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By the time the air’s grown cool with evening chill and the sun’s pressed below the trees, Arthur’s already too deep in the woods to turn back now.
Arthur supposes that’s as good a sign as any that this one-man search party isn’t the best idea— but, then, that thought sounds a bit much like Merlin’s voice, doesn’t it? That thought, and the others crowding against his skull with precautions and warnings and bitter remarks about how traveling out into bandit-ridden lands for a mere servant is far from one of Arthur’s greatest plans.
It’s easy to ignore those thoughts, though, when Arthur remembers exactly which servant it is he’s hunting for. There’s a reason why Merlin isn’t around to say all these snarky statements himself. He’s no doubt, either, that he’ll be hearing all these complaints in person soon enough; even if it’s to save his stupid life, Merlin’s never been one to let Arthur get away with risking his own.
Because what is the life of a servant, compared to that of a prince?
But Arthur’s not simply a prince, anymore, and he doesn’t take orders from servants.
Not that Merlin is much of a servant, anymore, either.
Best not to think about that right now. That particular wound— the lies, the secrets, the magic — has had its time to heal but that doesn’t mean all is entirely forgiven. How can it be, when the thought of Merlin still stings like a burn against Arthur’s chest? When Arthur still wakes in the middle of the night, Merlin’s name halfway to his lips before he remembers the gold in his eyes, the guilt in his voice?
When Arthur still stares emptily at the places Merlin should be— beside him, always— only to remember how his own voice had seemed to shake the palace walls as he declared Merlin a traitor.
As he declared Merlin exiled.
No. He can’t think about any of that.
Besides, it’s not as if he misses Merlin. Or worries about him or, gods forbid, cares about him. It’s just…
It’s just that a messenger arrived at the palace the other day, an old and stained red piece of fabric held tightly in his shaking hands. It’s just that he had news from slavers outside the kingdom’s borders.
It’s just that Merlin, for all his secrets and all his magic, has been caught and held as bait.
Your pet sorcerer, the messenger had said, as if Merlin’s secret was less than that— a title that all but Arthur knew. They say they’re willing to sell him back.
Well, if Arthur had ridden out against his best knights’ suggestions, it’s not because he cares. He owes Merlin a debt is all, for all the times he’s saved his life. And he’s a good king and Merlin was once a friend. He’d do it for anyone, really.
Still, if there’s a piece of him that flutters like sharp-winged butterflies in his chest— hot and cold at once— he doesn’t linger on it. And if he imagines Merlin caught in a cage, alone and afraid, and his heart clenches like Merlin’s own hand around it— he doesn’t linger on that, either.
“It’s not my fault the idiot got himself kidnapped,” Arthur mutters to nothing as he continues on his way, his horse snorting in response. “What sort of sorcerer is he, anyway, if he can get himself caught so easily? It’s barely been a month.”
Barely a month since Merlin turned his back and left Arthur’s kingdom simply because Arthur told him to. And that had hurt but it was better than seeing Merlin tied to a stake or kneeling over an executioner’s block. Not that Merlin— with his self-sacrificing heart, his skin still cut and bruised from the fight he fought on Arthur’s behalf— had seemed to care.
“For you, Arthur ,” he’d said. “Only for you.”
“Then, for me, leave. Don’t let me see you again.”
Not the most poetic parting words but they had gotten the job done.
A month, now. Arthur hasn’t seen Merlin in a month.
The woods seem to grow quieter as Arthur sighs; the sky seems a little bit darker. Like every hunt he’s had since Merlin’s exile, life has felt a little duller.
And, then, a shift in the trees behind him.
Arthur brings his horse to a stop.
“Who’s there?” He calls, his hand reaching for his sword. “Show yourself.”
The responding shuffling in the bushes is enough to confirm Arthur’s suspicions of a follower but, still, no one speaks. Arthur grunts, his more sentimental thoughts falling aside as he turns his horse to face the sound, face hard as he unsheathes his sword and points it into the dark space between the trees.
“I said—”
Perhaps he should have expected the dart lodging itself in the side of his neck. It’s not the first time he’s been trapped like this, after all.
Still, the sudden stabbing into his skin nearly takes him off his horse, the shock rising into alarm and panic as something courses into his blood, loosening his muscles and shortening his breaths.
