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Merlin coughs up a petal watching his Prince train with the knights. It’s small, light purple, ovoid. He discreetly hides it in his pocket when Arthur complains about Merlin being slow and hurries to reset the targets. His heart pounds unsteadily. Gaius had told him that some sorcerers could be affected by a disease called Hanahaki when they suffered from unrequited love.

But there’s no way Merlin was in love with someone! Or anyone in particular! Certainly not with an annoyingly attractive Prince with stupidly perfect blonde hair!

The petal probably just… floated through the air. And got caught in his mouth when he wasn’t paying attention.

That’s definitely it.

When Arthur turns back to destroying his targets, Merlin slips the petal out of his pocket and drops it to the ground. He steps on it for good measure.

It’s harder to pass the next instance off.

“I kissed Gwen,” Arthur announces, flopping onto his back on his bed. Merlin chokes at the unexpected surge of jealousy that strangles his heart. He coughs to dislodge the lump in his throat, and his stomach sinks at the sight of three bright yellow, seashell-shaped petals. A drop of blood stains one of them, and there’s a residual tang of iron as he swallows. A sharp pain as his throat constricts on a scrape.

“Merlin?” Arthur says, annoyed. “Are you gonna say anything? Did you even hear me? What do you even use those ridiculously large ears for?” There’s the sound of feet tapping against the ground. Merlin shoves the petals into the fire and surges to his feet.

“Of course, I heard you, my lord,” Merlin replies with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, fighting the urge to cover his ears self-consciously. “I was just shocked. I couldn’t believe she’d kiss you. Gwen used to be such a good judge of character.”

Arthur lunges for him. Merlin’s too slow to avoid getting tackled. The Prince wraps his arm around Merlin’s neck and digs his knuckles into Merlin’s hair. Even as his skull throbs in pain, his heart dances in joy at the familiar, friendly contact.

Eventually, Arthur lets him escape, ordering him to go continue whatever chores he’s assigned him. Merlin rolls his eyes again and manages to leave the chambers. Once he makes sure there’s no one around, he finally allows himself to cough. His throat tingles as he expels a clump of the same purple petals from the training grounds.

This can’t be happening. He’ll never be able to hide his magic if he’s constantly coughing these up.

Maybe there’s something in one of Gaius’ books about this.

Merlin stuffs the petals into his pocket. After he completes his chores, he’ll look it up.

He stares at the words in the book and blinks. They’re still blurry, unreadable. He blinks again. Tears splash down. Oh. Merlin hastily wipes them off the book and digs his palms into his eyes. His heart squeezes painfully as something akin to grief washes over him.

There are three ways to rid himself of the Hanahaki disease. Reciprocal love. Fall in love with someone else. Or… a ritual that would destroy all of his emotions for the person who’s the target of his unrequited feelings. He’d feel nothing for Arthur if he went through with that.

Merlin can never—could never do that.

The door to Gaius’ chambers cracks open. Merlin hastily closes the book and shoves it away as Gaius enters. The physician narrows his eyes at Merlin, who smiles innocently, hoping it doesn’t look as tremulous as it feels. Hoping it doesn’t reflect the anguish wrapping around his heart.

Hanahaki will slowly kill him. It’s just petals for now. Soon it will be whole flowers. Then stems and roots will start to grow in his lungs and throat until he can no longer breathe around them. A slow, merciless death. A painful death. That’s what’s in store for Merlin if he doesn’t go through with the ritual.

“If you’re just going to be lazing about, make yourself useful and go fetch some borage,” Gaius says. “There should be some growing at the edge of the forest by the lake.”

Merlin nods, though Gaius’ back is to him. “Alright. I am done with His Royal Prattiness’ chores for the day anyways. A ride sounds nice.”

“Merlin—” Gaius turns to scold him, but he slips out the door before Gaius can get the rest of the sentence out. Merlin can still feel the weight of Gaius’ eyebrows follow him to the stables.

On the ride to pick borage, the jostling of the horse knocks a new type of petal loose from his chest. A blue tear-shaped one.

He becomes accustomed to the ache in his throat every time he swallows, the trace of iron mixed into his food, and he’s perfected the art of ignoring the burgeoning emotions he feels every time he looks at Arthur. Well, most of the time, he just feels annoyed with the absolute cabbage-head. But occasionally, the sun will catch his hair just right, or his smile will be a little more genuine, a little fonder, or Arthur will prove that Merlin’s faith that he’ll be an amazing King is justified.

Alright, maybe he hasn’t perfected it, but he’s working on it!

Merlin has a collection of petals now. After Freya… the precious few memories he had of her… the way her presence had alleviated the scattered expulsions of petals… he’d finally caved and searched through Gaius’ library to identify the flowers that tortured him with the inescapable reminder of his unrequited love for Arthur.

Purple lilac, the first petal, symbolizing first love, which… yes. Maybe Arthur is.

Yellow rose, the petals from when Arthur had told him about kissing Gwen, symbolizing jealousy, which… yes. Maybe he had been jealous. Is jealous. They might have shown up a few more times.

