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“I don’t understand, Merlin. Why, in spite of your power? Why do you show me such devotion?”
It came out like a challenge, but it was heavy with bemusement; like the King truly couldn’t fathom the answer.
Merlin lowered himself onto a knee and bowed his head. When he spoke, it was with a reverence the likes of which Arthur had never seen nor heard. “You are my destiny, Arthur. I was always meant to be at your side. This is what my power is for—it’s for you. It was made to kneel at your feet. To await your command.”
Arthur swallowed. “I never asked anyone to kneel,” he murmured, watching Merlin look up at him through his eyelashes. Then, as Arthur tried to pull him to his feet, his head snapped up, facing Arthur’s. He wrestled his arm out of the King’s grip and knelt back down.
“I know. And that’s why you deserve it.” Merlin took Arthur’s hands, held his gaze. “You are the greatest king that Albion, that the world has ever known. You are kind, and caring, and fair and just and selfless, and—all my devotion—you have more than earned it. I know that my place is at your side,” Merlin paused, bowing foreword again, resting his forehead on his King’s hands, “but you must know that my magic is for you. This is where it puts me—not above you, never ahead of you. But knelt before you.”
As the sorcerer finished, Arthur looked down at him with an admiration that he hadn’t known was within him. He pulled Merlin to his feet by his hands, this time succeeding, and searched his face for a brief eternity.
Then, as if taking his turn, the King knelt at Merlin’s feet.
“I had already known that I owe you my life,” he began, voice low and unsteady, breath warm on Merlin’s fingers, “but I know now that I also owe you my heart.” His voice broke like glass on the last word, and Merlin felt a tear land on his knuckles, soft lips following in its wake.