“You can’t do this,” he says, his voice slurring. Gods, has it grown that much darker or are his eyes simply failing him? He can’t tell. “I’m—”
“We know who you are,” a gruff voice responds, emerging from the trees in the form of a tall, pale man. “Quick, get him off and tied up before it wears off.”
Hands at Arthur’s arms and legs, pulling him from the horse and tying rope around his wrists and ankles. Arthur kicks out and tries to hold onto his sword, swearing at his attackers as it’s pulled from his fingers as surely as a leaf from a branch.
“I’m here for Merlin,” he tries again, trying to nod towards the pouch of gold hung on the side of his horse. “To pay for his freedom.”
“And we thank you kindly for the payment,” the leader says, ripping the pouch free and weighing it in his palm. “But we assume a king is worth more than a man with a few magic tricks. Come on, boys, we can take him to his friend.”
Arthur’s eyes slip shut.
“But,” he says, the words slipping on his tongue the way they do when he’s had a touch too much wine. “But, Merlin, he… Merlin…”
He drifts into their forced sleep, Merlin’s name still on his lips. It’s nothing new.
<><><> <><><> <><><>
Merlin would very much like to clarify that this whole being kidnapped thing is Not His Fault.
In fact, this thing being Not His Fault is such an important detail of the entire debacle that it’s the first statement on his lips when the cell door opens for the first time in four days and a limp figure is tossed in with him.
Later, he’ll try to explain that it was his magic that told him it was Arthur with him, and not some delirious sense of hope that brought the recognition forward, his remark fading into a soft breath— his words nothing but a joke not worth saying.
(Of course, later, Arthur will smirk and say something about Merlin not having his magic during their time in the cell. Merlin will shake his head and ignore the statement— if turning the king’s shirt a lovely shade of blushing pink can count as ignoring the statement.)
The new prisoner— drugged and not happy about it— grumbles and pushes himself off to prop against the wall, the dim starlight from the barred window barely enough to cover his dirtied face.
But Merlin never needed a light to feel Arthur’s proximity.
Slowly, Arthur’s eyes open. Blue meets blue for the first time in a month.
Just like last time, though, Arthur’s eyes are narrowed and dark with an anger Merlin can taste— an anger like blood on steel, like despondency masking itself in rage and fire. They rest heavily over dark shadows, exhaustion hanging onto Arthur in a manner Merlin feels all too well. Though it’s late, the moon shines brightly enough for Merlin’s night-adjusted eyes to make out the tangles in Arthur’s hair and the resentful scowl shaping the corners of his lips.
Merlin supposes he can be forgiven for the way joy takes over the trepidation in his chest. Having been locked up for the better part of a week has left him dizzy with tiredness, aching for companionship. His captors stay in the upper part of the hideout, and there’s a slot in the bottom of the door for them to kick food and water through. Merlin’s grown tired of talking to shadows.
He has to clear his throat a few times before any words can form, his lips dry and his voice low.
“Couldn’t last a month without getting captured? Or did you really miss me that much?”
His voice is rough with something he hopes Arthur hears as fatigue, even though Merlin’s heart pounds with something much stronger than that— something not far from hope, something not far from fear.
Merlin’s breath catches as Arthur turns his head and shoves away from Merlin’s corner of the cell, falling into shadows and not the small light they’d been allotted by the sky. Though Arthur’s still there, Merlin still makes a small sound of loss as darkness eats him up, Merlin’s vision of him obscured once more.
“Oh, I’m the one who couldn’t help being caught, is it? You know, the point of exile is that it’s an alternative to death. Not that you’ve ever seemed to care about rules and procedures, oh no. Of course not, never you,” Arthur says. “You claim to have kept me safe all these years. How, then, have you ended up in a locked cell before the seasons have changed? Did you keep up the idiot act even after leaving Camelot? Or are you really just that bad of a sorcerer? Can’t see the point then, though, of practicing something illegal if—”
“Arthur, stop.”
It’s the same speech from before— the one with hot tears shining over cold eyes, the one with shaking hands and pleas that wouldn’t fall from Merlin’s throat. The speech Arthur gave in the voice of a broken boy trying to be king; the speech where Arthur saw only a traitor in his friend, only someone to send away than to trust. The words have changed, yes, but the hurt is still there. The pain still speaks louder than anything Arthur says.
