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When Arthur wakes, the sky outside his window is heavy and half-dark with twilight, and Merlin is watching him, sitting hunched over in a chair across from him.
He lurches up out of the bed he has no memory of climbing into and promptly manages to tangle his legs in the bedclothes and fall flat on his face.
“You,” he breathes, feeling slightly wild with what might be fear or relief or both; “Merlin, you’re –” He stops himself, doesn’t want to finish that thought, doesn’t want to consider that he’s probably either just gone completely mad or is doomed to be haunted by Merlin’s ghost forever, because Merlin is dead and no one can come back from the dead.
“If you’re going to call for Uther, please do it now,” Merlin says quietly. “Because I don’t really enjoy being imprisoned and nearly killed, and I’d like to, you know, sort of get it over with.”
Arthur scrambles up. “No!” he says. “No, no. My father… no.” There’s a pang as he says it, some part of him crying out, but the sight of Merlin in front of him numbs it, makes it infinitely small and less important. Tension Arthur hadn’t seen before relaxes out of Merlin’s shoulders and the other man droops, looking exhausted.
He hesitates, looking at Merlin. He looks real enough, but Arthur doesn’t trust himself to know the difference between real and false anymore. “Aren’t you... dead?” he ventures finally.
A shadow crosses Merlin’s face. “As far as the rest of Camelot is concerned.”
“But you’re sitting here, in my chambers.” Arthur states, opting to feel utterly bewildered, because bewilderment is good, it holds off the sticky weight of guilt.
“Well,” says Merlin, and there is a bit of his old smile in his voice. “So I am, sire.”
“Then you’re not dead?”
“Not unless you want me to be.”
Arthur remembers, remembers betrayal and counter-betrayal and horror, and guilt comes crashing down again onto Arthur’s shoulders. “Merlin,” he says, desperate, but he can’t find the right words. “You have to understand. My father, he... I couldn’t let you go, not with Kay and Gawain there to see everything!”
“I know, my lord,” Merlin tells him, his voice gentle, and Arthur sinks back a bit, takes a breath to calm himself.
Merlin shifts in the chair, winces, and Arthur remembers that Merlin’s been in the dungeons a week without food or water, and was in a battle before that, and then was burned at the stake.
“You’re hurt,” he says, practically jumping for the door. “We need to get Gaius here, to make sure you’re alright.”
“I’m fine, Arthur,” Merlin tries to say, but Arthur will have none of it.
“You’re absolutely not fine, idiot,” he argues, “you’ve just been burned at the bloody stake.”
Merlin chuckles weakly. “Really,” he tells Arthur. “I’m alright. Gaius doesn’t need more trouble than he already has.”
Arthur snorts, but he turns away from the door. Merlin has a point; Gaius has had enough of a problem convincing Uther that he never knew about Merlin’s magic, is already looking grey and drawn and Arthur doesn’t really want to add to that.
He can’t sit still, though; Merlin is alive and the knowledge is searing through his veins. He has to do something, anything, or it will burn him up – but he chokes as he catches himself thinking that, presses the back of his hand to his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut to block out the image of Merlin surrounded by flames.
“Arthur,” Merlin says, and he opens his eyes again to find Merlin safely in front of him, sitting silhouetted against the growing night.
He perches on the arm of his own chair, studying Merlin’s dirty face. “How did you manage it?”
“Oh, you know,” Merlin says, and waves his hand. “Magic.”
Arthur can feel the laughter bubbling inside of him, but he’s afraid that if he lets it out it won’t stop until he’s cried himself dry on Merlin’s lap. So he bottles it up, presses it down until it’s no longer threatening to break loose.
He is still a prince, after all, even if what he’s doing now feels like treason.
“You’ve been doing magic all this time?” he asks, trying to keep his voice level.
Merlin shrugs. “Yes.”
He pauses, and because he can’t not say it, he says: “You shouldn’t have lied to me.”
“I’m sorry, sire,” Merlin says, but the anger Arthur had been expecting never flares.
“You really are the worst servant I’ve ever had,” he tells him instead, which true, and now he’s back on safe ground until Merlin smiles, sending giddy butterflies whirling through his chest. He clears his throat in an effort to maintain his gruff manliness. Butterflies are definitely unacceptable.
Merlin seems to take that as a signal. “I shouldn’t have come here,” he says, speaking quickly, “but I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go now that Gaius is being watched so closely.” Arthur wants to crow at that triumphantly, choosing to ignore the hot flash of jealousy that shoots along his spine because Merlin would have gone to Gaius first; it doesn’t matter because Merlin is sitting with him, so near that if Arthur reaches out a hand he could drag his fingers across Merlin’s warm cheek.
