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"Agravaine—!"
It's him, he's the traitor he's the —
Gwaine barely realises that the torch in his hands has fallen to the ground, barely even looks at the blood, that is slowly but surely seeping from Gaius's neck—for he can only hear Agravaine's shuffled back-step, the chink of his knife—Gwaine can only see the anxious, guilty guilty guilty expression that Agravaine sports.
"So it was you," Gwaine accuses, much calmer than he feels, and he's aware of his own face contorting, of rising, rising rage and then, and then he attacks. He lifts his sword and slashes, with a fury he hasn't felt in so very long—he always feels Camelot has made him tamer—but he can feel his blood rushing up now—
Agravaine tries parrying and striking, but he is no match at all, not for a Knight, and certainly not for him. The tip of Gwaine's sword nicks Agravaine on the shoulder, and he uses the slight, winced pause, and pounces—
Agravaine's knife goes skittering in the sand, and he falls to the floor, disarmed and white with fear.
His mouth moves, almost frantically, but no words form, and he crawls, until his back is touching the wall.
Gwaine lifts his sword and—
There's blood on Agravaine's knife, Gwaine thinks, distantly, his gaze falling on the sharp metal tip near his feet, sand sticking to the crimson-wet and—
Agravaine doesn't deserve to die.
He deserves to pay, and to answer for his crimes.
Gwaine brings his sword down and hacks it into Agravaine's shin.
Agravaine's scream is piercingly loud and it's just as Gwaine expected—the wound is not very deep, and couldn't possibly be fatal—but he's certainly not wandering off anywhere carrying that sort of pain around.
Gwaine hits him on the head with the flat edge of his sword, then, and lets him sink down, unconscious and whimpering still.
He feels bone-tired already, not from the amateur fight, but the situation itself, even as he tears the edge of his cape with his sword and rushes to Gaius.
The slit on his neck is bleeding, steadily, maybe even increasing and Gwaine needs help if he is to carry Gaius back—but, but.
Gaius is old, Gwaine knows that. There's no other physician in Camelot who could help quick enough or even one who is simply good enough to treat something like this. Especially because Agravaine, traitor, he knows how to kill clean and quick—and this is just that.
A clean slit, a slow, but certain death.
Gwaine had interfered before Agravaine could twist the knife but its intention is clear. Any movement at all, any motion in Gaius's body would only hasten the bleeding—they could never possibly take him to Camelot alive, not in this state.
Gwaine tries his best to slow the bleeding, anyway, even though he knows.
He knows.
That they've as good as lost Gaius, that they're going to lose him. His breathing is barely discernible, and only when Gwaine presses and waits for long moments.
He is dying, and Gwaine knows it, from his red-stained fingers to the sick feeling in his mouth, Gaius is dying.
And Merlin, god.
He feels his stomach swoop, where in god's name is Merlin—he feels that if nothing else, Merlin needs to be by Gaius's side, needs to be holding his hand, when—when—when it becomes cold.
It's what Gaius would want, certainly, a dying man's plea—and Gwaine hurries out of the cave, unwilling to go too far but worried about calling Merlin where any enemy hearing him would know where to come.
He searches the tunnels closest to the cave and a little farther away—"Merlin!" Gwaine yells, desperate to return to Gaius, and scared, too, because what if Merlin has been caught by Morgana, what if he's also—no—and he's running across the clearing near the cliff—"MERLIN!"
He's almost lost hope, when Merlin suddenly and unceremoniously appears, head poking out of a narrow opening in some stone wall, and then he pushes himself out as Gwaine looks on, disbelieving with relief.
Merlin looks conflictingly wild-eyed and grim, but Gwaine probably looks worse.
"Gwaine—did you find—" Merlin tries, but Gwaine is already grabbing his wrist and pulling him along.
"Merlin," he says, in a low voice as they run towards the cave, "it's Gaius."
"You found him?" Merlin's breathless question is hopeful and heart-breaking, all at once, and Gwaine knows that he must tell Merlin before they reach, must give him a warning.
He shakes his head and quickens his steps, and watches Merlin's face fall.
"He's not. Gaius is— " Gwaine takes a deep breath, "Merlin. I-I'm sorry, but he's not— "
And Merlin freezes in his tracks, then, before blinking, and shaking his head, vigorously.
"No, no," Merlin says, tightly, having assumed the worst, and he is right. He blinks fast and speaks faster, "no. No, Gaius can't be— "
They reach the cave and Gwaine ducks inside, nauseatingly aware of all the blood, of Agravaine lying in the corner, breathing ragged.