Bluebell, loyalty. Which is just ridiculous…ly true.

And the other petals that have shown up. Gardenia, secret love. Peony, bravery. Purple tulip, royalty. Astrantia, borage, Verbascum, courage. A story unfolding in the—

“They… care for each other, don’t they?” Arthur suddenly says.

Merlin looks away from the fire, blinking away the bright spots remaining in his vision, to shoot Arthur a confused look. The Prince is staring over the fire. He follows Arthur’s gaze to Gwen and Lancelot, who are sitting next to each other, obviously avoiding eye contact with each other.

“She likes you,” Merlin forces himself to say.

“I know that, Merlin,” Arthur scoffs. “Who wouldn’t like me?”

Well, there goes any sympathy Merlin might have had.

“You’re a total prat,” he says. “I’d choose Lancelot over you.”

Arthur’s eyes are suddenly, intensely locked on him. “Would you?” he asks quietly.

Merlin swallows. “Nah,” he replies, his thick tongue betraying his attempt at a lighter tone. “You wouldn’t last one day without me. You’d miss me too much.” He can’t breathe between the familiar feeling of petals clumping in his throat and the way Arthur doesn’t respond.

“Yeah,” Arthur finally replies. “I would.” And Merlin can’t. The seriousness of the tone, the sincerity in his gaze, the… fondness. It’s too much.

He stands abruptly. “I’m gonna go… collect some more firewood!” Somehow he manages to speak around the rising petals filling his throat, and he runs off. Merlin barely makes it out of earshot before he’s retching up the flowers, catching them in the palm of his hand.

There’s more of them this time. Merlin can feel it, barely make it out from the dim moonlight. It’s tempting to conjure fire, but he stifles the impulse. His hands shake as he maneuvers awkwardly around the petals in his hand to uncap his waterskin, and then he lifts it to his lips, the water washing down the remnants of blood.

A twig snaps behind him. Merlin spins around, heart leaping into his already sore throat. He blinks against the blinding torchlight.

“Merlin? Are you alright?” Lancelot’s voice cuts through the night. “What is—Is that blood? Merlin!”

Merlin’s eyes close in relief. It’s just Lancelot. He already knows about Merlin’s magic. He opens them again with a rueful smile. “It’s nothing. Just, um… stepped wrong and bit my tongue.”

Lancelot’s eyes narrow, Merlin’s only warning, before the other man steps forward and snatches Merlin’s arm, pulling it into the torchlight. Revealing his bloody hand. The petals in his hand.

“Is this… Hanahaki?” Lancelot asks. “I’ve only heard stories. Who…?” He trails off, but Merlin knows what he was going to ask. Who does Merlin have an unrequited love for? The answer has to be obvious. His teeth grit in frustration, even as there’s sharp relief that it’s not a secret anymore.

Lancelot’s eyes soften. Merlin looks away to avoid the sympathy, and his eyes go to the lump of bloodied petals in his hand. Long thin pale-yellow petals, smaller white elongated tear-shaped petals with yellow at the points, and… his first whole flowers. Small, purple ones with white centers. The disease is advancing, not that he’d thought it wouldn’t.

His eyes flash gold briefly, and in the next moment, the blood washes away off the petals in his hand.

“Neat trick,” Lancelot says.

“Yeah,” Merlin whispers. “It’s one I’m perfecting.” A hand settles on his shoulder, a comforting weight.

“You should tell him.”

Merlin shakes his head with a wry laugh. “How about you, Mr. Moon Eyes? I saw how you were looking at Gwen.” He shoves the petals into his pocket and looks up in time to see Lancelot blush.

Then the other man hangs his head with a sigh. “I saw the look that passed between her and Arthur. He’s a prince! I’m a nobody now. I even... resorted to fighting for entertainment. I couldn’t provide for her like Arthur could.”

Merlin elbows Lancelot in the side. “If you don’t say something, you’ll never know. It’s not fair to Gwen to assume how she feels.” He’s aware of the hypocrisy of his statement. But like Lancelot had said earlier, Arthur’s a prince. Uther’s son. And Merlin’s a warlock.

They’re both hopeless.

“Well, let’s collect some firewood before Arthur sends in the cavalry.”

Lancelot nods. They both sigh and, after a moment, begin to bend over and pick up suitable sticks.

There are moments when he considers telling Arthur. In the moments after he expels clove and blue hyacinths. Undying love and constancy. In the moments when he can’t catch his breath around the roots and stems growing in his lungs, and he wakes up gasping for breath. In the moments when all he can eat is broth because solid food causes agony to his shredded throat.

And he still pretends that everything’s alright. He doesn’t let it slow him down, prevent him from protecting Arthur. That duty comes before everything else.

He hoped time would weaken the emotions, but they only become stronger if the symbolism behind the flowers can be believed. Undying love. When he’s currently dying because of love.

In the darkest moments, he considers performing the ritual.

In the peaceful moments, he lets himself imagine how confessing to Arthur would go.

Merlin: Arthur, I love you.