Merlin shoves himself to his feet, his body thrumming with the energy that told him to run— the sorrow and ache that let him turn his back and leave. There’s nowhere, though, in this cell to run to, and his body falls limply back against the wall as a reminder of his weakened state. The sigils carved into the walls blocking his magic have seemed to eat into his very body, leaving him tired and hungry every second.
He doesn’t see Arthur turn his head to him but he does see the shadows shift. He hears Arthur curse and call him stupid and, then, he feels Arthur’s hands at his elbows, easily lowering Merlin back onto the brittle hay left in the corner as some mockery of a bed.
“Only you,” Arthur mutters as if Merlin isn’t meant to hear, as if the small fondness tucked beneath the annoyance is for Arthur’s ears alone. Merlin lets him have it, turning his gaze away from Arthur’s frown and towards the hands still holding onto his arms. “I know you said your magic was… was for me but did you really not think to escape?”
“They caught me while I was sleeping and they’ve a sorcerer of their own. They meant to only sell me as a slave, I think, but their sorcerer had supposedly done some scrying and found out who I am. What I am.” Merlin’s proud of the way his voice fails to waver. He almost sounds like he’s back in Camelot, whispering and sharing secrets with his king. “They’ve made sure to keep my magic away from me since then.”
“As I said,” Arthur tells him, looking so intensely into Merlin’s eyes that Merlin has to shut them before he does something stupid like cry, “only you.”
Arthur’s hands finally leave Merlin. A coolness rushes into the place where his touch had been.
A silence stretches out but it can’t have been longer than a moment before Arthur’s settling into a more comfortable sitting position and letting out a small breath.
“Did they hurt you?” He asks. “When they captured you, that is.”
And this isn’t the way to speak to a sorcerer you’ve banished. Merlin opens his eyes slowly, his hands curling into the fabric of his shirt. It’d be an easy question to answer if this was a month ago— I’m fine, but what about you, did they hurt you— but it’s not. Arthur made it clear he wasn’t forgiven and Merlin doesn’t know how to exist if Arthur’s not his friend.
In the starlight, though, Arthur’s not looking at him as if he’s the enemy, as if he’s something of magic and deceits. There’s something hidden in his eyes, something buried beneath cool indifference and frustration, and Merlin dares not imagine what that something may be.
Merlin shrugs.
“My chest, I guess,” he says. “These guys don’t seem to appreciate my humor as much as you do. But nothing’s really broken, I already checked.”
Pressing on his bruises hadn’t been the highlight of his life but it’s far from the worst thing he’s faced. Still, Arthur shakes his head and lets out another indecipherable breath.
“Then I suppose we wait,” he says, shoulder slumping. “The knights should be here soon enough.”
“Wait,” Merlin says, sitting up straight. “You mean to say you came alone?”
“Not without warning the knights,” Arthur says, an eyebrow raised. “There was a low risk of these slavers beating me in a real fight, and I couldn’t chance that they’d go back on their word to keep you alive if I went back on mine to come alone.”
Merlin looks down, his breaths quickly feeling like stones in his lungs. If the trap for Arthur had been a bit direr, a bit more dramatic… If these men sought power over money, or had let it be known that the king of Camelot would be traveling on his own…
Merlin swallows around the panic coating his throat. The guilt is a bit harder to ignore.
“You can’t be making stupid decisions like that,” he says in a low voice. “You’ve a kingdom counting on you. And did you stop to think of how I might feel if you were killed on a senseless rescue mission for me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’d do it for any citizen of Camelot,” Arthur says, standing once more. But he doesn’t move across the room or to turn his back— he moves to sit at Merlin’s side. Despite the coolness of his tone, he stays with Merlin; only shadows sit between them, shadows as thin as Merlin’s hopes had been of seeing Arthur again.
“But I’m not a citizen of Camelot anymore, am I?” In the dark, it’s easier to let these words spill out. Merlin’s breaths are terrified things, scraping across his throat as if wishing to stay in the safety of his chest. His heart beats with an uneasy thud. “You told me I wasn’t welcome there.”
