Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Waking up after a night of carousing never seemed to end well for Arthur; even in his early years of adolescence, when his father had given him his first goblet of wine, his morning often ended up with more food upchucked on his bed covers than it should have stayed in his stomach.

And ever since Merlin had been in his employ, he never had to reach the point of actually throwing up his dinner, nor did he ever reach the point of drinking himself silly-- he had Merlin for that. Although last night, he may have to rethink everything he's known about the man, as Arthur opened one eye after another, slowly taking in the view of Merlin sleeping with his mouth wide open. 

Not the best view, some might say, but Arthur supposed it was better than the rest of yesterday evening.

— — — 

He just saw Merlin do magic. 

And no, he was not drunk--at least not enough--to be dreaming the whole thing up. Why would he even dream of his manservant having magic in the first place?

Why would he be dreaming of his manservant?

All valid questions, yes, but so was how in the world did Merlin come to learn magic? Did he learn it from somewhere? Someone? Gaius, perhaps? And, since when had he started learning it? Surely not recently, if Arthur had anything else but the constant attempts for his, and for his father's lives to compare it with; it was a simple trick, okay? A trick of the light, if you must. And Arthur had already downed more than half of his ale, anyway. 

Not that he needed an excuse to get another tankard. Or a second one. Or a third. Okay, maybe the fourth one was pushing it, and he may have needed it so he could at least pretend that he didn't just see Merlin make his stool twirl around like a girl at a ball. 

And surely, he didn't just steal Percival's tankard right out of his hand to drown the image of Merlin bat his long eyelashes at Arthur as he felt something pull his seat closer to Merlin's. 

Yeah. As if anything could be even worse than Merlin's ridiculous, and not at all flattering attempts at wooing Arthur. Until- - 

It was only until Lancelot announced that he was heading back for the night. 

For most people, it meant that it was time that they head back with him. Save for people like Gwaine, Arthur supposed, who practically lived at the tavern, so Arthur was thankful that the rest of the inner circle of knights were around to help take the currently singing knight back to his quarters. 

And with the knights busy with helping each other walk without falling on their faces, Arthur was left with a verily inebriated Merlin hanging off of his arm like a rag doll. 

At first, said rag doll had been slurring his words, inviting Arthur to get more drinks, inviting Arthur back to his room for-- whatever it was that he meant with that poorly executed saucy wink he sent Arthur.

If he didn't feel like the ground shuddered with every step, then maybe Arthur would have had the energy to deal with all of--he glanced at Merlin where he's draped over the bar, asking for another drink-- Merlin in all his inebriated glory. 

He would have had the strength to throw Merlin over his shoulder like a sack of grain, so he could just carry him back to the castle instead of having to lug the half-asleep, wannabe-romantic that he was. 

And then maybe he could avoid that teasing glint in his knights' and the barmaids' eyes when he pulled Merlin closer by the waist, resulting in the two stumbling on their feet, no thanks to Merlin slamming into Arthur. 

If anyone said that they saw the king of Camelot blush like a maiden at the contact he made with his manservant, then they were all just drunk- - from the tankards of ale that Arthur paid for the patrons of the tavern. They were all most likely drunk already, anyway. 

Once they were out of the tavern, and away from the cheering drunks, Arthur began his trek back to the castle. 

— — — 

It was a lovely evening, all things considered. And the cool air sobered Arthur up for most of their trip, whereas Merlin decided that he was an astronomer, and started pointing out stars, and slurring at the names of constellations. 

Astronomy had been one of the subjects taught to him in his early childhood as a means to be well-rounded, and educated in a vast number of topics so his sovereign would not "look down on him" or whatever rubbish it was that his father drilled into him every time he got low marks in his examinations. Suffice to say, it was one of Arthur's favourite subjects, although he'll never admit it to anyone, not even at the pain of death. Not even to Merlin- - 

Although, he may have to rectify that thought in the morning, seeing as Merlin's beautiful, treasonous eyes flash a bright gold, and then there were tiny balls of light dancing in front of Arthur's eyes as they made themselves to look like the first constellation that he was introduced to:

"Draco," he muttered under his breath, careful not to jostle Merlin too much as he let his shoulders shake a little as he chuckled to himself. The word Draco was Latin for dragon, as in their family name. He was only a child who could get excited over the littlest, and the cheesiest things, this he'll admit, so when Merlin's magic conjured the lights--maybe he'd pulled the stars down from the skies? Arthur hoped he hadn't, even if there was a tiny part of himself melting at the gesture--to form constellations in front of them, as if they weren't on their way back to the castle. 