"No," Merlin's voice breaks into a small, hitched sob, as he stands still in the passageway, and Gwaine's chest aches, with the guilt, and with the need to fix this, because it's his fault, he didn't reach earlier and he didn't stop Agravaine and he didn't help Merlin earlier—
Gwaine squeezes his eyes shut, for his vision is blurring and then—
Something in the air shifts.
Gwaine hasn't ever been much for intuition and nature or any of that gods-be-willing talk, but he can sense the flip in the very earth around them, like a shiver, like the still-second before a battle begins.
He turns to Merlin, a quizzical frown on his face—
And then he feels like he's almost been hit by the sheer warmth of it, of him, of Merlin—by something, something like fire and ferocity and blazing light—it—
Merlin's eyes are glowing, a frightening, striking, unmistakable gold.
He drips with it, his whole body is wrapped in light and Gwaine's tongue feels like lead in his mouth—open mouth, as it happens—as Merlin scrambles to Gaius's side, kneels next to his bed.
"No," Merlin repeats, and this time, it's not denial, it's resolution. He seems to be talking to himself, perhaps telling Gwaine. Or maybe he is promising it, to the blood and the cave walls and the ones above. "I'll not lose Gaius, I will not. I— "
And then he presses his lips together and stops. He places his hands on the sides of Gaius's neck, and speaks something else, rough words that twist his mouth strangely and seem to float up and occupy the space between them—
It's stupid, maybe, that that is when Gwaine thinks, for the first time: sorcerer.
He still can't move, can't bring himself to speak.
He just watches, tries to breathe. He finds that he can't. Courage, strength and magic, he thinks, dumbly, and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, as if when he opens them, Merlin won't be here and his eyes won't look like that.
When he opens his eyes, the sight makes him startle once more, for the air feels lightning-charged, and fine golden threads connect Gaius's neck and Merlin's hands, unfurling rapidly, tendrils curling closer to the blood—
They wrap themselves around the knife wound, coiling around and around, before lifting up and multiplying—the blood clearing up, the skin... stitching back together.
Gwaine has certainly heard of miracles before.
He's even scoffed at them.
But that's because he hasn't ever seen them happening before his eyes.
Except that this is what it is, a miracle. Merlin has magic and it's not like any display that Gwaine has ever seen before. Merlin has magic and it seems to have a life of its own, for it breathes and grows and shields Gaius, it blooms and becomes impossibly bright every second that Merlin chants.
It goes on for maybe a moment, maybe his whole lifetime, Gwaine can't really say.
But then, it fades, somewhat, and Merlin collapses at the edge of the bed—the same bed where Gaius had been—he had been—
Where Gaius is slowly moving and coughing, his hand twitching up to touch his own brilliantly, ludicrously, inexplicably healed neck.
There's barely a scratch there. The blood seems to have been siphoned off, and the skin is clean, as always, as if it had never been injured.
By all the gods, Gwaine thinks, feeling a hysterical laugh bursting from his lips, and then almost instinctively, rushes to see if Merlin is alright.
He hoists him up by the waist, and his eyes are closed but fluttering, he looks battered and drained and pale—pulling men from the brink of death will do that to anyone, Gwaine, think—and checks his pulse before placing him on the bed.
Merlin is worryingly light and Gwaine wonders how he'll explain Agravaine's betrayal now, how he could possibly explain to Arthur just what happened in the cave. Arthur.
He swallows, and presses at the sting in his eyes, overwhelmed, before gathering every last bit of stubborn will. He has to find a way to get Agravaine out, and Merlin and Gaius too, safely, and he can't exactly carry them all. He can't even leave them like this to find any help, if there even is any help to be found here at all, and—
There's a muffled footstep near the opening of the cave, and Gwaine flinches, hastily bringing up his sword.
A man enters, calm and weaponless, save for a staff in his hand. He is bald, and has odd black markings on his neck, purple-robed and expression grave.
Magic, Gwaine thinks, when he sees the orb on the staff cast an eerie kind of light, and he is almost about to attack, but the man holds up a hand.
"I am Alator, of the Catha," he says, with a tilt of his head, "and I would be honored to help Emrys."
The silence between them is thick and wary.
"Emrys?" Gwaine chokes out, finally, not lowering his sword.
"I believe," Alator says, mildly, "that you call him Merlin."
(x)
With Alator's help—who helps get Merlin on his horse, swaying and dazed, and Gaius on another (they had carried him out of the cave with the help of Alator's magic, on a makeshift gurney) and Agravaine tied on a spare steed (Alator had healed him enough to stop too much bleeding)—
Gwaine rides that very night.
