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Three weeks after Gwen proves decidedly not with child, Arthur notices Lancelot sicking up into some shrubbery the morning after a long ride to the northwestern border.
Arthur gives a friendly slap to his hunched shoulder. “Was it the stew Merlin made last night? I knew he was trying to poison me again.”
Looking pale and quite pitiful, Lancelot spits onto the ground, shakes his hanging head. “No.” There’s a guarded, yet ominous darkness in his eyes when he turns to face Arthur, lips still shining with bile. A cold, heavy dread washes over Arthur in that moment, cornering his heart into an anxious flutter, and he doesn’t even need Lancelot to say, “It’s been happening almost every morning.”
Oh, Arthur thinks. Oh, fuck.
Some of the other knights have made their way over, jostling Lancelot and laughing and joking about how he just can’t hold his liquor anymore, but Arthur hardly sees anything but the serious, knowing sheen in Lancelot’s eyes. There’s no trace of panic in them—too calm for either blame or apology. Arthur is thankful for that, and tries his best to keep his composure in return, despite the fact that his stomach is a sea of roiling horrified guilt and he feels close to emptying Merlin’s stew onto the forest floor himself.
Arthur is both resentful and grateful for the complicated political situation he has to maneuver through that day. He’s resentful because he would like to sit down on a rock for twelve hours and think through all his thoughts, instead of negotiating for the transfer of a political prisoner. He’s grateful because he does not know yet what to say to Lancelot (sorry for accidentally getting you pregnant even though you never once asked me to; please accept my head on a platter in apology?) and he’s dreading what Merlin’s going to say to him (or not say, since he’s proficient at the cold silent treatment when he’s pissed off), let alone the look on Gwen’s face when they get back to Camelot (grave disappointment seems the best-case scenario). Altogether, counting out gold pieces with sneering lords is a much easier form of communication.
He doesn’t really remember many details of that night with Gwen and Lancelot and one bed and a whole lot of wine. He knows it had felt good, and that they’d both smiled at him the next day and had discussed plans for their next attempt happily enough. And he can vaguely recall an image of Lancelot straddled over him, hips rocking and biting his lip in pleasure. Arthur is fairly sure he hadn’t hurt anyone or done anything that everyone present hadn’t agreed to, but gods, he should never have let himself get drunk enough to do something without the ability to think through the consequences first.
Once they’re back on the road with their prisoner in tow, Arthur takes a break to relieve himself into a stream and possibly dunk his head under water for five minutes until his thoughts run clear. He’s still tapering off, though, when Merlin sneaks up beside him and stands, arms crossed, staring silently into the water. He knows, Arthur thinks. Lancelot told him.
Without looking up, Merlin asks, “What do you get when you cross a king with a knight?”
Arthur shakes off, tucks himself back in, and prepares for a barrage of—whatever it is Merlin’s going to say to him. He clears his throat. “What?”
The corner of Merlin’s mouth twitches. “A baby,” he spits out, and then he’s spilling laughter through the seams of his closed mouth, trying to keep a straight face and utterly failing.
He’s laughing.
And then he’s collapsing onto Arthur’s shoulder, rubbing his spurts of laughter all over his armor. Arthur can’t remember the last time he felt so relieved. Or confused. And decidedly unamused.
“It’s your fault,” he accuses, instead of asking why on earth are you and Lancelot not trying to murder me right now? He pats the back of Merlin’s head, the closest thing he can get to seeking physical comfort when they’re out in the open, not far from their company.
“How is it my fault?” Merlin pulls back, wiping his hand across his eyes, which are wet with amusement. “I wasn’t even there.”
“It’s your fault,” Arthur says, quiet but pointed, “that I—had so much to give.” He raises his eyebrows, unwilling to be any more explicit about the fact that Merlin had denied him release for so long before that fateful night that he’s sure he went at least three rounds before leaving that bed. Maybe if he’d fallen asleep after the first round, this wouldn’t have happened.
Merlin sways in close with a fierce smile that means he thinks he’s about to win a debate, and whispers, “And you’re the one who decided to give it to the only other man with you.” He pulls back with a curt nod, waiting for Arthur to acknowledge the wisdom of his observation, which he will not. “I know what kind of man you are, Arthur Pendragon, but I didn’t think your condition was quite so severe.”
