea.” Merlin frowns, thinking. “I haven’t sensed any magic recently, but I suppose it’s possible that I could’ve missed something.”

“You’re the smartest person I know,” Morgana says matter of factly, and Merlin is momentarily taken aback. “Not just anyone could’ve kept an idiot like Arthur alive this long. If anything was going on, I know you’d have noticed.”

Touched, Merlin replies judiciously, “Well, nobody's perfect, least of all me. Multiple sets of eyes are better than one. Maybe it'll be a few days before anything happens.”

Morgana nods in agreement, looking thoughtful. Merlin always thought she looked most at home in her element, concocting some scheme or another. For the millionth time, he thanks his lucky stars that since his intervention, she hasn’t shown even the slightest inkling of evil in this timeline and is instead using her genuinely terrifying powers of coercion and planning for good. To help him, and Arthur. Merlin doesn’t know what he did to deserve such wonderful friends.

“How about the knights? They’re around Arthur almost as much as you. Do you trust any of them to help with a magical problem?”

Actually, that was a brilliant idea, and it left him a mixture of dumbfounded and embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of it sooner. Merlin had spent so long so sure that he had to do everything alone, so sure that he couldn’t trust anyone but himself, that he’d missed countless opportunities to accept the help and trust his friends freely offered him. He thought that he’d been right, all those years, taking the burden on only himself, but then he remembers how that turned out, Arthur’s lightless eyes, and feels a chill steal over him even in the warmth of the night. Maybe this is something he can do better this time. Maybe this is another mistake he can correct.

“Lancelot, for sure. He’s known about me since the day we met.” Morgana doesn’t even have the grace to look surprised. “So does Gwaine, I think, though we’ve never discussed it. And come to think of it, Eylon knows I used magic to heal his and Gwen’s father. And I’m pretty sure Percival suspects since the griffin incident.”

Morgana pinches the bridge of her nose. “Dear gods, Merlin, how are you still alive. They all know?”

For the first time, Merlin realizes the gravity of it all. It dawns on him that all these men in power who could expose him in a second haven’t uttered a peep, have heeded his word when he warned them about magic like they trusted him to know what he was talking about. That they all knew or suspected about his power and still called him their friend, still teased and laughed with him, still trusted him with their lives and kept his secret. Still trusted him to watch over their Prince. Voice thick with emotion, Merlin nods sheepishly, says “I guess I never really thought about it, but yeah. I think so.”

“Hopefully with that many people, we’ll have lots of warning if anything suspicious goes on.”

Merlin agrees, and after Morgana promises to spread the word to Gwen and the Knights, they return to the ball, eyes peeled but more relaxed, comforted by having each other’s backs. Merlin feels Arthur’s eyes on him as he and Morgana walk back through the doorway, but when he looks over, Arthur quickly looks away and goes back to chatting with Princess Adelina. Morgana gives his hand a comforting squeeze and they go over to join Gwen, who engages them in lively chatter, and Merlin forces himself to not stare at Arthur the rest of the night. It’s harder than he thought it would be.

____

“Knock?” Arthur suggests blandly when Merlin bursts into his chambers early the next morning. Instead of answering Merlin groans and presses his back against the door, tipping his head back.

“Can I help you?” Arthur asks, sarcastic, before going back to chewing on the last bites of bread left over from that morning’s breakfast and pretending not to stare at the pale line of Merlin's throat disappearing into his infuriating neckerchief.

“Morgana’s gone crazy,” Merlin informs him direly, pushing off the door and walking straight towards Arthur’s bed, where he promptly face plants and lays there, unmoving. Arthur doesn’t bother reminding him that that’s the prince’s bed and he has no business laying on it, because he knows Merlin will ignore him anyway.

“And that’s supposed to be news?” He chuckles. “Morgana’s always been crazy.”

“Crazier, then.” Merlin’s voice is muffled by the covers, but he doesn’t bother moving. He does turn his head to the side though, and Arthur tries to pretend that his heart isn’t being put through the works by the way the ruffled black mess of Merlin’s hair falls across his eyes. Was Merlin's hair always that long? “Did you know she tried to corner me the other day in her chambers, told me I should really look into getting fit for some new clothes.” Merlin shudders comically. “She even tried to give me one of her eye pencils, as if I’d let that anywhere near where it could blind me.”

Well, that certainly sounds like Morgana. “Why on earth would she do that?” Arthur tries very very hard not to think about Merlin’s startling, electric blue eyes rimmed with black kohl. “If she’s bored, I have more than a few tax reports I’d be happy to hand over to her.”

Merlin looks shifty. “Er, well. She’s got it in her head to set me up with someone.”

Arthur suddenly feels very, very cold, as if all the life has been sucked out of the room. He actually has to close his eyes for a long moment as Merlin is distracted, rambling into the duvet, to compose himself. The news is just very unexpected, that’s all. He knew in a vague, theoretical sort of way that one day Merlin would fall in love with a nice girl and move back to Ealdor or maybe the Middle Town and Arthur and the castle would be a vague, unpleasant memory. He’s happy for Merlin, he really is. He just needs to tell his aching chest and mysteriously tight throat to get with the program.

He swallows hard, realizing that Merlin’s looking at him, a question in his eyes, and forces himself to stare back at him, bored and mild. “Do you even want to be set up?”

A shadow passes over Merlin’s face, so fast Arthur almost misses it, but the deep, haunted look, there and then gone so fast he almost feels as if he imagined it, chills Arthur to the bone.

Arthur prides himself on being able to read Merlin, but when he meets his eyes he realizes that maybe Merlin really has only been showing Arthur what he wants to see this whole time. His face is carefully neutral in a way Arthur only realizes is on purpose now that he’s glimpsed a crack in the facade.

Merlin pushes himself up on the bed, stands, looks him dead in the eye. “No, Arthur, I don’t.”

Suddenly nervous for some reason, Arthur fights not to fidget, tries to joke lightly. “What, you have your eye on someone already?”

It’s meant as a jest, but Merlin doesn’t laugh. “Maybe,” He says, in a way that doesn’t sound like a maybe at all, and Arthur is suddenly scared, more scared than he’s been in a long time and he’s not even sure why. He feels sick, angry, though he doesn’t know at who. Maybe at himself, for letting Merlin go and bloody fall in love with someone without him even noticing.

__

Arthur is just about to start practice with the knights when a handful of the visiting noblemen come out onto the field to join them. He notes that Sir Rowan is among them, and then is immediately annoyed with himself. Why does it matter? Arthur glances over at Merlin, to see if he’s as enthralled with the man as he was last night, and he has to fight back a startled jerk when he finds Merlin already looking at him instead. Merlin smiles at him cheerfully and waves when their eyes meet, like always, and Arthur lets out a breath he hadn't realize he was holding. What's wrong with him lately? Giving himself a shake, he greets the nobles and knights and gets practice started.

They run some warm up drills and work on technique for the first half of practice, working up a sweat under the hot sun until finally Arthur takes pity on their flushed faces and calls for a water break. As Arthur approaches the water trough, Rowan comes up beside him.

“Sir Rowan,” Arthur greets him, perhaps a bit stiffly, but the other man doesn’t notice.

“Your highness.” Rowan scoops up some water with his cup, but doesn't go to drink it. “Merlin’s your manservant, yes?”

Blindsided, Arthur fumbles for words and despite his best efforts manages to end up just gaping like a fish. “Er, yes. What about it.”

“Well,” Sir Rowan hedges, looking nervous. “It’s just that, I wanted to check if it would be alright with you if I started, you know, spending more time around him."

Arthur, who up until that point had barely been paying attention, feels suddenly painfully alert. “What on earth do you mean?”

Sir Rowan gives him a look like he thinks Arthur’s being purposefully obtuse, but he's genuinely baffled. After a moment of excruciating silence, Sir Rowan breaks first through thinly veiled frustration. “You know,” He hedges, glancing around. “Wining. Dining. Courting. The works.”

He gives Arthur a conspiratorial wink, as if he’ll think this is as amusing as he does, but Arthur just stares until Sir Rowan coughs and looks down at his cup. “You- courting- I’m sorry what? Are we talking about the same Merlin?”

Indignation seems to give Sir Rowan the confidence he needs because he straightens up and says stiffly, “Now look, just because you’re too blind to appreciate him doesn’t mean that other people can’t, and he’s a lovely lad. Smart as a whip. Pretty, too.”

Arthur gapes at him, stuck on whether to protest his lack of appreciation or the mind boggling realization that someone else had noticed Merlin too, had seen the same precious things he has, but was somehow brave enough or stupid enough to actually go out and do something about it. In the end, all he can manage to say is, “It’s none of my business who Merlin courts. Why the hell are you asking me?

“Oh,” Rowan says awkwardly. “Well, I’d heard things around the castle and just wanted to be sure that you and him weren’t, well, that is to say, that you wouldn't be opposed to it. Wouldn’t want to step on any toes.”

Arthur wants to shriek Whose toes?! but that’s not a very princely thing to do and he’s not sure his dignity would ever recover. So he just resorts to staring at Sir Rowan, rather speechless, until the man splutters something and hastily retreats.

Thankfully, Leon is shouting seconds later for everyone to line back up, and Arthur lets himself get swept back up in the routine of practice, forcing the interaction out of his mind.

As the sparring starts, Arthur is aware of Merlin standing just outside the training area, watching him. Merlin’s words ring in his ears as he thrusts and parries, spins and swings and lets the clash of metal on metal replace his heartbeat. It’s my job to worry about you. Said so casually and with such seriousness that sometimes Arthur takes out the words when he’s alone at night and turns them over in his mind, marveling at the miracle of them. Merlin gives him so much shit (which, fair) that he sometimes wonders if Merlin is happy here, happy with him, wonders what the final straw will be that sends Merlin packing and leaving him in the dust, but then he says things like that. Wholly improper and wholly ruinous, and Arthur remembers what hope tastes like on his tongue.

He just hopes someone like Sir Rowan doesn't come along and ruin it.

____

“The strangest thing happened today,” Arthur says that night as Merlin is banking the fire. “Do you know Sir Rowan?”

Merlin freezes, which isn’t a reassuring sign. “Uh, yeah. We’ve met. What about it?”

With forced casualness, Arthur shrugs. “He mentioned you today during practice.”

Merlin pales. “What do you mean?”

Arthur forces himself to chuckle, as if he hasn’t been going out of his mind thinking about it since that afternoon. “He may have expressed an interest in, well, courting you.”

Merlin gapes at him. “Me?”

Arthur snorts, even though it’s not even remotely funny and mostly made him want to dunk Sir Rowan in the water trough. “That’s what I thought too, but it’s true. I told him it wasn’t my business who you went about with.”

“Gods,” Merlin brings a hand up to his face. “I thought he was just kidding around when he, well, I thought I’d been clear. How’d I miss that?”

“We both know your skills of observation leave something to be desired,” Arthur says seriously, trying desperately not to think about what Sir Rowan might have been just kidding about, and Merlin scowls at him through the slats of his fingers.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Merlin demands, dropping his hand to wag a finger at him accusingly. "I've been wondering where all the flowers in my room have been appearing from. I thought I was being haunted by the ghost of a florist."

“I didn’t think it mattered,” Arthur retorts, trying not to look put out by the fact that Rowan had clearly already gone ahead with his courting. And honestly, flowers? Have a little creativity.

Instead of agreeing, Merlin looks away, and Arthur feels himself go cold. Oh gods, Arthur thinks in disbelief, Merlin fancies Rowan. That must be who he meant when he said he had his eye on someone.

Arthur doesn’t stop him when Merlin makes up some half-hearted excuse and all but bolts from the room. He’s barely paying attention, in fact, because he realizes with a growing horror that Sir Rowan actually has a chance with Merlin after all. Better than a chance, even. Arthur resists the urge to bang his head on the table. And he had literally given the man permission to woo his manservant away. Arthur feels very, very stupid.

___

That night at their lessons, Morgana immediately pounces, a predatory gleam in her eyes. “So I heard that Sir Rowan really does fancy you.”

Merlin groans, drops his head to bang it against the table. “Morgana. Who told you that?

“It’s all over the castle, I had to hear it from one of the kitchen maids, of all people. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?!”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Merlin says wearily, picking his head up off the table to look at her. “After the welcome banquet Sir Rowan came up to talk to me a few times and I was just trying to be friendly but I guess he took it the wrong way. He asked Arthur the other day for permission to court me.”

Morgana gasps, scandalized and delighted. “He asked Arthur? Oh that is just too good, I bet Arthur bit his head off.”

Merlin gives her a look. “Arthur wouldn’t do that. He doesn’t care either way. He told me himself that I was free to court Rowan, seemed to think it was rather funny.”

Merlin can’t keep the hurt out of his voice, and Morgana deflates. “Oh, Merlin. I’m sorry. It’s not that it’s funny, I just thought, well, you of all people deserve someone to make you happy.”

“I already have someone,” Merlin says to his hands, voice so soft he half hopes Morgana won’t hear it, but he’s out of luck.

“I thought you said you didn’t fancy Arthur,” Morgana points out shrewdly, but her eyes are sympathetic.

“I don’t fancy him,” Merlin whispers, still to his hands. He notices that they’re shaking and clenches them together in his lap. He forces himself to look up and meet Morgana’s eyes. They’re soft, and she doesn’t push as he forces himself to breath, to not cry. He knows he can’t tell her that he’s from the future, that Arthur used to be his husband, that this love shouldn’t have to be hidden in the first place because that will inevitably lead to questions and more than anything he wants to spare her the knowledge of what she became in his timeline, but that doesn’t mean he can’t confess this truth. It’s the same in every lifetime. It doesn’t have to be a secret, not from his friends anyway.

“I love him,” He finally says, each word a knife to the heart, and to his mortification his voice cracks as he feels tears blur his vision. But one more admission slips out. “And I miss him.”

It’s too much, he’s said too much, but Morgana doesn’t ask, just gets up and comes around the table to wrap him in a hug, and he’s never been more grateful for her perceptiveness. He’s sure that if he has to say one more thing he’d shatter into a million pieces.

“I’m sorry,” She murmurs, apologetic. “I shouldn’t have pushed, trying to set you up with people. I take it you’re not ready to move on?”

Merlin shakes his head, cheeks wet. “There is nobody else. I’d wait forever, you know.”

Morgana studies him, a new sort of understanding in her eyes, and when she calls the lesson off for the night and sends him off to get a good night's sleep with an extra long hug, Merlin can’t make himself regret telling her. She hadn’t laughed, or gloated about being right, or even looked at him with pity. Just understanding with a tinge of sorrow, and told him that she understood. Morgana is probably the only other person in the castle who understands the importance of secrets as much as he does, so Merlin isn’t worried. Just raw and achy from his confession, like an exposed nerve.

Instead of going to bed he goes to Arthur’s chambers. Arthur’s deep asleep and doesn’t stir as Merlin comes in, perches on the edge of the desk, and watches the rise and fall of his chest to reminds himself why it was all worth it a thousand times over.

------

Over the next couple of days, Arthur sees Merlin rarely. Outside of his morning routine and Wednesday council meetings, where he has Merlin pretend to keep his glass full while he pretends to drink it, they barely exchange more than a handful of words. Every time they’re in the same room, Merlin always somehow has somewhere else to disappear to, and it’s driving Arthur up a wall. It's not that he misses him, he insists to himself. He just deserves to know what's taking Merlin away from his duties, that's all. So when Merlin fails to show up to ready him for practice with the knights, Arthur’s patience is frayed thin. Eventually Arthur has to give up or risk being late himself, and heads down to training with the knights. The visiting nobles don’t join this time, and Arthur isn’t sure if he’s relieved or annoyed. He’d rather like to spar with Sir Rowan.

“By gods,” Arthur curses down at his chest plate, which appears to be fastened slightly crooked. “Has anyone seen Merlin? You’d think having done this at the same time each week for years he’d have managed to remember to pencil it into his apparently jam packed schedule."

The knights all glance at each other, as if they're having a mental battle of wills, before Lancelot clears his throat. "Well," He hedges. "I thought you'd have heard."

“Heard what,” Arthur asks through gritted teeth, dread washing over him instantly. He’s not a fan of that particular phrase.

“Merlin’s, well.” Elyan picks up the conversational slack, then abruptly hesitates. Beside him, Percival looks suspiciously as though he's choking back a laugh.

“Merlin’s probably not here because he’s off with Sir Rowan!” Gwaine blurts gleefully, which immediately sets the knights off chattering. They could give the noblewomen a run for their money, with the amount they gossip.

Arthur forces himself to take a few deep breaths, barely hearing a word of it. His ears are ringing and he feels sick somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach. What on earth is wrong with him? Why should he care that Merlin finally got the person he’s had his eye on? He’d seemed pretty serious about that person, too, when they’d talked about it before. Could it really be Sir Rowan that Merlin is so in love with? He’d said otherwise, but Arthur has come to realize that Merlin is an exceptionally skilled liar. He has yet to figure out what to do with that information, either.

But Rowan has only been here a couple days, and before that only visited once or twice a year to pay fealty. Could Merlin have met him on his last visit and been pining ever since? Unfortunately, that sounds like such a Merlin thing to do that it only makes Arthur feel worse.

Another horrible thought occurs to him. What if Merlin and Rowan fall in love and Merlin goes with him when he returns home?

Arthur suddenly feels cold all over, even though it’s sweltering in the midday heat. The thought is genuinely too awful to contemplate. A life without Merlin? Arthur almost laughs at the absurdity of it. If a few years ago someone had told him that his entire world view, happiness, and hope for the future all rested in one person, his manservant nonetheless, he would’ve laughed in their face. But Merlin hasn't been his manservant for a really long time, or at least Arthur doesn't really think of him that way anymore. Against all odds, Merlin is his closest and truest friend, who just happens to have a job that puts him in proximity to Arthur’s dirty socks.

But now. Oh gods, now it was true. What would his life be without Merlin there to make fun of him, to tell him when he was wrong when no one else dared to, to hear him out even when he’s stubborn or wrong or difficult, to make him laugh when he feels like he’s about to scream?

Arthur has always known the weight of the crown, has grown up with the hopes and fears and expectations of an entire kingdom resting on his shoulders knowing that someday he would have to carry them alone, but this is the first time that he really, truly feels the empty hopelessness of it crushing him. He’d always thought, in his vague imaginings of the future, that Merlin would be by his side through it all, making it bearable with a cheeky remark and a kind hand.

Arthur struggles to remember how to breathe as Lancelot, who eyes him shrewdly, proceeds to get the practice session started for him.

___

When Merlin slips into his room later that night, balancing a stack of fresh laundry, Arthur squashes down his relief to see him again, because it’s ridiculous to miss him even though they saw each other just that morning, and frowns instead, waits for Merlin to set the sheets down on the dresser. “Where were you today at practice?

For once, Merlin was actually busy just doing his job. Between helping Gaius renew his supplies and attending to all of Arthur’s clothes and food and errands and going over the latest reports Arthur asked him to review and running about helping prepare for the latest feast in honor of the visiting nobles, Merlin had genuinely just forgotten, for the first time in years. He feels suddenly, disproportionately guilty.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he actually means it. “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy with what?” Arthur can’t stop the words from slipping out. “Sir Rowan?”

Merlin actually looks startled, which is mildly gratifying. “No!”

“The knights said they saw you talking,” Arthur comments, keeping his voice mild and keeping his eyes on the report in his hand as if he isn’t embarrassingly invested in this conversation.

“Well, yeah,” Merlin splutters, and Arthur feels his heart sink. “So what if we were?”

“You know he fancies you,” Arthur points out, as if Merlin might have somehow forgotten, and tries very hard not to notice the way Merlin’s ears turn pink.

“So?” Merlin slumps down in the chair on the other side of the desk and crosses his arms. “I was just being friendly.”

“Uh huh,” Arthur says, and Merlin scowls ferociously at him. “Sure.”

“I was!”

“You are by far the worst manservant I’ve ever had,” Arthur grumbles, leaning back in his chair, and knows he means the opposite. “Sir Leon had to help me with my armor today because you were too busy making eyes.”

Merlin scowls. “I was not! I was just busy. Not all of us can prance around outside all day with swords.”

“I do not prance.”

“At least I’m better than George,” Merlin adds huffily when a disbelieving eyebrow is raised in his direction, and Arthur refuses to shudder in agreement.

“I don’t know.” Arthur makes a show of thinking it over. “Your track record is abysmal.”

Merlin makes a rude gesture at him, which Arthur magnanimously pretends not to see.

“Look, I really am sorry, it’s just that Gaius cornered me this morning about heading into town to renew some supplies and by the time I got back and brought your dishes downstairs cook accosted me to help peel potatoes.” Merlin shudders. “She’s in a tizzy over the feast tonight, wouldn’t listen that I had other things to do. It took almost two hours to escape.”

Merlin shrugs sheepishly. “By the time I was finished helping Gwen carry tables into the main hall, practice was already over. I really am sorry.”

For the first time, Arthur realizes that Merlin’s slump in the chair isn’t just insolence, but exhaustion. His eyes look shadowy and bruised, like he hasn’t been sleeping, and Arthur is hit with a familiar guilt.

“Have you been sleeping?” He asks, casually, as if it’s a normal concern to have about one’s manservant, and feels his heart clench when Merlin won’t meet his eyes.

Merlin chuckles nervously. “Of course."

For once, Arthur is sure he’s lying, and feels the ache of guilt that he hadn’t noticed sooner bloom in his chest as his eyes linger on the bruise like darkness smudged under Merlin’s eyes. He’s about to suggest that Merlin take the night off, he’ll have somebody else attend him at dinner, but then a page is knocking on his door and announcing that the meal is ready and Merlin is hurrying out the door muttering about how cook had better have used all those potatoes and then he’s gone as fast as he’d come. Merlin’s like that, Arthur’s come to realize. Never in one place for very long.

Arthur doesn’t call Merlin back to remind him that he’d forgotten to assist Arthur with changing into formal wear for the feast. He doesn’t need more to do, and despite popular opinion Arthur can take care of himself. He pulls his deep red tunic out, the one embroidered with gold, and misses the brush of Merlin’s fingers as he slips it on.
___

Dinner is a torturous affair. Morgana’s sympathetic gaze is giving him hives, and Arthur being practically nice to him all week was giving him dangerous hopes he couldn’t afford to have any more. It was too much like before, and if Merlin had come to realize anything, it was that he had to kill the past (future past?) if he wanted any hope of making it through this without breaking down. Memories of the past were dangerous, volatile things that could strike at any moment, debilitating and painful. He had to be on his guard. Nothing was the same here. He knew that. He accepted that, or was trying to anyway.

They had passed the day, the day Morgana had worn the bracelet and the castle had fallen asleep and Morgause had attacked with the black knights and Merlin had been forced to poison one of his oldest and dearest friends. The memory festers like a black, rotten stain in the center of his being, but the day had passed, uneventful as any other, and Merlin had almost forgotten how sweet relief could feel. Of course he still keeps an eye on Morgana, on her hatred of Uther and sore spot with Arthur for going along with him, but so far she seems stable. Since their magic lessons have progressed she’s slowly but surely come back into herself. Her confidence is back, and she talks and laughs like she used to, without the haunted weight in her eyes. She worries about the people of Camelot and bickers with Arthur and with Gwen watchful by her side, sleeps through the night.

Merlin spends dinner tuned out, and Arthur doesn’t gesture for him.

_______

Knowing Merlin would refuse a day off when everyone else was working so hard to accommodate their guests, Arthur is forced to get creative. He asks another servant to set everything up, tips him generously, and when Merlin enters his rooms early the next morning looking wrung out and pale, Arthur is already awake and dressed.

“Good of you to finally show up,” He says, a bit too loudly, and Merlin jumps a few feet in the air, nearly dropping the tray in his hands.

“You scared me,” He accuses, setting down the breakfast tray he’s carrying and turning to scowl at Arthur, hands on his hips. He looks rumpled and self righteous, and Arthur is suddenly and unexpectedly swamped with love.