He starts at the impulse, unsure, and speaks to cover his uncertainty. “You did the right thing, coming to me,” he tells Merlin.
Merlin shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have. I should have left straight away, but...” he trails off and Arthur sweeps in to override him, mind steadily working away at the problem as he’s been trained to do.
“You wouldn’t have gone two miles before they caught you. Look at you, Merlin, you’re a disaster.” He stands again, calmer now that he has a mission. “We’ve got to get you out of here,” he says, rummaging through his cupboards. “You’ll have to borrow some of my old clothes; you can’t go around covered in blood.” There’s an worn old shirt of his and a pair of breeches he hasn’t worn in years that might fit Merlin; he throws them in a sort of vaguely Merlin-ish direction over his shoulder.
“Put those on,” he directs, and goes back to rooting through his wardrobe. He’s got a jacket here somewhere, he knows, a hideous quilted one some lord or other gave him which he never wore but will be perfect for keeping Merlin’s skinny arse warm.
He surfaces with the jacket in one victorious hand and turns to see that Merlin hasn’t moved. He puts his hands on his hips and glares. “Merlin,” he says. “Are you deaf?”
“I can’t go around in your clothes,” Merlin protests. “What if someone recognizes them? Then Uther will have your head as well as mine. Sire,” he adds, a pointed afterthought.
Arthur sighs. “My father will leave my head alone. And anyway, don’t worry, no one will recognize the clothes.” He grins, smug. “After all, it’s been years since I grew out of these.”
Merlin makes a face and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like prat, but he levers himself up out of the chair and gathers the clothes, clutching them to his chest. “Erm,” he says, and Arthur rolls his eyes. Leave it to Merlin to blush and be ridiculous about this sort of thing.
“I’ll even turn around,” he says, spreading his hands and making sure his exasperation shows through in his voice before putting his back to Merlin. “Now, put them on.”
Honestly, he thinks as he listens to the quiet rustling sounds of Merlin changing clothes. It’s not as if Merlin hasn’t seen Arthur change a hundred times; he doesn’t have to be such a girl about it all.
But Arthur’s breath catches as he imagines his shirt sliding down around Merlin’s pale skin, his breeches covering Merlin’s long skinny legs, and then he’s fiercely glad for Merlin’s shyness, for the fact that few people have probably gotten to see his manservant undressed. He nevertheless steadfastly ignores the urge that tells him to peek, to look over his shoulder and catch a glimpse of the creamy expanse of Merlin’s back.
“Finished,” Merlin says, and Arthur turns back around to face him, measuring, pushing the dangerous thoughts aside for now. The clothes are a bit loose, but they’ll have to do.
He tosses the quilted jacket at Merlin and tells him: “Stay here, and for the love of all that is holy, keep quiet and hide if anyone comes in. I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” Merlin calls after him, but he’s out the door and down the hall before he can give an answer, slipping through the growing shadows in the familiar corridors of the castle. The kitchens are his first stop. He flirts with a serving maid who’s been sweet on him since that unfortunate incident at Beltane until she gives him a basket of food and a loaf of waybread but flees before she can back him into some dark corner, escaping to the armory, which is silent and blessedly free of giggling maids.
It’s not that she’s not a nice girl, Arthur reasons as he gathers a few things. He’s just very busy right now. He’s got a lot on his mind: hopeless servants to rescue and the like. It has nothing at all to do with the shiver he gets from looking into Merlin’s eyes. That’s probably just some kind of sorcery Merlin’s learned in order to knock Arthur off his guard and make his mind all fuzzy.
Still, he actually doesn’t mind all that much if it is magic, as long as it means Merlin is still alive and still the same old obnoxiously stubborn Merlin, even if he seems a little stranger, a little more wary. Wariness will be good for Merlin, Arthur thinks, even if it has brought new darknesses into his old servant.
He knocks on his chamber door before realizing that he probably looks ridiculous knocking on the door to his own chamber and opens it, shutting it cautiously behind him. Merlin is nowhere to be seen, to Arthur’s approval. Perhaps Merlin isn’t all that hopeless after all.
“Merlin?” he calls out softly. “It’s Arthur.” There’s a beat of silence, and the gnawing of worry seeps up slowly into his shoulders, pulling his muscles tight. Maybe someone came in, Uther to discuss patrol for the morning, perhaps, and maybe Merlin’s been caught and now they’re just waiting for Arthur to betray his complicity in it all...
