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At the end of summer, they set out to kill a God. There are seven of them; the knights are five, and then there is the prince and his manservant. They leave in the afternoon, the air thick with honeyed light and the leaves shining emerald in the trees.

Arthur Pendragon has never killed a god before, nor has he tried to. Beneath his armor, his skin prickles with sweat. He fears that he is leading his men into danger, but he doesn’t know how to retreat.

Besides, he tells himself. Emrys likely doesn’t exist. He’s a children’s tale, a savior made up by the Druids when they needed someone to save them. For if Emrys really exists, where is he? Why has he not led the magic-users out of their chains?

Metaphorical chains, of course. Once caught, the magic user doesn’t have much time to live locked up in chains before their head is chopped off or they’re thrown onto a bonfire. They’re too dangerous to survive.

Arthur glances to his right, where Merlin sits astride his own horse. His face is clear and untroubled, and when he sees Arthur looking at him, he smiles.

“Is your bottom sore yet?” he asks Arthur, before adding, “I suppose you have too much cushioning for it to really hurt.”

Arthur gives Merlin a rude gesture. “I ought to fire you,” he says, as he does most days.

Merlin lifts his brows and tilts his head. “Really, sire?” he drawls, his vowels elongated, as he looks Arthur up and down. “How would you ever take care of yourself?” They’re too far ahead of the knights for them to hear this conversation, but Arthur still flushes at Merlin’s insinuation.

Often, manservants are not allowed to flirt with the men they serve. It’s traditional for a prince’s manservant to be obedient, to bow and scrape and obey. But Arthur has never been able to control Merlin, and lately Merlin’s behavior has gotten even worse as he makes his desire known.

And it’s not that Arthur doesn’t feel the same. He does.

Oh, gods, he does.

But.

Propriety, for one thing. And his duty to the kingdom. And the knowledge, half-buried in his brain, that if he let himself have Merlin, he would never be able to stop. Not even for a wife.

But he lets Merlin play this dangerous game.

Just then, Gwaine draws up behind them, calling out, “Are we going to make camp soon, Princess?”

Arthur glances up at the sun, which is beginning to dip in the west.

“We’ll ride a little bit longer,” he decides, and Gwaine shrugs before falling back. They do this on purpose, Arthur knows. They think that there’s something between him and Merlin, and they do all they can to foster this love and keep it strong.

Now, Arthur sniffs and says, “To your earlier point, I can take care of myself perfectly well.”

Sitting back in his saddle, Merlin says, “Can you now?” and Arthur’s hands involuntarily flex over the reins.

Merlin will be the death of him.

Of course, that’s assuming that this god won’t kill him first.

“Kill Emrys, and magic dies,” the Witchfinder had said as he stood in the Great Hall, his hands clasped before his stomach. And Agravaine had nodded solemnly, and later he had told Arthur that he had to do what was best for the kingdom.

A Camelot free from magic. Arthur can barely imagine it. He’s lived in its shadow his entire life. It’s his father’s dream, to see the kingdom rid of the scourge of sorcerers, and Arthur will do anything he can to realize that dream.

He will do what his father failed to do. He will kill magic once and for all.

When they finally stop for the night, the sky is mostly dark, and there’s a bite to the air. They gather round the fire, the flames casting shadows over their faces and making their features seem to morph.

Merlin roasts a rabbit stew over the fire, and Arthur complains that it’s bland.

“You ration the salt, then,” Merlin mutters, and Arthur says, “Maybe I will,” though he knows that he’ll leave it to Merlin in the end.

Unsurprisingly, the conversation around the fire turns to the god they have to kill.

“I’ve heard of Him before,” Elyan offers. “On my travels.” The others turn towards him and wait for him to go on. “I’ve been all over the Five Kingdoms, and everywhere I’ve found His worshippers.”

“What do they believe?” says Leon, his expression inscrutable.

Elyan pokes the fire with a stick, releasing a shower of golden sparks. “They think that he’s magic’s savior. When King Uther cut down on Camelot’s magic…” He trails off and glances at Arthur nervously. Arthur gestures for him to continue, and Elyan does so, though tentatively. “When King Uther cut down on Camelot’s magic, it disrupted the whole ecosystem. Sorcerers everywhere feel the loss. They think that Emrys is the one who will bring magic back to Camelot and save them all.”