Arthur: Golly, Merlin, I love you too.

Merlin: Also, I’m a sorcerer. I use magic to protect you and Camelot.

Arthur: That’s alright, let me just magically overcome my hatred of it and reverse all my father’s laws.

It will never happen.

Especially with Morgana’s betrayal. The compassionate, proud woman twisted by hatred and revenge, vying for the throne.

A pillow smacks into his face. He purses his lips and looks up at Arthur.

“Where is your head today, Merlin?” the Prince complains. “You’ve been reading that same word for the past twenty minutes. There are still three more speeches to get through!”

“You know, you could do this yourself,” Merlin says. He looks back at the speech and tries to focus. “Why can’t you have Gwen help you with this? Or Leon? Or even Gwaine?”

“Lancelot’s taken Gwen on a picnic,” Arthur replies. “Don’t you remember how anxious and useless he was yesterday?”

Merlin nods, remembering the Knight’s unusually inept movements.

“Leon’s in charge of the Knights today while I take care of this,” Arthur continues. “And I wouldn’t trust Gwaine within ten lances of a speech.” He kicks Merlin almost gently under the table. “You should be overwhelmed with gratitude that such an important task falls on your clumsy shoulders.”

“Yes, Sire,” Merlin drawls. “I’m oh-so-grateful you chose to force me to read through these mind-numbingly dull speeches.”

Arthur groans. “They are incredibly boring, aren’t they? I have no idea how my—” His voice cuts off, but Merlin knows what he was going to say: how my father managed these speeches. Uther still hadn’t recovered from the mental blow Morgana’s betrayal had dealt.

They fall silent, attempting to read through the speeches. Merlin gets stuck on the same word again, and after another ten minutes of unsuccessfully trying to move past it, he throws the speech down and says, “Alright, let’s go—hunting or something. I’m gonna throw these speeches into the fire if I have to spend one more moment with them.”

“I’m the Prince here, Merlin. I decide what we do,” Arthur says, intently focused on his speech. Merlin huffs and reaches over to snatch the parchment out of his hands. Arthur glares at him. “Give that back. You don’t even like hunting.”

Merlin crosses his arms and waits.

“Fine,” Arthur caves, throwing his hands up. “Let’s go hunting, even though you hate it!”

“Great!” Merlin says cheerfully. And then suddenly, he feels the rise of a particularly large attack of Hanahaki. He coughs, face paling, and spins away from Arthur.

“Merlin? What’s wrong?” Arthur demands.

Merlin hears the clattering of a chair as Arthur stands. “I’m fine,” he forces out. He gags. “Just—I’m gonna go prepare. Meet me at the stables in ten minutes!”

He rushes out of the room, ignoring Arthur calling after him, barely managing to duck into an empty room before he starts to hack up the flower. It steals his breath for so long that black dots start to appear in his vision, his head becomes light-headed.

Suddenly, he feels a touch on his back, and then fingers dig into his mouth. They hook around the flower and pull. His scream of pain is drowned in a wave of blood. Who’s here, helping him? He’d thought this room was empty.

Merlin pulls away from the stranger and coughs up a mouthful of blood onto the floor. The hands are right back on him, supporting him as he struggles to his feet. That’s been the worst attack yet. At least this person is helping him, not trying to dispatch him of his head or yelling for the guards. His eyes focus on the figure in front of him—

It’s Gwaine.

He opens his mouth, but the Knight slaps a hand over it.

“Fuck, don’t try to speak!” Gwaine snaps. “You need to let that shit heal. How is it this bad? I thought there was a ritual to get rid of it. Wait here; I’ll go get some water.” Gwaine doesn’t give Merlin a chance to respond, just rushes away, leaving the warlock in a daze.

Gwaine’s… helping him? Merlin’s leg cave underneath him, and he falls back to the ground. Unless Gwaine’s secretly running to Arthur to expose Merlin.

Not like it would take much to vanquish Merlin at this point.

He should move. Arthur will be waiting for him at the stables. They’re going hunting.

Instead, his eyes flash gold, and the blood disappears, leaving only the batch of flowers he’d nearly asphyxiated on. Small balls of spiky petals in assorted colors, white, light pink, dark pink, dark purple, and orange-red, with the beginnings of stems on each of them.

Another marker of the disease’s progression.

Merlin picks up the flowers and twirls them while his heart rate and breathing settle. He’ll have to grab some potions from Gaius before he heads out on the hunt with Arthur.

The door opens, and Gwaine slips it with a jug of water. Gold fades from Merlin’s eyes in relief. He drops the flowers as the knight hands him the jug, and he chugs the water, the cool liquid soothing his throat.

“Thank you, Gwaine,” Merlin says. His voice is raspy. Each sound vibrates his throat, sending needles of pain along his nerves. “Please—”

“Merlin, what the hell were you thinking, learning magic?” Gwaine interrupts. “This is Camelot! You’ll be executed if you’re caught!”

Merlin smiles at the concern and fear in Gwaine’s tone. “It wasn’t a choice. I was born with it.”