It was a quiet evening, sure. The townspeople and their children may all have tucked themselves in bed by now, yes. The road was practically deserted, save for the hooting of a far away owl from deep within the forest, but other than that. It was just the two of them. 

It's always been the two of them, Arthur mused. Whether it be to face yet another threat to Camelot, and to her king, whether it be the comfort and solace in amity; it was always just the two of them. 

And now here they were, the unlikely pair that they made, ambling down the road back to the castle, with Merlin blathering on and on still about the stars in the constellation that he'd just magicked, while Arthur tried so earnestly to shush him so they don't wake any of the houses that they passed. 

— — —  

In hindsight, wrangling a drunk manservant who apparently had magic didn't seem all too difficult; he can say that their walk back was rather enlightening, and it gave him the rush of excitement he used to only feel in his youth, and not now that he had a heavier crown atop his head. Trying to keep Merlin from yelling out spells was the hardest part, mostly because Arthur wasn't sure if his friend was only slurring his words, or already chanting whatever spell his ale-addled brain could think of. 

Good thing that aside from the stars, Merlin only used his magic to illuminate their steps so they don't trip in the darkness. It wasn't too far, but there had been one too many times that Arthur could remember seeing Merlin trip over a child's toy that they forgot to bring home, and left at the spot where the child might have been playing with it. 

Of course, the children who were playing with the vexing toy would all apologise to Merlin profusely with tears in their eyes-- and let's just say that Merlin ends up buying the children an apple each, or a handful of sweetmeats if the merchants were in town. 

It was such a Merlin thing to do, Arthur thought, as he eyed the balls of light floating by their ankles, bobbing up and down with every step. 

He supposed that it was just one of Merlin's many traits and habits that made it impossible for anyone to truly hate him. Even Arthur couldn't deny liking the man, especially over the years that he's been with Arthur- - not like that, but somewhere, buried deep in the back of Arthur's mind, he hoped that he did mean it like that.

— — — 

Normally, Merlin would be the one to rouse him in the morning. He would do it in a way that was part-annoying and part-endearing that anyone knew to be Merlin's true nature. But now that Arthur was faced with the reality that the same man also practiced sorcery, he still needed time to think it over. It's a good thing that he didn't seem like he was a light sleeper, unlike Arthur who was trained as a knight from a young age--he could wake up immediately at any sudden movement, at any sign of imminent danger--that's why he refused to believe Merlin whenever he'd complain that Arthur was difficult to wake in the morning. That was a lie. A bald-faced lie that Merlin didn't seem to have trouble spouting, now that Arthur realised just how long Merlin could have possibly hidden the fact that he was a sorcerer from him. 

Lying came easily for him, Arthur thought with a frown, as he lifted himself up and used his elbow to carry his weight as he rested his chin in his hand. 

He glanced down at Merlin, watched the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he slumbered. He had to bite down a chuckle whenever Merlin made soft snores; had to keep himself from cooing at the way Merlin scrunched his nose at something in his dream, grumbled nonsense under his breath, before turning to lie on his side, facing Arthur.

As much as he was a warrior-king by definition, Arthur wasn't so keen at the idea of having to confront Merlin about his hidden- erm, abilities. He barely even entertained the idea of an actual argument, or a physical altercation happening between them- - for as much as they bickered, they both knew in themselves that that was all in good faith- it was how they showed that they cared for the other, no matter how convoluted it may look like to other people. 

It was them. 

But the thought of ignoring Merlin, or even sending him away under the guise of a bad mood just so he could have some alone time for himself to think of his next move with regards to Merlin's sorcery- well, if it pained him to acknowledge it in the first place, it'll most probably hurt him even more, the idea of not having Merlin by his side. 

He was afraid, he realised belatedly, as he pushed some hair out of Merlin's eyes, of one day Merlin leaving him. He was afraid of the truth that he had come to rely, and become dependent on Merlin. 

He was afraid that Merlin may have enchanted him to believe that he needed him. 

Chapter Text

Having been born and raised in a poor farming village, it wasn't so unexpected for farm boys to have had a taste of strong ale; usually, they were made with berries that they'd picked in the forest, or whatever crops were abundant and in season. The first kind of wine he had was a blackberry wine that Will's mum had given them a bottle of  for Hunith's birthday when Merlin was just eight years old. He was told by the adults that he was not yet ready to be drinking any of the delicious-sounding drinks, but he was a child, see? He had wanted a taste, and his best friend only encouraged that sort of behaviour, especially if Merlin wasn't about to tell on them (he often told on the other village kids, that's why he only had Will as his friend) so they swiped a cup that was meant for one of the village adults, and shared the drink between the two of them. 