Arthur’s so exhausted by hours of worry that he can’t resist the gentle warmth of Merlin’s teasing. He succumbs to it, lets it hold him, even where Merlin himself cannot. Later, they’ll have heavier discussions and tense silences, but for now, Merlin has given him exactly the reprieve he needs. “I like to keep you guessing, it sharpens the intelligence,” he says, heading back toward the road with Merlin trailing behind him. Arthur doesn’t think there’s a single thing about him that Merlin hasn’t actually guessed at, and he’s grateful that this latest secret, however it turns out, is already folding easily into their life together.
He’s not surprised when Merlin and Lancelot linger to ride together at the back of the party, not a laugh between them, just a soft understanding on their brows as they speak in hushed tones. He senses that his presence would be an intrusion—(as if his grievous mistake wasn’t enough of an intrusion)—so he rides ahead and dwells on how he has endangered Lancelot’s secret, his position amongst the other knights, his private freedom with Gwen, and, in more ways than one, his life.
The walls of Camelot are in sight before he fully digests the fact that a pregnancy means a baby, an actual, living baby, with Pendragon blood but no legitimate origin and the potential for a lifetime of lies; for the rest of the journey, Arthur can’t think about anything but his sister Morgana, whose pain had nearly torn down the whole city.
~
There’s a clear order of business to be followed, and Arthur spends the next several days getting through it all. He gives equal but very different apologies to Lancelot, Gwen, and Merlin for what is essentially a violation of their trust, though none of them is willing to say as much. Lancelot promises that he had always wanted a child, but knew that any Gwen carried would belong more to Camelot than to him. He does admit that the timing is not ideal, and Arthur vows to come up with a plan to hide his condition and all its intrinsic secrets while still ensuring his safety. Gwen brushes off his apology with a rosy-cheeked assurance that they’re all equally guilty for not thinking things through, and she presses a sweet, firm hand to his arm and says that maybe it was meant to be this way. She also confesses that she’s secretly relieved not to have to bear a child any time soon, since they’ll be dealing with the current predicament before complicating things further. She asks Arthur not to mention to Lancelot just yet that she feels that way, and Arthur’s chest clenches at the show of trust.
With Merlin, Arthur barely has the chance to get the words of his apology out in the space between all of Merlin’s excited planning and manic problem-solving. “We’ll have to ask Lancelot if he’s comfortable coming to Gaius for medical care; I’m sure it’ll be okay, he knows how good Gaius is at keeping secrets.” “We can take him to Ealdor when he starts to show. Maybe in disguise. Either way, my mother will take care of him.” “Do you think the baby will have Lancelot’s beautiful brown eyes, or plain blue? Do all Pendragons have blue eyes? Or, light ones, I suppose?” “Did Gwen tell you she thought she could sense it right away, just a feeling she had from touching Lancelot’s stomach? Isn’t that sweet?”
“Merlin.” The constant chatter is all too much, and yet it’s exactly what he needs. “Come here.” Merlin does as requested, Arthur nuzzles his face needily against the front of Merlin’s trousers, and soon the air is full of a very different kind of chatter.
~
There are fights, too. Mostly with Merlin, mostly over Arthur’s decision to let Lancelot keep active as a knight in order to avoid suspicious scrutiny.
“Why don’t you just change all your stupid laws restricting who can be a knight or not so it doesn’t matter if anyone finds out?”
“And put Lancelot through the fury and rejection of his friends when they feel he’s been lying to them?”
Merlin winces deeply, as though pained to imagine it. His eyes go still and watery, jaw tight, and he says, “I think his true friends would understand,” which is so beside the point that Arthur collapses against the back of his chair with a sigh and lets his arms drop to either side.
“If he doesn’t want people to know, then I respect that decision. And besides, allowing people who happen to have wombs to be knights would hardly solve the problem of a child of royal blood born out of wedlock, would it?” Arthur is quite stuck on this point: how to recognize the rights of the child without betraying anyone.
Merlin surges forward in his chair again, fed like a flame. “Then change those laws, too!”
Frustrated, Arthur feels his chest locking up at its tight center the way it always does when Merlin asks something of him as if Arthur has never thought of it before, when truly it’s something he has dreamed of doing, but better understands the political realities of. “Right, and why don’t I just legalize magic while I’m at it.”