Arthur’s answer is nothing but silence.
Merlin had imagined this moment a thousand times each night before falling asleep— the moment where he and Arthur speak once more, where there’s a chance to fix what had been lost. But imagining this moment had been like imagining the moment Arthur finally learned the truth about his magic. They’re both dreams and nightmares with twin shades, the best and worst-case scenarios with no room for middle ground. Hatred and rage or acceptance and destiny— Merlin had prepared for those but never for silence. Never for the pain he’s been in for the past month.
Merlin bites his tongue before bothering himself further. It may be best to follow Arthur’s lead and forgo words altogether. They can spend the night in the quiet, sitting in tension and thinking of things that might have been if Merlin was braver or better or anything other than what he is. Arthur’s knights will come and they’ll part ways, Arthur’s sense of duty restored as they understand they won’t be meant to meet again.
But Arthur, for all the years he's been in Merlin's life, has never been quite so predictable.
Merlin’s still spiraling when Arthur’s hand finds his own. A gentle weight, a presence atop his knuckles; Merlin nearly chokes on his next breath. He’d never known how easy it can be to recognize Arthur’s hand, to know each callus and fingerprint like a portrait he painted. Arthur’s own breaths seem to shift, longer and deeper than before— a forced calm, a way to ease the way his pulse must be battering at his skin. Merlin’s own heart skips a dozen beats, pounding so quickly he’s certain it’ll stop entirely.
“You still feel the same,” Arthur says in a voice that feels like nothing more than a confession. “You still feel like Merlin.”
It’s not the time for a joke or a light-hearted remark. Merlin’s certain he couldn’t get the tone right, anyway, if he tried.
“I never changed, Arthur,” he says to his knees, his legs pulled up towards his chest. “I don’t know how to prove it to you but… You’ve always known me. The magic doesn’t change any of that.”
Except for in the places where it does. In the places where Merlin lied and sneaked around behind his back, facing his enemies and fighting his battles. In the places where Merlin had rejected his own kind in order to save a man he hoped to call a friend. In the places where scars now stain Merlin’s skin, where nightmares still press into his mind. In the people he’s lost, the tragedies he faced with a smile and a joke for Arthur the next day.
In the way Arthur’s looking down at their hands now, not held but simply laid, one over the other. In the place between acceptance and trepidation. A place where anything and everything can change.
Even now, with Arthur’s cautious touch, Merlin’s still waiting for someone to show him what happens next. He’s used to that— to prophecies and destinies and riddles with a name that’s not quite his own. But there’s no one here but Arthur and the spying starlight on their skin. He doesn’t have to summon a dragon to know that he’s alone with this. That, perhaps, this has only ever been a moment meant to be faced alone.
When Arthur’s hand pulls away, Merlin’s hand follows. His fingers find Arthur’s wrist, simply touching the pulse. Never tugging, never holding.
Arthur stills.
Merlin lets his touch travel around Arthur’s skin without looking, venturing over his hand and wrist like they’re the map to a land he’s forbidden to touch. Arthur’s skin isn’t smooth— there are too many scars, too many battles for such a thing— but Merlin still finds himself surprised at the fine hair on Arthur’s lower arm, the cooled sweat from riding without stop to this place. Merlin can read his journey on his skin.
So his breath catches when he feels the rope burn and broken skin circling his wrist. Dried blood meets Merlin’s fingertips, stilling his actions lest he begin to tremble.
It’s a small wound but it’s enough to drag him back to that place, to those thoughts, to those damned what-ifs .
What if Arthur had been attacked by someone else? What if these slavers were really hired men meant to kill a king? What if Morgana had known he was traveling alone? What if he was hurt worse than this and Merlin could do nothing about it?
“You shouldn’t have come,” Merlin says, pulling his hand back despite the great effort it takes to let go of that contact. “I was exiled. You have no obligation or debt to me.”
Merlin only has a moment to really feel these words, their weight and implication, before Arthur’s snorting in such an achingly familiar way— there are many things about Arthur that Merlin hadn’t realized he would miss.
“Don’t be stupid.” Arthur’s not looking at him but Merlin still feels heat rise to his cheeks. “We both know I’m not here out of any debt.”