There’s a silence as this sinks in. As everyone thinks what it would mean for the magical people to be saved. Leon shivers, imagining all the evil sorcerers he’s ever witnessed marching together, spreading their spells. Elyan, who’s seen more of the good that magic can do, imagines something else entirely.

“When we kill Emrys, that’s when they’ll be free,” says Arthur, staring into the flames. “They won’t be able to do magic anymore, and eventually they will forget what it was like. And the world will be a safer place.”

His head bowed, Merlin listens furiously.

Look. We all know who Merlin is. He’s Merlin, yes, but he’s also He Who Smote Nimueh and The One Who Commands Dragons. Somehow the sorcerers learn of his deeds, probably through visions, and his titles accrue like leaves on the ground in autumn. Merlin doesn’t know what to do with all of them, to be honest. He doesn’t feel much like a god, which is what they think he is.

And he’s not. Is he?

***

One week ago, Merlin’s life was much simpler. At least, as simple as a life can be when you’re a sorcerer hiding his magic in the heart of Camelot. Uther was ill, but Arthur, with Agravaine by his side, had a strong grasp of the kingdom. For nearly three years, Camelot had increased in prosperity. Arthur was beloved by his people, and Merlin was beloved by Arthur.

Not that Arthur ever let on, of course. Instead, he’d hit Merlin round the head, throw goblets at him, keep him up most of the night polishing armor. He’d never had a parent teach him how to wield love. Uther had shown his own affection through his high expectations, his demands that Arthur be the perfect prince. And Arthur had never had a mother.

Merlin minded, but he also had his magic to help him, though he felt rather indignant that Arthur didn’t know about the magic and still buried him beneath chores. Though probably the expectations would be lower if Merlin didn’t use magic to hurry things along.

“Merlin,” Arthur said one night in the bath as he leaned back with his head on the rim of the tub, “come wash me.”

Across the room, Merlin was straightening Arthur’s desk, but now he came to Arthur’s side. “Would it kill you to do it yourself once in a while?” he teased, pouring water over Arthur’s head. It dripped off his face, droplets forming on the end of his nose and chin and lashes. Merlin swallowed thickly as he rubbed his hands with soap before massaging it into Arthur’s hair.

His eyes shut, Arthur let out a moan. “That feels good,” he said sleepily, and Merlin bit the inside of his cheek.

Next, he washed Arthur’s face, his palms sliding over Arthur’s cheeks and running down his neck. He pushed Arthur forward before digging his thumbs into Arthur’s trapezius muscles, and Arthur gave a soft groan.

Did he know what he was doing to Merlin? Merlin suspected that he did. Sometimes, they would stop and look at each other, and Merlin would become convinced that they were about to kiss. That at any moment one of them would lean forward, and they would tumble into the irrevocable.

So far, it hadn’t happened.

“What did you think of court today, Merlin?” said Arthur as Merlin continued to massage him. He often did this, asking for Merlin’s advice at night, when the lines between them seemed to blur.

“Agravaine made many of your decisions,” said Merlin, and Arthur tensed beneath him.

“A wise king consults advisors.”

Merlin tilted his head to acknowledge this, then added, “But maybe you should have more advisors than Agravaine.”

Arthur twisted around in the bath to look at Merlin, the ripple of his muscles sending a corresponding ripple through Merlin’s abdomen. “I have you,” said Arthur, looking up at Merlin.

Merlin was desperately fending off an erection, but heat continued to gather low in his belly. He swallowed, hard, and looked back down at Arthur. Wordlessly, he took Arthur’s right arm and began to wash it.

He imagined pressing Arthur’s face against his bulge. “You made this,” he would say. “Now take care of it.”

But this thought didn’t help at all, and Merlin was dizzy with his arousal. The heat from the bath didn’t help, either. He felt almost feverish.

“Besides, I thought Agravaine made many salient points today,” said Arthur, turning back around. “He sorted out the dispute between the landlord and tenant rather nicely.”

“For the landlord,” said Merlin.

“He needed payment,” said Arthur. “That’s reasonable.”