It's late but he needs to reach Camelot as soon as possible.
It's almost impossible to ride in pitch dark like that, but Alator has given him a torch that he claims will not die out and told him of a shorter, safer way through the woods.
He has no option but to trust the man, and so he does.
Gwaine reaches the citadel much later after nightfall, although it would have taken him even more time otherwise. There are horses ready outside the stables, Arthur's usual steed, notably, which tells him that Arthur has realised they're missing and would have ridden out himself at dawn.
He's weary and sore and relieved, by the time the guard at the gate stops him.
"Halt! Declare yourse—Sir Gwaine?"
Gwaine manages not to visibly startle, still not comfortable with the title, when said in anything but jest.
"Where—what— " the guard is young and wide-eyed, looking oddly scared as he glances behind him.
Gwaine is sure they don't make a fearsome sight. He would frankly, guess that they look rather pathetic.
"Open the gates," he commands, and the man scrambles to do so, bowing before he takes his usual spot. "Call a few guards, I need help carrying some injured men. And go wake up the Knights and the King."
His eyes widen even more, to a point of literal terror and Gwaine sighs as he climbs down to the ground, walking his steed closer to the stables.
"Send a message," he elaborates, "to er—George. Or another one of the servants and tell them to wake Arthur and the Knights."
The guard almost slumps with relief, why do we have cowards standing at the gates of Camelot, and bows again, before running off.
"And," Gwaine calls after him, eyeing Merlin lying face-first and Agravaine, and then his own self, "tell Percival to be prompt."
(x)
The next day is a blur.
Gwaine had expected that convincing Arthur of his uncle being the traitor would be next to impossible, but faced with Gwaine's accusations, and Merlin and Gaius's injuries, it's fairly simple.
It also helps that when Agravaine finally wakes up, he screams bloody murder about Uther's failings and Morgana's right to the throne, and attacks Gwaine with a fork.
Arthur tells the guards to take him to the dungeons, and Gwaine thinks he'll never forget that look on Arthur's face—a misplaced guilt that comes with knowing that you weren't good enough to be loved back, to be trusted back, by someone you cared for.
He wonders about the cave again, then.
Arthur complains loudly, and often, about Merlin still being unconscious, even though the great girl couldn't possibly have done anything to exhaust himself so badly—and asks Gwaine way too many questions, how and why and but where did you find him? and WHAT exactly is the MATTER WITH HIM? After an evening of being subjected to rants about Merlin's incompetence and Merlin's insolence and nobody knows how to dress me like Merlin does—that are at best, petulant and morose—Gwaine surmises that there is, in fact, another person who would die for Merlin, sorcerer or not.
(x)
When Merlin wakes up, Gwaine is by his side.
He beams too widely, and then proceeds to speak, something too quick and loud for Merlin to understand, who's still trying to locate Gwaine's hand and his sword.
"'waine?" he tries, after a minute of fruitless swallowing. His throat feels like fire, his head feels too cold. He can't exactly feel his arms.
"Merlin," Gwaine says, sounding relieved, lowering his voice as he stands up and grabs a waterskin from Gaius's table. "How're you feeling?"
Like I picked a fight with a hurricane. And lost.
"Shi,'" Merlin explains, succinctly, gratefully taking the water. Gwaine helps him sit up, and Merlin smiles, a little uncertainly, clearing his throat. "Wha' are you doing 'ere—?"
Gwaine huffs.
"Well, forgive a man for caring," he says, indignantly. "I thought you might want to see a friendly face after defying all the natural laws of the world—er."
Merlin blinks, and then it all comes rushing back in: Gaius, Alator, the magic. That's why he'd been feeling so wary. Gwaine looks away and then back at Merlin, raises an eyebrow as if to ask so are we talking about it?
They might as well.
"You 'aven't told anyone, have you?" Merlin asks, and Gwaine's offended expression rockets once more. "I mean. You'd be an idiot not to."
"I think we've all established that I am, indeed," Gwaine says, with a patronizing smile, "a complete idiot, Merlin."
Merlin's answering laugh is weak, and slightly disbelieving. Only you, Gwaine.
"Look," Gwaine lets his smile slip into something sober and solemn, "I don't know how or when you started...practicing—" he lowers his voice, "sorcery—"
"I've always had it," Merlin mutters. "I was born with it."
" —great, of course you were," Gwaine continues, smoothly, "And I really don't understand why you live in Camelot, of all places, but I know that you saved Gaius's life, and that—that you would never mean any harm to Camelot. Or Arthur."
Merlin fixes his glassy gaze on the blanket, throat tight. His eyes feel warm and stingy and he stares blankly, until they're dry.