It takes him a moment before he trusts his voice not to give him away. “We need to work on your observation skills, Merlin.

“My observation skills are just fine,” Merlin retorts primly. ”I’ve just never observed you getting up of your own accord, sire.”

Arthur knows he shouldn’t, but he loves the way Merlin says sire, dripping with fake propriety, like he means the opposite. “That’s not true,” he protests, and Merlin lets out a disbelieving little hum as he looks around.

“So why are you up?”

“We,” Arthur stands, clapping his hands together. “Are going hunting!”

The change is instantaneous. Merlin groans so loud Arthur’s worried he’ll strain something as he sags dramatically against the table. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Nope,” Arthur says brightly, cheered by Merlin’s pouting. “We leave in a half hour.”

“That’s not enough time to pack all of your things,” Merlin points out hopefully, and then promptly deflates when Arthur says, “No need. I already had someone take care of it. The horses are waiting.”

He sweeps out of the room and hears Merlin follow a moment later, complaining under his breath, and before long they’re on the horses and heading out of the castle.

They day is sunny and warm, the air smelling of hay and crisp early morning, and as they leave the city behind and take the road into the forest, Arthur finally starts to relax. Merlin, on the other hand, does not.

“Remind me, what are we doing here?” Merlin grumbles, swatting away a couple of determined gnats with a scowl.

Arthur pretends not to notice Merlin's irritation. “I am surveying the area for potential prey. And you, well, I’m never quite sure why I take you anywhere.”

“Then you shouldn’t have dragged me out here.”

“Would you rather be helping cook peel potatoes again?” Arthur asks, and Merlin makes a face.

“Okay, maybe not,” He admits, and Arthur laughs.

“Thought so.”

After a few moments of quiet, just the clop of hooves and the rustle of leaves as they enter the forest, Merlin says, “Thank you.”

Surprised, Arthur looks over, but Merlin is staring ahead.

“For dragging me out here.”

Pleased, Arthur tries to keep the smile off his face. “You changed your mind fast.”

“Nah,” Merlin gives a sort of sheepish one shoulder shrug. His gaze darts over to Arthur and skitters away just as fast. “Hunting is still the worst. I just, you’re right. It’s good to get out, just the two of us.”

Mortifyingly, Arthur feels his cheeks heat, and he steadfastly stares at the trail ahead. Princes do not blush because their manservants insinuate they find their company preferable to peeling potatoes. “It does get pretty stuffy in the castle.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Merlin mutters, and although Arthur wouldn’t normally consider himself a coward, he finds that he’s too afraid to ask.

____

After a few hours of stomping around the woods pretending to hunt while also pretending not to notice Merlin’s attempts to shoo away the cuter animals, Arthur’s grumbling belly reminds him that he’d forgotten to eat any of the breakfast Merlin had brought up that morning.

“Lunch?” he suggests, when they spot a quiet creek burbling through the the trees, and Merlin nods gratefully. Arthur guides his horse through the trees until they thin, revealing a small clearing on the bank of the river. He hops off and starts unloading the bags.

Beside him, Merlin all but falls off his own horse, and Arthur snorts.

“Graceful.”

”Oh, shut up.”

Arthur collapses down onto the sun warmed grass as Merlin unloads the food from their pack. They eat bread and cheese and crisp, juicy apples as the gnats buzz lazily over the river and birds call softly overhead.

After eating, Merlin is in a much better mood. He sucks his juice sticky fingers into his mouth then flops down to lie in the grass next to Arthur, their elbows almost brushing. The tight lines of worry around his eyes have finally eased, and he’s back to chattering away cheerfully, something Arthur usually pretends to be annoyed by but now is simply grateful to have back. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it, how much he relied on it to get himself out of his own head until the excruciating quiet of the past few days.

After a while, in which Merlin dozes off and Arthur most definitely does not stare at him, because that would be creepy, a warning splatter of raindrops hits his upturned face.

The sky still seems mostly clear though, so Arthur shakes Merlin awake.

“Wake up,” he says, when Merlin grumbles sleepily. “Let's go exploring.”

“Exploring?” Merlin cracks open one eye and looks at him balefully. “I thought this was a hunting trip?”

“Eh.” Arthur waves a hand dismissively and gets to his feet, shouldering one of the packs as an afterthought. Always be prepared and all that. “We’re exploring for prey.”

“You don’t have your crossbow,” Merlin points out as they leave the camp, and Arthur shrugs.

“Maybe you can bore them to death with all your brilliant observations.”

“Har, har,” Merlin grumps. “They should be so lucky.”

They should, Arthur thinks, but keeps it to himself.

They spend the afternoon wandering through the woods, picking berries that stain their fingers and arguing about the most efficient way to get through the undergrowth that stings their faces and snags on their pants. They get a dozen mosquito bites and end up walking mostly in circles and they don’t see so much as a single rabbit but it’s still one of the best afternoons Arthur’s had in ages. When he trips on a root, cursing, Merlin laughs loud and bright and uninhibited and Arthur is happy.

He'd almost forgotten about those first drops of rain until a warning rumble of thunder cracks through the air, making Merlin jump. They only have time to glance at each other before the heavens open wide and rain pours down, a full on summer storm, heavy and smelling of earth.

“Which way is camp?” Merlin shouts over the pounding of the rain, and Arthur looks around and kind of shrugs. His father would be appalled with his tracking and directional skills, but he hadn’t been paying very close attention to anything other than Merlin. How embarrassing.

“No time to put up the tents,” Arthur replies, trying to shield his eyes from the rain. “We could try the hill?”

Merlin nods, and then they’re running towards the cluster of rocks just barely visible above the treeline at the base of the hill.

“What about the horses?” Merlin pants as wet leaves smack his arms and face.

“They’ll be fine!” Arthur barely avoids twisting his ankle in a hole in the ground. “We tied them up under trees.”

“We’re under trees!” Merlin points out, laughter edging his voice as he gestures to his wet clothes.

“Don’t be such a sissy,” Arthur says, even though he’s soaked to the bone too.

“This was your brilliant idea!” Merlin retorts, but he’s laughing and slipping in the mud, smile bright in the rain, so Arthur doesn’t think he’s really upset.

They finally reach the base of the hill and Merlin spots an opening in the rocks. They duck inside, and the world quiets. Rain pools near the entrance, but as their eyes adjust to the dim a cavernous cave, small but dry with ceilings that disappear into the dark, comes into view.

“I guess this’ll do.” Merlin cranes his neck, trying to see the top. “I wonder how far up it goes.”

“We should probably wait out the storm,” Arthur says as another boom of thunder shakes the cave walls.

Merlin turns to look at him. His eyelashes drip, twin slashes of black, and Arthur feels faint. “I’ll build a fire,” He offers, and all Arthur can do is nod. He dumps his soggy pack on the ground and takes stock of what they have. One cloak, a wet sleeping roll, a canteen of water, and a heel of slightly damp bread. Not ideal, but it’s better than nothing.

When Arthur finishes draping the sleeping bag on a rock outcropping from the side of the cave to dry, Merlin stumbles back inside, arms wrapped around a bunch of wood.

“Dry enough?” Arthur asks doubtfully, eyeing Merlin where he stands, dripping and looking half drowned.

He shrugs, dumping his bundle in the center of the cave and pushing his rain soaked curls out of his eyes. “We’ll see.”

By some miracle, Merlin manages to get the fire going. It warms the cave, but Arthur still feels chilled to his bones. The rain had brought with it a cold front, marrying the previously warm day, and being sopping wasn’t helping much either.

Making up his mind, Arthur strips off his cloak and shirt and tugs off his boots and socks. He drapes his clothes near the fire to dry, and gestures for Merlin to do the same as he settles down as close to the flames as he can manage without getting burned.

For some reason, Merlin hesitates. “I'm good.”

Arthur raises an incredulous eyebrow at where he’s visibly shivering, lips tinged blue, knuckles white where they’re clenched in his lap. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll catch your death.”

Arthur almost thinks Merlin’s going to insist on dying of pneumonia just to be difficult, but after a long moment he gets up reluctantly with a tense sounding, “Fine.” He steps away from the fire, into the shadows, and turns around. Arthur’s about to tease him about being a prude when Merlin takes off his shirt and snatches up one of the extra cloaks, wrapping it tight around his shoulders in the blink of an eye, but not before Arthur catches a glimpse of his back, vicious white and inky black lines tangled in the darkness.

Arthur goes very very still, blood roaring in his ears. “Merlin,” He says, slowly, deadly serious. Merlin visibly stiffens, pulls the cloak tighter around his shoulders. He still hasn't turned around.

Arthur doesn’t even remember moving, but one moment he’s sitting and the next he’s across the cavern and inches away from Merlin, who seems to shrink into himself. Gently, far too gently, Arthur sets his hand on Merlin’s shoulder, turns him around. Merlin still won’t meet his eyes.

“Who did this to you?” Before he can stop himself, he’s reaching out and tugging the cloak. It slips down Merlin’s shoulder and Merlin’s fingers tighten for the briefest moment before his eyes flick up to meet Arthurs, holds his gaze for one, two, three beats, and then they close. He lets go. The cloak slips down, and Arthur sucks in a sharp breath. The firelight flickers over a battleground of scars, old and white, littered across his shoulders, chest, arms, back.

“Who did this to you?” He repeats, voice low, dangerous. Furious. “Gods, Merlin. What happened?” He feels sick, like he's about to shake out of his own skin. How could he not have known? How did he not realize? How could he have let this happen? If he can't even protect his best friend, how on Earth can he expect to protect an entire kingdom?

Merlin flinches away, curls tighter back into the cloak. “Please Arthur. Just leave it.”

But he can't leave it. He feels as if the image has been permanently burned into the back of his eyelids. Of all the things he imagined feeling when he saw Merlin shirtless for the first time, fury and worry that twists into a sickening pit in his stomach wasn't one of them.

Arthur reaches out, fingers barely brushing a wicked white raised scar that snakes over Merlin's shoulder and down his chest. Merlin immediately flinches back as if he's been burned, and Arthur jerks his hand away, shaken. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"No no, it's fine. It's..." Merlin yanks the cloak back up over his shoulders and pulls it tight, looking away. "I'm fine."

Arthur's mouth tightens into a thin, worried line. "You don't look fine."

“Then stop looking.”

“Merlin.”

"It's nothing, okay. Just bad memories." Merlin shrugs, his eyes dark and sad. "It's in the past now."

Arthur takes a few deep breaths, searching Merlin’s face for something, anything. He doesn’t understand what he finds. He forces himself to take a step back, and then another, until he’s sitting on a rock by the fire and stares into the flames, trying very hard not to think about anything at all, giving Merlin some space.

After a few moments, he feels more than hears Merlin settle down on the rock beside him. When he looks up, Merlin is watching him.

Arthur points this time, too afraid to touch, at the juncture where Merlin’s neck meets his shoulder that peeks out from the cloak where the faintest hint of black lines twist. “You have a tattoo.”

It’s not really a question, but Merlin nods anyway. Arthur feels genuinely dumbfounded, an emotion he’s not overly familiar with and isn’t entirely sure he likes.

“I-You never, I mean, when?” He splutters. How could he have missed this, too? “Are you in a gang? Is that why you always insist on wearing those dumb neckerchiefs?”

That actually startles a snort of laughter out of Merlin. “That’s ridiculous.”

“But you’re not denying it.”

“Only the gang part.”

“So I'm right.”

Merlin gives a little shrug, glancing up at him through his lashes, damp curls falling across his forehead, and lets the corner of the cloak slip down his shoulder, exposing more pale skin and what appears to be the inky black tip of a wing. Arthur swallows hard and forces his eyes back up to Merlin’s face. That’s almost worse. In the firelight, Merlin’s blue eyes seem to glow gold. “Maybe so,” Merlin murmurs, and the corner of his lip curls up, slow and supple as warm honey, dimple winking in the firelight. The dangerously sharp cut of his cheekbones in the golden glow takes Arthur's breath away. “Do you want to see the rest of it?”

Arthur flushes all the way down to his toes. “I thought you didn’t want me to see your scars.”

Merlin blinks up at him, slow, and bites his lip. “I don’t. Or, I didn’t. I didn’t want you to worry about something you can’t change. But it’s too late now, I guess. And, well. I… I trust you.”

Objectively, Arthur knew Merlin trusted him. With court gossip, and his opinions on the kingdom, to protect him on hunts and always have his back when a magical shitshow came to town. But this, this was something else. Something more… real. The way Merlin’s eyes are burning into his makes him want to both run and hide and drown in the feeling. Arthur realizes, perhaps for the first time in his whole life, that this is what it feels like to be really, truly seen.

“Besides, it’s-”

“I know, I know, it’s in the past,” Arthur interrupts, a bit impatiently. “But that doesn’t make it okay.”

“I know,” Merlin placates. “But I know you, Arthur. You think everything and everyone is your responsibility to protect, but believe it or not I can take care of myself. I knew what I was getting into when I, well…” Arthur sees the almost subconscious way Merlin strokes a hand over a scar on his arm, staring into the fire as his words trail off. Arthur wants to yell at him to finish the sentence, shake it out of him, but knows it will do no good. Instead, he just presses his shoulder against Merlin’s, feels the heat of his skin radiating through the cloak, and thinks distantly that he's glad Merlin's warming up. Merlin may trust him, just not enough to tell him this.

The silence settles, stretches. Eventually, Arthur can’t take it anymore, the way Merlin stares into the fire like he’s looking for something, like he’s seeing things far beyond this cave, far beyond Arthur. That look frightens him to death. “I know you can take care of yourself. But you shouldn’t have to.”

His voice seems to startle Merlin out of his daze. “You have enough on your plate as it is. You already have a kingdom to worry about.” Merlin wrinkles his nose, gives a self deprecating little laugh. “You don’t need a useless servant running around messing things up to worry about on top of it all.”

“I know I joke, but I- I really don’t mean that, you know.” Arthur swallows hard, forces himself to meet Merlin’s startled, grateful eyes. He thought he knew. Gods, he thought he knew that Arthur always meant the opposite, that he was just teasing. He forces himself to continue, around the lump in his throat. “You’re not a useless servant, Merlin, and you don’t mess things up. Well, most of the time,” He adds judiciously, and without thinking places his hand on Merlin’s shoulder and gives it a comforting squeeze. He tries not to read too much into it when Merlin starts under his palm. “And you’re always mine to worry about.”

“I-” Merlin starts, and then seems to realize at the same time as Arthur that he’s just parroted Merlin’s words back at him. A blush creeps up Merlin’s neck, and Arthur thinks a bit wildly that he wants to taste it. “Oh.” Merlin clears his throat, ducks his head away. “Was that what I think it was?”

Uh oh. “What?” Arthur asks hoarsely. If Merlin says anything having to do with love, affection, or any other distasteful emotion, Arthur thinks he may just be forced to fling himself into the ocean. Never mind that they're miles from the nearest coast. He’ll figure something out. But Merlin just cracks a smile.

“A complement?”

“Oh, piss off,” Arthur huffs, relieved, but he’s smiling now too. “I regret it already. Your head’s far too big as it is.”

“My head?” Merlin squawks, outraged. “You’re the one with the big head. Some days I worry the crown won’t fit you anymore, your highness.”

Arthur definitely does not shiver at the throaty curl of Merlin’s voice around the word highness. “I’m pretty sure insulting your prince counts as treason.”

“Nah, I’m doing Camelot a public service. How else would you be able to fit through doorways without my witty repartee keeping you humble.”

“Har har,” Arthur gives Merlin a shove, and laughs, mostly out of surprise, when Merlin shoves him back so hard he nearly topples off the rock. “See! Treason!”

“I’m insulted,” Merlin sniffs, pouting. His lip juts out, bitten red by worrying teeth, and Arthur immediately regrets all his life choices. “Me, your respectful, humble servant.”

Arthur snorts. “You are many things, Merlin, but none of those.”

Merlin quiets, and for a moment Arthur worries he’s insulted him again, somehow, and what a ridiculous thing to be worrying about, sitting in a cave while the rain pours down outside fretting about the happiness of one’s manservant. What has his life come to? But, despite everything, despite the strangeness of it all, Arthur can’t find it in himself to regret any of it. Even the bad parts. They were necessary to bring me to you, he thinks. And I would do it a million times over again just to be sitting here on this lumpy rock with you in some god forsaken cave, watching you smile.

And Merlin is smiling, soft and a little nervous, and Arthur tunes in just in time to hear him say, “Arthur Pendragon, if you laugh I swear on the saints I will kill you myself.” And before Arthur can ask him what the hell he's talking about, Merlin turns around and lets the cloak drop to the floor in one fluid motion.

Time seems to slow, and still. Laughing is the very last thing on Arthur’s mind as he comprehends what, exactly, the tattoo is of.

A massive dragon takes up the entirety of Merlin’s back, neck arching, eyes blazing, flames curling over Merlin’s shoulder and up his neck, the tail disappearing beneath the waistline of his pants. And the wings, god, the wings, outstretched across Merlin’s shoulders that ripple with unexpected muscle, fierce slashes of black over countless old white scars both big and small. The dragon seems nearly alive with every shift of Merlin’s shoulders.

“It’s…” beautiful doesn’t seem like enough. Unbidden, the word magical pops into Arthur’s head. He swallows hard and settles for something he hopes sounds neutral. “It looks like the Pendragon crest.”

Merlin turns around to meet his eyes. “I know,” He says simply, and puts the cloak back on.

They sit side by side in silence, Arthur reeling and Merlin inscrutable as he often is these days. The fire crackles, casting shadows over the cave walls as night creeps up on them. The rain outside seems to be slowing. Eventually, Arthur lets out a long, low breath and leans back on his hands. “You really won’t tell me, will you.”

“I’m sorry.” Merlin shakes his head, looking miserable. “I really do want to but… I can’t.”

“Are you in trouble?” That’s the only thing Arthur really cares about, when it comes down to it. As much as he’s dying to know the story behind Merlin’s scars, wants to know when and why he got that tattoo and why he keeps it hidden and how all of this happened right under Arthur’s damn nose, the only truly important thing is making sure nobody ever hurts him again. And if they do, would Merlin even tell him? For god's sake, he must know he has the future king of Camelot ready and more than willing to crush anyone who hurts him. But he doesn’t trust you like that, the little voice in Arthur’s head reminds him. Who you are means nothing to him. Something that Arthur usually secretly loves but now just makes him feel frustrated and more than a bit helpless, two of his decidedly least favorite feelings.

Merlin’s mouth quirks, and he says with no small measure of irony, “Of course I'm in trouble. I’m friends with you.”

“Merlin.” Merlin quiets, the smile dropping off his face. “I’m serious.”

“I’m not in trouble, I swear.” He murmurs after a long moment, picking at an invisible seam on his trousers. He lets out a shaky breath, and when he looks over at him, Arthur’s startled to see that his eyes are wet. “I just… I’ve done some bad things, Arthur. Things you wouldn’t understand, anymore. I did them because I had to, because it was the only way to- well. “ He swallows hard, straightens. A steely look comes into his eyes, a look of fire and brimstone and hardship and exhaustion. The kind of look Arthur’s most seasoned knights, veterans from the Great War his father waged, get sometimes when they remember the pain, the violence, how it feels to watch people die and get used to it. “It was the only way.” Merlin’s voice is a blade, ice cold. “And I would do it all over again if I had to. But I-” The ice melts, cracks. “I don’t want you to hate me.”

Arthur feels suddenly cold, and fights back a shiver at the terrifying thought that maybe he doesn’t know Merlin as well as he thought he did. But he’s telling the truth when he covers Merlin’s hand with his own and says, “I don’t care what you’ve done. I only care that you made it through to be here today. And I could never hate you.”

Merlin gives a watery, hollow little laugh. “Don't make promises you can't keep, sire.”

“I never do,” Arthur says seriously, and wonders if maybe he’s going too far, revealing too much, then thinks screw it. “You’re the best person I know, Merlin.”

Merlin gives a little jolt, looks at him in surprise. “Very funny.”

“I’m serious.” Arthur forces himself to continue. “I don’t know how you do it, how you care about everyone, how you stay so patient.” He shakes his head. “Everything pisses me off, people annoy me, disappoint me, but you’re so selfless even when you don’t have to be, even when people treat you badly. I must admit,” Arthur’s mouth twists wryly. “I probably benefit the most. I know I’m not the easiest to get along with.” Please don’t leave me. Please don’t go with Sir Rowan. “But you do it anyway.” He studies Merlin’s face. “And I still can’t fathom why.”

“Oh, it’s not so complicated,” Merlin says, a little sheepishly. “You’re my friend. You give me too much credit.”

I’m starting to think I don’t give you nearly enough credit, Arthur thinks, but all he says is, “I think the rain’s stopping.”

They both listen, and sure enough the downpour has quieted to only the occasional patter. Arthur stands, shrugs back into his shirt and jacket and pulls on his boots. “I’m going to see if I can find the trail back to camp.”

“Do you want me to come?” Merlin asks, and then promptly yawns. Arthur snorts softly.

“No. Just keep an eye out here.”

“Can I have one of your daggers?” Merlin asks, completely casually. “I think the one I keep in my boot fell out while we were running.”

Arthur wants to ask why on earth Merlin keeps a dagger on him at all times, but instead just slides one of his own blades out of his belt and tosses it to Merlin, who plucks it neatly out of the air by the handle in an unexpected show of dexterity. Arthur wonders if he’ll ever stop being surprised by the man before him.

“Be careful,” Merlin tells him earnestly, face half shadows half fire, and Arthur nods.

When he steps outside the cave, it takes his eyes a minute to adjust to the dark. Night has fallen over the forest, and a thick fog has settled low in the chilly air, still smelling of rain and earth. As Arthur enters the trees it’s unnaturally quiet, all the animals hidden away, the only sounds his boots in the wet earth and the plink and plop of droplets of water sliding off the rain soaked leaves. He only makes it a couple dozen yards into the forest before the fog gets so thick he can barely see his hands in front of his face. He stops, uneasy at the the thought of leaving Merlin alone in this and fairly certain that the rain has washed their trail back to camp clean away. Giving up, he treks back to the edge of the forest, following the slight glow of the cave entrance like a beacon.

When he leaves the cold behind and enters the relative warmth of the cave, he finds Merlin slumped against the side of the rock they’d been using as a chair, fast asleep. Only because he’s alone, and it’s been a long day, does he allow himself a moment to just watch Merlin sleep, his soft little breaths, the way his hair falls across his forehead, and is genuinely, embarrassingly grateful to have this to come home to every single night. Even if it’s not in exactly the way he wants.

Arthur banks the fire quietly, careful not to wake Merlin, and lays out the now dry bed roll. He feels bad about taking the only one, would've insisted Merlin take it had he been awake (and after Merlin had argued that he wasn’t an infant, and didn’t need it, and Arthur would tell him fine, but he can’t complain about his back hurting in the morning because the ground was hard like he always does, and then Merlin would grumble about lies and slander but take the roll anyway). The last thing Arthur thinks of as he climbs in and drifts off to sleep is the tears in Merlin’s eyes, the way his hand curled around the dagger as if it belonged there, and how he whispered I don’t want you to hate me as if that’s something Arthur could ever do. He dreams of scars and dragons and white hot flames.

__

Merlin is dreaming of Arthur’s death, again. Every time the horror is fresh, the agony the same as Merlin sobs and screams and Arthur’s blood spreads and spreads until Merlin is drowning in it, drowning in the blood of all those he’s hurt, killed, betrayed, lied to trying to save Camelot, trying to save Arthur. All for nothing. Arthur’s voice rings in his head. Why didn’t you save me, Merlin? I trusted you. We all trusted you. And look what you’ve done. This is all your fault.

Suddenly, the dream shifts. Merlin blinks around through a thick white fog, breathing hard, heart rabbiting, throat raw with tears. After a moment, a figure appears in the mist, and as it comes closer, the fog parts and Arthur comes into view, whole and well, armor gleaming in the non existent sun, cape a blood red sail. Excalibur glints at his side.