“Then you’re even more an idiot for coming to Camelot,” Gwaine snaps.

“Gwaine, Arthur is going to be an amazing King. I have to be here to protect him.”

The knight opens his mouth and closes it. “You know what, that actually explains a lot. Still, you have to do something about the Hanahaki! I’ve never seen it so bad. You have to confess or complete the ritual.”

“Can we talk about this later, please?” Merlin winces, struggling to stand. “I’m gonna be late for going hunting with Arthur.”

“You can’t go hunting,” Gwaine objects, though he still helps Merlin to his feet and picks up the bundle of flowers. “You need to—”

Merlin places his hands on Gwaine’s shoulders, and the knight stops talking. “Gwaine,” he says seriously. The ache in his throat is already dulling. “I will talk to you later. I have to go now.”

And Gwaine nods and lets him go. “We will talk later!”

The sorcerer throws up a hand in acknowledgment before he slips out the door and heads for Gaius’ chambers. He speeds through chugging two soothing potions for his throat and collecting his knapsack and the things they’ll need if they spend the night outdoors. Then he jogs to the kitchen, ignoring the light-headedness the exertion triggers, to grab some food. By the time he reaches the stables, Arthur already has Hengreon and Llamrei saddled and is waiting impatiently, his foot tapping manically against the ground.

“There you are!” Arthur huffs. His narrowed eyes soften at the edges as concern replaces his irritation. “Did you fall down the stairs or something? You like complete horseshit. Don’t tell me I’m working you too hard.” The light teasing in Arthur’s tone is underscored by the way he grabs the bag of food out of Merlin’s hands and affixes it to Llamrei’s saddle.

“I’m not that clumsy,” Merlin protests. “And you do overwork me!”

Arthur’s hand brushes over Merlin’s shoulder before he snatches it back and turns around abruptly. “Don’t be such a girl’s petticoat, Merlin. If you needed a day off, you could’ve just asked. Instead of looking like a kicked puppy.”

Merlin gapes at Arthur’s back. He does ask for days off! And Arthur always tells him no!

Not that he could entirely blame the Prince, considering his replacement’s unholy attachment to brass and his infernal obsession with polishing.

But he bites his tongue—saying that would be useless to His Highness’ selectively deaf ears—and mounts Llamrei. He breathes through the wave of dizziness that temporarily obscures his vision. She automatically follows after Hengreon when Merlin blindly nudges her forward.

Just like that, they’re off on a hunting trip.

Why is it that things can start great, and then everything goes to shit the next moment? Like the universe wants to balance the good by kicking you in the face with bad. Someone ought to look into that.

Someone who has more time than Merlin.

More time in the sense that Merlin is currently extremely busy fleeing for his life from a group of bandits who’d stumbled upon him and Arthur. And more sense in the time that his blood is pounding in his ears, his lungs are heaving with every inhale and exhale that tears at his throat, the taste of iron heavy on his tongue, and blackness is encroaching on the edges of his vision.

He’s far too weakened from the Hanahaki. And he knows Arthur will never just abandon him.

But Arthur has to live. For his destiny, and besides that, Merlin could not bear it otherwise.

Which leaves him with no other recourse. No other paths, choices, or options. No way out.

Merlin stumbles to a stop at the top of a gorge, placing his hands on his knees, hunching over. This is a good place to make his last stand.

It takes Arthur only a second to realize Merlin isn’t on his heels anymore. Arthur’s feet slide out from underneath him as he turns about, but he’s expertly back on his feet and running back to Merlin.

“Merlin, we have to keep moving!” he snaps. “There’s too many of them.”

“Arthur—” he starts. His eyes widen in fear as he feels something bursting from his lungs.

He’d just wanted one more moment.

His body convulses, and small five-petaled white flowers speckled bright red with blood spew onto the ground.

Merlin doesn’t want to look up to see Arthur’s expression. The horror, fear, disgust, anger, hatred. Since this is the end, he just wants the memories of Arthur’s kind expressions. The playful ones. The concentrated ones.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Merlin forces out through the layer of blood clogging his throat. He doesn’t even know if he’s loud enough for Arthur to hear him, but he lifts his hands and, eyes flashing gold, pushes Arthur away. In the next moment, he calls down rocks to block the pass between them. This way, the bandits won’t be able to get to Arthur. The Prince can escape to safety.

His lungs are stiff, nearly devoid of the ability to contract and expand.

For all the pain that loving Arthur has brought, it’s nothing compared to the joy. The pride. The exasperation.

The bandits yell, charging in.

Merlin faces them. Some of them falter, no doubt at the blood dripping steadily down his chin. He raises his hands, and his magic crackles along his skin like mini bolts of lightning. It wrests free and arcs through the air in a concussive blast that strikes all the bandits, flinging them away like paper in a fierce wind. The ones still conscious, alive, scramble to their feet and flee.

Good.

That was a one-time deal. Already his vision is consumed by an inky darkness, his mind unable to focus.

He doesn’t feel his collision with the ground.