"I," Gwaine sighs. "I trust my instincts, Merlin, and they say that I'll never find a friend like you. And so I trust you."
"You aren't upset that I lied?" Merlin asks, with a wry smile.
Gwaine looks at him incredulously.
"Well, what else could you have possibly done?" he asks back, with a scoff, as if it's just that simple.
And maybe it is.
Merlin shrugs lightly, and doesn't answer, just watches Gwaine's face soften and lets himself be pulled into his arms—he smells like ale and soap—and something in his stomach unclenches, something that hadn't perhaps felt the same since the Isle of the Blessed.
(Arthur—who'd thought of paying Merlin a visit before lunch—standing just shy of the doorway, sees them hug, and his smile flickers only a little, before he clears his throat to catch their attention.
They both jump and stare at him, with alarmed expressions, like they've been caught doing something wrong. Arthur swallows, and firmly tells himself that it's not like that between Gwaine and Merlin. Merlin would have told him, wouldn't he.
And besides, it shouldn't even matter to Arthur. It doesn't.)
(x)
Merlin is soon up and about on his feet, back in Arthur's chambers with a grin and a backhanded compliment, as usual.
He deflects questions, again, as usual, gives statements that can be interpreted in various ways, flicks him a nonchalant smile whenever Arthur seems to get too close to the truth. Arthur had always thought that that was Merlin's way of avoiding things he dislikes talking about —but now he thinks that maybe Merlin just doesn't talk about those things with Arthur.
It's a strangely humbling thought, because Arthur is the King—and he certainly doesn't have time for Merlin's feelings—it's just that he wants. He wants to know what goes on in Merlin's head, why he's such a contradiction to himself, wise and stumbling, foolish and thoughtful, sensitive and reckless, stupid and quick.
And of course, then there's Gwaine.
This has got to be a recent development, Arthur thinks, slightly desperately, when Merlin puts on Arthur's armor with efficient, nimble fingers—and then instead of going to sit on the side, helps Gwaine with his, too.
They've been closer, quieter with their conversations, since the whole business with Gaius and Agravaine. Arthur supposes it makes sense, because he himself hadn't bothered to listen to Merlin, but Gwaine had—he'd believed Merlin and helped him, he'd saved them all. Arthur can't go back and change what he did, but when he looks at the two of them, he feels an acute sense of loss, for something he'd never had, something he hadn't even realised he wanted.
(He'd wanted it. Still does.)
And Arthur always, always knew what he wanted. Leave it to Merlin to mess that up, too.
Merlin's hands seem to...linger on Gwaine's arms when he adjusts his chainmail, and his smile becomes small and fond—
Arthur wants to believe that he's just imagining it, but there's a new sort of spark in Merlin's eyes when he looks at Gwaine nowadays.
The way he looks when he talks about Hunith, like Gwaine has reached a point where he deserves a special brand of Merlin's love.
Arthur tries to think back to when Merlin last smiled at him. He can't quite get it. They tease each other and they laugh together—but Arthur can't recall a shared smile like this.
Across the field, Merlin looks away from Gwaine's pleased smirk and laughs, almost like he can't help it and Arthur thinks this man is going to be the death of me.
In the last ten minutes of the training, Gwaine and Arthur fight together.
They're as well-matched as they've always been, and it's close, but Arthur finally disarms him, sending his sword skittering across the sand, the tip of his own pointed straight at Gwaine's heart.
"Good show, Princess," Gwaine pants, and takes Arthur's hand to stand, grinning. Arthur gives him a nod, and turns to the stands, where he's expecting to find Merlin disappointed at Gwaine's loss.
Except, Merlin doesn't look disappointed.
Always, always a contradiction. Arthur can never predict what he'll do next.
As is, Merlin rushes to his side, looking rather like an excited deer—and hurries about removing his armor and handing him water.
"That was just so good," Merlin blabbers on, "I mean, the way you ducked under his arm and sidestepped and then that feint to the left—"
Arthur presses his lips against a smile.
"Never seen anything like it," Merlin finishes, and then, Arthur realizes he's been staring where he shouldn't, because Merlin's looking at him, now, more curious than concerned. "You alright?"
Arthur shakes his head as if to clear it, and nods, a couple of times.
"Yes, of course," he says, "yes. Perfectly."
"Right," Merlin says, doubtfully, stretching the vowel.
"Hey, Merlin!"
Arthur and Merlin turn to look at Gwaine, who's grinning and coming to them, his vambraces in his hand.