“Arthur?” Merlin’s voice sounds like it’s coming from his wardrobe. “Ow!” Arthur sighs – in exasperation, not relief, he tells himself – as Merlin tumbles out, rubbing his head.
“I brought you some food,” Arthur says, gesturing to the basket he’s set down on the table. “You should eat something now, and we can pack the rest of it for you.”
Merlin’s eyes brighten at the mention of food. “What do you mean, pack it?” he asks, digging through the basket feverishly.
“Well, you can’t stay here, idiot.” Arthur is packing a spare saddlebag with a few extra shirts, the waybread, and his second-best dagger, and is definitely not watching Merlin lick his fingers as he wolfs down cold chicken. “Or were you planning on getting executed again?” He grabs an empty waterskin – Merlin can fill it up at the first stream he comes to – and stuffs that in the bag as well.
“No, sire,” Merlin says between chews. “But I wasn’t really expecting to leave with, you know, anything, really.” He gestures at the bag Arthur’s filling.
Arthur gives him a flat look. “So you were expecting to march out of Camelot with nothing but your clothes – which, I might add, are filthy and you’ll have to destroy them before you leave because I refuse to touch them – and be absolutely fine?”
“I know how to survive in the woods,” Merlin says defensively, and Arthur shakes his head.
“I’m not talking about the woods, Merlin, I’m talking about getting out of Camelot, getting out of Albion before someone sees you and my father’s army hunts you down. Idiot,” he adds for good measure.
Merlin lets out a soft huff of breath, but doesn’t argue anymore, for which Arthur is grateful. He’s not entirely sure himself why he’s doing all this for Merlin, who is just his manservant when everything is said and done; all he knows is that he has to this, if only to prove Morgana wrong.
He glances out the window. “No moon tonight,” he muses out loud. “We’ll give it a bit longer and then sneak you out the back way to the stables.”
Merlin chokes on a piece of bread, and Arthur gives him a puzzled look. “What is it now?”
“You can’t give me a horse, my lord,” Merlin argues. Arthur doesn’t much like the tone he says ‘my lord’ in, but Merlin doesn’t give him a chance to say anything. “I’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”
“You’ll go faster.”
“But how long until someone asks me where I got my fine horse from, and why the royal seal is on the saddle?” Arthur sees the point, but he sets his mouth mulishly, unwilling to concede the point. He wants Merlin out of Albion as soon as possible, out of harm’s way sooner rather than later. Merlin looks at him earnestly. “Trust me, Arthur; it’s better for me to go on foot.”
Arthur’s never been much good at resisting that gaze, no matter how much he may dislike the fact. “Fine,” he says. “But I hope you get blisters all over your feet.”
Merlin smiles, and Arthur has to turn away to hide the deliciously warm feeling which spreads through him.
They spend most of the next hour in companionable silence until Arthur judges it’s dark enough to chance smuggling Merlin out of the castle. There is a secret passage out of the castle near Arthur’s rooms, a passageway built in case attackers ever breached the castle walls and the king’s family was forced to flee. Uther had shown it to Arthur when he was formally declared crown prince, with strict instructions never to reveal its existence to a soul, but Arthur is finished with trying to follow Uther’s every command. He respects his father for what he’s done to bring Albion together and make it strong, but he knows now in a deep, almost visceral sense that some things are more important than that respect, that some things run deeper even than the bond between father and son.
The passage is still there, musty from disuse and filled with dust. They follow it for what Arthur’s sure must be hours as the bag he’s carrying grown heavier and Merlin tries to muffle his sneezes as much as he can without extinguishing the torch he holds. Arthur’s not sure he’s been this nervous for years. Every echoed footfall is a maid running to sound the alarm, a guard come to run Merlin through without the courtesy of a public execution. He regrets leaving his sword behind more and more, if only to have it hanging from his belt purely out of comfort, but before he can suggest turning back to fetch it they are out of the passage and into the night.
The clearing they’ve emerged in is probably half a mile from the gates of Camelot, Arthur estimates; far enough that Merlin shouldn’t run into any trouble getting away from the city. He looks for Merlin to tell him and stops short.
Merlin is beautiful in the night. He’s put out the torch and is standing by the moss-covered dry well which serves as the exit to the passage, his face tilted up, his mouth open and his eyes closed, drinking – Arthur can think of no other word that fits – drinking in the faint starlight. All Arthur wants to do is watch him, soak in the way he looks right now, trace the lines of his body from his dangling hands to his eyelashes, dark crescents against the paleness of his face.
For a moment, he cannot speak through the sudden tightness in his chest. Then Merlin stretches, opens his eyes, and the moment is broken. Arthur clears his throat.