Overjoyed, Merlin calls out to him, starts towards him. He only gets a few steps before he senses the wrongness, and then suddenly Arthur’s close, too close, and Merlin sees the fury in his eyes and the cold set to his jaw and barely manages to conjure a shield before he’s slashing his sword down at Merlin’s head with a snarl, eyes full of rage and disgust.

You really thought I would trust you? After what you’ve done? With who you are? Arthur lashes out at him relentlessly, each strike of his sword a bone rattling clash that Merlin barely avoids, legs and arms shaking like a leaf, chest a gaping void of despair, heartache, fear. You thought you could change the past, thought you could do things better? The only thing that'll change is me. The past me was a mistake. An anomaly. Arthur kicks out and Merlin trips with a cry, crashing to the ground in a painful, bruising heap. He scrambles to his hands and knees, turns around, and sees Arthur towering over him. There is no light in his eyes, only empty blackness as he raises Excalibur above his head, a beautiful death. You know I could never love a monster like you.

The blade swings down.

Merlin screams, thrashes, feels a sudden vice like grip tighten around his chest. "I’m sorry! Please, I’m sorry I-"

You know I could never love a monster like you.

"Stop!" Merlin howls, digging his nails into his temples. "Please, I was trying to save you, I was trying-"

Through the blur of terror Merlin sees Arthur’s face before him. "Stay still," the prince murmurs. "Merlin, it’s alright. It’s just me."

"I have to tell him, I have to-" Is all he gets out before Arthur is practically crushing him to his chest, arms coming up to hold him tight, and Merlin can feel the brush of Arthur's cheek against his hair, the beat of Arthur's heart through his shirt. He sucks in a few ragged breaths and lets himself be held, focusing on the steady rhythm until he can think through the blinding fear. As his composure returns, so does the profound embarrassment. Arthur's arms around him loosen but don’t let go, even as he stills, cheeks burning, and the prince's voice is gentle.

"Merlin," he says, "I’ve got you. No one’s here. It’s alright."

"Yeah," Merlin stutters, voice rough from screaming, more concerned now with Arthur's arms around him than with the nightmare, of which he is almost used to by now. "I—I know. It's fine. Sorry. I had a nightmare. I'm sorry."

“Don't apologize.” Arthur's eyes search his, questioning as he finally pulls away. “It's not your fault.”

“Sorry.”

“Merlin.”

“Oops. So- I mean, okay.”

“Is this why you’ve been so tired lately?” Arthur asks quietly, and Merlin wonders if he’s somehow still dreaming. All he can do is nod mutely.

After a long moment, Arthur draws back. Merlin swallows hard and meets his dark, calm eyes in the shadows of the cave, searching for some trace of the Arthur from his dreams, some indication that that depth of hatred is a hair's breadth confession away from igniting, but all he finds is concern, and sleepiness, and a knife’s edge of something else that skitters up Merlin’s spine in the protective, possessive way Arthur watches him, still hovering close enough to touch.

Eventually, the prince gets to his feet and brushes the wrinkles out of his clothes. Merlin blinks up at him, registering the cold, and the damp haze of fog drifting into the entrance of the cave for the first time, and Arthur holds his gaze for a long, quiet moment.

"Sorry," Merlin repeats, because that feels like the only word he knows lately, but Arthur just shakes his head.

"Come on, get up." Arthur holds out a hand. Merlin takes it without thinking and feels himself gently pulled to his feet. Arthur frowns. “Your hands are freezing.”

Merlin’s heart skips a beat, Arthur’s callused hands warm over his own, and he hurriedly drops them to his side. Looking resolved, Arthur nudges him towards the bedroll where it lies a few feet away, crumpled from its owner’s hasty exit. Merlin notes Arthur’s sword, discarded on the ground but out of its sheath, and another wave of embarrassment washes over him at the thought of Arthur waking up to screams, thinking they were being attacked, and instead finding him having a nightmare. He should’ve seen this coming, should never have fallen asleep in the first place.

“Go on.” Arthur makes a shooing motion. “I’m not going to offer twice.”

“What?” Merlin asks dumbly, uncomprehending from the late hour and the leftover shaky dredges of terror.

“Take the bedroll, you idiot,” Arthur says, without bite, and tugs the lone blanket over to himself and lays down on the ground beside the bedroll. “Hurry up.”

“Arthur, I can’t.” Mildly scandalized, Merlin watches Arthur level an eyebrow at him.

“Don’t get all chivalrous on me now, Merlin. We’ve had this argument a thousand times, and I don’t care to rehash it again at one in the morning. Get in the bedroll.”

Merlin gets in the bedroll.

Merlin didn’t think he’d be able to get back to sleep again, he never can after his nightmares, but something about the warmth of the bedroll and the reassuring pattern of Arthur’s breathing as he drops off to sleep less than a foot away soothes him, and before he knows it his eyes are drooping. He’s just about to slip back into sleep when he feels a sudden, electric tingle shoot up his spine, and he sits bolt upright.

Wide awake the pull gets stronger, and as quietly as he can so as not to wake Arthur a second time, Merlin extracts himself from the bedroll and creeps out of the cave. Outside, he pulls his jacket tighter around his shoulders against the dense, chilly fog and heads into the forest, boots squelching against wet, muddy ground. With a quick silencing spell and a hasty illusion spell to obscure his form in darkness, Merlin heads into the forest following the pull of druidic magic calling to him.

He finds the two druids in a small clearing, overhung with a weeping willow heavy and dripping with raindrops and smelling of wet grass and the fog that swirls around his feet like a current.

When he drops his silencing spell and calls out a greeting, he tries not to laugh at the way both druids stiffen, fighting back flinches of surprise. The idea of anyone being scared of him is genuinely hilarious. Just hours earlier he'd attempted to frighten off a deer before Arthur caught sight of it and failed miserably. The deer had merely regarded all his flapping and shooing with something close to irritation as it continued on its merry way.

“Emrys,” The first, slightly taller druid greets reverently, bowing deeply. No matter how many times it happens, Merlin will never be used to that kind of subsequence. The shorter druid hurries to bow too, but Merlin waves a hand at them.

“There’s no need for that,” He assures them, and senses more than sees them relax slightly. “Tell me, is something wrong?”

The taller druid exchanges a quick glance with his companion, and Merlin is immediately on the alert.

“Well,” the man says, looking reluctant. “We’re not sure. But, we were passing through the area when we sensed your presence and thought we might seek a moment of your council, just in case, if you don't mind that is.”

“Of course,” Merlin tries his best to seem wise and open, when really his heart is jackrabbiting in his chest. Could it be Morgause? “Please, tell me. It is still my duty to keep the peace.”

The druids frown at him. “Still?”

Merlin curses himself silently for his slip up, but shoulders on. “Yes,” is all he says smoothly. “I’ve been doing this for quite a while now. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Haltingly, the druid informs him that three druids have disappeared over the last couple of days, and as worried as Merlin is about them, some small part of him is still desperately glad it isn’t Morgause after all.

“Of course,” The taller druid, who’d introduced himself as Roifar, admits, “They could have simply wandered off to go about their own business, we are a nomadic people by nature, but this isn’t like them. All of them have families, responsibilities, and our current camp remains safe and hidden. I can’t fathom why they would have left without a word. We’ve been taking turns searching the woods for them, but have yet to turn up so much as a hair.”

A prickle of unease settles over Merlin’s shoulders. “I’ll look into it,” Merlin assures them. He conjures up small roll of mirroring parchment like the kind they used during the war and hands it to Roifar. “Anything you write on this, I will be able to see. Notify me immediately if there are any developments.”

“It would be my honor.” Roifar takes the parchment reverently, and Merlin is about to bid them goodbye, worried about Arthur waking and finding him gone, when the smaller druid cocks his head at him.

“Meaning no offense,” He says, voice low and curious in the cold air of the early morning hours, “But you seem different tonight, Emrys.”

“I am different,” Merlin says into the darkness. “But I am still me.”

“Are you sure that you don’t wish to accompany us back to camp?” The smaller druid asks hesitantly. “You are always welcomed to your place as Ardrí.”

Touched, Merlin shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but I cannot. I already have somewhere I belong.”

“You mean Camelot?” Roifar wrinkles his nose distastefully. “You will never belong in Camelot so long as Uther has the throne.”

“I have a duty to Camelot just as much as I have a duty to you, even if you cannot understand it,” Merlin keeps his voice just on this edge of sharp, a caution and a reprimand. “Do you doubt me?”

The men actually flinch, and they trip over themselves to reassure him, looking horrified at the very thought, and Merlin’s somewhat mollified.

“Uther won't live forever,” Merlin reminds them, more gently now. They have every right to be worried when their kind, his kind, have been persecuted by Camelot for so long. “And Arthur is not his father.”

The druids look deeply doubtful. “Are you sure about that?”

Merlin thinks of Arthur, thinks of his kindness and goodness and loyalty and his unbreakable sense of justice underneath all that prattishness and royal brainwashing and says, deadly serious, “More and more everyday.”

___

The next morning Merlin wakes up stiff and worried and still exhausted, but the sight of Arthur’s messy morning hair makes him smile despite himself, and he laughs when Arthur frowns and informs him that mocking the crown prince surely counts as treason. They stuff their few belongings into the pack, split the last of the bread, and with the mid-morning sun burning off the last tendrils of fog Arthur has no problem finding their trail back to camp.

Unfortunately, that’s about as far as their luck takes them. When they get to the clearing where they’d made camp, it’s completely empty.

“Are you kidding me?” Arthur growls furiously, stomping about as if he’ll somehow find their horses and bags hidden behind one of the trees, but all Merlin can do is laugh and laugh because his life is ridiculous and awful and he loves it, loves every stolen horrible, hungry, cold moment of it that he gets to spend with Arthur.

After a good deal of angry muttering on Arthur’s part and tactful silence on Merlin’s, they start trekking towards home. The day is warm but damp, the bright sun steaming off the wet ground and forest around them, curling Merlin’s hair ridiculously no matter how many times he tries to flatten it down.

They’re only a day out from Camelot, but walking through the undergrowth swatting at gnats and sweating takes ages, and by the time they find a main thoroughfare, dusk is falling. They walk up the muddy, rutted dirt road about a mile as the sun sets, talking and laughing and flicking mud off their boots at each other as the cicadas buzz and the warm wind shakes the leaves above their heads. Just as the stars begin to appear in the night sky and the air cools, they reach a small town and after a bit of arguing, decide to stay for the night. Arthur spots a inn across the square, and they head over. He holds the door open for Merlin, who tries very hard not to be flustered by something so stupid and probably accidental. If Merlin’s realized anything over the past few months, it’s that his common sense had clearly taken a hit with the time travel.

Stepping inside, Merlin is immediately hit by a wall of warmth and noise and the smells of roasting meat and mead. His stomach rumbles loudly in reply, the bread from that morning having worn off long ago, and Arthur snorts. “Go get us something to eat,” He instructs, nudging Merlin towards the bar where a young, bored looking barmaid is drying glasses. “I’ll go inquire about a room.”

Merlin weaves his way across the loud, smoky tavern, where a dozen or so men and a handful of hearty looking women sit clustered around old, nicked wooden tables, talking and laughing and arguing over hands of cards. An old man sits in the corner, tuning a beat up fiddle.

Merlin has just finished giving the barmaid their order when Arthur returns from talking with a grumpy looking man across the room who Merlin assumes must be the owner with a strange look on his face.

“Success?”

A myriad of emotions flicker across Arthur’s face, before settling on uncomfortable. “They had a room left.”

“Great!” Arthur’s expression doesn’t appear to agree. “Alright, what's the problem then? It not big enough for your most esteemed majesty?”

“A room. As in one.”

“Are you sure?” Merlin exclaims, dismayed. “But you snore!” And I scream in my sleep. Also I'm in love with you.

Arthur scowls. “I do not. And it was that or nothing.”

“Ugg. Fine.” Merlin flags down the barmaid for a pint. He's going to need to start drinking early if he’s going to make it through the night with his sanity intact. For all his wishing to be closer to Arthur, with the prospect suddenly looming he’s not sure he’s ready to act impartial.

They go sit together at an empty table tucked against the wall by the bar, and the barmaid hurries over with some pints and an offered pack of beat up old cards, which Arthur accepts, to Merlin’s surprise.

“Gin?” Arthur offers, thumbing through the cards.

“But you hate gin.”

Arthur pauses, then resumes shuffling. “But you don’t.”

Merlin stares at him.

Arthur scowls, shuffling the cards a bit harder than necessary. They hit the wood with a smack. “Fine, we’ll play blind bluff.”

“No no, gin’s good.”

“Hmph. Too late.” But Arthur deals out gin anyway.

Their food comes eventually, and even though it’s plain it’s piping hot and fresh, and they both scarf it down. Arthur doesn’t even complain once about the lack of flavor. Merlin is duly impressed.

Without anything better to do for the night they play another couple rounds of cards. Merlin is just finishing some loud gloating over winning the last hand when he realizes Arthur isn’t paying attention, but is instead staring stone still over at the bar. Merlin peeters off mid sentence and when he follows Arthur’s line of sight, the blood in his veins turn to ice.

Arthur and the barmaid are staring at each other, a glass she must have dropped hanging frozen mere centimeters from the floor. Merlin feels his throat go dry and he doesn't dare move, doesn't dare breathe. The world around him fades away as he watches, transfixed and sick to his stomach. He doesn't know what he'll do if Arthur condemns her for sorcery, and death, right then and there. He doesn't know how he'd even look at him.

After a couple of terrifying seconds that feel like years in which Arthur and the barmaid stare unblinking at each other, Arthur slowly turns back around, takes a sip of his cider, and calmly informs Merlin that it's his turn to deal. In the blink of an eye the barmaid snatches the glass out of the air and hurries into the back, looking close to tears, and as Merlin turns numbly back to his cards, he feels as though he's been shaken to his very core.

He stares uncomprehendingly at his hand of gin for a long couple seconds. Unsure how to handle the knowledge that Arthur Pendragon, son of Uther Pendragon, had seen someone do magic right in front of his eyes and said nothing. Not one single word.

Fighting off a bout of slightly hysterical laughter, Merlin chugs his mug of cider and motions for another. The tearful barmaid has been replaced by a tall brunette, perhaps her sister, who's scowling ferociously in their direction but brings them more mulled wine anyway, slamming it down in front of them so hard it splashes onto the table.

Merlin grabs it immediately and gulps it down. Arthur eyes him.

“What?” Merlin clutches his cup defensively, daring Arthur to say something after that impossible moment, but Arthur just shakes his head.

So Merlin eats more bread to avoid babbling in the silence but it doesn’t seem to help much at all, and by this point everyone else in the tavern is well on their way to drunk anyway, singing and shouting over games of cards and dice, so it doesn’t seem quite so bad to have a little more than he would have usually allowed himself. Arthur is deeply unamused.

“Alright,” Arthur announces eventually, after Merlin’s been leaning heavily on his shoulder for a while and hiccuping. He takes the cup from Merlin’s hands and tugs him to his feet with an eye roll. “I think that’s enough for you.”

Merlin is really quite wobbly but he does manage to stand up, with only a minimal amount of swaying and stumbling. He can’t even remember why he'd been so upset in the first place. As soon as Arthur’s standing, he wraps one arm around Merlin's waist to steady him. Probably a good call, as Merlin manages to bump into no less than two tables and three chairs on their way out, earning scowls from the patrons. He giggles, and hears Arthur mutter “Good gods.”

They leave the warmth and noise of the tavern behind and make their way down an empty corridor to their rented rooms. Wait, no. Room. Singular. Merlin giggles again, this time with a definite edge of panic. He’s so fucked. And not in the way he’d prefer, either.

Merlin stumbles inside and sags back against the wall. Arthur shuts the door quietly behind him before stepping in closer to hold him up, frowning. "I think even Morgana can hold her drink better than you," Arthur mutters. “No wait, I take that back. Morgana can drink us both under the table.” He pauses. “Don’t tell her I said that.”

“Rude,” Merlin mumbles, even though it’s true.

“Honestly, you should know better by now,” Arthur says, exasperated. "Considering how much time you allegedly spend at the tavern."

Merlin opens his mouth to retort, but the words get lost somewhere along the way and die in his throat. He swallows hard, shuts his mouth. They stare at each other in the dark, Merlin’s pulse pounding in his throat, the alcohol making his head hazy and Arthur’s eyes look extra bright.

Merlin sways forward, but catches himself just in time as Arthur’s eyes widen, something dark and searching that Merlin can't understand through his drunken haze flickering to life in their depths.

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” He whispers into the dark, and imagines his words drifting through the air and blowing across Arthur’s lips, mere inches from his own. He knows he’s not just talking about tonight. His tipsy euphoria is wearing off into melancholy, like always, and he feels weepy. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be watching out for you,” he says pitifully, slumping. “And look at what a bang up job I’ve done of it. Lost. No horse. Horses.” He hiccups. “I liked those horses.”

Arthur’s eyes search his face for so long Merlin is suddenly terrifyingly sure every single one of his emotions must be showing on his face and manages to regret getting drunk, getting robbed, falling in love, and being born all in one fell swoop. It's practically a record for someone who has a long and dedicated history of making bad life choices.

He nearly jumps when Arthur’s hand comes up to his face, just the barest brush of fingertips against his cheek. Merlin feels the electric zing all the way into his toes. “You are a thousand mysteries in one, Merlin,” Arthur murmurs into the still dark of the night air, so quietly Merlin almost thinks he's imagined it, and for the first time in a long time he finds that he’s at loss for words. His drunken mind is a jumble of love and regret and fear and alcohol.

“What?” Is all he manages to get out, a beat too late, but Arthur just shakes his head ruefully and steps back. His hand gives Merlin’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before dropping away. “We’ve been over this. I can take care of myself. I have the knights. It’s not your responsibility.”

“Is so,” Merlin slurs mournfully, closing his eyes for a long second in an attempt to stop the room from spinning. It doesn’t work. “Arthur, why is the floor moving?”

Arthur sighs, and the strange intensity seeps out of him as fast as it had come. Merlin is almost relieved to be out from under the scrutiny of those blue eyes. “It’s not moving, Merlin, you’re drunk. Now go get in bed.”

Merlin’s traitorous heart gives another thump. Not the exact circumstance he’d hoped to hear those words in, but he’ll take what he can get.

Arthur makes his way over to the small bed that still manages to take up most of the tiny room and sits on the edge with a weary sigh, pulling off his muddy boots with a groan and gesturing for Merlin to do the same where he’s still leaning against the door, which he does, after a bit of tipsy struggle and colorful cursing that makes Arthur chuckle quietly in the dark. “You really are ridiculous, you know.”

Merlin grunts in response, and throws a boot at him. Arthur dodges easily, flopping backwards onto the bed and tugging the quilt over himself. They hadn’t bothered to light a fire, and the room is chilly. Merlin is staring forlornly at the rickety wooden floor and resigning himself to a lumpy night in the bedroll when Arthur clears his throat. Merlin looks up to see him holding back the other half of the covers.

"If you mention snoring," he says, "the floor’s all yours."

Merlin gapes at him.

“Well, hurry up.” Arthur gestures at him. “The cold air’s getting in.”

Merlin climbs into bed and attempts to make himself as small as possible. He’s planning on having a good, proper freak out, but instead the late hour and the cider drags him down into sleep. As he’s drifting off, he distantly feels the covers being gently draped over him.

------------
Arthur hardly sleeps a wink the entire night with Merlin’s cold nose tucked against his neck and his warm breath fluttering over his skin. He wonders when Merlin is going to tell him that he's planning to leave with Sir Rowan, or if he'll just up and disappear one day as suddenly as he’d appeared in the courtyard all those years ago, mocking Arthur and calling him out for his adolescent prattishness.

Arthur hopes he won’t, hopes he at least deserves a goodbye after everything they’ve been through together, but the anxiety tightening his throat makes him doubt. Hesitantly, he brings his arm up and rests it gently around Merlin, who snuffles in his sleep and wiggles closer to him. Arthur wonders a bit desperately how people survive this kind of thing as his heart threatens to beat itself right out of his chest. Being in love is quite possibly the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.

But, looking at the pale outlines of Merlin’s sleeping form in the darkness, Arthur can finally admit to himself that he means the opposite.
____

When they finally make it back to the castle the next day Uther is in a right fury, dragging Arthur out of the courtyard and into a room that empties of people in a heartbeat, Merlin trailing behind. Apparently Arthur had failed to consult his father before their impromptu journey and Merlin, despite being hungover and sweating bullets in the midday heat while Uther yells at Arthur about duties and responsibility and a half dozen other things for good measure, manages to feel strangely touched. All of this, just so they could screw around in the woods for a weekend.

When Uther notices him hovering, fury sparks in his cold, pale eyes and he barks, “You again? Get lost, boy. This does not concern you.”

Merlin makes a mistake, then. Instead of up and fleeing like he’s told, he looks to Arthur for confirmation that it’s okay for him to go, that he's okay here alone with his father. So he knows he shouldn't be as surprised as he is when Uther slaps him. Hard.

Merlin is so stunned, he doesn’t even remember to be upset. He’s seen Uther hit servants before, but it had never happened to him and he’s kind of in shock. He blinks away stars to see Arthur looking thunderous, mouth a thin, murderous line, strung tight like he’d been about to leap forward and it's taking every modicum of self control he has to hold himself still. Merlin gives him the smallest of head shakes, a silent plea not to make things worse, and leaves the room quickly, cheek stinging. As he walks down the hallway and the yelling starts up again behind him, even louder than before, the fury sinks in. Someday, Uther Pendragon's going to pay for what he's become. Merlin would make sure of it.
___

He doesn’t see Arthur for the rest of the day, and dodges numerous concerned comments about his bruised cheek. He runs into Gwaine when he’s leaving the laundry room precariously balancing a basket of Arthur’s clean clothes. Like, he literally runs into him, and only Gwaine’s quick reflexes keep the freshly washed laundry off the floor.

Gwaine winces when Merlin’s bruised face comes into view around the towering pile. “I heard what happened,” he says, plucking the basket out of Merlin’s hands and balancing it on his hip. Merlin sags in relief. He’s still sore from trekking through the woods for two days.

“Thanks.” Merlin stretches out his aching arms, relieved.

“How’s the face? Want me to go kill Uther for you? Because I'd be more than happy to,” Gwaine says conversationally, leading the way up to Arthur’s room with Merlin trailing gratefully behind. Even though he knows Gwaine is dead serious, he snorts at the thought of Gwaine as an assassin.

“I don’t think you should be offering murder so loudly,” Merlin tells him with a smile. “Besides, you’d make a terrible assassin.” Gwaine gasps in mock offense.

“How dare you? I’d make an amazing assassin.” He executes one of his signature luxurious Gwaine hair flips. “I’d seduce and destroy. Nobody can resist this face.”

He bats his eyes at Merlin suggestively, and Merlin laughs. “You’d seduce Uther for me?”

Gwaine blanches. “Well that image is never going to leave me.” He shudders comically. “But for you, sure.”

Merlin nudges him shoulder affectionately. “Aw, I’m touched. But don’t worry, there's no need for you to commit treason just yet. I’m planning my own revenge.”

Gwaine perks up immediately. “You are? What is it?”

“Very hard hitting,” Merlin intones seriously. “I’m going to glare at him from afar and maybe scowl a bit too.” And dismantle his hold on the future king of Camelot bit by bit.

“Wow.” Gwaine shakes his head. “You’re a savage one, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.”

They reach Arthur’s rooms, and Merlin holds the door for Gwaine to navigate the laundry heap through. When he sets the basket down and turns to Merlin, the laughter is gone from his face. Gwaine doesn't get angry often, but when he does it's always a sight to behold. For someone who gleefully makes a hobby out of looking like an idiot, Merlin had forgotten how scary he can look when he wants to. “Seriously, Merlin. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Merlin exclaims, exasperated. “Really! He barely touched me, and believe it or not I’ve been through worse. I don’t know why everyone’s in such a fuss.”