It made Merlin feel light-headed, and he saw lights dancing in front of his eyes, so maybe it was still too strong for a little boy like him. (It was later that he learnt that he had been the one to conjure the lights, after his mother tweaked his ear when Will had come over to tell him that he won't tell anyone else--not even his own mother--about Merlin's magic.)

Growing up, the elderly men of their village would rope the younger men into drinking with them after a harvest, and they'll break out their home-brewed wine from last year's harvest. Old Man Simmons, for someone who was as blind as a bat, he always, and without fail, made the strongest beetroot wine Merlin had ever come across in his whole life; even after arriving to Camelot, of course, he’d sneaked some sips, and sometimes was given his own cup of wine, but none of them were as strong as the wine from Ealdor. Even the ale in the Rising Sun tavern in Camelot wasn’t as robust in flavour as he expected, but it still knocked him out. It just takes him at least half of the usual amount that Gwaine drinks to truly disorient him, but he wasn’t a lightweight. No matter what he may look like, he wasn’t weak. 

So imagine his surprise when he felt like he was floating- - closer, and closer to Arthur last night that he was sure he was drunk. 

No, he was definitely drunk- he could feel the headache of a hangover looming over him as he tried to piece back the puzzle that was last night: 

Okay. First thing’s first, he flirted with Arthur. (And the ale made him more honest, now that he remembered his king flirting right back with him.) Secondly, it was the first time that Arthur wasn’t so rude and loud around Merlin. (He mused at the memory of his soft voice and caring voice as he fussed over Merlin.) And third and finally, he went back with Arthur. Hmm. Nothing wrong with that, right? Other than the fact that “went back” meant exactly what it meant:

Merlin went back with Arthur to his chambers. 

He wasn’t sure if it was the pounding headache, or the blood rushing to his ears, but he was sure there was a thundering sound nearby, and he was sure, sure it wasn’t his heart making backflips in his chest cavity at the insinuation. 

Nah, that was impossible, right? Whatever it normally would entail, that couldn’t have possibly happened, right? (Although Merlin was a better liar with his mouth, his heart knew him best- -)

— — — 

It wasn’t his magic that woke him up–which meant that he didn’t feel like he was in any sort of danger–but rather the weight of a person’s arm thrown over his waist. He could feel his tunic get tugged down, and feather-like touches skimming the curve of his back, and making lazy swirls and shapes over the fabric. Okay. Good, that’s one worry crossed out. But that didn’t stop there: apparently, in Merlin’s fitful sleep–although honestly, tonight was probably the most peaceful sleep he’s had the whole time since he started living in Camelot–he had rolled to his side, and his face had found its home in the crook of Arthur’s neck. 

His head was using the king’s–the king’s!--shoulder as his pillow, and only confirmed his position when he felt him shudder every time Merlin breathed through his nose. With every inhale, his lungs are filled with Arthur’s scent, masked with a layer of ale from last night. With his exhales, he could feel the king’s nerves tingle at the contact, the tip of his nose touching Arthur’s warm neck as he burrowed further in. Deeper, and afraid of waking from this beautiful dream.

But he had to. He had to wake up. 

He could already hear Arthur’s tired exhale–he could feel his chest move from the action–which could only mean the king was thinking something over that required his brain to work double-time, if he was already sighing in defeat. 

“I can hear you thinking,” Merlin murmured against Arthur’s shirt. It was the king’s sleep shirt, the one that was made from a softer, and thinner material, and Merlin had more than likely drooled on it. “‘S not good to be thinkin’ so loudly so early, sire,” he adds. 

Arthur hums contemplatively, but sighs again. This time, accompanied by a chuckle. And him pulling Merlin closer to his chest. “Did I wake you with my ‘thinking’?” He asked, burying his face into Merlin’s hair–and if Merlin wasn’t so terribly besotted with the man, he would have pushed him off, but he didn’t. He couldn’t, not when this was the first–and probably the last time, too–they would get to hold each other so close like this. He didn’t mind, knowing this will all be over in the next five minutes. 

“I apologise, then, if my thinking whether you would look better in red robes, or blue ones woke you up.” Silly Arthur, and his silly thoughts. Now why would he have to think about Merlin in different coloured robes- - 

“Of course, you can think out loud but not the king, eh? Are all sorcerers rude like you are?” 