“I suppose this is goodbye.”
Merlin looks at him. “I suppose so,” he says.
“You’ve been the worst servant ever, you know, and I mean the worst,” Arthur says gruffly. “None of my other manservants ever came close to getting themselves executed for high treason.”
“My apologies, sire,” Merlin says, a twinkle behind his grave expression.
Arthur hesitates, then sticks out his hand. “Good riddance,” he offers.
“Don’t be such a prat,” Merlin replies, and pulls him into a fierce hug. Arthur wraps his arms around Merlin’s shoulders, holding him tightly in what he hopes appears to be a princely, masculine fashion and not like he’s clinging to Merlin for all he’s worth.
“What have I said to you about that kind of insubordination?” he asks when they pull apart, and there’s rain on his face despite the fact that there isn’t a cloud in sight.
“Ah,” Merlin says impishly, “but I’m not your servant anymore, my lord.”
“Perhaps not, but I can still thrash you in a fight,” retorts Arthur.
Merlin looks suspiciously smug. “If you say so.”
“I do say so,” Arthur says, and silence stretches heavily between them.
Arthur finally manages “Good luck, then,” with his last shreds of dignity, and turns away back to the secret passage, trying to imagine years, perhaps even a lifetime, without Merlin by his side, doing his best to ignore the hole yawning deep and dark in the pit of his stomach.
He’s got one foot in the mouth of the tunnel when Merlin’s “Arthur!” makes him whirl around, hopeful for something he can’t name, doesn’t understand past knowing that he wants.
Merlin hits him hard, limbs flying in all directions, and it’s a good thing Arthur’s bigger than he is, because otherwise they’d probably both be lying dead and broken at the bottom of the well instead of balanced on its edge, entwined so closely that Arthur can’t tell where he stops and Merlin begins.
The kiss is probably the worst Arthur’s ever had, possibly the worst kiss ever in the history of the world. It’s too much, too needy, too many teeth and noses in the way, but it still manages to completely steal his breath, his composure, his every sense of dignity. He grabs Merlin back, kissing him until he has to stop or they’re both going end up at the bottom of the well anyway because he’s about to lose all the feeling in his legs.
“I just want you to know,” Merlin says, breathless, grabbing the front of Arthur’s tunic and hanging on tightly, “I’m sorry for not telling you. I wanted to, but I couldn’t; I couldn’t risk you knowing.”
You thought I’d betray you? Arthur wants to ask, hurt, but he can’t, because he has betrayed, and has paid the price for that betrayal, knows it will haunt him for all the years to come.
Merlin sees the question written on his face and answers it anyway. “I couldn’t risk you getting hurt if I was discovered and it turned out you knew,” he says, and Arthur can feel something inside him wailing, breaking into a hundred pieces with that admission.
“Merlin,” he says, and stops, searching for the words. He grounds himself in Merlin’s clear eyes, focuses, because he knows he’ll only be able to say this once. “Merlin, I’m –” he starts again, but Merlin cuts him off.
“I know,” he says, and his eyes are warm. “You don’t have to say it. I already know.”
“You’ve been around Gaius too much,” Arthur accuses, but he feels lighter anyway, the heavy words gone, lifted away.
Merlin smiles and steps back. “Goodbye, Arthur.”
Arthur is steady this time, doesn’t look away from Merlin’s face. “Goodbye, Merlin.”
He watches Merlin trudge away and disappear into the woods, silently adding: Until we meet again. Because Uther won’t live forever; one day Arthur will be king and he knows exactly what he’s going to do first.
He sleeps soundly that night and the nights afterwards, warmed by his memories of the light in Merlin’s upturned face under the stars. Days are more difficult. Days bring more unpleasant memories. Some days, Arthur smiles at Gwen and Morgana, who have nearly forgiven him even if they still don’t know Merlin’s still alive. Other days Arthur feels Merlin’s absence like a wound, and he aches to see Merlin’s wide grin spread from ear to ridiculous ear, lighting up the day brighter than any sunshine. On those days he avoids both his father and Camelot’s public square unless he has no alternative.
The days crawl by into years, and each seems longer than the last, stretching on until the day Arthur can ride out and find Merlin seems impossibly far. But every now and then, word will reach Camelot of some unexplainable event, some rampaging beast mysteriously killed or blight-ravaged crops miraculously restored, and Arthur will smile, will breathe a little easier because somewhere Merlin is still alive, probably sleeping too late in the mornings and nearly getting himself killed through his own stupidity and too-big heart, and as long as Merlin is still alive he doesn’t mind waiting just a little longer.