“I don’t know why everyone’s in such a fuss, by gods Merlin,” Gwaine shakes his head in disbelief. “Because we care about you, dumbass. Arthur sent me to check on you, you know. I would have done it anyway but hey, twofer.”

“I’m not a child,” Merlin informs him grumpily, crossing his arms. Then uncrosses them because he immediately feels exactly like a petulant child. “And he could have come and talked to me himself.”

“Uther forbid him. Says you’re a bad influence, so he’s steering clear for a bit till it blows over.” Gwaine shakes his head. “Let me tell you, that did not go over well.”

“Oh.” Merlin doesn’t know what to do with that information. “Uh, okay. Where is he?”

“Down on the training field, hacking dummies to pieces.” Gwaine grins. “It’s quite a sight to see. He’s making the visiting lords quite nervous.”

“I heard that Uther announced a tourney,” Merlin offers, hoping to change the subject before his heart gives out from all the pounding and general embarrassment. He starts putting the laundry away in the dresser, and Gwaine flops down on Arthur’s desk chair.

“Yeah. He’s hoping to make up for Arthur’s absence with some good old fashioned showing off in front of the visitors.” He shrugs. “Should be fun, I guess. Good food, anyway.”

“Ooh,” Merlin groans, picturing the heaping tables at the post-tourney feast. “You’re so right. I’m going to eat myself to death on leftover treacle tart.”

Gwaine sighs dreamily. “Roasted pheasant, candied fruit, date cakes, barrels of mead.”

As Gwaine keeps listing foods, Merlin’s mind drifts to Arthur, as it often does. He treasures the miracle of Arthur caring about him again, the sheer relief of it. He’d been trying not to get his hopes up a second time, but it seems his patience and pathetic hope has paid off. Each step towards how they used to be feels worth its weight in gold. Time has flown by since he'd traveled here, and the world was changing all around him once more, maybe finally for the better. He looks over at Gwaine, warmed by his fierce, unwavering loyalty and friendship, and realizes he no longer feels like a stranger in a strange land. He’s home.

____

They don’t talk about it, when Merlin brings up a tray of food for dinner. Arthur is in a black mood, fury and frustration etched into the tight lines around his eyes, but his gaze is far away and Merlin knows the daggers aren’t directed at him.

Arthur keeps staring at him when he thinks Merlin isn’t looking, quickly pretending to work at his desk when he glances over. Merlin swallows back a smile and when he finishes turning down the bed and banking the fire, he pads quietly over to the desk where Arthur steadfastly stares down at some papers. Shadows have fallen across the room, and outside a dove coos softly in the warm night. The only light left in the room is the flickering glow of the candle on the desk, casting shadows deep into the tense lines on Arthur’s face. His hand grips the quill so tightly, his knuckles are white.

“Arthur,” Merlin says quietly, and because it’s late and his heart feels like it’s overflowing, he reaches out and gently tilts up Arthur’s chin. “Look at me, please.”

Arthur’s eyes are wide, and they immediately flicker to Merlin’s cheek. Merlin drops his hand quickly, fighting back a blush. “I’m fine. Everything’s alright. Stop pretending to work and go to bed. It’s late and you have a tourney tomorrow.”

“I-” Arthur swallows hard, looks away. “I’m sorry. About my father. He shouldn’t have touched you.”

Merlin jolts. Arthur apologizing is a rarity, in this lifetime and every other, and it never fails to surprise him. He searches for what to say. “It’s okay,” He settles on eventually, even though it isn’t. “It’s not your fault.”

Arthur is silent for so long, Merlin almost thinks he hadn’t heard, but eventually he says, voice flat and tinged with something else. “My father isn’t a good man, is he.” It’s not a question, but Arthur looks so miserable Merlin feels his own throat tighten in sympathy. Before Merlin can think of how to reply to that, Arthur shakes his head sharply, as if trying to clear something away, and waves his hand. “Nevermind, don’t answer that.”

Arthur sighs, looks away. There’s a moment of silence, then he asks, very quietly, “Do you remember when my father married a troll?”

Merlin knows it’s a serious moment, but he can’t help the snort that escapes him. Even Arthur cracks the shadow of a smile. “Yeah, I know. It was funny, in hindsight.”

“I told you so,” Merlin says cheekily, because he knows it drives Arthur crazy, and is rewarded with an eye roll.

“You’re never going to let it go, are you?”

“Nope.” Merlin winks. “That’s the price of being a stupid prat and ignoring the advice of your very smart and charming manservant.”

Merlin expects another eye roll, but Arthur just deflates. “I- yeah. I see that now.”

Merlin blinks at him surprise, but Arthur’s not done. “The thing is, when my father…” He trails off, glancing up at Merlin through his lashes for a split second, then away.

“When my father disinherited me,” He continues, the word sounding sounding twisted and bitter on his tongue. “I knew, logically, that something was wrong with him, but a bigger part of me wasn’t even surprised. All those horrible things he said about me, well.”

Merlin’s throat feels impossibly tight as he watches Arthur shrug, let out a hollow, self deprecating laugh. “They weren’t anything I hadn't heard before. Maybe not all at once like that, but. Still.”

Arthur runs a hand down his face, and finally puts down his quill. “Never mind. It’s stupid. You’re right. It’s late, we should get some rest.”

“It’s not stupid,” Merlin says fiercely. “I know he’s your father, but that doesn’t give him the right to treat you like that. Don’t ever be sorry for being the better person. Standing up for the people like you did was…” He trails off, flushing at the way Arthur stares. “It was, um, wonderful. I-I just thought you should know.”

Arthur blinks at him, looking mildly stunned. “Well, don’t stop now.”

“Oh shove off,” Merlin grumbles, face burning, and regrets getting out of bed that morning. “This is the last time I says something nice, mark my words.” He snatches up the now empty dinner tray and is about to turn to leave when Arthur grabs his wrist.

“I-” Arthur swallows and finally meets his eyes directly. Something in him seems to settle, and with a gentle squeeze he releases his wrist. “Thank you, Merlin. For always being honest with me.”

Something dark and unpleasant twists in Merlin’s stomach, but he forces himself to smile. “Well, someone’s got to.”

The moment feels strangely fragile, like if Merlin breaths too hard it’ll shatter. He steps back and carefully balances the dinner tray on his hip, blowing out the candle on his way to the door. “Goodnight Arthur.”

“Goodnight.”

He feels Arthur's eyes on him as he leaves, but he's too afraid to look back and see what they hold.
__

The next day dawns bright and early, and Merlin almost forgets to magic the illusion of a bruise on his cheek. The original bruise had healed overnight thanks to his overcharged healing abilities, but he worries it’ll look suspicious if it fades too quickly. He almost feels bad about it, but Gaius gives him a nod of approval and agrees that caution is the right approach.

He spends the morning gathering and preparing all of Arthur’s things for the tourney, dodging the frantic scurrying too and fro of servants and other hired hands who are setting up for the impromptu spectacle of nobles bashing each other about the heads with swords. He hasn’t seen Arthur since last night. He’d come up that morning with breakfast to find the room empty and had stood in the doorway a long time, feeling a strange combination of hurt and relieved. It only took a second to reach out with his magic to sense Arthur out on the practice field, probably warming up for the tourney, and it immediately calms him down.

Now, he just hopes he didn’t make things irreparably awkward between the two of them in his stupid moment of weakness. They touch each other all the time, shoves and hands up and arms around shoulders, but never so gently. Not like he did last night. That was presumptuous, even for him. He flushes just thinking about it.

Spectators start arriving around noon, and Merlin hurries to the large, pendragon red tent standing proudly in the center of the fairgrounds beside the hastily erected tourney arena, ringed with stands heavy with chattering spectators in the warm sun.

When he enters the tent it's still empty, and he frowns. Arthur is late. Merlin’s just about to set down Arthur's sword and look around when the prince bursts into the tent.

“Hide me!” Arthur whispers somewhat frantically, rushing over to Merlin, who blinks up at him with a bemused little half smile. As always, he's happy to see Arthur but confused as to what's going on. That could be the title of his autobiography.

“What? Why?” he asks, looking around for the unseen threat “What's going on?”

“Adelina keeps trying to give me her token.”

Puzzled, Merlin frowns. “And you don't want it?”

Arthur scoffs. “Of course not, why would I-” But then the flap is rustling and Arthur quickly ducks behind a screen just before Princess Adelina herself comes breezing into the tent.

“You there,” she says to Merlin when she notices him frozen in the center of the room, still clutching the sword. “Where is Prince Arthur? I wish to speak with him immediately.”

Arthur watches from behind the screen as Merlin bows and lies smoothly, “I'm afraid I don't know, your highness. Perhaps he has gone somewhere to warm up for his bout.”

Adelina stomps one daintily high heeled foot with surprising force, leaving a bruise in the the plush carpeting. “That's ridiculous. You're holding his sword! Tell me where he is!”

“I really don't know, your highness,” Merlin apologizes, sounding so contrite Arthur almost believes it himself. “I could send somebody to look for him if you'd like?”

“I don't have time to wait around like some kind of servant,” she retorts crossly. After a bit of angry muttering, she finally thrusts something at him. It's a pink ribbon, and Merlin takes it gingerly as if it's a particularly nasty species of viper instead of a slip of silk. “When Arthur comes back for his armor, you give him this, do you hear?"

“It would be my honor,” Merlin says, so serious and deferential and un Merlin like that Arthur has to choke back a laugh at how baldly he's lying to her face.

She narrows her eyes at him but Merlin just blinks back at her, the picture of benign subservience. “Good,” she finally sniffs. “See to it that you do.”

After she storms out in a flurry of silk skirts and perfume, Merlin calls wryly, amusement thick in his voice, “It's safe to come out now. The beast is gone.”

“Har har,” Arthur says dryly, coming out from behind the screen, but he smiles when Merlin tosses the pink ribbon aside with a wrinkle of his nose.

Gwaine pops his head in. “You almost ready? Arthur's first bout is next.”

“Yeah yeah. We're almost done.”

Gawine eyes them doubtfully. “Arthur's armor is on the floor,” he points out helpfully.

“I'm aware,” Merlin retorts, equally as blithely, and Gwaine snorts, says, “Alright, I'll tell them a few more minutes for the princess to look his best.”

Merlin gets Arthur into his armor in record time and steps back to check his work. “There,” he concludes, straightening one last buckle. “All set.”

He's about to hand Arthur his sword when he's stopped with a hand on his wrist.

“Wait.” Arthur's fingers come up to the knot on Merlin's neckerchief and gently tug it free, and without hesitation ties it around his own arm. Merlin’s so shocked, he forgets to be worried about the scars on his neck, the tattoo ink now visible to the world. He feels as if the floor has dropped out from under his feet, but Arthur just says, “So everyone will think I'm taken and no one else will try to give me their token.” His tone is light, but Merlin feels like he's about to faint.

“Oh,” he manages, but his voice comes out a squeak. He clears his throat. “Okay. Uh, yeah, sure, good idea. Throw them off the scent.”

“Yeah,” Arthur agrees, but his voice has gone quiet and his gaze never leaves his face.

They stare at each other for a long moment until Gwaine calls for them, making Merlin jump. “Well. Good luck then.” Merlin thrusts Arthur's sword at him and takes a hasty step back, feeling shaky and distinctly off kilter. As Arthur heads out to the tourney field, Merlin hurriedly rummages around in the trunks in the back of the tent until he finds a scrap of cloth that will work to replace his neckerchief. He can’t even find it in himself to be upset. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.

Arthur wins his bout, because of course he does, and Merlin beams with pride from where he's been keeping a watchful eye until he realizes winning also means getting a kiss from Adelina. His smile fades, and he turns on his heel. He'd rather wait in the tent than watch.

When Arthur comes back to the tent he's preoccupied, dreamy, and Merlin steadfastly ignores what feels like a physical blow to his heart. He's glad he didn't stay to watch whatever kiss made Arthur like that.

Through his now familiar haze of heartache, a niggling doubt makes him stop sharpening Arthur's sword. Even though Arthur has feelings for Gwen he never, ever goes around smiling like an idiot. But he smiled like an idiot when he married you, the little voice in Merlin's head reminds him, but he shakes it off because oh gods, was Arthur humming? He never did that in any timeline.

Merlin turns to look at Arthur harder and- ah. There. Stuffed down the front of Arthur's armor is another pink ribbon, and he can immediately sense the magic on it. He strides over and yanks it out, incinerates it with a thought, but it’s too late. Arthur babbles away dopily about Adelina, eyes vacant, trapped in a love spell.

Merlin is furious at himself for not seeing it coming, even though he's not sure how he could have. He hadn't sensed magic on the first ribbon. It must only be activated when Arthur touches it, he thinks wretchedly. Clever, but awful now.

Feeling nauseated from worry, fear, and not a small amount of jealousy, Merlin frantically tries to think of what to do. No one can see Arthur like this, that’s for certain. Merlin thinks of Morgana’s dream, of blood spilled on the ground, and with dawning horror realizes that if Arthur fights the rest of the tourney like this, woozy and stupid with magical love, he’ll be injured in seconds, or worse.

Pacing, Merlin casts all the counter spells he can think of, mouthing them silently, trying to keep his hands from shaking and periodically herding a wandering Arthur away from the tent flap where he’s babbling something about finding his one true love. Midway through one of the more obscure counter-curses, Merlin freezes as realization dawns. True love. Of course, the classic remedy to a love spell is true love’s kiss.

Merlin pops out of the tent and calls to Morgana’s magic, wills her to look over at him, and in the stands he sees Morgana jump, frown and look around. He catches her eye and frantically gestures her over. He’s hoping that if she comes, Gwen will follow, and luckily he’s right. Morgana gets up, says something into Gwen's ear, and together they creep out of the stands. A few minutes later they come into the tent.

“Oh thank god,” Merlin breaths, relieved. “You were right, Morgana. Arthur’s been enchanted.”

Gwen gasps, but Morgana just looks grim and unsurprised. “Do you know with what?”

Merlin nods gravely, leads them around the screen to where Arthur sits on a chair, smiling dopily into space.

“Oh my god, what’s wrong with him?” Morgana peers at Arthur in horror. “Is he… humming?”

Merlin grimaces. “Adelina cast a love spell on him so yeah. He’s kind of out of commission.”

“He can’t fight in the tournament like this,” Morgana says anxiously. “What can we do?”

“The usual solution is, well,” Merlin swallows hard, and forces the words out of his throat even though they burn his lips. He gestures at Gwen. “True love’s kiss.”

Gwen actually takes a startled step back. “Me?” She stutters awkwardly, already shaking her head. “Merlin, I don’t think that’ll work.”

Merlin blinks at her, confused. “Why not? Aren’t you and Arthur together?”

Gwen winces, shakes her head. “No. I thought you knew. Arthur and I ended things ages ago.”

Merlin gapes at her. “What? Why?”

She shrugs awkwardly. “I don’t know. It just wasn’t working. Arthur is a good man, but as soon as we started courting the thrill kind of wore off and we both realized we were better off as friends. And,” she adds a bit shiftily. “We both realized we had eyes elsewhere.”

“Oh.” Merlin is floored. He’d thought for sure that in this timeline, Gwen and Arthur were meant to be, the perfect balance of strength and kindness, and had resigned himself to it, practiced being happy for them. He feels as if his whole view of the world has been knocked off its axis.

Then the realization hits, and his tentative momentary happiness evaporates as his heart sinks. “But that means you’re not in love with Arthur, are you.”

Gwen seems to realize the gravity of the situation, but she shakes her head firmly. “No, I’m not. I’m sorry. I mean, I love Arthur as a friend, but I don’t think that will be good enough.”

Morgana, Gwen, and Merlin all stare at each other, at loss.

“Well,” Merlin says tentatively. “Maybe try it, just in case.”

Gwen looks severely uncomfortable, but she eventually nods in resignation and approaches Arthur.

“Stand up,” Morgana instructs, and Arthur grumbles but compiles.

“Where’s Adelina, the light of my heart, the love of my life?”

“Oh gods,” Morgana looks caught between laughing and gagging. “Please just kiss him, anything to shut him up.”

Gwen visibly steels herself, and with all the enthusiasm of pulling teeth, leans forward and pecks him on the lips. They all hold their breath as she pulls back, studying Arthur’s face, but he just blinks at her. After a moment of silence, Arthur says,

“So is Adelina coming to see me or should I go see her? I miss her more every moment we’re apart.”

They all collectively groan.

___

“What are we going to do?” Gwen wrings her hands, looking equal parts guilty that it didn’t work and relieved that destiny didn’t decide to sabotage her love life.

The tournament is set to start again at any moment, and Arthur is no closer to being out of love with Adelina.

“We could go get Adelina?” Morgana suggests. “Force her to take the spell off.”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, we’d never be able to get her in here without anyone noticing. Everyone would find out what was going on, and as awful as she is, I don’t want her killed for using magic. Not unless it's our very last resort.”

Morgana grumbles but eventually agrees, pacing the room as she tries to think of something else. After a moment, Gwen pipes up, “Is there anyone else who could kiss him? Anyone he talks to you about?”

Morgana freezes mid stride, and whips around to look at Merlin, who understands instantly.

“No,” He says. “No no no. Morgana, I can’t.”

“You have to try,” She insists, grabbing his shoulders and giving him a little shake. “It could be our only shot.”

“You don’t know that!” Merlin hisses, somewhat hysterically, batting her hands away, and Gwen looks between the two of them in confusion.

“What?” She asks. “What can’t you do? If you think it’ll fix Arthur you have to try, Merlin!”

Merlin takes a few deep breaths. “Alright,” he says, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Alright. You two go back to the tourney. I’ll try my best.”

Gwen still looks deeply confused, but when she opens her mouth, Morgana is already agreeing, shooting Merlin an understanding look and ushering her out of the tent, promising to explain later.

Finally the tent is quiet, and Merlin is alone with Arthur, who blinks back at him, eyes blue and vacant. The roar and chatter of the crowd outside fades away as Merlin tentatively approaches Arthur like a wild thing, heart beating out of his chest.

Maybe, he thinks, hope like a crushed wing cradled to his body, just maybe. He was Arthur’s true love in one lifetime. Maybe the universe knows, maybe it counts for something, even if he’s not Arthur’s true love in this time.

“Arthur,” he says, soft, so soft, and brings a shaking hand up to Arthur’s cheek to turn his head to look at him. For a moment he drowns in blue eyes that stare back at him questioningly before he swallows hard, steels himself. “I’m sorry,” He whispers, and before Arthur can reply, Merlin leans in and kisses him.

His lips are soft and chapped and utterly still and even though the kiss lasts only a second, a mere brush of lips, it burns Merlin to his core. It feels like the beginning and end of the world. It feels like coming home.

When he pulls away, shaking, Arthur just stares at him. A couple of agonizingly long seconds pass, and then Arthur blinks, and Merlin sees him slide back into himself. His posture straightens, his brows furrow, he frowns.

“Merlin,” he says, and Merlin nearly staggers in relief to hear Arthur's normal imperious drawl instead of that soppy lovesick mess. “What's going on? What happened?”

“What do you remember?” Merlin asks warily, and Arthur gives him a puzzled look.

“What do you mean.” Arthur looks around, as if expecting to see something out of place, but the tent is empty and quiet. “I didn't hit my head in the last bout, did I?”

“No,” Merlin says quietly, biting his lip. Arthur can't figure out why Merlin is looking at him like that, so raw and intense, like he's searching for something in his face but can't quite find it, and it's kind of freaking him out. “No, never mind. Sorry.”

Arthur swears he sees Merlin's eyes glitter with tears, but then he looks down, shakes his head, and when he looks back up he's smiling and his eyes are bright and clear. “You ready for the next round?”

“Of course,” Arthur replies easily, but his thoughts are elsewhere, distracted by the way Merlin is still watching him closely. “Where's my sword?”

Merlin fetches it for him, and Arthur wonders if he imagines the way Merlin's eyes linger on his arm where the token is tied as he passes the sword over. Taking Merlin's neckerchief was either a stroke of brilliance or absolute lunacy, he still hasn't figured out which.

Arthur heads out to finish the final half of the tourney, and when he strikes the winning blow and the deafening cheers of the crowd filter back into his ears he straightens, looks around, sweating and breathing hard, and his gaze skips right over the royal tent to find Merlin in the crowd, beaming at him. Arthur smiles back, bright as the sun, just for him.

_____

That night after the tourney, combined with the fact that it’s the last night the visiting nobles will be in Camelot, a huge celebratory feast is thrown.

Uther and Arthur are so frigid towards each other, everyone from the nobles to the servants have picked up on it. Merlin’s dreading standing behind the two of them all night and he hesitates a long while at the entrance to the great hall as nobility slowly trickle in. He nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels a tap on his shoulder, and he turns to see Sir Rowan smiling at him sheepishly.

“Hi,” Rowan says, a bit awkwardly. He’s dressed for the feast in green velvet and brown leather. He looks polished and handsome, and Merlin knows heads will turn, just not his. He’s found that when you’re in love, everyone else pales in comparison.

“Hi.” Merlin eyes him warily. Last time they’d spoken, it had taken every ounce of Merlin’s willpower not to shout that he was married and did not particularity appreciate advances, thank you very much. “What do you want?”

Rowan holds up his hands in truce. “Don’t worry, I got the message. I just wanted to apologize. For before.” He grimaces apologetically. “I should have noticed that you weren’t interested.”

Merlin softens. He’s never been very good at being cross with people. “Eh, it’s alright. Don’t worry about it.” He offers a smile, and and Rowan smiles back, relieved. He doesn’t seem like the type that likes being on bad terms with people either. “You going to the feast?”

“Yeah,” Rowan eyes him. “And theoretically you are too, yes? Is there a reason you’re hiding out here?”

“I’m not hiding,” Merlin protests, even though he most definitely was. He spins his mental roulette wheel of excuses and blurts, “I was just, er, admiring the drapes.”

Rowan snorts. “Is that so? How are they looking, then?”

Merlin hurriedly glances at a nearby curtain. “Uh, red?”

Rowan laughs. “Really Merlin, what's wrong?”

Merlin sighs, shrugs sheepishly. “It’s just, well, Uther isn’t very pleased with me.”

“King Uther?” Rowan raises an incredulous eyebrow. “You’re the reason he’s been in such a foul mood lately?”

“Well, not me exactly. He and Arthur got in a fight.”

“A fight. What does that have to do with you?”

“It may have been about me.”

Rowan’s eyes widen, but he magnanimously doesn’t comment. “Ah. Well then. Perhaps I can be of assistance. I could ask Alec, the boy serving me, if he would mind switching places with you for the night?”

“Would he mind?” Merlin asks, feeling hope spark in his chest, and and Rowan laughs.

“Mind? He’d be thrilled. He idolizes Prince Arthur.” Merlin thinks, who doesn’t, but tactfully keeps that to himself. “Wait here, I’ll go ask him.”

Sir Rowan jogs off and Merlin hovers anxiously in the shadows for a couple minutes until he returns with a thumbs up. “All set. You get to suffer through my company for the evening.”

Merlin laughs and thanks him. When he’s not flirting, Merlin finds he rather likes the man. He’ll be sad to see him go tomorrow.

Sir Rowan ends up sitting much farther from the King than normal, which Merlin knows is quite the gossip producing slight, but he’s deeply grateful all the same. Arthur shoots Merlin an inscrutable look when Alec, a small boy of maybe sixteen or seventeen, shakily comes over to serve him, but Merlin keeps his eyes on Sir Rowan’s back. He doesn’t want to make things worse for Arthur than they already are.

Normally it would be pleasant. Sir Rowan keeps up a lively chatter with his neighbor, a noble from somewhere in the east and even includes Merlin when he can, but Merlin still spends the whole time sneaking glances over at Arthur, who seems to have gotten over his bad mood just fine as he smiles and flirts with Princess Adelina, who's literally hanging off his arm and giggling at a pitch Merlin can hear halfway across the room.