"Rising Sun, tonight?" Gwaine asks, and Arthur wants to turn away, give them privacy. He'd been right all along, then. There was, indeed, something going on between them and Gwaine was now asking Merlin to go out with him for a pint—
"Sure!" Merlin nods, eagerly, and Arthur had known his answer would be that, but his heart sinks, anyway, atleast until Merlin raises a questioning eyebrow at Arthur. "Right?"
"Er," Arthur blinks, confused, "Merlin, I think..."
And then, he falters, because even Gwaine is looking at him expectantly. Maybe Arthur had taken this the wrong way.
"Of course," he says, finally.
(x)
Even through the warm, pleasant haze of alcohol, Arthur could have known this was a bad idea, and given up.
Except he hadn't, because Merlin had been sitting right there and his cheeks had been pink with the cold and—and—
Merlin and Arthur escape from the tavern when Gwaine starts singing, which, in Arthur's opinion, is terrible enough to fell armies—he tells Merlin as much (and is pleased when Merlin laughs and agrees) and also that Arthur himself can sing better than Gwaine, gods (this earns him an odd look, but that's okay because Arthur is drunk and allowed to say odd things)—and they sit near the edge of the hill, legs swinging below.
The large pouch of coins in Merlin's hands jangles, mostly containing what he's won from Arthur.
Arthur is the only one who bets good money against Merlin anymore, having realised long back that the man had some extraordinary talent when it came to playing with dice—it had to be a talent, nobody was that lucky—and well, winters were coming.
Arthur is sure Merlin could do with another jacket.
He doesn't tell Merlin that, because Merlin thinks Arthur is competitive and that's very convenient, actually. So he just shuts his eyes and listens to the chink chink chink of the coins.
When he next looks at Merlin, Merlin is also staring right at him. Or, well, at his lips.
Arthur's throat suddenly feels very dry.
He feels this itch in his hands, as if his skin is trembling, it's saying do it do it do something and then—and then, Merlin is moving closer to him, so much that their foreheads touch.
They must make a strange sight—king and servant—pressed up against each other like children, with all the time in the world.
Arthur reaches out with a hand, but it seems he is maybe a little more drunk than he'd reasoned out earlier, and he accidentally yanks Merlin's wrist.
The pouch of coins goes flying in the air and falls—past them, and off the cliff.
Arthur spares it a despondent thought, for that had been a lot of money—but then Merlin grabs Arthur's chin and directs it to his own face.
Their lips meet, and Arthur feels like this is the very worst and also the very best thing he has ever thought to do—maybe it's all the ale, but he might be falling, he's light-headed and dizzy—it feels wrong and yet it feels so, so right.
Merlin makes a tiny noise in his throat, and pushes into Arthur, as if he wants to come closer and closer, as if he wants to climb in. Arthur's about to twist himself off the cliff-edge, to settle into this comfortably, to forget for a moment what this could all mean or lead to—when Merlin suddenly jerks back.
Arthur stares at him, lips parted, agape.
He looks like he's about to start crying. Surely the kiss wasn't that bad. The lines of his shoulder cut tense and rigid against the horizon and Arthur suddenly feels cold, almost scared.
"I. We," Merlin says, faintly, word caught in a gasp, "we can't do this."
Arthur breathes out, shaky. He'd thought—
He hadn't thought. For once, he'd just done it.
"I'm sorry, Arthur," Merlin says, and alarmingly, tears are welling up in his eyes. He makes an aborted motion with his hand as if to touch Arthur, but then stops, letting it fall. "I—you don't know— "
"Merlin," Arthur says, feeling tired and—and something else that he won't put in words. "You don't have to explain."
"No, I want to be with you, but— " Merlin falters again, he wants to, he WANTS to—and scrubs a hand across his face. A frustrated look crosses his eyes, but he doesn't speak, even as Arthur stands up.
"Is it—is it Gwaine?" he asks, a little hesitantly. Merlin gives him a completely bewildered look.
"Gwaine?" he asks, flummoxed, "why would Gwaine—of course not, Arthur! It's only you, it's only ever been you!"
Oh.
Arthur looks at him, wait again, but Merlin just opens and closes his mouth. After a momentary silence, Arthur turns around and senses Merlin's eyes burning into his back as he leaves, feeling mostly subdued, and stupid.
He wonders if Merlin would call him back.
He doesn't.
Too much to drink.
(x)
He hadn't had too much to drink and that much is obvious in the morning.
Because he wakes up with only a mild headache, Merlin laying down a breakfast on his table that's fit for ten good men and a strong feeling that last night, he'd done some very stupid things.