Merlin, ever so beautifully and frustratingly sensitive, nearly upsets a chair in his haste to get up and leave. Arthur has to reach across the table to grab his hand and hold him; he’s always desperate to have Merlin by his side, but better understands the political realities of doing so. Here, behind closed doors, he worries his thumb across the bony landscape of the back of Merlin’s hand, soothing himself as much as anyone.
It’s strange, but in this moment, with Merlin’s eyes still turned to the floor, he can sense what’s bothering Merlin, almost as though it were physically flowing from him to Arthur through their touch, like waves onto a shore. “I can’t change all the laws in one day,” Arthur says, voice low, dreaming of a world where he could hold Merlin’s hand like this whenever he wanted and not have his people burn him for a witch. “Please, be patient with me?”
Merlin’s biting the inside of his cheek. Arthur wants to press his lips to the spot, but he waits, instead. “You’ve got about five months to figure something out,” Merlin says, softening into a smile, all the comfort Arthur needs.
~
Eventually, Arthur sends his first knight on a long-term diplomatic goodwill mission to the village of Ealdor.
At first, it’s a relief to know that Lancelot is in Hunith’s capable hands, safe, disguised, and spending most of his time whittling in bed.
But Guinevere soon grows agitated, clearly suffering from being away from her lover and dissatisfied with the disguised reassurances they receive by sealed letter every week. So Arthur officially sends her on a diplomatic mission in the opposite direction and personally escorts her to Ealdor, where she dons a disguise as a farming peasant friend of Hunith’s.
Then, he has to rule his kingdom without his queen’s help, which turns out to be more tiresome and stressful than he remembered.
But worst of all, toward the end of the eighth month, Merlin starts pacing and fidgeting and will not stop. It frays Arthur’s nerves, though he’s also oddly grateful for the irritation; he suspects that he would be the one pulling his own hair out the way he’s seen fathers of unborn children do outside midwives’ houses, but Merlin is doing it so incessantly and annoyingly that there’s no room left for Arthur to even try.
Merlin won’t talk about it, at first.
“What are you so worried about?” Arthur asks.
“Er, nothing,” Merlin lies, sweat beading at his temple.
“They’re going to be fine.” Arthur continues down the corridor, marking Merlin’s nervous footsteps slightly behind him. “Shouldn’t you be the one reassuring me that they’ll be fine?”
“They’ll be fine,” Merlin agrees, distracted, catching up to Arthur’s side so his delicate profile shines in the blue autumn light from the windows.
Distracted, Arthur smiles.
~
At the end of the week, Merlin wakes Arthur by abruptly launching out of bed in the middle of the night. By the time Arthur blinks his eyes open, Merlin has somehow managed to light some candles, casting his hollowed, tired face in their dim glow.
“Nightmare?” Arthur asks. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“Not exactly,” Merlin answers curtly, starting to pace and wring his hands.
“Have you slept at all?” Arthur rolls onto his side, reaching lazily toward Merlin, who doesn’t seem to notice.
“I need to tell you something.”
Arthur sighs, ready to reassure Merlin about one of his distant theoretical dangers that usually turn out to be nothing. “Okay.”
And then Merlin tells him everything, all at once:
“Something’s wrong with the baby. Or, not the baby, but the pregnancy. I can tell, he’s going to need help. More help than my mum can give. Magical help. So I was thinking about leaving to go help, because I can, I can help, Arthur, but then I thought about what would happen if you ever found out I used magic to help your son be born—and then I thought it wouldn’t be much better if ever touched your son with magic, and you’d never look at me again, so I have to tell you. And maybe you’ll still never look at me again, but I have to tell you, because I have to leave now to help your son be born, because I think you and everyone else would hate me if I let him die just to save my own skin—and maybe this is all I’m meant to do for Camelot, anyways, is help you have your heir. And I just—I have to, Arthur. I’m magic, and I’m going to use it to save your son’s life, and you can do what you will with me after.”
Merlin doesn’t acknowledge a single one of Arthur’s furious, amused, astounded, befuddled interjections. He doesn’t even wait for a reply before running out the door, quick as magic.
Arthur stares at the ceiling, a grounding point to counterbalance the dizzying churn of his stomach, which seems to know the truth before his mind can believe it.
Sick with unshed tears, shivering with unspoken fear and anger, Arthur dons his own armor and readies his own horse before riding off into the night toward Ealdor, following the starry trail of what looks like, and may as well actually be, a dragon.