After what feels like years but is probably just an hour or so, the music starts up outside and Uther retires for the night. It feels as though the entire room breathes a sigh of relief, laughter and chatter swelling until the walls practically vibrate with it as everyone rises and stumbles drunkenly out into the courtyard. Sir Rowan claps his hands, looking delighted. “I love this song!” He stands and turns to Merlin. “Care to dance?”

When Merlin hesitates, Rowan adds quickly, “As friends. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“My hesitation is more due to my knowledge of your dancing skills. Or lack thereof,” Merlin teases, but his resolve crumbles when Rowan holds out his hand with an I dare you eyebrow waggle that Gwaine would be proud of, so he lets him tug him outside and into the courtyard where the band plays as drunk nobles and servants and knights pour out into the balmy summer night. Lights are strung up around the edges of the courtyard and hay has been scattered to make a makeshift dance floor. It smells of mead and night air and the rich smell of an earlier rain. Merlin takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for just a moment, and is deeply, deeply grateful to be alive, to even be here at all.

He and Sir Rowan dance horribly for the better part of the night and Merlin’s surprised to find himself having a good time. They step on each others toes and laugh themselves into stitches and drink probably more mead than they should but it’s fun, and it distracts Merlin from watching Arthur twirl Princess Adelina around the dance floor. At some point Morgana and Gwen spin drunkenly past, and he dances with each of them, and then Gwaine, and then Rowan again, until he’s exhausted and sweaty and smiling. “Another dance?” He asks Rowan cheerfully, but Rowan bends over, hands on his knees, out of breath.

“I’ll have to pass, I’m afraid.” he straightens up, panting. “We leave tomorrow at first light and frankly, you’ve tired me out.”

“Sorry,” Merlin apologizes, falsely contrite, and Rowan laughs.

“It was wonderful to meet you, Merlin.” He clasps Merlin’s hands between his for a moment, eyes sad. “If you’re ever in Mercia, pay me a visit, would you?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Merlin agrees, and accepts the hug Rowan gives him. The man hesitates, as if he's about to say something he knows he shouldn't, before abruptly changing his mind.

“Arthur is lucky to have you,” Rowan tells him seriously as he pulls away. “I wish you both the best.” And with a final wave farewell, he turns and disappears into the crowd.

The mention of Arthur’s name feels like a bucket of cold water over his drunken happiness, and he gives himself a shake. He’s not here to have fun. He’s here to do a job. Only a little wobbly, Merlin makes his way over to a wall mostly hidden in shadow and leans heavily against it, closing his eyes. When the world stops tilting he opens them again and looks around for Arthur. Thankfully he’s alright, at the edge of the dance floor holding a cup and leaning in to hear something Princess Adelina is saying to him, her pretty, flushed face inches from his ear.

Merlin’s stomach turns over, and he swallows hard. They do make a beautiful couple, he thinks mournfully. Arthur, bright and golden and strong and Adelina, lithe and dark and pale as a cherry blossom. They’ll make lots of beautiful children and I’ll probably end up babysitting them, Merlin thinks a bit weapily, just as Gwaine extracts himself from the crowd with two mugs of mead in his hands. He comes to lean on the wall next to Merlin, offering him one of the mugs. Merlin snatches it gratefully and downs half of it in one go. It doesn’t help his churning stomach much.

“Whoa.” Gwaine chuckles, taking a sip of his own mug. “Slow down there. You’ll make yourself sick.”

“Never thought I’d hear those words come out of your mouth,” Merlin slurs, but he sets his mug down with a sigh. “But you're right.”

“Rough night?”

Merlin shrugs, watching Arthur’s face come in and out of view between the ebb and flow of the dancing crowd. “You could say that.”

“It seemed like you and Sir Rowan were having a good time?” Gwaine offers, and Merlin shrugs.

“I think he was just trying to sleep with me, but yeah.” He hiccups, and rubs a tired hand over his face. “He’s a terrible dancer.”

“Takes one to know one,” Gwaine informs him and Merlin kicks his shin with a weak chuckle.

“Rude. But true. I-” His voice trails off as he catches sight of Sir Rowan himself, looking determined, making his way back through the whirling dance floor. “Oh shit.”

“What?”

“It’s him, it’s him, it’s, oh damn.” Merlin hesitates for a brief second, drunk and exhausted, and his eye catches on Arthur across the room, just in time to see Princess Adelina lean up on her tippy toes to kiss him firmly on the mouth. Merlin rips his eyes away and turns towards Gwaine, stomach roiling. “Don’t punch me,” He says, and then kisses him.

Gwaine stiffens for a half second before pulling away, hands on Merlins shoulders. He blinks at him. “Not that I’d ever object to that, but what are you doing?”

“Making Rowan go away,” Merlin says, a bit petulantly, heart a bloody mess of heartbreak and alcohol and exhaustion. Adelina kissing Arthur keeps replaying over and over in his head, stuck on loop. “Come on, please?”

“Merlin, dear, you don’t have to beg. You know I’d kiss you any day,” Gwaine says, flipping his hair out of his eyes with a crooked half grin, and Merlin lets out a little sniffle of a laugh.

“You’d kiss anyone any day,” He retorts weakly, and even though it feels like cheating, Arthur is going to marry Princess Adelina and he can’t handle Rowan and his feelings and he knows he needs to move on eventually, so he lets Gwaine kiss him, press him back against the wall and slip his tongue into his mouth, tasting of mead and date cakes. Merlin feels like he’s tearing in two, but he kisses him back.

After a while Gwaine pulls away, eyes searching his face. “Merlin, you’re drunk. We should stop.”

Merlin blinks up at him woozily. “Why?”

“Ah.” Gwaine rubs the back of his neck almost sheepishly. “I know you and Arthur are, well. You know. And you’re my friend, not some stranger at a tavern. I don’t want to make things weird.”

He can’t see Arthur anymore over Gwaine’s shoulder and he feels his heart sink at the thought that he’s left with Adelina. Thankfully, he doesn’t see Rowan either. His resolve hardens, and he sets his jaw. Mostly to keep himself from crying. “You won’t. It's just fun, right?”

When he kisses Gwaine again, he doesn't pull away this time and Merlin feels himself shut down, the drunken numbness spreading from his heart all the way down to his toes. When someone shouts at them to get a room, he lets Gwaine tug him along and they stumble out of the courtyard and down the hall.

______

When they get to Merlin’s chambers he feels the back of his knees hit the the frame, and they tumble onto the bed. Merlin chokes on an almost panicky giggle as they bounce down onto the old creaky mattress, throat tight more from swallowing back tears than the kissing, but he doesn't stop even as the touch of Gwaine's hands feels all wrong, the shape of his mouth foreign and not entirely pleasant. He needs to prove to himself, in some twisted way, that he can do this. That he can sleep with someone who isn't Arthur, that he can move on and accept that Arthur, though unwittingly, has too.

So Merlin’s not exactly thinking clearly, and when he feels Gwaine’s hands slip under his shirt and tug it up and over his head, he doesn’t remember to protest until he hears Gwaine’s sharp intake of breath.

Merlin immediately freezes, realization crashing over him in a sickening wave, but it’s too late. Startled, Gwaine leans back and says in a low, dangerous voice, “Merlin, how did-” but Merlin cuts him off with a kiss, kisses away any questions about scars and tattoos, and feels like he’s tearing apart at the seams, all his secrets spilling out like blood on the sheets.

It doesn’t work, because Gwaine tastes salt and realizes Merlin’s crying almost before Merlin himself does. He feels almost betrayed, numbly reaching a shaking hand up to his cheek and finds it comes away wet. Gwaine stops immediately, concern etched into every line of his face. “Shh, hey, it’s okay. This was supposed to be fun, right? What’s wrong? Do you want to stop?”

“I-” Merlin tries, but his voice breaks on a hiccupy sob and then he’s crying his eyes out into Gwaine's shoulder and he’s so embarrassed he feels like he’s going to die but he can’t stop once the floodgates open. It feels like it’s been building up since the tourney, or maybe even as far back as Princess Adelina’s arrival, like a bitter poison in the back of his throat. He should have known, deep down, what it meant. What he was about to lose. He should have been prepared, but he wasn’t, and now he couldn’t even move on because his heart belonged to a man who no longer loved him back.

Gwaine tries to give him a hug, all thoughts of sex forgotten, but Merlin wiggles away, desperate to explain before he loses his nerve.

“I'm sorry,” Merlin confesses tearfully, mortified and exhausted and so empty he feels like void is going to swallow him whole. He just wants to go home. The thought of his time brings a fresh wave of tears, and he bites down hard on his knuckle.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Gwaine tells him softly, rubbing his arm gently, giving him space. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Merlin straightens up, wipes his wet, messy eyes on the back of his sleeve, and tries to organize his scrambled, drunken thoughts. He hasn’t told anyone, and never planned to, but suddenly the thought of the rest of his life stretching out before him carrying the burden of this secret alone makes him feel choked and panicky.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and comes slowly back to himself. He straightens. He didn’t make it through a war just to fall apart now. He meets Gwaine's serious, worried eyes in the dark and hesitates for only a moment. But it's just Gwaine, he reminds himself. One of his oldest and most trusted friends who would die for him and whom he would die for in return. He’s done nothing but stand by Merlin, even above king and country, in this lifetime and every other. He’s not Morgana, Merlin tells himself. Gwaine won’t be influenced by the past. The future past. Whatever.

He takes a deep breath, blinking away the blurriness of fresh tears, and settles on the bed. “Can you keep a secret?”

For all his usual joking, Gwaine answers with almost jarring seriousness. “You know I can.”

Merlin takes a deep breath, digs his nails into his palms, and whispers. “You know that I’m magic.”

Gwaine’s eyes never waver from his as he nods, ever so slightly, as if he isn’t sure what answer Merlin wants, and some of the tension leaves Merlin’s shoulders. He’d always assumed Gwaine knew, but an open confirmation like this still feels like a miracle, like the edge of danger and comfort in one fell stroke.

“Well,” Merlin croaks, then clears his throat, creaky from crying. “I did something, a- a long time ago. Something…” He looks away, gathers himself. “Something impossible.”

“Impossible,” Gwaine echoes. “Merlin, what did you do?”

“It was for Arthur,” Merlin says, desperate for Gwaine to understand, and the man shushes him gently.

“Hey. It’s alright, whatever it is. You need me to hide a body?” Gwaine jokes quietly, and despite everything it startles a laugh out of him.

“No, nothing like that,” Merlin assures him with a watery smile. He takes one breath, and then another, and then says, very quietly, “Last year, I traveled to this time from the future. A different future, one I have to make sure never happens, one where Arthur dies, Camelot falls, and everyone I know and love is-” Merlin chokes on his words, on the memories, and can’t meet the horrified look in Gwaine’s eyes. “Gone. They’re all gone, Gwaine, I-”

He dissolves into tears, and when Gwaine pulls him into a hug, this time he lets him. “I know you have no reason to believe me,” Merlin whispers wobbly, muffled into Gwaine’s collarbone, “But I swear-”

“Merlin.” Gwaine stops him. “Of course I believe you, I’m just-” He swallows hard, runs a hand over his face. “Gods, it’s just a lot to take in.”

There’s a long moment of silence. Gwaine’s the first to break it. “We really- all of us? Even Arthur?”

Merlin nods mutely, too wrung out to muster much more. “So. Now you know. That's how I got these scars. I had to come, to change the future. But..” He takes a shaky breath. “I miss home. So much. I miss my home.”

“Merlin,” Gwaine breathes, and he sounds close to tears himself. It’s so unlike him and his nearly unbreakable swagger and cheer that it actually makes Merlin pause, pay attention. “You have to know. This is still your home.”

Merlin pulls away, wrapping his arms around himself, and shakes his head. “You don’t understand, Gwaine. I’m not who you think I am. I’ve done horrible things, things I can’t undo. I fought a war, I killed people, I-” Merlin’s voice had been steadily raising, and he forces himself to lower it, gesturing sharply at his bare torso. “Look at me! Every one of these is a memory. This one,” He jabs a finger at a scar on his left hip, long and twisting. “Someone tried to stab Arthur, and I blocked them. With my body. Graceless, true, but it’s all I had time for.” He points to a scar on his arm. “Ambush.” The scar on his chest, “Torture.” The scar in his stomach, “Assassination attempt.” The scar on his shoulder, “Battle. The final battle, actually.” The memory seems to take the fight out of him, and he deflates once more. “I’m sorry, I just. It’s hard. Harder than I thought it would be, to leave it all behind and act like it never even happened because it did. It all did. And only I know.”

“I can’t imagine,” Gwaine says quietly, looking shaken to his core. Merlin’s never seen him look so lost. “I-I’m sorry. That you had to go through that. But it doesn’t change anything.” Gwaine finishes firmly, some of his familiar resolve returning, and he grips Merlin’s shoulders gently. “You’re still my friend, and I’ll always be glad you’re here no matter what you’ve done or when you’re from.”

Merlin is left momentarily speechless. Finally, around the tightness in his throat, he gets out a soft, stuttered, “Thank you.”

“No, Merlin, thank you.” Gwaine offers him a smile, weak but genuine. “It sound like all of us owe you a lot more than we know.”

“I’m a monster.”

“You’re a hero,” Gwaine corrects firmly. “Even if you refuse to see it.”

“Arthur won’t think so.”

“Well, if he doesn’t he’s a fool.” Gwaine runs a tired hand through his hair. “And if you ever need help, you know you always have me, right?”

“Right,” Merlin agrees thickly, and against all odds, feels some of the riot in his mind quiet. At least one person thinks he made the right choice. At least one person doesn’t hate him, even if it’s not the person he wants. “Do you think… can you stay here tonight?” Merlin asks, voice small, small enough to disappear, and Gwaine nods.

“Of course.” Gwaine wiggles around until he’s laying next to Merlin and wrestles the covers up and over them. They lay there, side by side in the dark, with nothing but their breathing and the faint sound of music drifting through Merlin’s window as the rest of the night filters back in. No matter what happens, the world goes on.

“Well,” Gwaine whispers into the quiet. “I hope you enjoy my snoring.”

Merlin snorts. “Nothing could be worse than Percival. He sounds like a one man stampede.”

“A one man snore-pede,” Gwaine fires back nonsensically, and Merlin giggles into his pillow.

“Well, I envy those who sleep next people who snore.”

Gwaine turns his head to blink at him in confusion. “What?”

“Because I lie awake next to people who snore.”

They stare at each other for a beat, and then Gwaine is groaning and kicking his shin under the covers as they dissolve into laughter. Merlin’s eyes feel raw and puffy but his heart is lighter than it’s been in a long, long time, and he can’t find it in himself to regret his choice. For once, he’s sure it was the right one.

They fall asleep, Gwaine curled protectively around Merlin’s jittery, scar crossed body, as the party whirls on outside.

____

Arthur watches the sun come up through blurry, bruised feeling eyes. He hadn’t slept a wink all night, tossing and turning, mind a jumbled mess of worry, self-disgust, and indecision like a vice.

Last night, moments before they’d entered the great hall for the feast, his father had pulled him aside.

"I expect you to make up for your absence tenfold," Uther informs him coldly. "King Bayard informed me that if his daughter finds you agreeable, marriage will be on the table and I don't need to spell out for you how much that would benefit Camelot."

“Of course, father,” Arthur says, throat tight.

"Now go charm the young woman. Whatever it takes. Do your duty." Uther gives him one last hard look before sweeping off. Arthur watches him go, and wonders when they’d grown so far apart. And then he thinks of Merlin telling him he was glad he’s not like his father, pride shining in his eyes, and wonders if maybe it’s not such a bad thing after all.

Arthur eventually takes his place beside his father, steadfastly ignoring the frosty silence between them. If there’s anything he’s good at, it’s ignoring emotions. Instead, he pretends to listen to Adelina and keeps an eye out for Merlin. He never comes. Instead a small, terrified looking boy comes over to serve him, and a quick scan of the room confirms his worst fears as his heart abruptly drops into his stomach. Merlin is standing next to Sir Rowan, smiling down at the man as they talk.

A weird, achy sort of feeling settles in the pit of his stomach and he swallows hard, staring down at his plate. He finds he suddenly has very little appetite.

As the feast begins, he forces himself to smile and listen to Princess Adelina’s seemingly endless chatter, laughing mechanically when she does and watching Merlin talk with Sir Rowan out of the corner of his eye. When his father finally retires for the night and music starts up in the courtyard, Arthur searches for a good excuse to leave early himself. He’s about to give some half hearted excuse when he sees Merlin take Sir Rowan’s hand and together, looking like the perfect happy pair, go out into the courtyard. Arthur bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood, and he has to close his eyes for a second to compose himself.

He doesn’t even remember Princess Adelina is beside him until she clears her throat pointedly. It takes him an awkwardly long moment to find his words. “Would you care to dance?” He asks her, with all the enthusiasm of asking if she’d like to go jump off the battlements, and has to suppress a groan when she nods enthusiastically.

He dances as few dances as he can get way with, which amounts to somewhere around five, until finally he can’t manage to look into Princess Adelina’s bright, expectant eyes and keep the disappointment out of his face. Ridiculously, he misses Merlin, even though he can see him dancing with Sir Rowan across the courtyard, beaming and laughing.

He’s probably bruising Rowan’s feet to high hell, Arthur thinks with a scowl, taking a sip of his wine. Merlin's an atrocious dancer. And yet, Arthur still wishes he were dancing with him. He wonders when Merlin will tell him that he’s decided to go with Sir Rowan. The man leaves in the morning, so Merlin must be too.

Before he has much time to dwell on that terrifying thought, his eyes snag on Sir Rowan and Merlin as they stop dancing in the dead center of the crowd. He watches them exchange a few words, hug, and then Sir Rowan turns and leaves. Probably arranging for a time to meet tomorrow. Frankly, he’s surprised that they don’t leave together to, well. Arthur downs the rest of his wine and winces at the burn.

He turns to Princess Adelina, an excuse to leave on the tip of his tongue, and only years of practice at keeping himself under tight control stop him from flinching when he finds her face inches away from his.

“Are you having a good time?” She asks, a bit breathlessly, cheeks pink from dancing, and Arthur really, truly wishes he could say yes.

“Of course,” He lies smoothly. “You’re wonderful company.”

Adelina giggles, and Arthur can’t take it anymore. “I apologize, but I think it’s time I-”

He doesn’t get to finish, however, because Adelina is surging forward and pressing her lips against his. It only lasts for a split second, but Arthur feels sick to his stomach. He pulls back sharply and when she smiles at him hesitantly, all he can do is stare down at her, at loss.

After a long awkward moment, she clears her throat and looks away. “Nevermind. My mistake.”

“Erm. Yes. Right.” And when she hurries away, he doesn’t stop her. Feeling shaken and slightly violated, Arthur sets his glass down on a nearby bench and is just making his way around the edges of the dancing crowd, hoping to escape to his room and forget the whole night ever happened, when he spots Merlin and Gwaine disappearing through a doorway. Kissing.

If Arthur thought he’d been upset about Merlin and Sir Rowan, this was another thing altogether worse. Gwaine and Merlin were actually friends, such close friends that on more than one occasion Arthur found himself swallowing back the bitter taste of jealousy watching the two of them together, thick as thieves. And it was no secret that Gwaine was more loyal to Merlin than him, despite being a knight of Camelot. Normally Arthur had a sort of grudging admiration for that sort of thing, because anyone who thought Merlin was as wonderful as he did at least had the right idea, but now.

All that time he spent worrying about Sir Rowan and he’d missed what was right under his nose. He'd gotten it wrong all along.

Laying alone in his room, he can't stop thinking about Merlin, what he was doing, what was being done to him, wondering if it would be too weird to send for him even though he couldn’t think of a valid reason why on earth he could logically require him at half past two in the morning.

And thus he found himself sleepless.

The night felt years long, and by the time the sun rose Arthur felt wrung out physically, mentally, and emotionally. It was honestly an all around embarrassing situation.

Even though it couldn't have been much past seven in the morning, Arthur gets up and dresses himself. And then sits on on his bed and stares out the window and wonders for the millionth time if it's too early to summon Merlin.

Early morning passes into midday, and when Merlin doesn't show up, he knows he should be angry but mostly he just feels gutted and more than a bit foolish. His mind tells him he knows why Merlin isn't there, that he's with Gwaine, but Arthur refuses to believe it. He was tired, and most of the way to drunk. Maybe he read things wrong. Maybe it was a...friendly kiss? Yeah, a friendly kiss.

Arthur paces, runs his hands through his hair so many times he’s sure he looks deranged, stares at some papers on his desk without actually seeing them, before finally cursing and going off in search of his wayward manservant.

Gaius isn't in when he knocks, but he goes in anyway and when he sees the door to Merlin's chambers is still closed, something heavy settles in the pit of his stomach. He cracks open the door quietly and with a deep sense of trepidation, peeks inside. Gwaine and Merlin, pale skin against tan, lay tangled together under some rumpled covers, sleeping. Merlin looks more peaceful than Arthur's seen him in months, and that hurts just as much as the way their bodies are curled into each other like a matching set.

Arthur turns abruptly, heart in his throat and feeling distinctly as if he’s just been bashed over the head by a vase, something he's unfortunately actually experienced on more than one occasion. Blindly, he makes his way back out into the hallway and has to lean against the wall and compose himself for a long moment. When he opens his eyes and starts walking, aimless and feeling strangely hollow, for the first time in his whole life the castle, his station, and his life feel more like a prison than a privilege. The worst part is, he can’t even think of what he could've done for things to turn out differently.
_______

Merlin wakes up with a pounding headache and a good deal of embarrassment, but Gwaine laughs it off, ruffles his hair affectionately, and tells him not to worry about it.

“That’s what friends are for,” Gwaine informs him cheerily with a shrug, pulling on his shirt from where it had been discarded on the floor and tossing Merlin his. Merlin tugs it on and before he can have meltdown about his confession, stark in the light of day, Gwaine seems to notice his panic and sobers up a bit. He gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Seriously Merlin. Your secret’s safe with me. If you ever need to talk, you know where to find me.”

Merlin follows Gwaine to the kitchens, where they beg some leftovers off the cook and eat out on a bench in the courtyard in the warm midday sun as servants clean up from the festivities the night before. Merlin’s profound mortification and anxiety that Gwaine will somehow act differently around him now that he knows that he’s not this Merlin remains unfounded. Gwaine is his normal, cheerful self, chattering way about nothing, and Merlin slowly lets himself relax.

He doesn’t realize until they’ve finished eating that he’d completely forgotten to attend to Arthur that morning, and the remainder makes his temporary happiness shrivel up instantly. Arthur was probably glad he hadn’t interrupted. Maybe he was with Uther and Lord Byron now, negotiating Adelina's marriage terms.

Reluctantly, Merlin bids Gwaine farewell and heads up to Arthur’s rooms with a sense of impending doom not unlike being suddenly attacked by bandits, or realizing he’d forgotten to mix the potion Gaius asked.

He releases the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding when he peeks through the door and finds the room blessedly empty. Quickly gathering up some discarded clothes and making the bed at a pace that even George himself would be impressed by, Merlin quickly escapes to his room without managing to be seen by anyone he knows, a minor miracle.

He’s tempted to collapse on the bed and scream into his pillow, but his room is a tip and he’s theoretically a responsible adult, so with a groan he goes about tidying up. He’s only straightened a single stack of books when his gaze snags on something. A parchment he doesn’t remember moving sits on his bed and, curious, he goes and picks it up.

With a jolt, he realizes what it is. The druids he’d met a few days before had finally messaged him. Hurriedly he scans the parchment, and with each word his dread grows like a poison, breath quickening as he fights off the rising panic. He’d gotten complacent, like an idiot, and now his worst fears were coming true. One of the Druid’s most powerful leaders had disappeared the night before, spotted with none other than Morgause herself.