Arthur sits up and clears his throat, and Merlin's ears burn red as he turns to Arthur, a nervous smile on his face.
"Good morning?" Merlin says, as Arthur gets up.
"Morning," Arthur says, and Merlin's shoulders seem to relax a little with just that. Right. Best to get it all out, then. "Merlin, about last night..."
Merlin freezes, with an unmistakable grimace on his face.
Arthur resists wincing.
"Right, well," he continues, quickly, trying to make his voice more business-like. "It was just a... a momentary lapse in judgment, and I obviously overstepped, which you don't need to worry about, since it will not happen again— "
"No! Er. I mean, no, Arthur, I," Merlin cuts in, looking increasingly panicked and guilty. "I wanted to—to do it. But I'm—it's just that— "
"I'm well aware as to how inappropriate it is, Merlin," Arthur looks away, because holding Merlin's gaze is unnerving and he's afraid of what Merlin might see there. That I'm willing to fight for you. That I don't care about what anyone else thinks. "And rest assured— "
"Arthur, will you just listen?" Merlin huffs. "It's not about that—or anything like—that. I can't do this with you, because... because you don't know me well enough."
Arthur stares at him for a few seconds, silent and completely bewildered. How is that even relevant to—what does that even mean—
"We've known each other for years, Merlin," Arthur tries saying it lightly, but he feels like he's missed that mark, by the way that Merlin flinches. "If there is still something I don't know about you, I'm sure I can...I can get to know."
It hurts, actually, that Arthur needs to reassure him of this, as if he's a child, saying give me a chance please. Arthur's never said that before, to anyone, hasn't ever made himself this vulnerable in front of anyone, hasn't even needed to.
Merlin presses his eyes shut, and when he opens them again, they're teary.
"No," he mumbles—a short, quiet word that pierces Arthur with the finality of it—before repeating it louder. "No. You don't understand right now, you don't know what you're promising."
Merlin's footsteps echo in the silence, as he walks to the door. He stops there, for a second.
"When you get to know, you'll hate me for it," he whispers, so quietly that Arthur almost doesn't catch it.
And then—he leaves.
It takes Arthur a long time to even understand the words, longer still before he thinks, I could never possibly hate you.
But he thinks that and then he can't help it, he needs to talk to Merlin, because he's missed something here. He dresses and runs out the corridor that Merlin had gone down, scanning the rooms and hall for Merlin. He's not with Gaius, nor Gwen. But Tyr in the stables tells him that he'd seen Merlin going towards the Rising Sun.
Is Merlin really going to the tavern this early in the morning?
Arthur scowls when he comes to the conclusion that Merlin must be, for there's nothing else in the direction he's gone.
He gets a horse, and follows.
(x)
In the end, it comes down to this.
It's unceremonious, and unnecessary, and it comes down to this.
Arthur catches sight of Merlin soon enough, and he slows down, watching as Merlin doesn't go inside the tavern.
He just stops his horse there and climbs off, heading to the back, where—where they'd been sitting together, where they had—but what could Merlin want here?
Merlin goes to the hill, and Arthur follows, crouching behind a huge boulder jutting out between the path and the edge of the cliff, and watches Merlin look down, seemingly searching for something.
It comes down to this, and later, Arthur will think that it's exactly like Merlin to get caught while doing just about the stupidest thing possible.
It comes down to Merlin stretching his hand over the edge of the cliff and then—and then—
His eyes, they—
They—oh gods—
You don't know me well enough.
The grass below the hill rustles and something brown and round pokes out from the meadow. It floats, it floats upwards, unnaturally, abnormally, magically, towards Merlin's outstretched hand—
Arthur clamps a hand over his mouth, ducks lower behind the rock.
When you get to know, you'll hate me for it.
The brown-thing leaps into Merlin's hand, and Arthur realises it's the pouch, the leather pouch with the money that he'd won the other night.
It had fallen, he thinks, distantly, and now it has floated up into Merlin's hand, because.
Because Merlin is a sorcerer.
Even after all this, it's still a ridiculous thought, and if Arthur hadn't seen Merlin's blue eyes turn amber-gold, if he hadn't seen him sigh and open the pouch with a frown, if we hadn't felt a wave of confusion and fear and anger, if he hadn't understood Merlin's words, perfectly, he would have laughed.
If he hadn't followed Merlin and seen him do magic with his own eyes.
Merlin pockets the pouch and walks down the path.
Arthur watches the top of his hair disappear over the hill line, before riding after him.
It's only after he's spent half the journey worrying about how to tell Merlin that he knows, does he realise that not once had he worried about whether Merlin could mean any harm to Camelot, for in his heart, somewhere, he knows: Merlin will not betray me, not like that.