Merlin tutted. “But he hadn’t raised the rent for twenty years. He shouldn’t have done so with no warning.”

“Maybe I should ask you for advice while I hold court,” said Arthur. “How respectable that would look, the prince turning to his manservant.”

“Is that not what you’re doing now?” Merlin said, though he knew that he ought to hold his tongue. Arthur’s muscles tensed beneath his hands, and then, surprisingly, he laughed.

“All right, Merlin. You win this round.” There was a smile in his voice.

Afterwards, Merlin dressed Arthur in his bedclothes. The cloth rustled over Arthur’s skin, caressing him the way Merlin longed to. When Arthur slipped beneath the covers, Merlin imagined him holding them up and saying, “Come here, Merlin,” in that imperious tone. But Arthur said nothing, just flopped on his side and closed his eyes. Merlin blew out the lamp.

***

Currently, Lancelot is on guard. He sits against a tree and watches the dark forest for signs of movement. He knows that Merlin is a sorcerer, and he wonders if he knows about Emrys. If he believes in this tale.

Lancelot looks at Merlin’s sleeping form, curled up beside Arthur, and sighs. He worries for his young friend. Merlin is reckless, perhaps due to his youth, and Lancelot fears that one day he will reveal himself.

On that day, Arthur will have a decision to make. Lancelot doesn’t know what Arthur will choose, but he hopes that he’s right when he thinks that Arthur will land on the side of good. Lancelot’s afraid that this journey will stir up secrets better left buried. He hopes that it will not.

Gwaine shifts in his sleep and mumbles something under his breath that sounds an awful lot like, “Just one more pint.”

Lancelot worries for Gwaine, as well. He knows that Gwaine has seen things, things that continuously drive him to the tavern. He drinks until he can’t remember the atrocities he’s seen, and then he drinks some more. The only reason he’s still a knight of the round table is because he hides his proclivities from Arthur.

As you may have gathered, Lancelot is a kind soul. It’s rare to find one of those in the wild, but here he is, hand on the hilt of his sword, brow furrowed in distress.

He hopes, for everyone’s sake, that they don’t find Emrys. He doesn’t know what will happen if they do.

***

The morning dawns bright and blue, and the knights are already on their way. They travel west, towards the isle where Emrys is said to sleep.

Merlin doesn’t know where this myth came from. He’s currently not sleeping beneath the water. In fact, he’s very much on land. But stories about Emrys seem to take on a life of their own, becoming only tangentially related to Merlin.

As they ride, he focuses inward, trying to see if he can ferret out any hint of godly power. He’s magical, he knows that, literally magical, filled tip-to-toe with an ancient force that longs to be let out. But it’s all he’s ever known, and he doesn’t know how others feel inside their bodies.

At least they won’t find Emrys. About that, Merlin has no worries. They’ll get to the isle, and they’ll cast in the Witchfinder’s stone, and no great being will stir to wakefulness.

The Witchfinder came to Camelot the day after Merlin and Arthur argued about the landlord and his tenant. He came in a dark cloak, with a solemn expression on his face, and Agravaine had welcomed him heartily.

“Camelot has not had a good history with witchfinders,” Arthur told Agravaine, but Agravaine shook his head.

“I know this man. His name is Gareth, and he knows of what he speaks.”

“’Tis true, your majesty,” said the man—Gareth—lowering his head. They were alone in the throne room, just Arthur, Agravaine, Merlin, and the Witchfinder Gareth.

Merlin tried to hide his distrust as he looked at Gareth’s narrow, wrinkled face. No good would come of this man’s presence in Camelot.

“He cured my household of several sorcerers,” Agravaine said, clapping Gareth on the back. “I don’t know what I would have done without him.”

“And they were certainly sorcerers?” said Arthur.

Agravaine stared. “Of course! I saw them do magic with my own eyes.”

And Arthur trusted Agravaine, so the Witchfinder dined with them. At supper, Merlin stood behind Arthur, the wine pitcher clutched in his hand. He watched as the Witchfinder devoured his food, ripping the meat from the bone with his fingers and chomping it with his too-sharp teeth.

“I am not here to find sorcerers in the court,” the Witchfinder said once the dishes were cleared away. “I am afraid that I’m too old for such a task.”