Merlin loses consciousness to the impossible sound of his name on Arthur’s lip.

Ah, he’s not dead. Merlin blinks awake to a familiar canopied bed. His bed doesn’t have a canopy.

“Finally awake,” Arthur says, his tone completely neutral.

Slowly, he turns his head and looks at Arthur. The Prince sits on a chair, leaning forward with his hands clasped, elbows on his knees. He straightens under Merlin’s gaze and stands. He walks over to the bed. His hand reaches out, and Merlin flinches away, but Arthur only places his hand gently on Merlin’s forehead. Merlin recognizes the motion as someone checking for a fever.

Maybe he can trust the hope blossoming in his chest that Arthur doesn’t mean to kill him. Otherwise, he’d surely be lying dead in the forest or be locked up in the dungeons.

“Your fever’s broken, at least,” Arthur says, again in the distant, neutral tone. “I’ll go get Gaius.”

Merlin opens his mouth, and in the next instant, Arthur slaps his hands over Merlin’s mouth. “Don’t you dare say anything, Merlin. I mean it. Not one word. Don’t even think.” He glares until Merlin nods in assent.

The sorcerer watches him walk away, hope withering. Arthur’s angry at him. He won’t let Merlin explain.

Arthur should have just let him die in the forest, he thinks sullenly.

He struggles to sit up, and just as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, Arthur returns with Gaius.

“Merlin!” Arthur snaps. “What are you doing, you utter—” Gaius places a hand on Arthur’s arm, cutting the Prince’s irate words off.

“Your Highness, if I might have a moment alone to examine Merlin, please?” Gaius asks.

Arthur narrows his eyes. “Fine. But he’s not allowed out of bed.” Merlin wilts under the fierceness in Arthur’s gaze and looks away.

The door clicks shut behind Arthur a moment later.

Merlin immediately looks up to Gaius and opens his mouth. The physician holds up a hand, his expression stern. Does Gaius hate him, too? Just as the anxiety starts to drag its poisoned barbs into Merlin’s heart, Gaius speaks.

“You can’t talk right now. I gave you a potion to seal the injuries in your throat and numb the pain.” He reaches out and places cool fingers on Merlin’s neck. After a minute, he frowns. “Your pulse is still weaker than I’d like, but you’re a lot better off than when Arthur carried you here.”

Arthur… carried him? Merlin blinks, just like that, the hope surging back, flooding his senses. Maybe earlier, Arthur had been warning him about the medicine blocking his throat?

Gaius smacks him on the head. “That, my dear boy, is for not telling me about the Hanahaki sooner!”

Merlin gapes up at the physician.

Gaius smacks him again. “And that’s for nearly getting yourself killed!”

This is not fair! How can he defend himself if he can’t speak? Gaius raises his hand again. Merlin braces himself for another smack. Instead, Gaius’ arms wrap around his torso, and he pulls Merlin into a tight hug.

“You should have told me,” the physician whispers, a hint of tears choking up his words. “I would have helped you.”

Tears sting the corners of Merlin’s eyes. He hugs Gaius back fiercely.

When Gaius finally releases him, hastily wiping away the light streaks from his cheeks, Merlin pretends not to notice.

“Alright, you need to take a vial of this every hour to seal your throat. It won’t stop the progression of the Hanahaki, but it will provide you comfort,” Gaius says as he pulls a small bottle out of his bag. “I trust you have a good reason for not performing the ritual,” he adds, raising an eyebrow.

Merlin shrinks under the shrewdness of it and meekly nods.

Gaius sighs. “That’s what I thought. I’ll be back with more of the potion for you. In the meantime… I think Arthur wanted to speak with you.” He avoids eye contact when he says Arthur’s name.

That’s not a good sign.

The fluctuation of hope is starting to churn his stomach. What is he going to do if Arthur really does hate him? Will he have to leave Camelot? How’s he going to protect Arthur that way? He is glad not to be dead, but he wishes his past self hadn’t panicked and revealed himself to Arthur. Although, realistically, there’s no way he could have not thrown up those flowers. Merlin doesn’t want to be realistic. Fatalistic is so much better right now.

What type of flowers had grown in his lungs this time? He hadn’t seen those white flowers before. Maybe Gaius will bring him his book, and he can look them up.

If Arthur doesn’t chop off his head or burn him on the pyre. Would it hurt Arthur to see him die? He likes to think they’re at least friends.

Merlin sighs. He never wanted to put Arthur in this position.

A finger flicks roughly against his forehead. Merlin yelps soundlessly, bringing his hands up over the stinging skin to prevent a follow-up strike. He glares at Arthur, who crosses his arms.

“What were you thinking about so deeply?” Arthur asks. His tone is back to that infuriating neutrality. His eyes don’t reveal any hint of his thoughts. Merlin hates how guarded Arthur looks right now. “Maybe you were thinking about how to explain how you’ve lied to me this whole time? That you’ve been a magic user this whole time? That you’re suffering from Hanahaki? Gaius said yours is the worst case of it he’s ever seen. Do you know how old Gaius is? He’s probably seen at least a hundred cases of it.”