After a few minutes of frantic pacing and muttering and clutching at the paper, reading it and rereading it and repeatedly reaching out with his magic to assure himself that Arthur is safe and sound, he finally gathers enough brainpower to form a coherent thought: He needs to warn Arthur, immediately. But how? It’s not like he can just go up to the prince of Camelot and be like Hey, I know you hate magic and it’s illegal and all, but I just wanted to let you know that I received a magical message from a magical people informing me that your magical past future murderer is once again on the loose and kidnapping druids, magical people your father has been massacring for decades. Oh, and I have I mentioned what lovely weather we’re having?

The thought is so preposterous, he actually snorts. No way in hell. Somehow, he has to tell Arthur without actually telling him. After a good deal more pacing, it hits him. Maybe he can’t tell Arthur, but Emrys can.

Merlin magics a parchment with his request up onto Arthur’s bed, where it’s sure to be spotted, and spends the rest of the day walking on eggshells, simultaneously terrified that Arthur will accept the invitation and terrified that he won’t in equal measure.

It takes longer than he thought, but just before dinner when he comes up with the tray, he finds Arthur pacing in his room. The parchment is gone from the bed, and he spots it a second later on the desk.

“Everything alright?” He asks carefully, setting the tray down on the table, and Arthur gives a sharp shake of his head. Merlin is almost glad for all the sudden drama and danger, if it means they never have to talk about last night. Not that Arthur knows that there’s something to be talked about. He wasn’t the one getting his heart brutally ripped out and stomped on, but still. He feels as thought the memory of Adelina and Arthur kissing has been permanently etched into the back of his eyelids, and he keeps reflexively checking Arthur’s hand for an engagement ring.

“No,” Arthur replies tightly, gesturing to the paper on his desk. “Read it.”

Carefully, Merlin approaches the desk and picks up his own parchment, altered with magic to make his handwriting unrecognizable, and has to remind himself to look surprised as he reads it carefully, like it’s the first time and he hadn’t spent an hour agonizing over the wording.

“So Emrys wants to meet tonight,” He says slowly, trying to gauge Arthur’s reaction and mostly failing.

“So you’ve heard of him?” Arthur asks, and Merlin hesitates a moment before nodding.

“Well yeah. I mean, most people have,” Merlin says, hoping it’s true and it’s not some deep state secret. “He’s a druid or something, right?”

“Most people have heard of him, but he’s supposed to be a myth.” Arthur picks up the parchment and gives it a shake. “This? The parchment appeared in my rooms. The guards said no one entered the hallway, and it was completely blank until I picked it up. That’s not the work of a myth.”

“So… he says he has information.” Merlin starts, carefully casual, and holds his breath as Arthur tightens his jaw, looks out the window, considering. “He probably wouldn’t have risked contacting you if it wasn’t important.”

Arthur nods, a bit grudgingly. “True. Things must be really bad if I’m the only person he could think to come to.”

After a moment of hesitation, Merlin blurts, “I think you should go.”

“You do?” Arthur isn’t challenging him, just curious, serious, waiting for Merlin’s explanation.

Merlin swallows his hard fought self preservation instincts and nods. “The druids trust him, and they are a peaceful people. He’s helped magical and non-magical people alike in the past. He knows the risks, and he still reached out. It must be important.”

“It could be a trap,” Arthur counters.

“True,” Merlin concedes. “That had occurred to me. But is it worth risking? You could also take some of the knights as backup.”

“Do you think he’ll mind?”

Merlin had anticipated Arthur would be very unlikely to go alone, and he could handle a couple knights if things got out of hand, so he hadn’t asked for him to come unaccompanied.

Merlin shrugs. “If he does, he should have specified.”

“You seem pretty confident about this.”

“I’m not,” Merlin tells him, deadly serious, willing for Arthur to understand. “But if Camelot is truly in danger, shouldn’t we at least try?”

Merlin knows all of Arthur’s weaknesses, knows that the man can never resist the opportunity to be stupid and noble in the name of Camelot, and he’s right. It works.

“My father will be angry.”

“Not if he doesn’t find out,” Merlin points out judiciously, and Arthur catches his eyes with the shadow of a smile.

“Alright.” He nods, looking resolved. “For Camelot.”

______

Late that night Merlin sees them off. Arthur, Gwaine, and Lancelot sneak quietly out of the castle on horseback and into the cloudy darkness, and for once Merlin doesn’t join them. Arthur gives him an odd look when he doesn’t saddle a horse to come along like always, and Merlin is careful to avoid his eyes. For such a good liar, he hates lying to Arthur more than anything. It never really gets easier with time.

As soon as they’ve made it safely out of sight of the castle undetected, Merlin slips back into his room and rummages around in his chest until he finds an old traveling cloak of his. After a bit of consideration, he casts an illusion over the cloak to turn it heavy and black, thick enough to mask his shape in drapes of cloth. He slips it on and closes his eyes, concentrating. Transporting is a handy bit of magic he came up with himself by slipping between the edges of his world and the shadow world, but it does take a bit of focus. No one knows he can do it other than the Arthur from his time, not even Gaius. It had been their little secret, and Merlin had used it to spy and send messages for Arthur for years during the war. But this Arthur knew nothing of it, and thus Merlin had plenty of time to transport himself to the clearing he had specified in his message.

Thankfully no one’s there when he shows up, and he has time to hide himself in the thick undergrowth bordering the clearing’s edges and settle in to wait.

It’s a cool night full of the rustle and sway of the forest and the smell of damp leaves. While he waits, he surveys the clearing and contemplates ways to make sure Arthur doesn’t recognize him. The thought of Arthur realizing it’s him genuinely makes him feel like he’s about to break out in hives, and he gives himself a rough shake. Focus. He’ll do one of his standard routines from the war and hope that it’s enough.

Merlin fastens the cloak tight around himself and pulls the hood low over his head. He reaches for the darkness surrounding him and plucks shadows out of the night to wrap around himself, pulls one down over his face and for good measure, conjures up some mist to fill the clearing and hide his footsteps.

When he reaches out with his magic, he’s startled to find Arthur’s nearly at the clearing, and he hastily steps farther back into the shadows of the treeline, heart pounding. He forces himself to take a few deep, jittery breaths. It’s just Arthur. He can do this. But, for good measure, he casts one more spell to deepen his voice. Better safe than sorry.

He waits tensely in the silence for a long couple of minutes. The moon is waning and clouds scuttle across the sky, obscuring the moonlight. When Arthur enters the clearing, he has only Lancelot trailing behind him. Merlin suspects he’s having Gwaine watch from the shadows with the horses as backup.

__

Arthur steps carefully into the misty clearing, eyes scanning for moment, hand on the hilt of his sword. He’s about to signal for Gwaine to scan the perimeter when a shadow melts from the darkness on the other side of the clearing. He and Lancelot tense as the figure, nearly completely obscured by a heavy cloak so dark it appears to made of the night itself, comes into view.

The figure approaches them silently, mist swirling like a current mixing with the shadows, ink and water, dark and light. Arthur’s remaining doubts that it might be a trap vanish at the sight. No ordinary person, or sorcerer for that matter, could achieve what his eyes are rebelling against. A living, moving shadow, one with the night.

Arthur knew of Emrys. His father spoke often enough in bored, disdainful tones about how he was no more than a fairy tale told by desperate druids. But to the people of Camelot, he was so much more. Emrys was more than a legend, or a king, or a sorcerer. He was practically a god, thought to have been sent down to earth to protect his people from persecution. That had never sat well with Arthur, the word persecution. It took him years to realize it was because he knew that that’s exactly what it was. Not a righteous war against a pervasive evil like his father told him, but a murderous purge. That realization had come around the same time Merlin had begged him to help free that little druid boy, who although he never showed it, Arthur knew in his heart had magic. And he freed him anyway, because he was a child but, above all else, a person. Like him.

Arthur inclines his head. Probably safest to be respectful. “Greetings, Emrys.”

The shadow inclines his head in return, or at least that’s what Arthur assumes he’s doing under that cloak. His low, echoing voice drifts across the clearing like the mist. “Arthur Pendragon. I’ve been expecting you.”

Unbidden, Arthur feels a chill steal up his spine. “You said you had information for me.” He says carefully, tensing in an effort not to draw his sword as Emrys slowly circles him and Lancelot, like a panther on the prowl.

“I did indeed. I thank you for coming. I wouldn’t have reached out to you if it wasn’t of dire importance.” Emrys stops his pacing when he comes to face Arthur, less than an arm's length away. From this close, Arthur swears he can feel the power, and not all of it magical, rolling off the man in waves. It takes his breath away. This is not the ridiculous fairy tale his father lead him to believe growing up. This was a man powerful beyond fathoming, one foot in this world and the other in the next and, despite it all, still managed to use his gifts in the name of peace. Arthur feels the last, stubborn piece of his heart that still clung to his father shatter into bitter shrapnel.

“I’ve recently been informed that Morgause has been spotted near Camelot,” Emrys says gravely, and Arthur feels his heart miss a beat. “She has kidnapped not just the leader of the druids, a woman named Amergin, but also several others of her people. They don’t know what she could be planning, but knowing her...”

Emrys pauses, and to Arthur’s surprise, he looks away for a long moment, as if composing himself. “Knowing her,” He finally continues, voice rough, “She will strike where it hurts most, and you will not see it coming. Don’t ever underestimate her.”

Arthur finds that his throat is tight, and he clears it hastily. “Thank you,” He tells Emrys grimly, and finds that he means it. “I won’t forget this.”

To Arthur’s surprise, Emrys gives an almost casual shoulder shrug. It tugs at something in the back of Arthur’s mind, a barely there tingle of familiarity. “Don’t worry about it, Arthur Pendragon. I’ve watched over you for many years, and you have proven yourself to be strong and true. You owe no debt to me. The best thing you can do is heed my advice, heed your friends, and watch over Camelot just as I have watched over you.”

And, before Arthur can ask him what the hell he means by he’s been watching him, Emrys gives an almost cheeky bow and vanishes silently in a puff of smoke. Arthur stares at the spot where he’d stood moments before as the mist pours into the now empty space, agape and feeling shaken to his core. He turns to stare at Lancelot, who shrugs and mouths I don’t know, looking just as lost as he feels.

“Gwaine,” Arthur calls, finally dropping his hand from the hilt of his sword, and Gwaine melts out of the trees with wide eyes and a worried frown. Emrys’s words are finally sinking in, and so does the panic. “We need to warn Camelot, now.”

“You think he’s telling the truth sire?” Lancelot asks lowly as they all mount their horses, and Arthur nods.

“I do. I-I can’t really explain it, but. I do.” Arthur tightens his grip on the reins. “He doesn’t have any reason to lie to us, that I can think of. And if Emrys had wanted to kill me, he’d have done so already, don’t you think?”

“True,” Lancelot concedes with worrying surety, and Arthur doesn’t even have time to be offended because Gwaine pipes up.

“What do you think he meant he’s been watching over you? How could he be doing that? More importantly why the hell would he be doing that?”

All the same thoughts are running pell mell through his own head, but he doesn’t have time to deal with them right now. Camelot could be in danger. “I don’t know,” Arthur replies tightly, and kicks his horse into a gallop, headed towards home, and Lancelot and Gwaine follow suit.

________

They ride hard through the night, and by the time they reach the castle, dawn is breaking over the ramparts and spilling over the hills in a golden and pink wave of light. But Arthur barely notices, mind a swirl of plans, fortifications, and increasingly disastrous scenarios involving Morgause that start with light arson and end in mass murder as they thunder into the courtyard, arising shouts from the guards and eliciting a flurry of activity. He’s stupidly relieved to find the place still standing and no alarm bells ringing. No matter how much he wanted to trust Emrys, his mind wouldn’t stop worrying that Emrys had just been bait to lure him away from the castle until he saw with his own two eyes that all was as he’d left it.

Arthur lets a servant take his horse as he barks orders to Gwaine and Lancelot to brief the knights and soldiers and send them on a sweep of the castle. They comply instantly, and Gwaine doesn’t even throw in a sassy, mildly treasonous remark like usual before he goes. Arthur is almost impressed.

Arthur knows he should go to his father, but the first thing he does is look for Merlin. Emrys’s words echo in his mind, making him feel just this side of frantic. She will strike where it hurts most, and you will not see it coming. Don’t ever underestimate her. Because, no matter how much Arthur tries to deny it to others, and even himself, he knows exactly what his weak spot is. And it’s currently fast asleep on his desk.

“Merlin,” He says quietly, giving him a gentle shake, and Merlin sits bolt upright, a paper stuck to his cheek.

“What?” Merlin blinks up at him blearily, and Arthur is embarrassingly relieved. Merlin’s still okay. Everything’s fine. He was worried for nothing. “Arthur? Oh! How did it go?”

Arthur gently plucks the paper off his cheek and Merlin makes a face. “Oops. Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” He sets the paper down and sits on the edge of the desk with a sigh.

“That bad, huh,” Merlin asks, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and even though Arthur’s exhausted, hasn’t slept in nearly two days, and has just been informed for the upteenth time that Camelot is in grave danger, yet again, he can’t help but savor the moment just a little, Merlin sleepy and rumpled and safe. He knows it shouldn’t feel like the most important thing but it does. It really does.

“You were right. It was important.” Arthur scrubs a hand over his face. “Morgause has been spotted kidnapping druids, including their leader. Emrys warned me she could be getting ready to attack Camelot any day.”

Looking much more alert now, Merlin stands. “Have you told your father?”

“I’m about to,” Arthur replies grimly. “Come on.”

__________

Startled servants up early to get a start on the day’s work jump out of his way as Arthur storms through the castle to his father’s chambers, Merlin nearly jogging to keep up. The guards don’t stop him as he rushes past and bangs on his father’s door, but one clears their throat pointedly.

Arthur whirls around. “What?”

“Erm, pardon me, your highness,” One of the soldiers stutters, taking a nervous step back at the combined force of the looks Merlin and Arthur level his way. “But his majesty is already awake. I believe he’s in his office.”

“Oh,” Arthur sighs wearily. “Well why didn’t you just say so?”

“I- uh- sorry. Your highness.” The soldier says awkwardly, bowing to Arthur's retreating back. Merlin gives the man’s shoulder a quick commiserating pat as he hurries after the prince, calling over his shoulder, “It’s alright, he's just having a bad day! Thanks for the help!”

Arthur swallows a smile. Merlin’s so decent it’s embarrassing.

___

Arthur finds his father frowning down at some papers in his study. The walls of fine glass windows that probably cost a laborer’s yearly wages let in the early morning light, casting the king’s face in shadow.

“Father,” Arthur says, and Uther looks up from his work.

“Ah, Arthur.” Uther sets down his quill. “What is it?”

Before Arthur can reply there’s a loud clatter from outside and Uther glances out the window before turning back to his son, eyes narrowed. “Arthur, what’s going on? Why are my soldiers running about at seven in the morning?”

Arthur steels himself to deliver the news. “Morgause has been seen kidnapping powerful druids, including their leader. An attack could be imminent. I’ve already given orders to search the grounds and fortify the castle, in case-.”

Uther stands abruptly, cutting him off with a sharp, “Silence. Where did you get this information?”

Arthur hesitates a beat, before setting his jaw. “A trusted source.”

“But who?” Uther comes out from behind his desk and crosses his arms. “Arthur, you must tell me if you expect me to take this threat seriously.”

If he tells his father it was Emrys, not only will he be furious at him for sneaking out to meet a magical summons, but he’d also probably laugh. Uther doesn’t believe in Emrys any more than he believes in children’s tales. Arthur grits his teeth and runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “I can’t!”

Merlin watches them argue, trying not to wince and debating weather it’s better to stick by Arthur to watch over him should Morgause suddenly decide to strike or be proactive and go search for her himself. His internal crisis is interrupted by Arthur shouting, “Stop! Father, my word should be enough!”

In the thunderous silence, Uther turns to Arthur and after a long moment in which Merlin doesn’t even dare breathe says, cold as the first frost, “It’s not.”

Arthur looks as if Uther had physically struck him, shoulders tensing, fists clenching at his sides. Looking lost, he glances over his shoulder, as if looking for guidance, and it’s then that Uther finally notices Merlin standing there. The look on the boy’s face could only be described as defiant.

Merlin’s eyes catch the King’s and, in that moment, he looked no more servant than Uther. It's a look that the King knew well, the expression of a powerful man that would not and could not be swayed. The expression of a man who knows he's right and will get his way, no matter the cost. It chills Uther to the bone. How did he ever let this man get so much sway over his only son? He’d been a fool to overlook what he thought was a trifling, temporary friendship. Now he sees, dread sinking heavy in his stomach even though he’s still not exactly sure why, that it’s so much more than that.

Uther prides himself on being a strong man. Fear is not a feeling he’s familiar with, but it’s what he feels now. He looks at Arthur and sees not his son, but a stranger entirely. A stranger, standing next to a servant as if they were equals, looking at his own father with naked anger and disgust glittering in the blue eyes he got from his mother.

Suddenly, a deafening clanging fills the air like a shock of lightning out of a clear blue sky. The alarm bells of Camelot are ringing, all four of them, loud enough to resonate in Merlin’s chest like a second heartbeat. Screams rise from the castle below like smoke. Before anyone can react, the wall and ceiling of Uther's study are being ripped away as an enormous dragon bursts in with a deafening roar, raining glass and stone like shrapnel. Merlin ducks, but not before casting a quick protection spell over Arthur, who narrowly misses being brained on the head by a falling boulder.

“Uther Pendragon,” Killgarah the dragon purrs, head slithering into the room as they all cough through the dust. “The reckoning has come.”

Uther screams for guards, Arthur reaches for his sword, Merlin flings a protective shield at Arthur, and Kilgharrah crisps Uther Pendragon with an enormous tongue of flames that practically fills the room.

Arthur, unknowingly protected from the fire by Merlin’s magic, screams, a gutteral, broken noise, and charges the dragon. Merlin’s heart seizes, torn between using his magic and keeping his secret, but Kilgharrah barely even flinches, just flicks Arthur back like he’s a bothersome gnat. He hits the wall with a sickening thud and collapses to the floor, unconscious. Merlin doesn’t even have time to go check on him before Kilgharrah turns to him, his cold, reptilian eyes narrowed into slits that glow through the clouds of sulfurous steam rising from his nostrils.

“Ah, little warlock. Lovely of you to join us,” He hisses, tongue snaking in and out, as if testing the air. He shifts his grip on the torn edge of the castle wall, and Merlin has to jump out of the way to avoid a falling ceiling beam that thunders to the floor.

“Who did this?” Merlin demands, voice shaking in anger. Uther is nothing but a black spot of soot on the floor, and as much as he despised the man, it still turns his stomach. Though, he supposes it’s rather fitting. The man who massacred thousands of innocents on pyres was burnt to death by the very magic he fought so hard against. “Who freed you?”

“Why, our friend Morgause,” The dragon says mock solemnly. “Remember her? She freed me, and she had a friend.”

“Who?” Merlin freezes, dread welling up in his chest. It couldn’t be.

“A man,” The dragon drawls dismissively, waving one taloned hand. “She killed him the moment he refused to exert his will over me. Silly human. So noble. Such a waste, considering I would have gladly burned Camelot to the ground either way.”

Merlin goes cold. The screams in the courtyard, the distant shouting of guards, the crackle of flames eating away at Uther’s study fade into nothingness. A dragonlord. His father. Dead, again. How could he have been so stupid? He’d lived so many years knowing his father was dead that when he’d come to this time, preoccupied with Arthur and Morgause, he’d completely forgotten to go find his father. His own father. The pain that rips through him is so severe, he actually presses a shaking palm to his chest to make sure his heart is still beating. Numbly, he’s almost surprised to find it hurts just as much now as it did the first time around.

But… A realization filters through the panic, and he feels his hurt crystalize into diamond sharp fury. His father’s death means that he’s now the last dragonlord, once again. Merlin straightens, and looks Kilgharrah dead in the eye. He walks slowly across the room without breaking eye contact, straight through the wall of fire, and holds up his hand. “Kilgharrah of Glúingel,” He roars, eyes blazing gold as the flames crackle around him. “I hereby banish you from the kingdom of Camelot. You are not to harm Arthur, or any other soul as long as you live, even if I have to track you down and kill you myself.”

“How are you doing this?” Kilgharrah spits, convulsing as if fighting an invisible pull. His claws dig into the stone like butter, and he thrashes his head with bone rattling force, making more pieces of the ceiling rain down with a dusty boom. “I am beyond even your power!”

Kilgharrah roars in fury and frustration, but it’s no use. He chokes on fire that refuse to come, and feels the last vestiges of his control slip away as he looks down into the cold, hard eyes of the warlock, awash in flames as if they’re nothing more than a nuisance as Merlin, almost indifferently, snaps his fingers.

“Go,” Merlin’s voice nearly rattles the walls with the full force of his dragonlord power, sharp as a blade, dripping in bloody promise. “If you ever return, I will not be so merciful. Do. Not. Test me. You have no idea what I am capable of.”

And the dragon, ten tons of pure magic and muscle and burning, molten hatred, is finally forced to fly away as commanded by a small, furious human, screaming the foulest insults imaginable into the night. But Merlin isn’t even listening. With a wave of his hand he extinguishes the flames and sprints over to where Arthur is just now stirring. He’s sooty and bruised, but alive. Merlin’s so relieved he feels close to tears as he helps Arthur sit up woozily, blinking open his eyes to a room full of dust and smoke and sulfur.

“What happened?” Arthur demands, scrambling to sit up. He sways, and Merlin steadies him worriedly.

“The dragon was wounded by the arrows of the soldiers and javelins of the knights outside, and he fled as soon as Uther-”

Arthur’s eyes glitter with tears, but his voice is flinty steel when he says “We have to follow him. Kill him. I have to avenge my father. I have to-” He struggles to stand, wincing and breathing hard, but Merlin tugs him back down. Arthur wrenches his arm out of Merlin’s grasp, face a war of pain and fury and desperation. “Merlin, let me go!”

“No,” Merlin hisses sharply, sharp enough that Arthur stops yelling and swallows hard, eyes wet and lost as he finally meets his gaze. “He’s already long gone. There’s no need for more people to die, Arthur, please.”

For a moment Arthur looks as if he won’t listen. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood. Lost, he looks over at the charred floor where his father had stood only moments before and all at once the fight goes out of him. He deflates, closes his eyes, sways, and Merlin leans against him for support. He can feel Arthur shaking, and he tightens his arm around his waist.

When he finally speaks, Arthur’s voice is hoarse, small, scared, so un-Arthur like that Merlin feels his throat tighten in sympathy.

“Merlin,” He breaths, exhausted, and swipes an angry hand across his face, leaving behind wet streaks in the dust on his cheeks. “What do I do now?

“We do what we always have,” Merlin says grimly. “We prepare, and then we fight.”

“I- I can’t be king, Merlin,” Arthur confesses shakily, hushed, a secret bare as an exposed nerve, and Merlin’s heart aches all the way down to his core. “Not yet. Not like this. Not alone.”

“Oh Arthur,” Merlin turns Arthur’s face to his with a gentle hand. Arthur’s blue eyes are wide and lost, glittering with stubbornly unshed tears. “You’re never alone.”

And if in the three minutes it takes for guards to finally arrive Arthur cries into his manservant's shoulder, heart full of love and hate and confusion for a father that was no more, nobody but two souls in the world ever have to know. By the time reinforcements arrive, Arthur Pendragon is on his feet again, no longer a prince but the new King of Camelot, and Merlin is right by his side.

_____

The next two days are spent in a flurry of frantic activity and tensely waiting for the other shoe to drop. Merlin helps Arthur prepare in the war room, dodging Arthur’s questions about how he knows so much about war strategy with a precarious combination of the practiced acrobatics of a trained liar and dumb luck.

In between pretending like it’s totally normal for a manservant to be standing next to the crown king of Camelot discussing siege prevention strategies and potential weak points in the castle architecture, Merlin spends nights teaching Morgana as many fighting and blocking spells as she can manage. You know. The usual servant stuff.

Once everyone else has gone to bed, Merlin transports himself and spends another sleepless night in Arthur’s room, sitting in a chair watching Arthur sleep and trying not to feel like a creep. He hasn’t let himself wander more than a room away from Arthur since he found out about Morgause. Even the thought makes his throat constrict.