“Then why are you here?” said Arthur, who was no friend of witchfinders after the last one blew through Camelot like a tornado, nearly destroying innocent lives in his wake.

Gareth spread his bony fingers out on the tabletop. “There are whisperings, sire.”

“Whisperings?”

“Whisperings,” Gareth said, “of Emrys.”

A poke to the side pulls Merlin out of his reverie.

“What?” he says to Arthur, a little too irritably, and Arthur raises his brow.

“I’m sorry, were you having a nap?”

Merlin glowers. “What is it?”

Arthur licks his lips, then said, “We’re coming up on a stream. We should stop so the horses can drink.”

“I don’t know what he had to poke me for,” Merlin says to himself as they rein in the horses by the stream. The knights dismount and stretch.

Merlin sits on a rock and watches as Arthur kneels by the water and splashes some of it on his face. He shakes his head like a dog, and the sight is so familiar that it brings a lump to Merlin’s throat.

Leon, standing a bit apart, notices the way Merlin stares at Arthur like a starving thing. Once, Leon had a lover, but the plague that swept through Camelot’s water supply years ago had killed him. It’s not easy, going on when you’ve lost the love of your life. But Leon had a duty to do, and he did it.

Lancelot also watches Merlin and Arthur, though for a different reason. The two of them are closer than one would think a prince and his manservant could get, but such a great secret divides them. He hopes it won’t break them apart.

Arthur himself is oblivious to those watching him. He sighs in relief at the cool water dousing him and rises from the shore. “It’s time to continue.”

***

After bringing up Emrys, the Witchfinder fell silent. Merlin’s heart beat a tattoo inside his chest, and his mouth was dry. The spike of adrenaline made his pupils dilate, and the room seemed to grow brighter. He forced himself to take deep breaths. Not to let the Witchfinder’s words get to him. But he felt as though a red light were surrounding him, as though it had to be obvious that he was the one of whom the Witchfinder spoke.

“Who is Emry?” Arthur said after a pause, and the Witchfinder turned his gaze to him.

“You have not heard of Him?”

Agravaine cut in. “Arthur’s mind has been on different matters.”

“Who’s Emrys?” said Arthur, looking at his uncle, then back at the Witchfinder.

“Emrys is a god,” the Witchfinder said simply, and it was then that Merlin almost snorted. Almost. He held himself back just in time, and a good thing, too, because who knew what would happen if he actually did.

He was used to the Druids treating him as though he were something divine, but not once had any of them come close to implying that Merlin was a god. He wasn’t anything of the sort. He was a sorcerer, to be sure, and an immensely powerful one at that, but he wasn’t a god.

Sometimes, the one who knows someone the least is the person themself, for the Witchfinder certainly seemed to know about Emrys.

“He comes from the Forest Sauvage,” Gareth said in his low, scratchy voice. “He sleeps in an isle a week’s ride from here. When he wakes, he will lead the sorcerers back into the light. They will attack Camelot and tear it to the ground.”

Agravaine, always eager to help, said, “How can we stop this?”

The Witchfinder reached into a deep pocket and withdrew a dull stone. It didn’t look like much to Merlin. “If you throw this into the waters of his isle, he will wake, and he will rise to fight you.”

“And how will I fight a god?” Arthur said, irony in his tone.

“With a sword forged in a dragon’s breath,” said the Witchfinder. “I believe you have one right there.”

Merlin nearly gasped. How did the man know about Excalibur? It was impossible! And yet he did.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Arthur, and the Witchfinder laughed.

“No, you wouldn’t. Suffice it to say that your sword is enough to end Emrys’s reign on this earth. And when Emrys dies, magic dies with Him.”

After dinner with the Witchfinder, Arthur and Merlin retreated to Arthur’s chambers. Arthur had already bathed before supper, but he ordered another bath, and Merlin obliged. Both of them remained quiet and lost in thought as Merlin rubbed soap over Arthur’s body.

“What do you think I should do?” said Arthur, and Merlin pursed his lips.

“It sounds like nonsense to me,” he said. “Gods sleeping underwater, waiting for a stone to wake Them up.”

Arthur’s resulting silence worried him. He expected it did not point towards anything good.