He won't.
"You alright, Arthur?"
He blinks from where he's been giving his horse back to some stable boy, and turns to see Gwaine, who's frowning, brows pulled together in concern.
"Yes," Arthur nods, and Gwaine raises one skeptical eyebrow, not even looking slightly convinced. And then, Arthur gets it. He must know. Merlin must have told him, or he must have found out—he, he must know. "On second thought, do you mind coming along with me?"
"Er," Gwaine blinks, "where?"
He's the King, why must everybody incessantly question everything he says—
"Right, right, I'm coming," Gwaine says, with another dubious glance at his no-doubt darkening expression. They go to Arthur's chambers, and he shuts the door behind him, double-checks the lock.
"You know," Arthur states, flatly.
"Plenty of things, yes," Gwaine confirms, with an easy smile. "The sky is blue, the grass is green, Camelot's ale tastes like utter shite, you're a moody bastard— "
"And Merlin is a sorcerer," Arthur finishes, evenly, watching Gwaine. The man startles and stares, and even if Arthur could have convinced himself that today was a fever dream, he can't deny what Gwaine's face says very plainly, yes.
He opens his mouth, probably to pretend otherwise, but Arthur holds up a hand.
"Don't deny it, I saw it with my own eyes," he says, and watches Gwaine's hand stray towards the hilt of his sword.
"What did you do to him?" Gwaine asks, narrowing his eyes.
"Nothing," Arthur says, incredulously, is that what everyone thinks of him? and resists the urge to add in a petty Merlin's more my friend than yours, Gwaine. "Of course, I did nothing!"
Gwaine searches his eyes for a moment, before nodding, slowly.
"He is," Gwaine says, and it's those two words that finally let the realisation hit home.
"He told you?" Arthur asks, after a moment.
"Oh, no," Gwaine shakes his head, and Arthur suddenly finds it easier to breathe. "I found out, well, by chance, really. Wrong place, wrong time, you know me."
Arthur waits. Gwaine heaves a long-suffering sigh.
"He saved Gaius's life," Gwaine starts, and then tells him about Agravaine and his betrayal and a too-deep knife wound. It's funny how he'd never suspected magic at all, considering that with it in the picture, everything seems to fit in place perfectly.
Every little thing that Arthur had wondered about, if only for a fleeting moment, is clear.
"I—I just," Arthur says, finally, sighing. "He lied to me, all this while, about who he was—and I understand why he did it. But. But how do I know that I can trust him? After all this?"
Gwaine looks at him motionlessly, for a second, and then, without any warning, takes out a—knife from his boot, and throws it straight at Arthur.
Arthur's eyes widen—why did, why would he—but Gwaine is quick and Arthur isn't ready and there's no time to move, his arms go up to shield his face, as he squeezes his eyes shut—
The knife bounces off an inch from his heart, as if stopped by some sort of invisible force.
Arthur stares at the fallen knife and then, at Gwaine, furious, in half a mind to pull out his sword.
But before he can even process what really happened, Gwaine sighs.
"You would have been skewered right now," he says, rolling his eyes, "if Merlin wasn't paranoid enough to never leave you unprotected. He set up those enchantments when we got back from the Ridge. Said he couldn't stomach the idea of leaving you defenseless."
"I'm not defenseless," Arthur mutters, weakly, eyes still on the knife on the floor. Merlin had, he had put—enchantments on him. There was magic on his self right that moment, and he couldn't even feel anything.
"Against magic," Gwaine points out. "It repels everything, anything that can harm you."
Arthur prods at his skin. Nothing, nothing at all.
"The point is, Princess," Gwaine says, "that Merlin cares about you. And he'll never show it, but he admires you. A lot. He practically worships the ground you walk on."
Arthur scoffs, as if.
"I'm serious," Gwaine says, voice becoming gentler. "He serves you with everything he has. And if you can't recognize that, then that's your fault. He's saved your life, Arthur, and mine, more times than I can count. Merlin would never break your trust."
(x)
"What are you skulking around here for?"
Merlin almost jumps out of his skin at Arthur's voice, way too close and abrupt for comfort. He turns around slowly and Arthur is, indeed, standing here—inside the kitchens, a mildly inquisitive expression on his face.
"I was—uh," Merlin blinks, "waiting for Morris, actually."
"Really," Arthur says, deadpan, like he thinks Merlin is lying. "And why so?"
Merlin blinks again, a little perplexed by the sudden curiosity.
"Well, he's going back home for a couple of days," Merlin explains, hesitantly. "And he lives in Engerd, which is just near Ealdor, so I was sending along a few—uh, things. For my mother."