Merlin is at a loss for words. Not that he could speak the jumbled-up thoughts careening around his skull right now.

“I’m not gonna tell anyone. I’m not going to order your death.” Arthur’s hands clench into the sleeves of his shirt. He turns away from Merlin. “But I… need time. You were—are….” His voice trails off before he repeats, “I need time.”

Merlin’s heart sinks into his stomach. Arthur’s not going to kill him. He could still banish him. Maybe Arthur could… come to terms with his magic? Or at least allow Merlin to stay in Camelot, even if he ignored Merlin for however long Merlin has left? Merlin knows that, although Arthur saved him in the forest, his time is running out. Gaius’ medicine only alleviates the pain.

He raps on the wood to draw Arthur’s attention as he stands. When Arthur faces him, he bows. Arthur’s eyes burn through his clothes as if trying to pierce through him while he grabs the vials Gaius had left for him and then leaves the room.

Merlin still feels the weight of those eyes all the way back to the physician’s chambers. If Gaius is surprised to see him, he gives no sign of it, not saying anything as Merlin stumbles into his room, flops onto his bed, and closes his eyes.

Despite his exhaustion, sleep eludes him for a long time.

Arthur’s rage permeates the castle. Everyone walks on eggshells as rumors abound about why the Crown Prince is angry. The only good thing to happen is that Arthur sends Gwaine, Percival, and Elyan to the Southern border to deal with a group of bandits terrorizing the nearby villages before Gwaine could interrogate Merlin about the Hanahaki.

Merlin performs his duties as Arthur’s manservant quickly, precisely, and solemnly. Silently, because the Hanahaki is destroying his throat. Gaius’ potions hold the pain at bay, but the Hanahaki is progressing as rapidly as before Arthur… found out. Roots burrow into his lungs, vines creep up his throat. There’s only one type of flower now: the white petaled ones, the same that he threw up in front of the bandits.

Jasmine.

Unconditional, eternal love.

According to Gaius’ books, at least.

The Crown Prince hasn’t spoken a word to him since Merlin woke up, but he also hasn’t killed him or banished him. Merlin can still protect Arthur. He can spend the rest of his life loving Arthur nearby.

Two weeks into this precarious stalemate, the balance shifts.

When Merlin reaches Arthur’s chambers that morning, the Prince is already awake, staring out the window. Merlin’s breath stutters to a halt in his chest; Arthur looks gorgeous, framed by the orange rays of sunrise.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, without turning, “pack the horses. We’re going hunting.”

Hunting? At a time like this? Without Morgana Goddess-knows-where and Uther out of commission?

Arthur finally looks at him and then rolls his eyes. “Don’t just stand there gawping, Merlin, hop to it.” Merlin can almost imagine for a brief moment that everything’s returned to normal. They can tease each other and be friends again without the weight of Merlin’s magic hanging over them.

Then a cough stirs in Merlin’s lungs, and Arthur’s brow tightens. Merlin quickly bows and flees before Arthur can see him hack up some flowers.

Just because Arthur hadn’t killed him, didn’t mean that Arthur accepted him.

Merlin sighs. He just has to… focus on the good. With a sweep of his hand, he disintegrates the evidence of his Hanahaki, and then he heads first to the kitchen.

He procures some food—cheese, bread, and raspberries, then heads to the stables.

Hengreon and Llamrei shuffle excitedly in their stalls. He smiles and loses ten minutes to petting each of them before he even gets started saddling them up. Morgan, the horse master, nods to him when he walks by but doesn’t try to assist. It might be paranoia, but Merlin doesn’t let anyone handle else handle his and Arthur's horses.

It could also be possessiveness.

He ignores the intrusive thought with a grimace—he has no right to be possessive; he and Arthur were merely friends. If that, at this point—and attaches the pre-made saddlebags to the horses.

Arthur’s waiting in the courtyard when Merlin finally leads the horses out of the stables. The Prince doesn’t say anything, just grabs Hengreon’s reins and swings up into the saddle.

“Are you gonna pass out if you get onto Llamrei?” Arthur asks. His gaze drags heavily over Merlin’s body. Merlin nods, but the truth is, he doesn’t know if he will or not.

Just as he starts to contemplate the easiest way to mount Llamrei, Arthur holds out a hand to him. Merlin looks up; Arthur’s face is impassive. His eyes flash with impatience when Merlin doesn’t react.

“Well?” Arthur demands.

Merlin cautiously accepts the hand, a shiver sparking like lightning across his skin at the first brush of their skin, wondering how Arthur’s going to help him onto his horse from this angle—Arthur yanks him up and into the saddle in front of him.

Oh.

Oh.

He freezes, his whole body ramrod stiff. Arthur is right here. Merlin can feel Arthur’s body heat seeping through his clothes. While Merlin’s in a blind panic trying to process this extremely weird turn of events—it’s not that it’s unpleasant, it's completely pleasant and unexpected and confusing.