***

They ride through the green forest, the grass bending beneath their horse’s hooves, and the wind rustling through the trees. The branches form a canopy above them, blocking out the sun, and they are covered by cool shadows. Merlin breathes in deeply, takes in the scent of the loamy earth and the hint of water from the stream. He can smell insects, too, and birds, and all sorts of things that ordinary men cannot, though Merlin doesn’t know this. To him, this is what the world has always been like.

They are on a quest to kill him, and yet Merlin is strangely peaceful. He does not think that the stone will do much. After all, he is Emrys, and he isn’t waiting for a stone to wake him up. He’s already awake.

The narrowness of the path forces them into single-file, and Merlin stares at Arthur’s back. He can see the sweat trailing down Arthur’s neck and dampening his hair—smell it, too, and it smells so good—and when Arthur looks around at Merlin, his face is also damp.

“It’s hot,” Merlin says, and Arthur laughs.

“As always, Merlin, your observational skills are excellent.” He grins crookedly, showing off that sharp canine, the canine that Merlin sometimes imagines dimpling the flesh of his neck.

It’s hard for Merlin, sometimes, to shut off these thoughts that run through his head. They seem to gain complete possession of him until he doesn’t know quite what to do with himself. He rests his forehead against his horse’s neck and closes his eyes, just for a moment. He is overwhelmed with love, and it staggers him.

It staggers him.

***

That night, they stop at an inn to rest, Arthur pretending to be just another knight. Arthur and Merlin sleep in the same bed, and Merlin lies half the night rigid on his own side, horribly aware of Arthur’s warm body.

“Stop fidgeting,” Arthur mutters, and Merlin tries, but anxiety overcomes him. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. When he thinks about the quest, he gets only more anxious. They’re going to kill a god, and not just any god—Merlin.

It’s enough to tie his stomach up in knots. Which makes him think that perhaps he isn’t a god, after all. Because surely a god wouldn’t get so nervous?

But Merlin is nervous, and he suffers silently all the way until morning.

In the next room, Elyan rooms with Percival and Gwaine. They sit up talking about gods.

“There are many of them,” Elyan tells them. “But Emrys is said to be the most powerful.”

Percival and Gwaine exchange a look.

“Do you think that Arthur will be able to fight Him?” says Gwaine, and Elyan shrugs.

“We’ll be there to help him,” he says.

***

The next day, they encounter Druids. There are three of them, all of them wearing green cloaks. They step in front of the horses, forcing them to stop.

“King Arthur,” says the one in front, a woman. She bows her head, and the two behind her follow suit.

If Arthur is surprised, he does not show it. He’s used to the Druids springing their odd traps.

“You seek Emrys,” says the woman, and Arthur nods. “I do.”

Behind him, Merlin thinks, Don’t tell him. Don’t tell him.

The woman glances at him, and a small smile plays along her lips. Merlin’s heart sinks. But instead of stating Merlin’s true identity, she says, “I would not do that were I you. Emrys is a powerful force. He will not be wakened lightly.”

“And yet I must wake him,” Arthur says calmly.

“You will destroy the world with your hubris,” the woman says sharply, and Arthur remains silent. “Magic is in everything,” the woman continues. “It is in the plants, and it is in the sky and the clouds, and it is in you.”

This is too much. Arthur draws his shoulders back before saying, “I assure you, there is no magic within me.”

“Hubris,” the woman repeats, and then she and the other Druids literally melt away.

For a long moment, no one moves.

“Did we just see what I think we just saw?” Percival says at last.

“They disappeared.” Elyan doesn’t sound surprised.

“Come on,” Arthur says roughly. “We don’t have time to lag about.”

***

They reach the lake on the seventh day. Merlin takes in its rolling blue waters, the island in the middle. As the group huddles on the shore, there is a general sense of, Now what? Arthur produces the rock and rolls it around his hand. Then he tosses it, underhand. It arcs against the cool blue sky and lands in the lake with a splash.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then Merlin feels it

He feels

He

***

“Um,” says Elyan, shading his eyes. “Why is Merlin glowing?”

***

Oh, thinks Merlin. Now I’m awake.

***

Merlin has been awake before. In fact, He’s spent over half his life awake. As in, not sleeping. As in, eyes open, taking in the world and giving some things back.