"Things?" Arthur asks, sharply.
"Yes, things," Merlin decides that maybe Arthur is bored, and ready to do just about anything to avoid talking about the previous night again. It had gone down about as bad as possible when they'd tried in the morning. "Money, mainly. And a letter."
He takes out the letter from his pocket, that he'd penned down a day before, and waves it aggressively in Arthur's face.
Instead of glaring at him and giving him yet another lecture on manners and his personal favorite: what servants should really be like, like Merlin had expected, Arthur's shoulders slump.
"Of course you are," he mutters, confusingly, shaking his head. "Only you, Merlin."
"Only I—what? Only I write letters to my mother? Is this your roundabout way of calling me a girl?"
Arthur doesn't reply for a moment, just sits down on one of the chairs. Merlin doesn't feel charitable enough to tell him that the chair has flour on it, but Arthur doesn't look like he would care at the moment, anyway.
"Is everything alright, Sire?" Merlin asks, as Arthur taps his fingers along the table edge, looking tense, and conflicted.
"It's the money you won yesterday," Arthur says, rather randomly. There's something wrong with him. "And you—I. I followed you. In the morning."
That takes Merlin a moment to understand.
He backs away a step, if only by instinct, and then immediately regrets it when Arthur looks away to the floor.
"You...followed me?"
"To the cliff," Arthur confirms, still in the same, light tone. "I saw you. Doing—magic."
Merlin has imagined this moment a lot of times in his head, but all the scenarios that he had managed cooking up, had been in some battlefield and Arthur had mostly been screaming. He isn't doing any screaming now.
He's sitting, on a flour-covered chair, in the royal kitchens, looking gloomily at the floor.
"Arthur, I— "
"When I realised that Agravaine had betrayed me," Arthur cuts in, "I was hurt, of course, but not very, for some reason. It was like I already knew, like I already suspected it somewhere inside, because you had told me."
Merlin bites his lip. He can't make himself meet Arthur's eyes.
"But then," Arthur says, "when I saw you, it— "
"Merlin, here, I'm—oh."
Morris's eyes widen as he looks from Arthur to Merlin, standing in the doorway with a backpack on his shoulders.
"Awfully sorry, Sire, sorry— " he says, starting to turn around.
"No, Morris," Merlin hurriedly folds the letter and puts it into the pouch, before fastening it and handing it over. "Take this, thank you. And her name is Hunith."
"I know," Morris says, shooting Arthur a quick, uncertain look, as if debating whether to tell him about the flour, or not. He seems to decide against it, because he bows to Arthur and nods, "no need to thank me! Goodbye, Merlin."
"Goodbye," Merlin smiles, and when he turns around, Arthur is eyeing him again, with an odd look on his face. "What?"
"You're just— " Arthur huffs, struggling for a word, "You're just so—Merlin. I mean, I get to know that you're a sorcerer and I keep trying to see it, but I just can't! You're still—you're just so—infuriatingly yourself!"
"I'm sorry," Merlin says, dryly, after a stunned pause.
"You should be," Arthur says, angrily. "You smile at Morris and send extra money to your mother instead of buying a pair of shoes for yourself! You—you whisper to the stupid horses and cry about unicorns! That's not what sorcerers do!"
"In my defense," Merlin says, amused now, "I was right about the unicorn."
Arthur continues as if Merlin hadn't spoken at all.
"And you saved Gaius's life."
"How do you know about—oh. You talked to Gwaine?"
"And you've probably never hurt a single innocent soul in your life and you—oh my god, that is how you win all the games!"
"Guilty," Merlin shrugs.
"I'm going to kill you," Arthur says, before he blinks as if he's just realised what he said. "Was this it?"
"Was this what?"
"You know," Arthur makes a vague gesture with his hand, face flushing, "when you said I don't know you well enough."
"Oh," Merlin pauses, "er. Yes."
"So, so now that I do know— " Arthur's skin is a fierce red now, and Merlin just can't help himself, he reaches for Arthur and pulls him up off the chair—dear lord, there's flour flying around everywhere—
Arthur moves, until Merlin's back is against the wall.
"You can't really believe I could ever hate you," he whispers. Merlin shivers, gods. "Tell me you don't believe that."
"I didn't—I didn't want to hope," Merlin gasps, as Arthur tilts his head to meet Merlin's lips, "I wasn't sure, I—Arthur—you, do you really want to do— "
"I've never been so certain about anything in my life," Arthur replies, and feels Merlin's smile, gentle and brilliant, like the winter sun.