Merlin sits up faster than when Gaius threatened to use the smelly root that he only brought out when he overslept. “What-”

“Oh, don’t be daft, Merlin. I may be a, what was it that you called me, that made-up word? Oh, yes- - I may be a dollophead, as you so insisted, but I’m not blind.” Arthur said, this time, levelling a look with him that seemed to lock him in place. Neither of them made a move to approach the other, so they stayed at either side of Arthur’s bed, far, but still within an arm’s reach. “Although I still have no idea what to do with you, and I am still quite furious, and not to mention upset that you kept this- a part of yourself from me, I suppose I can understand why you did, especially while my father was still alive. Although now, it has been almost a year since I’ve been crowned king, and yet,” he paused, and gave Merlin a look that broke his heart. 

“- and yet, you still don’t trust me enough to tell me your secret.” 

Okay, that’s it. 

“I’ve- I have always wanted to tell you, Arthur!” His voice came out hoarse, and if Arthur looked so heartbroken before, then that expression was immediately washed over with concern. He cleared his throat before he continued: “maybe not in the beginning, since you were arrogant, and a right prat through and through, but over time, I had come to know you- all the sides of you , even those that you hide from your father, from your knights, and from yourself, but I saw them all, Arthur, and I started to believe in you. 

I believed that you will soon be the man that I would be proud to call my king, and you are. You always have been,even before you’ve been crowned. I believed in you, even more when the killings and manhunt for sorcerers and magical creatures stopped since your reign. I knew in myself that you were the one person I know I would want to serve until the day I die.”

“Then, why ? Why keep it from me if you believed in me- in the man that I will become?”

He had to take a deep breath- not just because of his piece that he’d long been practicing for, in case the day would come that he would tell Arthur about his magic, but also because he had finally, finally been able to say this to Arthur. “Why did you keep it from me, still?” 

“I didn’t want to have you choose betw–”

Suddenly there’s an open palm shoved in his face, “Let me stop you right there.” And Merlin could only clamp his mouth shut, eyebrows furrowing but concedes, if only a bit put-out. “If you believe- believed in me, still, then won’t you give me the right to choose what I want? What I think would be best for myself?” Arthur asked, even if his eyes were saying something else entirely, pleading with him to hear him out. 

“At least give me a chance to decide, to make a mistake, before you, what, swoop in to save me like a damsel? I love and appreciate all that you do, and have done for me, Merlin, I really do, but I would also like to choose for myself for once, to be selfish, and choose you for once.”

It wasn’t because of Arthur’s hand pressed into his face, he’s sure, but suddenly the air in the room had gotten thinner, and Merlin found it hard to breathe- - or maybe that was just his heart beating so erratically, as if it wanted to jump out of his chest, and into Arthur’s pocket–a rather gruesome image, but he found that he didn’t care for it so much at the moment, since it’s exactly how he was feeling–all because of one word. 

The L-word.

Currently, Arthur is frowning–oh no–but despite all the magic in everything around them, he was no mind-reader, so he couldn’t tell if Arthur looked like he wanted to take back what he said, or if he was about to kiss Merlin, so instead he took things into his own hands, and launched himself into the king’s arms, and wound his arms around his neck, one hand gripping one shoulder, as he let himself sag against him. 

This man, who was the Once and Future King from the Druids’ prophecies- this man who has undoubtedly owned Merlin’s heart, and every inch of his being. This man, who was- oh. He was hugging him back. Oh. This felt nice. 

He lets himself sink into the sensation, to drink in the memory of holding– being held– so close before they both had to go back to their King-and-Servant-Who-Is-Secretly-A-Warlock dynamic- - 

“You know, we still need to talk about your being a sorcerer, and how I can amend the laws regarding sorcery, if going by this hug means you’ll tell me more about it, right?” Oh, right. That. Well, for what it’s worth though, Merlin had already rehearsed what he’ll say to Arthur when the time he would tell him about his magic would come- has come , he corrected himself. 

“Warlock,” he corrected Arthur. 

He pulled away at that, and gave Merlin a confused-but-definitely-amused look. The king chuckled. “See? There are still so many things I have to learn about this magic of yours, like what’s the difference between the two, and if you would rather wear red, or blue robes when I appoint you as Court Sorcerer.” 

Merlin snorts at that, but welcomes the idea, humming as he thought of standing beside Arthur as not his loyal manservant, but as his advisor. His magical advisor. 

That didn’t sound so bad, right?