But He’s never been—He’s never been this.

He rises from the ground, air rushing against him as He spirals into the sky. Arthur and the knights turn into dots against the green, and then they’re gone as Merlin plunges through the clouds. Water burns off into mist against His skin, and then He’s above the clouds and staring down at the blanket of white.

Oh, gods. He’s never going to be able to explain this to Arthur.

***

On the ground, Arthur stares blankly at the sky. His hands hang loosely by his sides. In his mind, things are connecting. Realizations are being had, realizations that he doesn’t want to have. Realizations such as, there is something wrong with Merlin and Merlin might have magic and I’m going to have to kill Merlin.

“Sire?” It’s Gwaine, his voice guarded. He doesn’t say anything else, just that.

Lancelot steps forward. “It’s Emrys,” he says. “He must be doing something to Merlin.” And he thinks: Merlin? Is Merlin Emrys?

Percival scratches the back of his head. “Why Merlin?” he says, which is an excellent question, and one that Lancelot wants to hit him over the head for.

That’s when Merlin comes plummeting out of the sky. He lands in a crouch, His hair wind-whipped, and rises slowly to meet Arthur. He’s still glowing, and His eyes are molten gold. “Arthur,” He says, and there’s an unearthly echo in his voice. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

“Find out what,” Arthur says, his voice flat. His emotions are very far away.

Merlin holds out his hands, light seeping from them, and cups Arthur’s cheeks. They’re the same height, but somehow Merlin feels taller.

“She’s calling me,” Merlin says, stepping away, His gaze shifting. “The witch. That’s what the stone does. It’s an attempt to bind me to her.” He closes his eyes for a moment, the glow of His irises shining through the thin skin of His lids. Then He opens them and smiles slightly. “She’s underestimated me. I can’t be bound by mortal magics.”

He turns to face the knights, some of whom are watching him with open mouths. “My friends.” He turns to Arthur. “My king.”

And the god kneels.

Arthur stares down at Him with a dry mouth and a barren heart. He can barely feel its beating. Part of him wants to scream. Wants to strike Merlin across the face for lying to him. For being a god all this time. He knows if he lets it, it will hurt, and hurt badly.

“I’m not your king,” he says tonelessly. “I thought you can’t be bound by mortals.”

Merlin peers up at him with something like curiosity. “But, Arthur, I’ve given my life to you.” He reaches up and takes Arthur’s hands, curling them within His own. “I never meant to be a god. I meant only to be yours.”

Arthur’s throat aches with unshed tears, and he pulls his hands out of Merlin’s grip. “But you were never mine, were you? You were always this…this thing.”

“Arthur,” Lancelot says sharply.

Rising and taking a step back, Merlin examines Arthur, looking betrayed, as if He has any right to feel that way after lying to Arthur for all these years.

And that’s when Arthur draws his sword and presses the tip to the hollow of Merlin’s neck. Merlin doesn’t move. He just stands there, looking over the blade into Arthur’s face.

“Do it, then,” Merlin says quietly. 

“No!” Lancelot and Gwaine both start forward at the same time, but Merlin holds up His hand, silently telling them to stay back. This is not their fight.

Merlin and Arthur stare at each other. It almost hurts Arthur’s eyes to look into Merlin’s golden gaze. He thinks he might be sick.

And I never even got to kiss him.

It’s this thought, above all else, that breaks Arthur apart. Because he always assumed one day, somehow, he and Merlin would get their kiss. And now…

And now, Merlin may be a god, but it’s in Arthur’s hands.

He drops his sword.

He takes a step forward.

He cups Merlin’s face in his hands and pulls Him close.

When they kiss, the flowers bloom. When they kiss, the clouds disperse. When they kiss, the knights silently fall back and leave them to their moment.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathes against Arthur’s lips.

“Merlin,” Arthur says back, and he kisses Merlin’s cheek. Merlin’s skin burns against his own, and the sun is hot, and Arthur can’t tell if he’s making the worst mistake of his life, but he can’t let go. He won’t let go. Not of Merlin, not anymore.

Because Merlin may be a god, but He’s still Merlin, and that’s good enough.

It has to be.