Somewhere around three in the morning, Merlin sits bolt upright. He must’ve dozed off on accident, and his heartbeat thunders in his ears until he scrambles to his feet and sees Arthur still sleeping, safe and sound. He scrubs a hand over his sore, tired eyes. Being worried constantly is exhausting.

Merlin wanders over to the window and leans on the sill. The night outside is clear and bright, and he can see every star in the night sky stretched out before him like a bridge to the future. Or the past. The view looks exactly the same as it used to when he lived in this very room.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels an arm brush his. He turns quickly to find Arthur leaning against the sill beside him, already watching him. He doesn’t ask what Merlin’s doing in his rooms. When their eyes catch Arthur smiles, soft and rumpled from sleep, and Merlin aches.

“Can’t sleep?” Arthur asks softly, and Merlin shrugs sheepishly.

“Yeah. I was just... worried, I guess.”

“About?”

Merlin laughs quietly. “You mean other than Morgause and the fate of all of Camelot?”

Arthur chuckles, nudges him with his shoulder, and then doesn't move away. Their sides are pressed together, and Merlin hopes the dark hides his burning cheeks. “Yeah. Other than that.”

“Well,” Merlin says, hushed like a secret. “You.”

Arthur stares at him, the silence stretching out between them, and Merlin winces, fumbles. “I mean, I’m just-”

He never has to finish that trainwreck of an excuse, because Arthur kisses him. Like presses him back against the stone wall, hand in his hair kisses him.

Merlin is so deeply, profoundly shocked that he freezes, one hand still clutching the window sill. Arthur’s lips are warm and soft and Merlin feels like his world has been shattered into a million confusing, breathtaking pieces.

Arthur jerks back nearly as fast as he’d leaned in, looking wretched. The hurt in his eyes strips Merlin bare, and he realizes abruptly that he never kissed back.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-” Arthur makes to step back, but Merlin's motor skills come back to him in a rush, as does the terrifying, careening hope, and he darts out his hand and grabs the front of his shirt roughly, yanking him back.

“Don’t you dare take it back,” Merlin whispers forcefully, voice thick with emotion, and Arthur feels as if the floor has dropped out from beneath his feet. He searches Merlin’s eyes and swallows hard, heart pounding out of chest.

“I won’t,” He promises roughly as Merlin slowly tilts his head, licks his lips and regards Arthur warily through his lashes, apprehension and something else flickering to life in their depths.

“What about Adelina?” Merlin asks, guarded and very still, as if he's expecting Arthur to laugh in his face or bolt.

“Adelina was nothing, just a favor to my father,” Arthur rushes out, words nearly tripping over each other in his desperation to make Merlin understand. “And for the record, she kissed me.”

Merlin eyes him warily, like he wants to believe him but can't quite make himself. “Why didn't you say something?”

“Say something?” Arthur laughs incredulously. “How could I? I thought you were in love with Rowan, and then you slept with Gwaine, and by then it was too late to-”

“I didn't sleep with Gwaine.”

Arthur feels the words die in his throat. “What?”

Merlin clears his throat, looking away. “You heard me.”

“But,” Arthur stammers, floored. “But I saw the two of you...”

“Arthur Pendragon, you need to learn to mind your own business,” Merlin reprimands him sternly, but his eyes are softening and the corners of his mouth turn up, winking dimples in the moonlight. Arthur feels faint. “Of course I didn't sleep with him, you idiot, because apparently I'm too stupidly hung up on you to even look at someone else, let alone-”

Arthur closes the last breath of space and kisses Merlin hard and sure, swallows his words until they're nothing but shivery sighs, a promise and a confession all in one. When he feels Merlin shudder, soften, melt into him, mouth opening hot and slick and just this edge of desperate, it feels like a miracle beyond miracles, years of longing and heartache and love pressed into one devastating, perfect moment. He feels as though he’s been struck by lightning, as if the ground has dropped out from beneath his feet, their kiss the only thing solid.

It was better than even his best imaginings, because it was real.

Their lips press together harder, hot and damp and electric, closing on a soft sigh Merlin isn’t sure is his own. And he’s hardly even moving, too overwhelmed by the dizzying golden euphoria exploding in his chest to do anything but cling to Arthur and try not to shake out of his skin.

Eventually Merlin pulls back with a soft, slick sound and flushes all the way to the roots of his hair. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I,” Merlin asks shakily, and Arthur laughs, warm and genuine, and runs his fingers gently through Merlin’s unruly black curls before coming up to cup his cheek.

“You’re not dreaming, Merlin, don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur whispers, fond, so fond that Merlin feels the world ripple around him, deja vu squeezing his heart in its vice like grip. How did he miss this? Arthur looks at him the same as he always has. The only difference is that now, Merlin’s finally not too afraid to see it. “Would you like me to pinch you to prove it?”

Merlin is so overwhelmed with love, he feels his eyes sting. “Prat,” he laughs wetly, whacking Arthur’s chest weakly even as he falls into him, and feels Arthur’s arms come up to pull him close, warm and solid. He sucks in a shuddering breath, tucks his head into Arthur’s neck, and closes his eyes as nearly a year of lying and fighting and worrying and heartache shed their weight from his bones. No matter what tomorrow brings, he knows they can handle it. Together. After nearly a year, he’s finally home.

“I missed you,” Merlin mumbles into Arthur’s neck, and feels him shiver. Arthur pulls back to look him in the eye, brow furrowing a little.

“I’m right here.”

“I know.” Merlin wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and smiles up at Arthur, not even caring how dopey he looks. “I-”

A yawn cuts him off, which is probably for the best, and he grins sheepishly.

“Bed?” Arthur suggests, pecking Merlin on the lips. It sends a delighted tingle all the way down to his toes. He still can’t believe he’s allowed. Merlin dimples up at him.

“Aw, at least buy me dinner first,” Merlin teases, and to his delight Arthur turns a very interesting shade of red.

“That’s not what I meant,” Arthur says awkwardly, and scowls when Merlin laughs. “And I’ve bought you dinner plenty of times!”

“Yeah, at taverns. I’ve brought you dinner nearly a hundred times that,” Merlin counters cheekily, taking his hand. It’s warm and callused, and tightens automatically around his own. “But you’re right.”

Merlin tugs Arthur along and laughs when Arthur practically trips him. They tumble onto the bed, a mess of limbs, and can barely even manage to kiss properly because they’re both smiling too hard but it’s good, it’s so good, and when they finally fall asleep tangled together, Merlin dreams easily for the first time in months.
__________

Merlin wakes up before dawn with an idea. He carefully extracts himself from Arthur’s arms, eliciting a sleepy snuffle. Merlin pauses, and takes a moment just to smile down at him, love and near paralyzing fear warring for dominance. If he fails tomorrow, or whenever Morgause decides to strike, all of this, all of Arthur, will be lost to him all over again. He can't afford to mess this up.

Merlin eyes the fireplace for a long second, but another sleepy snuffle from Arthur has him slipping out of the room and past the guards, invisible and silent. Once he’s sure no one’s around, he turns himself visible and jogs through the dark, echoey hallways of the castle. It would be creepy, but he’s practically a professional at lurking around in the shadows so, hey, can’t complain. The dark is crucial to his lurking career.

He’s about to go use the fireplace in Gauis’s rooms when he hears voices talking inside. He makes an abrupt turn and hurries on down the hallway. There’s not many other places in the castle where he can have access to fire in absolute privacy. Well, homemade will have to do. But where can he count on not being interrupted with certainty? Then it hits him. The barn! Even stable hands don’t show up until the sun rises.

Merlin darts across the courtyard and into the outer grounds, cursing colorfully when he realizes he’s greatly misjudged the hour. The sun’s about to rise at any minute.

He ducks quickly into the empty barn and after a quick check, finally releases his breath when he finds it empty of all two legged life forms. The horses do knicker at him interestingly though, so he magics up a carrot or two to slip to them.

With one last glance over his shoulder, Merlin ducks into a stall and lights a flame in his palm. When it’s sufficiently burning, he carefully plucks the smoke drifting off his mini bonfire and weaves it into a smoke falcon that ruffles its feathers and cocks its head, unnervingly lifelike as it regards him. Merlin whispers the bird a message and the falcon blinks at him, as if in agreement, and takes off through a high up window in a trail of smoke just as he hears the creak of a door from the front of the barn.

Merlin hurries out of the stall, a half a dozen excuses on the tip of his tongue, only to see the front barn door closed and nobody in sight. Relieved, he turns to sneak out the back and comes face to face with Morgause herself.

“Hello, Merlin,” She purrs. “You are going to do me a favor.” Before he can react, Merlin feels a sudden, sharp pain bloom in the back of his head and the world abruptly goes dark.

______

Arthur wakes up alone. It takes a moment for his sleep hazy brain to figure out why that feels wrong, and when he remembers he swears he feels his heart sink right down to his toes. Merlin’s gone. Merlin kissed him, smiled at him, held him like it meant something, and then left.

There’s still a Merlin shaped indent in the bedcovers. When he reaches over, the space is cold. Arthur swallows the lump in his throat, and squeezes his eyes tight against the sting. He should have known it was too good to be true, he just can't fathom why Merlin would do it, would lie to his face like that. He'd never taken Merlin to be that cruel.

And, because the universe loves to torture him, that’s when the alarm bells of Camelot begin to ring for the second time in two days, all four of them. Arthur takes a single, precious second before getting dressed, struggling into his armor, running to collect the knights, and assuming his role as the king of Camelot to scream into his pillow.

________

Arthur thought he would be ready to face Morgause, but standing up on the ramparts squinting against the blinding early morning sun, he finds that he's sorely mistaken. He watches her gallop towards their gates flanked by dozens of masked riders in black armor and prays their fortifications will hold. Something is draped over the saddle behind her, but it's too far away for him to make out what it is.

When she reaches the closed castle gate, she stops her horse very politely, looks directly up to meet Arthur’s eyes, and waves like it’s a Sunday picnic.

“Arthur Pendragon,” she calls. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you. Would you mind opening the gate?”

Confusion prickles up Arthur’s spine. “I don’t think so.”

Morgause laughs, a cold, tinkling sound that carries all the way up to where he stands, like the lightning quick slice of a dagger. “Oh, but I think you will. You see,” Morgause dismounts nimbly and waves her hand at the black shape draped over her horse, and it floats obediently down to the ground at her feet. With a flourish, she rips off the dark cloak to reveal Merlin, bruised and unconscious, head lolling to one side. “I have something that just might change your mind.”

Arthur very distinctly feels the world grind to a halt.

He thought he'd known what fear was: facing an opponent in battle, being attacked by bandits, watching his father die. But none of it, nothing, compared to this. He feels it suck the air out of his lungs, leech like a black poison into every nook and cranny of his frozen body. This is what Emrys warned him about. This is what fear, true, genuine, heart stopping fear, felt like. Arthur feels like he's being torn in two.

“What do you want?” He finally grits out, each word a wound, and she smiles up at him sweetly. At her feet, Merlin begins to stir. It's not much, but Arthur feels some of the blinding panic subside. At least he's alive. For now.

“Why, nothing much,” She replies casually. “Just Camelot. Now why don't we meet in the courtyard and discuss terms of a… trade, perhaps? Like civilized people?”

And without waiting for a reply, she raises her hands and shouts a spell, flinging it at the castle door in a rippling wave. It promptly explodes into smithereens with a deafening boom, and as the soldiers lurch forward she tisks and hauls Merlin up by the back of his shirt just as he's blinking open his eyes, which widen in shock as he stiffens, realizing where he is.

“Now now, I wouldn't do that.” A dagger appears in her hand, and she presses it to Merlin's pale throat as she drags him into the courtyard, her entourage following behind. Arthur's heart constricts violently but he orders his soldiers to stand down in a rough, furious voice. Everyone, from knights to nobles to servants to guards to Arthur himself stand stock still, torn.

“Much better.” Morgause rolls her armored shoulders, flashing silver in the midday sun, and shakes out her hair. When she speaks, her voice rings through the courtyard like an executioner's axe. “Arthur Pendragon, come face me and pay for your family's crimes. If you don't, I'll kill Merlin, here and now. How will it feel, washing his blood off the cobblestones, hm?”

She tightens her grip on Merlin's shirt, and he can feel the blade press deeper against his skin with a sting, drawing a thin warning line of blood. He swallows hard, heart pounding, and meets Arthur's eyes from where he's frozen on the battlements, looking furious and helpless in equal measure.

“The boy or you. What'll it be?”

Arthur actually hesitates, and Merlin feels his heart freeze. He's just a servant, Arthur can't possibly be stupid enough to consider it.

The thought has barely passed through Merlin's mind when he sees Arthur shrug off his guards and start down the stairs from the rampart, jaw set, eliciting shocked gasps from all present, except for Morgause, who radiates smugness so strong Merlin wants to bash her face in.

“Arthur, don't!” He cries, struggling against her grip, but it's like iron, and a warning press of the blade has him stilling.

“Don't be stupid,” Morgause hisses in his ear. “Don't think I won't slit your throat here and now.”

One of Merlin's fatal flaws, he's come to realize through trial and error (mostly error), is that he always thinks he has more time than he really does. He thought he'd have forever with the Arthur from his time, and he'd made the same mistake now. But, after so much waiting and hurting and sacrifice, turns out, he only got couple hours. A couple perfect hours before the love of his life would hate him forever. Of fucking course.

He'd tried the normal route, but Morgause was shockingly strong and he hadn't woken up in time to escape on his own and now Arthur was down in the courtyard and it was too late. He was out of options. He was out of time.

He meets Arthur's eyes one last time, and wills with all of his might for Arthur to see how sorry he is. “Stop.” He says, loud and clear, and freezes Arthur's feet to the spot.

“You see, the thing is,” Merlin takes a deep breath and can't make himself look at Arthur's shocked face. “I’m just not that easy to kill.”

Quick as lighting, Merlin summons a dagger of pure magic and slashes it backwards, slamming Morgause's knife wielding hand away from his throat as she lurches back, barely avoiding being gutted. Merlin steps away neatly, and spins to face her. With a little shrug, he tosses his blade into the air, where it vanishes in a flash of light. “So don't flatter yourself.”

Morgause practically growls in fury, all traces of faux calmness evaporating. Her eyes are black with murder. “Who do you think you are?” She spits, knuckles white on her dagger. “You're just a servant, a nobody.”

“I may be a servant,” Merlin replies coldly, even though his heart is nearly pounding out of his chest and he's sure that if he looks Arthur in the eyes he'll actually die. “But I'm not nobody.”

“Oh really,” she sneers, raising a hand. “We'll see about that.”

“Rude,” Merlin mutters, and before she can cast he blasts her back with a wall of magic, making people scream and soldiers scatter.

She climbs out of the smoking rubble bruised, bloodied, and spitting mad. “Who are you?” She shrieks, staggering to her feet, magic gathering around her in a buzzing black cloud.

“Why, like you said. I'm just a servant. A nobody,” Merlin agrees calmly, eyes glowing gold like chips of molten fire. “But Emrys works too.”

Her eyes flare and she rears back in shock. “No. It can't be. Emrys is-- is--”

“Me,” Merlin growls as they slowly circle each other, two giants of the old religion. He can feel the stunned stares of the knights, Gwen, Morgana with a hand over her mouth, and Arthur burning into him, but he doesn't dare look away from Morgause. “Emrys is me, and Arthur Pendragon is under my protection.” All the pain from mourning Arthur, of losing his home and his friends, sharpens his words into blades. “You. Will. Not. Touch. Him.”

Morgause hisses, a furious sound, and screams something in druidic. Instantly, her magical black knights leap into battle, scattering screaming civilians as the knights of Camelot surge forward to meet them with a bone rattling crash. At nearly the same instant, four of the other cloaked figures fling back their hoods to reveal the kidnapped druids, including their leader, faces slack and vacant as they fire spells. Merlin just manages to dodge Morgause's curse and unfreeze Arthur, shouting, “Behind you!”

Arthur drops and rolls in the knick of time, a black knight’s sword whistling through the air where his head was moments before, and he has just enough time to leap to his feet before the black knight is on him again. The bone rattling crashing and clanging of metal on metal fills the courtyard, screams and shouting rippling through the morning air, and Merlin can barely breath. It sounds just like battles used to, blood and brimstone and the acrid tang of vicious magic on his tongue.

“Merlin!” Morgana screams, and Merlin whirls around to see her sheltering Gwen and two other serving girls and one stable boy, who must’ve gotten caught out in the courtyard when the fighting began with her body, backed up against the stone courtyard wall as two black knights advance on her. Merlin instantly conjures up two swords and flies them across the courtyard. Morgana snatches them out of the air and tosses Gwen one by the hilt, shouting her thanks as she throws herself at the black knight with a war cry that sounds so like the Morgana of his time, he gets chills. He’s eternally glad she’s on their side this time around.

A scream snatches his attention back, and he whirls around to see Morgause yank an arrow out of her shoulder, blood splattering on the cobblestones, fury etched so deeply into her beautiful face that Merlin thinks, instantly, that she’s the most hideous person he’s ever seen.

“You’re welcome!” Gwaine shouts from across the courtyard, waving the bow he’d picked up from a fallen soldier before whirling around and cracking it over the head of an approaching black knight, who stumbles and falls. “Now pay attention!”

Merlin doesn’t see anything else after that, because Morgause is on him with single minded ferocity, hurling spell after gruesome spell and paying absolutely no mind to the blood seeping from her shoulder. He parries, throws daggers of light so fast they scrape the sides of her armor with showers of sparks, calls down lightning, hurls spells back that nearly hit their mark, but she’s too quick on her feet. With her disregard for civilians, Merlin has to do twice as much work shielding people from her graceless, murderous magical rampage and making sure his own spells are direct enough to hit only one mark.

Not only that, but he’s completely outnumbered. Between battling Morgause and protecting the knights and Arthur and cowering servants from the entranced druid’s magic, Morgause keeps getting hits in. Already he felt a rib crack when he was hurled into a wall, and a particularly nasty rain of magical glass shards ripped through him when he was busy flinging a black knight away from Lancelot.

It’s like juggling five people at once, and Merlin barely blocks one blood boiling spell from hitting Morgana and Gwen where they fight back to back before he has to sprint across the courtyard, dodging battling knights and Morgause, to block Arthur’s back from getting slashed open viciously by another.

“You can’t keep this up forever!” Morgause crows at him, blood dripping into her eyes as she stalks towards him across the courtyard. She wipes it away with a feral grin, and the blood smears red against her white blond hair. “Even the great Emrys must tire eventually.”

Without warning, she hurls a nonverbal spell at him where he stands behind Arthur, who’s engaged in teeth rattling combat with a black knight despite the dirt on his face and the exhausted sheen to his brow. Merlin only feels it coming from years of practice, the barest ripple of the air, and he makes a choice. He doesn’t have time to block, but he does have time to literally shove Arthur out of the way.

When the spell hits him, he screams as thousands of invisible, razor sharp blades slam into him, forcing him to his knees as blood spurts. Merlin feels every muscle in his body spasm, fighting the blows that keep coming like hail, forcing him to the ground. Distantly, he hears Arthur scream his name, hears Morgause laugh, hears Gwen’s near hysterical sob. Woozily, he strains to raise a shaking hand, palm bloody and shredded, dizzy with pain, and manages the weakest of shielding spells. It’s enough to keep the projectiles from hitting him, but the force still pummels him to the ground.

Through half slitted eyes, he sees Morgause stalking towards Arthur and fear grips his chest like a vice. Or maybe that’s the broken rib. He has to break out, he has to. Everything depends on this. All his work, all his planning. He can’t lose Arthur now. Arthur needs him. And he needs Arthur. Alive and whole, no matter the cost. Determined, Merlin struggles to heave himself to his feet and chokes on a sob as agony rips through him.

He blinks away spots just in time to see something not unlike a tornado rip through the courtyard with a roar. I must’ve lost more blood than I'd realized, is all Merlin has time to think before it dawns on him that no. It’s not a tornado. Dozens of more druids hurl themselves into battle, and Merlin has just enough time to panic before he realizes that the druids are hurling black knights over the ramparts and surrounding their kidnapped leaders.

They’re not more of Morgause’s enchanted kidnapped sidekicks. The druid encampment must have received the smoke falcon he’d sent what could only have been mere hours ago and come to his aid. He hadn’t thought they would, even for him, considering that it was Camelot on the line, but it seems that all those years of war have made him cynical. They’d come after all. For him, but more importantly, for Camelot. Magic against magic, druid against druid, trusting that Emrys could build them a better world.

The arrival of reinforcements sends a wave of cheers through the exhausted knights and soldiers of Camelot, and they throw themselves back into the fray with renewed vigor. And, in her shock, Morgause’s concentration on the spell holding Merlin back wavers. Not much, but it’s enough.

With a scream of rage, Merlin shatters the spell and heaves himself to his feet, panting and exhausted, and hurls a spell that knocks Morgause, who’s attention had been focused on the incoming druids, right off her feet. She slams into the ground with a sickening crunch of armor, and Merlin looks up just in time to see a black knight sprinting towards Arthur.

He shouts a spell, graceless and desperate in his haste, and the black knight gets lifted into the air and flung into two of his companions, bowling them over. Merlin meets Arthur’s eyes across the courtyard for just a moment as the battle swirls around them, sword against sword, magic against magic, and bows his head, ever so slightly. Merlin can’t read the expression in Arthur’s eyes, and it scares him to death.

Merlin turns to Morgause, who spits blood out onto the cobblestones and pulls herself to her feet. Honestly, he’s almost impressed. It takes someone either crazy dedicated or crazy stupid (or maybe just crazy) to keep trying so hard.

They circle each other, bleeding, eyes burning with magic and hatred, a toxic combination. “Give up!” Merlin calls to her, forcing himself not to limp, to ignore the way the courtyard floor sways beneath his feet, slick with blood. “You can’t win! You’re outnumbered!”

“How can you fight for them?” Morgause hisses, flinging a weak spell at him. Merlin bats it away, and just now realizes that his hands are shaking. Each step gets harder and harder. “After everything they’ve done to us? To our kind? They would kill you without hesitating and yet you protect their prodigal son with your life? How could you?”

“Because I know Arthur” Merlin says, voice ringing through the courtyard as it falls silent as the druids managing to trap the last of the black knights and puppeteered druids in spells. “I know him. He's not his father and he never will be. He’s strong and loyal and true even to people who don’t deserve it. Even to people like me.”

Merlin swallows around the tears tightening his throat, and his eyes find Arthur over Morgause’s shoulder where he stands, frozen beside Gwaine and Lancelot and a handful of druids, staring at him. “In another life, in another time, Arthur repealed the ban on magic. Things change and people change, you just have to show them why it’s worth fighting for. You think I don’t wonder? You think I don’t wake up every day under the weight of the choices I’ve made, the things I’ve sacrificed?”

“But this?” Merlin spreads his arms, gestures to the courtyard, a mess of rubble and bodies and blood and black knights struggling against druidic entrapment spells. “All this pain, all this killing, without even trying diplomacy? You say this is about magic but really, Morgause, for you this is about power, and revenge, which makes you exactly like Uther. Blind with hatred and too stubborn to try for better.”

“I’m nothing like Uther!” She spits, lashing out with her sword. Merlin dodges easily. “That man was a blight on the land!”

“You can’t build a peaceful future with more killing,” Merlin tells her calmly. “Arthur will be a great king, even if you can’t see it yet.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Morgause growls, and Merlin shrugs.

“Maybe. But I’d rather die for Arthur than serve you.”

Morgause draws herself up tight and flings down her sword. It clatters to the ground, but she doesn’t even glance at it. “You are a traitor to your people, Emrys.”

“I’m not a traitor,” Merlin snaps his fingers, and her sword appears in his hand. He studies it for a moment, before tossing it into the air, where it disappears in a shower of light. “I’m just hopeful.”