Arthur does have the biggest heart of anyone Merlin’s ever met. Guarded, sure, covered with layers of arrogance, but Arthur cares. Could this be the first sign that Arthur’s forgiving him? Merlin desperately wants to ask.

His words remain lodged in his throat, held back by fear. Conveniently, he is also unable to talk thanks to Gaius’ potions.

They ride in silence.

It’s exceedingly awkward. Merlin almost wishes the Hanahaki would consume him then and there.

Almost.

When an hour has passed without Arthur stopping, Merlin’s tension turns to confusion. This is far outside Arthur’s normal hunting range. The confusion quickly spirals into anxiety. What if Arthur’s taking him to the border? What if Arthur’s going to a discreet place to kill him?

His heart thunders in his chest as Arthur finally urges Hengreon to a stop.

Sweat beads at his forehead as Arthur dismounts, then holds out a hand to Merlin.

Merlin accepts the hand with his own trembling one and jumps down from Hengreon. The edges of his vision begin to fade out. Suddenly, there’s a painful whack against his forehead. His panic recedes. He looks at Arthur, rubbing at the stinging patch of skin, torn between affront and bewilderment.

“Listen,” Arthur starts. He shifts back and forth on his feet. “I’m… upset you never trusted me with your secret.” Arthur holds up his hand imperiously when Merlin immediately opens his mouth to deny that exceedingly untrue statement. “Don’t. I know why you didn’t. I wasn’t sure myself what I’d have done. In truth, two weeks ago, when you brought down those rocks, I very nearly didn’t come back for you, and I lo—and I considered you a close friend then.”

Merlin desperately wishes he could speak. He hates the distressed expression crinkling Arthur’s face, even as his mind replays “considered” over and over again. Past tense.

Slowly, Merlin places a hand on Arthur’s forearm. The Prince’s face twists in somewhere between a grimace and a smile.

“All my life, I’ve been told magic is evil. I’ve stood by while my father purged the land of sorcerers. A lot of them tried to kill us, but some of them… some of them just wanted to save their families.” Arthur pulls away from Merlin and begins walking away. Merlin immediately follows after him. His heart cries out to comfort Arthur, assure him that he’s not a bad person, he was just misguided. Lied to.

“I don’t know what to think now, except this. Merlin, you don’t have an evil bone in your body.” Arthur leads them into a perfectly circular clearing, and Merlin nearly misses the Prince’s next words at the call of magic dancing across his skin. This place is sacred.

Then his mind processes Arthur’s words.

You need to perform the ritual.

Merlin whirls on Arthur, from where he’d somehow reached the center of the clearing. He shakes his head firmly. There’s too much at risk. Magic will return to Albion, but the real reason Merlin tries so hard to protect Arthur is his love for the prat. Without that love, what else does Merlin have?

“Who is—No, don’t tell me,” Arthur says. “If you tell me, I might have to challenge them.”

Why would Arthur challenge them? Merlin’s brow crinkles; Arthur could be very strange sometimes.

“Whoever they are, they’re not worth it, Merlin. I need you alive and healthy. Gaius says…” Arthur stops. He continues with a whisper, “Gaius says you don’t have a lot of time left. Please, Merlin.”

Arthur’s worth everything Merlin has to give and more.

Arthur snarls in frustration. “Damnit, I order you to perform the ritual. Or tell me who has such loyalty from you? Gwaine? Lancelot? Gwen? Percival? Elyan?”

Merlin shakes his head. There’s no way Arthur would figure it out. He’ll just wait this out, and then they’ll head back to the castle, this incident behind them.

“It has to be someone you’re close with,” Arthur muses. The lighter tone and the way his eyes narrow in focus on Merlin’s face cause warning signals to start going off in his mind. “Someone you’ve spent a lot of time with.”

When Arthur takes a step towards him, Merlin retreats a step for some unknown reason. Another step towards and away. The strange look in Arthur’s eye makes Merlin feel like prey. Another step.

“There are two ways to get rid of Hanahaki,” Arthur says. Three, Merlin wants to correct him. His voice, though soft, easily caries to Merlin’s ears. Another step. Merlin’s back thumps against a tree. “One, perform a ritual, thus removing every emotion the caster has for the person. And two…” Arthur, in agonizingly slow motion, raises his hands and cups Merlin’s cheeks. He leans forward until their foreheads collide, their eyes locked in dizzying, tumultuous passion. “Two is the love is requited.”

Merlin is frozen. His mind races with a thousand thoughts too fleeting to latch onto. Arthur leans forward and presses their lips together.

Yes, finally. His lips are soft. Is this really happening? Arthur loves him? Since when? This doesn’t make any sense.

Arthur pulls away, his expression confused. “Is it not me? Did I misread things? I’ve wanted to do that for so long, I just thought….” His voice trails off, and he swallows, his eyes taking on a watery shine as his expression begins to shutter off. He starts to turn away. “Nevermind, I’m sorry. Please forget—"

Merlin surges forward. He grabs the clotpole’s shoulders and spins him around. Arthur opens his mouth, outraged with a tear trickling down, and Merlin slams their lips together.