It sounds like so much more than it is, like the words must be heavy in Arthur’s mouth. Even Merlin feels as if he may be crushed beneath them.
So Merlin turns his head, his bruises feeling soothed for once as his mind is turned from the pain and towards other things. His eyes, adjusted to the dark, fall upon Arthur’s scrunched brow, his thoughtful lips. He can see the spot on his neck where a dart must have fallen, a wound barely worth noticing and, yet, a wound Merlin aches to touch and heal. Arthur’s not his to heal, anymore, though, so Merlin lets his eyes wander elsewhere.
Merlin had always wondered whether it was his magic that made Arthur look so profound, like a sword balancing the light of the sun upon its steel. A bright thing because magic has called Merlin towards Arthur, because they’re two sides of the same coin and that coin was made to shine.
Now, though, those thoughts slip away. Arthur is the sun and the sword, his eyes as sharp as they are bright.
Merlin’s month suddenly seems so dull now that light has finally reappeared. His memories of hiding in the forest, of finding work with villagers on the outskirts of Camelot, of staring at the sky and wondering why the blue isn’t the same as when he’s looking from Camelot’s windows… All these moments are suddenly shown as the shadows they are.
“I’m sorry,” Merlin says suddenly because, though they’ve the night and day before them, he doesn’t know when he’ll have the strength or courage to say it again.
Arthur jerks a little at the sound but, still, he doesn’t look to Merlin. “I know. And I knew it then.”
“Arthur—”
“And I am, too,” Arthur says, carrying on despite Merlin’s interruption. Merlin imagines he can see a tint of pink on Arthur’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, too.”
Merlin could ask what for— for the yelling, the accusations, the banishment— but he holds these words inside. Somehow, he already knows Arthur is sorry for all of it.
There’s nothing more for Merlin to say or do but his hand still aches for Arthur’s. Merlin shoves it beneath him to keep it from wandering off.
When time passes and it’s made clear that sleep is far from an option, Merlin finally looks away.
“If I had known a simple kidnapping was all it took to talk to you again, I would have let my guard down much sooner,” he says, licking his lips and testing the waters with the smallest of teasing in his tone.
He doesn’t look but he can feel Arthur’s smile.
“I’ve no doubt you would have.”
Everything that comes next is easy. Smiling, his breath forms a soundless laugh.
The weight from before slowly lifts even as the night grows cold and his eyelids grow heavy.
Merlin’s almost glad for the quiet, his buzzing mind slowing into a steady pace of Arthur smiling, Arthur teasing, Arthur here .
Outside, a cloud passes over the moon— quickly enough that the darkness only feels like a blink.
When Arthur turns to look at Merlin, Merlin doesn’t look away.
Blue on blue. Starlight and moonlight and that half-smile in Arthur’s eyes.
They’re still turned towards each other when sleep finally finds them.
<><><> <><><> <><><>
Merlin wakes with Arthur closer to him, his shoulder beneath Merlin’s head and his hand atop Merlin’s once more.
“Arthur?” Merlin mumbles, wanting to move away but not doing so in fear of waking Arthur.
Arthur’s hand tightens over Merlin’s. “Rest. The knights will be here before dark.”
Merlin’s face scrunches up. “What does that have to do with rest?”
The shudder beneath Merlin’s head could be a laugh or a snort. With the birds chirping outside, it’s hard to hear much else.
“Because you’ll need your energy for the ride back to Camelot.”
And of course Arthur wouldn’t ever officially say he was wrong for casting Merlin out. He wouldn’t own up to the fear in his chest when he’d heard he was captured— no, that will come years later, in the middle of nostalgia and remember-whens.
It doesn’t matter. Merlin knows what Arthur means; he’s sure he’d know if Arthur had left the words behind and done nothing more than take Merlin’s hand in his own.
As the sun rises higher in the sky, filling the room with warmth and light, Merlin almost feels guilty about this situation. About getting Arthur captured with him but, mostly, for being okay with it. The guilt, though, does nothing to keep him from pressing closer into Arthur’s side. And if Arthur presses back into him— well, perhaps the guilt is misplaced, after all.
Merlin shuts his eyes once more, safe in the knowledge that, when he wakes, he’ll no longer be alone.