Merlin doesn’t know what spell he’s going to use when he raises his hand, and his internal war between his hatred from his time and his stubbornly soft conscience almost makes him miss the way her eyes flick to the side. A tingle of fear slithers up his spine, and he whips his head up to see the castle wall behind Arthur start to cave with a deafening crack. The knights and druids scatter, but Arthur isn’t quite fast enough. A falling brick hits his head with a sickening thud, and Arthur crumples.

Merlin’s blood turns to ice, and between one breath and the next, Merlin transports himself across the courtyard and throws up his arms, freezing the entire wave of stones just before it crashes down on Arthur’s prone form. His arms shake from the effort, and he’s so exhausted he feels like he’s going to die, but he forces himself to concentrate. From the middle of the courtyard Morgause laughs, a sharp, triumphant sound, and gives a mocking little bow. “See how well you manage to hold that, oh great Emrys.”

Morgause smiles, teeth red with blood, when she sees everyone but the druids, who are busy holding back the black knights and their brainwashed brethren with magic, rush to position themselves between her and Merlin and Arthur. Her eyes snag on Gwen, the most obviously civilian even as she stands bravely, knuckles white on the hilt of her bloodied sword.

“Who’s first then?” Morgause croons, taping her chin thoughtfully. “How about you, little mouse?”

She strides forward as Gwen shrinks back, but Morgana suddenly steps right in front of her, so close they’re practically chest to chest. “You won’t touch her,” Morgana spits, even though her hand shakes where it clutches the blade by her side. Merlin, sweating and exhausted as he is, feels a sudden surge of pride for his friend. “You won’t touch any of them.”

“Aw, look at the brave little princess,” Morgause taunts, reaching up one red stained hand to caress Morgana’s cheek. Morgana flinches, but doesn’t stand down. “Get out of my way. It's not you I want, it's the little princling, and maybe Emrys too while I’m at it. You can have the privilege of dying last if I'm feeling generous.”

In reply, Morgana spits in her face. The entire castle seems to suck in a collective breath, including Merlin, who promptly coughs it back up from all the dust hanging in the air around him. His muscles burn, but he manages to heave the stone wave up an inch. The effort nearly knocks the breath out of his lungs. But if he can’t move the stone, he’s not sure he’ll have time to cast another spell before it collapses on the two of them. The closest boulder is mere inches away from his face.

With a howl of fury, Morgause launches a wave of magic at them, and to the collective shock of nearly everyone present, Morgana flings up her hands and screams in druidic. Her eyes flare a brilliant, glowing green and the two spells clash like storm clouds. The resulting boom is deafening, and it lifts Morgana and Morgause off their feet.

Now or never, Merlin thinks to himself, and with one last glance down at Arthur’s bloodied, unconscious face, he gathers all the strength he has, closes his eyes, and thinks of the way Arthur smiles, slightly crooked, with eyes like the sky.

Merlin opens the floodgate inside of himself that he keeps locked down, the only real line of separation between him and the raw core of magic that pulses through the fibers of the very world itself. He usually keeps it closed off to keep his power from being overcharged and deadly, but that’s exactly what he needs right now.

Instantly, he feels magic surge through him, like the first drink of water after months lost in the desert, and with a scream he lets the magic pour out of him like an overflowing goblet. In the blink of an eye every boulder explodes into dust that rains down, stinging his cheeks.

Just as Morgause starts firing curses faster, so fast Morgana’s limited training barely keeps up, Merlin shouts, “Gwaine!”

Gwaine understands instantly and sprints over to check on Arthur as Merlin runs the other way, straight for Morgause, adrenaline burning away his exhaustion. She doesn’t see it coming when Merlin conjures a dagger and hurls it at her back with practiced accuracy. It slices through her armor and embeds itself deep in her shoulder.

Morgause positively howls, staggering back, and when she whirls around to retaliate, Morgana hits her with a curse of her own, loose black hair flying, face alight with determination and vengeance. Merlin catches her eyes for the briefest of seconds, and she winks at him despite the strain on her face and together, Merlin and Morgana circle Morgause, caging her in, tag teaming her as they buffet her from both sides.

Merlin has to give her credit, Morgause puts up a good fight, and he is getting tired, but they’re so close. So close. With every blow she weakens, and so do her black knights. But he gets sloppy and when his foot catches in a pothole blasted into the ground by a wayward spell, his weak leg caves and he stumbles, cursing.

It’s just enough time for Morgause to yank up shields, and without him there to keep her scattered and on the defense, Morgause instantly breaks through Morgana’s wards. Merlin watches, helplessly trying to break through her barrier with Lancelot and Leon and Gwen and Percival banging on it next to him, as she slams a terrified Morgana up against a wall, hand around her throat.

“Shame,” Morgause hisses, nails digging deeper into Morgana's neck as she struggles, gasping. Blood drips from Morgause's nose, and her gaze is practically feral, wild with fury. “You would have made such a good student, a perfectly moldable ball of magic and hatred. But alas, all you will ever amount to is a broken little toy.”

“Well,” Morgause tisks, raises her hand for the killing blow, black light gathering in her palm. “You’re not the Pendragon I was hoping for, but you’ll have to do for now.”

Merlin screams in frustration, using all his remaining power to buffet the shield, but it’s magic born of hate and desperation, the most toxicity powerful combo, and in his weakened state he can barely even stand, let alone break through. Beside him, Gwen covers her mouth and chokes back a sob as the curse in Morgause’s hand gathers into a crackling, smoking ball of black lightning.

“Any last words, little princess?” Morgause mocks.

Morgana snarls, showing all her teeth, and her bloody hand disappears up her sleeve. “You broke the wrong parts of me,” she chokes out, as Morgause tightens her hold, eyes narrowing at her. “You took my wings but forgot I had claws, bitch.” And then she stabs Morgause, right in the heart.

Morgause’s face goes slack, and she drops Morgana, who collapses to the floor, gasping and coughing, as all her shields and spells evaporating instantly. “How-” The words slip from her mouth, and she staggers. Her shaking hands come up to her chest where the dagger protrudes and she looks up, directly into Merlin’s eyes, as she drops to her knees.

Merlin limps forwards and crouches down in front of her. Fear and hate war across her face. “Why?” She croaks, a trickle of blood escaping the corner of her mouth, and she coughs. “Why did you really do this?”

Merlin’s face hardens, even as his heart squeezes. No matter how much he hates her, watching the powerful, enigmatic Morgause die still feels deeply wrong. “Because,” He whispers, just for her to hear. “I loved Arthur, and you helped Morgana kill him.”

Merlin pulls back, and she sways. As much as he wants to just turn away, Merlin’s soft heart feels bruised and battered and he can’t help but wonder what Morgause could have been had Uther not made magic feared and illegal. Someone wonderful. Someone powerful. Someone great. Maybe they would have even been friends. Feeling sick, Merlin makes up his mind. He reaches forward and, almost gently, presses two fingers to her forehead. She’s too weak to pull away. “Go in peace,” He murmurs in druidic, even though she doesn’t deserve it, and the hate and fear in her eyes dissolves into gratitude as they glaze over, and her body slowly turns into pinpricks of light that blow away on the wind, golden dust of another soul lost to a lifetime of hatred.

Instantly, the black knights collapse into heaps, eliciting weak cheers that wilt away when Merlin sprints over to Arthur.

Gwaine hurries out of his way, face grim, as Merlin falls to his knees with a painful thump beside Arthur, who lays still and bleeding, and it's just like the last time all over again. His skin sickly and pale, his slack face, empty of all the things that make him him, the blood trickling down his temple. Merlin cradles him, heart shattering into a million irreparable pieces, and weeps. The courtyard is dead silent, the only sound Merlin’s harsh breaths and choking sobs. After everything, he still wasn’t good enough. He still lost him, all over again.

But then, like a ray of sun breaking through the clouds, Arthur stirs. He blinks open his eyes, bleary and confused, and everyone bursts into cheers and screams of triumph as people pour into the courtyard from the castle, jumping and crying and hugging each other, laughing.

Arthur wakes, bloody and bruised, to Merlin's beaming face. Merlin presses his forehead against Arthur’s for the briefest second, overwhelmed, and chokes on a laugh that’s equal parts tears and pure euphoria as he squeezes his eyes shut. “Thank the gods.”

Lancelot and Percival rush over to help Arthur stand and Merlin quickly tears himself away, smiling weakly, wrung out and so so relieved as he struggles to his feet. Gwaine hurries to help Merlin up, and he flashes him a grateful smile but pulls away. He knows he has to say something, make Arthur understand, but when he meets Arthur’s eyes all his explanations and excuses die in his throat.

Merlin stumbles forward and because this will probably be the last time he's allowed this close, dares to touch the side of Arthur's face with a shaking, blood smeared hand and whispers, “I'm sorry.” It's all he can think to say, all that really matters. For all the lies, deception, and pain. There are tears in eyes that still burn golden and he sways, snatching his hand back.

“I'm so sorry, Arthur. For all of it. I just-” Merlin’s voice catches, and his throat bobs, eyes wet with tears. “I just want you to know. I did it all for you. Only for you. Everything.” And then promptly collapses.

Someone screams and Gwaine lunges for him, barely managing to catch Merlin as he falls. The courtyard is in an uproar. Merlin is utterly still, pale as death, blood flowing on the cobblestones, and Arthur instantly forgets everything but the emptiness of Merlin’s slack face. “Get him to Gaius,” Arthur commands, heart rabbiting in his throat, and thinks that it wasn’t worth it to wake up if it means Merlin dies instead.

They rush him to Gaius, servants and terrified nobles and knights and druids alike parting like the red sea as Gwaine sprints through with Merlin in his arms. Arthur is too weak to carry him himself, but despite the raging tangle of hurt, confusion, love, and terror warring inside, he never lets Merlin out of his sight.

_______

When Merlin wakes, Arthur is sleeping in a chair by his bedside. He's shocked to not find himself in the dungeons, but in Gauis's workroom tucked into the sick bed. The room is empty, and he's even more surprised that he's not tied up, no manacle on his ankle. Maybe the guards are outside the door. It’s strange that they let the King of Camelot anywhere near him, Merlin thinks with a pang.

Despite his aching body, Merlin heaves himself quietly out of bed and sneaks into his room. With hands that shake so bad he can barely get his fingers to obey, he pulls his old clothes out from under the bed and puts them on because he's ruined it all, revealed it too soon in the worst way possible, and if he's going to die, or be banished, or have to run away and watch over Arthur in secret, he might as well do it in the clothes he came in, the clothes Arthur gave him.

When he’s dressed, Merlin takes a deep breath and slowly slides his wedding ring back onto his finger. He stares down at it for a long moment, heart in his throat.

He's weak, exhausted, in pain, but he manages, and when he slips out the door, Arthur is awake and watching him. Merlin freezes. He can't tell what he's thinking.

“Are you leaving?” Arthur's voice is quiet, inscrutable.

Merlin swallows harshly, throat dry and achy. “Do you want me to?” He asks, and hates the way his voice trembles.

“Of course I don’t!” Arthur explodes, standing, and Merlin takes a startled step back. “Just, gods, Merlin, were you ever going to tell me? I mean-”

Arthur runs his hands roughly through his hair, pacing, before finally throwing them in the air. “All these years, and you never even hinted.”

“What did you expect, Arthur,” Merlin retorts, frustration finally igniting in his chest. “Magic is banned. If anyone found out, let alone the bloody crown prince of Camelot, how could I watch over you, huh? What then? You would’ve had me killed in an instant!”

“I wouldn’t have,” Arthur says fiercely, striding forward until they’re inches apart. Merlin forces himself not to flinch back, or sway into him, or both. “Never. Banished, maybe, that first year, but not after. Not after we became friends.”

“But I didn’t know!” Merlin finally snaps. “I was scared, Arthur!” He's practically yelling now, and Arthur draws back, surprise sparking in his eyes. “Can’t you understand that? I was scared to lose you again! I couldn’t handle it, I couldn’t go through it a second time.” Merlin wipes a furious hand across his traitorous eyes that sting with tears, voice breaking. “I just got you back.”

There’s a heavy moment of silence, and Merlin jumps when he feels the brush of Arthur’s fingers over the fine velvet of his doublet. “Got me back from where?” Arthur asks hoarsely.

This is it. Either he tells the truth, or he lies. And if he lies now, he’ll lie again, and again, and it’ll pile up until that’s all that’ll ever be between him and Arthur. Lies and lies and lies. In the end, it’s not even really a choice.

“I-” Merlin takes a deep breath, trying to organize his scattered thoughts. He fiddles nervously with his ring, and feels Arthur’s eyes stray to it. He quickly tucks his fingers away into a fist. “I’m not from here. From this time, I mean. I’m from an alternate future, one where Morgause and Morgana kill you, and Camelot falls.”

Arthur starts, stares, a mixture of grief and relief tangling across his face. How do you process the news of your own death? Merlin genuinely has no idea, and when Arthur opens his mouth, he holds up his hand. “I know you have a million questions, but let me finish. Please.”

If he doesn’t get this out, he’s sure his courage will fail, and is relieved when Arthur’s mouth snaps shut.

“I used my magic to turn back time. I came to change the future, to help Morgana and to prevent that-” Merlin winces. “That timeline from ever happening again. Her fear of having magic, of losing you and her friends to hatred, poisoned her from the inside out. She wasn’t the Morgana you know. When Morgause reached out to her, took her under her wing, she was desperate.”

“Morgana has magic?” Arthur asks, stunned. All these years growing up together, and he never even suspected. But, he supposes, he should have. This last year she’d become so distant, so withdrawn, a shadow of her former self. It had scared him half to death, even though he pretended it didn’t, powerless to help her in any way that mattered. It was scary how easy it was to picture what Merlin was saying, years of fear and nightmares with no one to turn to would make any offer of acceptance look appealing, no matter the cost.

“But she’s not evil now?” Arthur asks carefully, and Merlin shakes his head.

“No. I caught her just in time. That’s how I’ve been spending my nights,” Merlin confesses. “I was teaching her to use her magic without being afraid of it.”

“How-” Arthur’s jaw clenches, and he looks away. When he speaks the words sound strange on his tongue. “How did you learn magic? Did someone teach you?”

“Gaius helped me a little, but not really,” Merlin confesses nervously, expecting Arthur to storm away at any moment, but he stays, face like stone but listening carefully. It’s more than he deserves, really. “I was born this way. With magic, I mean. I could levitate things before I could even walk, Arthur, you have to understand.” Merlin finishes, a bit pleadingly. “I didn’t choose to be this way, it just happened. Magic isn’t just a part of me, it is me.”

Arthur is staring at him now, eyes wide and unreadable, so Merlin stumbles on. “I- I mostly learned from trial and error. What you saw in the courtyard was…” Merlin trails off, throat tight, and looks down at his ring. It glints up at him almost kindly, and it gives him the push he needs. “I learned it during the war. The war we fought, together. For Camelot.”

“So that’s why you have all those scars?” Arthur asks as things finally click into place with horrifying clarity, and Merlin nods carefully, as if he’s not sure he should.

“So your job in this, this…” Arthur trails off, crosses his arms. “This other time was what?”

The ghost of a smile passes over Merlin’s lips. “I was your partner.”

Arthur gapes at him. “In battle?”

Merlin digs his fingers into his palm and feels the cold metal press of his ring like a brand. “In everything.”

“So that’s why you’re here? To resume your duty?” Arthur spits the word, hurt sharpening his voice into a blade, and Merlin tries to pretend it doesn’t sting as much as it does. “Is that what I am to you, all this time? Just a job?”

Shocked, Merlin shakes his head. “No!”

Arthur throws up his hands. “Then why are you still here?”

“Because I love you, you absolute prat!” Merlin erupts, words tumbling out before he can stop them. “I always have and I always will and I’m here because you mean the world to me and I want to be. Did you ever consider that?” And then he promptly clamps a hand over his mouth with a squeak. He did not mean to say that.

Arthur goes very, very still.

Oh shit, Merlin thinks succinctly, and shrinks away when Arthur starts towards him. When Arthur raises his hand, Merlin feels a flash of fear and he squeezes his eyes closed, expecting to be punched. Instead, he feels arms come up around him and he finds himself pulled tight against Arthur’s chest.

It’s too much, and Merlin feels the dam break. Tears come and he can’t stop them, doesn’t know how, and Arthur holds him as he fists his shirt, an anchor, and cries into his shoulder. “I wanted – I wanted to tell you. Every day. It was killing me not to. I’m sorry, gods, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

"Shh," Arthur murmurs. He pulls back and slowly, as though he’s trying not to startle him, reaches out and brushes the tear stains from Merlin’s cheeks, eyes finally softening. Merlin trembles, stunned. “It’s alright. I’m not- I’m not mad, anymore.”

Arthur looks away for a long second, as if composing himself. “I mean, I was mad, at first. Furious. But only because... because you never told me. And it hurt, that you didn't trust me. But the more I thought about it, the more I just felt stupid. All these years, all those strokes of luck and last minute miracles? Those were you, weren’t they?”

Merlin nods mutely, too afraid to speak.

Arthur shakes his head. “Remember the day we met?”

Merlin cracks a weak, hesitant smile. “How could I forget such a prat?

Arthur chuckles ruefully. “So you really were telling the truth. You could’ve taken me apart with one blow.”

Merlin flinches. “I would never have actually hurt you, I swear. I was just… not used to pretending yet.”

“Not even if you were discovered?” Arthur asks, even though he doesn't believe it, just because he just can’t fathom why someone as powerful as Merlin (Merlin!!) would spend their days polishing his armor and listening to him complain. It blows his mind, but every time a voice that sounds suspiciously like his father insists Merlin must have some ulterior motive, he thinks of Merlin’s laugh, thinks of the way he puts up with Arthur even when he’s being surly and irritating and awful, of how he cries when animals die and always has a kind word for everyone he meets and has always stood by Arthur no matter what, even when he didn’t deserve his loyalty.

It seems that Merlin sees right through him because, rather than being upset, his expression is understanding as he chuckles wetly. "I might have forcefully stepped on your toe, sire."

Arthur runs a hand down his face, reeling. "All of it, magic... it's just so much different than I thought it would be."

Merlin shrugs, searching for a way to explain. “Magic is no different than a sword. It’s just a tool. It’s the intent of the wielder that’s important, and I swear I’ve only ever used it for you, and for Camelot. I would never turn it against you.”

“I always thought magic was supposed to be this ugly, awful thing,” Arthur confesses quietly, like a secret. “But what you did in the courtyard was amazing, Merlin.”

“Stop being so decent,” Merlin protests weakly, voice scratchy with tears as he whacks Arthur’s shoulder limply. He never wants to cry again after today. He’s had enough emotional turmoil to last a lifetime. “You should hate me. I deserve it.”

“You don’t-” Arthur starts, but Merlin draws back, shaking his head.

“I do!” Merlin insists, because Arthur has to know, he has to get this last secret off his chest or die trying. He swallows convulsively. “I’ve done horrible things, Arthur, back in the war, things you wouldn’t understand-”

“Merlin!” Arthur says loudly, cutting him off, and softens when Merlin flinches. He lowers his voice, and gently brushes a wayward black curl out of Merlin’s eyes. He’s still trying to get used to this new world where Merlin has magic, where Merlin has painful memories he doesn’t know or understand. But, he thinks determinedly, he has years to make up for it, years to learn. “It’s alright. It doesn’t matter what you’ve done. I know you, Merlin. You are a good person, in this lifetime and every other.”

He grabs Merlin’s hand and holds it up between them. The silver ring on Merlin’s finger, embedded with a single emerald, glints up at them.

“Were we, you know.” Arthur swallows hard. “Before?”

Merlin’s head whips up to stare at him, and after a terrifyingly long moment, he finally nods. Arthur feels struck dumb, but he manages a, “See. Would I marry a horrible person?”

“Well, there was that one love spell where-”

“Oh, hush,” Arthur says. “You know what I mean.”

Merlin still looks skeptical, and Arthur just can’t take it.

“I could never hate you,” Arthur tells him fiercely, giving Merlin’s shoulders a gentle shake, desperate for him to finally get it. “You are my best friend, my conscious, and my better half. I love you, Merlin Emrys, magic and all.”

Merlin blinks up at him, stunned. “Oh.”

“And don’t you dare ever lie to me again,” Arthur concludes, a bit breathlessly, and kisses him.
_____

After a few days spent cleaning up, re-fortifying the castle, and Merlin moving his stuff into Arthur’s rooms, Arthur is officially crowned king in a midday ceremony. The druids are there as a gesture of goodwill, including the kidnapped ones finally freed from Morgause's power, and although it causes some murmuring amongst the gathered nobles and even the servants clustered around the edges of the great hall, everyone remains awkwardly polite.

Merlin stands at the front of the room, supported by Morgana, at the foot of the dais where Arthur stands. Even with his magical healing abilities, he’s still recovering from the damage Morgause did.

Even though Merlin had sworn to himself that he was done crying, when the official coronation ceremony concludes, Merlin feels weepy with pride as King Arthur stands, golden crown glinting on his brow, to the deafening cheers of the crowd. After a moment, he raises his hands and the crowd quiets.

“I have an announcement to make,” Arthur says, every inch a king, every inch a commander. It's not his voice, strong yet poised, that silences the room instantly. It's his presence. Everyone is riveted.

“My father was a great king,” Arthur starts, even though he's not sure he believes it anymore. “But he was wrong about many things. Magic, being one of them.”

The crowd seems to suck in a collective breath. Merlin freezes, gaze locked on Arthur, heart pounding so hard he’s afraid he won’t be able to hear what happens next. Arthur’s eyes find his in the crowd and he holds Merlin's gaze as he says, calmly and surely, “As King, I hereby lift the ban on magic.”

The crowd goes absolutely wild, screams and shouts and cheers filling the hall with nearly deafening noise. But Merlin hardly even hears it. He stands completely frozen, barely feels the way Morgana's fingers are digging into his arm and her excited celebration beside him.

Arthur never flinches, through the noise, just keeps his eyes on Merlin and gives him the smallest of nods before turning away and raising his hands once again. The hall goes silent instantly, gazes fixed on their new King.

Probably only Merlin, who knows Arthur like the back of his hand, notes that he takes a deep, steadying breath before continuing. “I know many of you have been taught to fear magic, as I once did, but as someone recently reminded me,” Arthur meets Merlin’s eyes, and he can see the smile in them. “Magic is no more evil than a sword, it is the hand that wields it that makes the difference. This is a lesson we could all stand to learn. It is time we moved away from this era of persecution and bloodshed. Banning magic has done nothing but hurt both sides.”

Arthur pauses. The suspense in the hall is so thick he could cut it with a knife. Everyone is on the edge of their seats, watching a decade's worth of Uther’s bloody politics dissolve under the hand of their bright young king. “Before my father’s time, the position of court sorcerer was an honored and respected tradition. In the light of recent events, I think it would be wise to bring it back, to help guide us in this period of transition from non-magical to, well, decidedly less so.”

Once more Arthur pauses, but not from doubt. He wants people to hang onto his every word. He wants them to understand how deadly serious he is, that this isn't just some whim. Arthur straightens, gaze steady, voice clear and strong as he announces, “Though he is, perhaps, overqualified, I hereby appoint Merlin Emrys, the last Dragonlord, Ardrí of the Druids, and savior of Camelot, as the new court sorcerer.”

Merlin faints dead away.

_____

Merlin wakes to find Arthur and Morgana hovering worriedly over him, the hall abuzz with chatter, and when his memory trickles back in he laughs, a bright, beaming noise.

“Are you alright?” Arthur asked worriedly, brow furrowed, and relaxes considerably when Merlin nods.

“Are you serious?” Merlin asks, a bit breathlessly, and Arthur breaks into a smile of his own.

“Of course I am.” Arthur helps him carefully to his feet. “Like you said. Partners.”

“In everything?” Merlin asks hesitantly, hoping beyond hope as he glances down to where Arthur still hasn’t dropped his hand.

Arthur smiles at him, bright as the sun. “In everything,” he agrees, and in front of everyone pulls Merlin into a kiss.