It’s painful, and it’s better than anything he’s ever dreamed it would be.

Maybe he’s succumbed to the Hanahaki and died. Maybe he’s wanted this, dreamed of this, for so long that this is just a really vivid hallucination. Merlin doesn’t care.

His and Arthur’s lips slide together, tongue locked in a sensual battle. Arthur’s hands scorch a trail along Merlin’s arms, to his neck, and then dig into his hair. He tugs Merlin’s head back sharply, which makes their lips separate with a gasp spilling from Merlin’s mouth. Arthur lets out a low growl that is really unfairly hot, moving his lips to Merlin’s neck.

Fuck. This is definitely not a dream.

The breath in his lungs for once not stolen by flowers.

“Fuck,” Arthur breathes, his hot breath billowing against Merlin’s neck. “You’re an absolute idiot, you know. Complete and utter dollophead.”

“Hey,” Merlin protests, “that’s my word for you.”

Silence descends.

Merlin had just spoken.

Merlin had just spoken.

“Does this mean you’re cured?” Arthur asks with wide eyes. His hands cup Merlin’s cheeks, their eyes locked. All Merlin can see is relief and… love coursing through them.

Merlin takes a deep breath. His lungs constrict a little, but he doesn’t erupt in a coughing fit.

The Hanahaki is gone.

Arthur loves him.

They move simultaneously, their lips meeting in a slower, more languid dance this time. The passion between them is just as all-consuming as before.

“I love you,” Merlin whispers again and again whenever they release each other long enough to speak. “I’m sorry I never told you.”

“I love you,” Arthur whispers back, words overlapping with Merlin’s. “You’re not alone anymore.”

Tears spill from Merlin’s eyes and slide down his cheeks. He’s not alone. They’re not alone.

Suddenly, magic surges through Merlin’s veins, an agonizingly red hot force that has him stumbling away from Arthur, terrified. What’s going on? Is the Hanahaki coming back with a vengeance? Gold sparkles of magic convalesce across his skin.

“Merlin, what’s happening?” Arthur shouts above the wind tearing through the clearing, surrounding Merlin in a storm.

“I don’t—” Merlin can’t breathe. The wind sucks the air from his throat. After a moment, white petals, green leaves, and thick roots coated with golden magic erupt from Merlin.

His lungs scream with the need for air. Just as the jaws of unconsciousness sink their teeth into Merlin’s brain, the outpour from him ceases, and he can breathe again. He drags in deep, painful gasps of air.

Hands brush against his arms and back and shake him.

The storm dwindles until it vanishes, leaving them in eerily profound silence.

“Merlin, are you alright?” Arthur demands. “Merlin, are… you… Great Goddess, what have you done?” Merlin tilts his head up to Arthur, confused. He hadn’t done anything. He has no idea what just happened.

Arthur looks down at him with awe. Snowflakes drift through the air across Arthur’s face. Did Merlin change the weather again?

He looks around the clearing, his heart beating staccato in his chest as he realizes it’s not snow. It’s petals.

Thousands of jasmine petals swirl through the air. Merlin watches as they fly faster, circling the middle of the clearing. Branches and stems shoot up in the middle of the petal storm and tower into the sky. After a moment, its movement ceases, and bright verdant leaves begin to sprout. The petals surge inward, the resulting collision sending out a torrential spray of them.

Arthur and Merlin turn away to shield their faces. When Merlin can’t hear anything else, he finally dares to look again.

There are bright white petals scattered across the ground. They surround a tall object. Merlin squints; it almost looks like…

“Is that… me?” Arthur asks incredulously.

It almost looks like Arthur.

“Nah,” Merlin replies. “Looks too noble and serious to be you.” He turns to Arthur with a cheeky grin, feeling lighter and freer than he has in months. He can speak, he can breathe, he can love. There are still some side effects from the Hanahaki, Merlin can sense it when he breathes and talks; he’ll have to ask Gaius about it.

Later.

Arthur rounds on him, narrowing his eyes. “I am noble and serious, Merlin. Take that back right now, or I’ll be forced to do something drastic.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow. “Oh, my lord? Will you throw me in the stocks?”

“Something far worse than that,” Arthur declares. He takes a step forward, closing the gap between them.

Merlin pretends to think. “Have me clean your armor 'til it’s spotless?”

A smile tugs at the corners of Arthur’s lips. “Don’t you already do that?” His hands reach up to Merlin’s cheeks, and Merlin sinks into the gentle contact.

“Tell me, then, Your Royal Prattiness, what are you going to do if I don’t take back my wholly true words?” The monument does have a passing resemblance to Arthur, Merlin could admit, a declaration of his magic to his love for Arthur, but it could not even begin to compare to the living, breathing, human Prince.

“I’ll have to kiss you until you surrender,” Arthur says with a light shrug as their foreheads knock together.

Merlin frowns. “That’s not a punish—”

The Crown Prince presses his lips against the Warlock’s, and abruptly, nothing else matters.