Chapter Text
It was a dark time for Camelot. Morgana had revealed herself as a sorceress, allied with her sister Morgause and intent on bringing about the downfall of Uther and the Pendragon dynasty. She had raised an army of the undead, and with it attacked the castle. She had nearly succeeded - Uther was dead and Arthur was on the brink; cold, grey, clammy hands grasping for his heart, and stretching closer and closer with each passing minute. But it had all gone wrong, for Morgana, at least. The chalice providing the power for the enchantment on the undead had somehow been broken, an army of thousands reduced in an instant to nothing but dust and ash, drifting sluggishly away in the breeze. Part of the citadel had crumbled, and both Morgana and Morgause had vanished in the rubble, their fates unknown. For the time being, however, Camelot had been saved. Again.
And again, the great savior to whom Camelot owed so much, such a great debt compiled over the years, remained once more unacknowledged. After all, he was nothing but a simple serving boy - the personal servant of the Crown Prince, or rather, King, yes, but a simple servant nonetheless.
Yet this boy, with his crooked smile and dark raven hair, his piercing blue eyes that crinkled at the corners, though from happiness or sadness no one knew, and his ever-present rumpled neckerchief, was far more than met the eye. Merlin was his name, the young physician’s apprentice. But he had other names, too. The druids called him Emrys, for that is what he was - the greatest sorcerer ever to walk the earth, and the last dragonlord ever to live.
Greatest sorcerer ever or not, at the point in time that our story now moves to, Merlin did not feel great. In fact, he felt quite the opposite of great, whatever that might be. Ungreat? Nongreat? Antigreat? Ah yes, that’s right - awful. Downright, undeniably awful. There were many things behind this horrendous awfulness building up inside him, crashing and surging, then welling up and forcing its way down his cheeks in a flood of tears that he tried as hard as he could to restrain, leaving him gasping for air and squinting blearily through red, bloodshot eyes.
His master and best friend, Prince- no, King Arthur, was on his deathbed, the former King Uther and Arthur’s father was dead, and it was all because of magic. Magic, which Merlin didn’t know if he dared use to save Arthur’s life for risk of being caught and executed; and which, if he did survive, Arthur was sure to hate with a vengeance for the rest of his life for all that it had taken from him, ruining Merlin’s hopes for a world where he could live freely, as himself, without having to fear for his safety because of his identity.
These hopes were what sustained Merlin through so many grueling days and long nights, when he wondered whether what he was doing and how much he was risking was really worth it. And now, they were on the verge of being lost forever.
And to top it all off, because just one life-changing, earth-shattering dilemma wasn’t enough, the universe had gifted Merlin with another trouble - his feelings for Arthur. Over the years that they had been together, it was common knowledge throughout the castle that they had become more than just a master and a servant. They were friends, close friends, and though they rarely admitted it, both cared very deeply about the relationship that they had formed.
But Merlin had come to realize that he wanted more. He longed for something deeper, something closer, something more intimate and more meaningful with Arthur. Though it pained him to accept it, he knew what had happened. He had gone and fallen in love with the arrogant prat, and there was no going back. Sure, he didn’t exactly have high expectations for their future together; fate simply did not like to let him hold onto happiness for too long. He would get a taste, like a fingertip dipped into a jar of sweet, golden honey, but as soon as he reached for more, the jar would fall and shatter into a million sparkling shards suspended in the sticky amber.
For example, his first and only girlfriend, Freya? He had loved her, and she had been cursed to become a bloodthirsty beast by night. And then she had been killed, just days after they first met. The only time he had ever let the walls around his heart fall down, just a little, a knife had slipped through the cracks and cut him to pieces, so he had vowed to never again endanger himself or someone else like that. Someone like Arthur.
Futile and pointless though it would be to bring up his feelings to Arthur, Merlin simply couldn’t bear to watch him slip away without ever knowing how the young warlock felt. And the small part of him that still clung to a sliver of hope wondered - what would Arthur say? Is there a chance, even the slightest, that he might feel the same way? And what if he did, what then? Could there ever actually be something between them?
Unlikely though it seemed, the heat burning in Merlin’s chest swelled just at the thought of being closer to Arthur, at being able to show how much he cared in some way other than witty remarks and lingering glances. That thought gave him something to hold onto, to hope for, when there was nothing else for him amid the darkness that was overtaking his life. Arthur was his light, his beacon, cutting through the murky blackness that was ever sending smoky tendrils reaching for him, encircling him. Arthur was all of that and more, and Merlin wasn’t going to give that up without a fight.