Archive of Our Own

ONE

Princess Catalina is a lovely girl, really, which is why Arthur feels extra bad about stringing her along. They’re out in the meadow, far from the castle and their fathers, with only Merlin and Princess Catalina’s handmaidens, Isabetta and Helen, around. 

It’s a nice break—or, at least, as nice a break as Arthur will get—so he lets himself enjoy the lazy spring afternoon. The chill of winter has finally fled and the flowers are beginning to bloom in the midday sunlight, but the suffocating summer heat is still a long way away. A good day, all things considered, a good day. 

Princess Catalina clears her throat and coils a shiny, gold curl around her finger. She bats her eyelashes and turns to Arthur. “So,” she says, “is this your favourite meadow?”

Arthur stops himself from laughing. He coughs into his hand and glances over his shoulder toward Merlin, who is feeding the horses, while the handmaidens are embroidering in the shadow of an old oak. Merlin, if he had caught Arthur’s misstep, would surely be laughing on his own. 

Favourite meadow—who has a favourite meadow? The question is so ridiculous it only reminds Arthur of how young Catalina is, how ignorant of the world she still is. 

“I don’t think I have a favourite meadow,” Arthur says. 

“Oh, but you must!” She claps her hands together and smiles. “My favourite meadow is only an hour by horse from my father’s castle. On a clear day, if you climb to the top of the highest turret, you can see it from the castle.” 

She continues on from there, rambling on about the carnations that grow on the edge of the field and how the sun in summer hits the grasses and how, just through the trees, there’s a small creek that the animals, especially rabbit and deer, like to drink of and in the spring the creek rises as the snow melts. 

Arthur nods along, half-listening. Merlin, now, is talking to Isabetta and Helen instead of tending to the horses. Arthur frows and cranes his head to look past Catalina’s bobbing curls. 

Isabetta (or is it Helen?) throws her head back in a laugh that has to be genuine, even if it is over-exaggerated; Helen’s cheeks are flushed and pink and it can’t be from the sun because she’s been in the shade the whole day. Merlin grins. It’s a somewhat common expression of his, one from the usual playbook, one he uses when he thinks he’s being much more clever than he actually is.

“Prince Arthur?” Catalina bats her lashes and clutches at his hand.

“Err, yes?” He lifts a brow, trying to read her expression.

“So you agree? This will be your favourite meadow from now on? Because this is the one where we passed a day together?” Her eyes widen and she smiles and looks up at Arthur, so expectantly that it crushes his heart a little. 

Arthur removes his hand from her grip. “Look, Princess Catalina, you’re a lovely girl and all but I’m not sure this will work—”

A sob shatters Arthur’s words. Princess Catalina’s face screws up, her complexion reddens, her shoulders tremble. 

“It’s not you! It’s nothing to do with you! You’re wonderful,” Arthur stresses. He reaches into his pocket and digs out a handkerchief. He’d told Merlin he didn’t need one today (he never used it anyway) but somehow his manservant had snuck it into his pocket before they rode out of Camelot.

Princess Catalina takes the handkerchief and buries her face in it. “It’s not me?” she asks, but her words (and especially her ‘t’s) are muffled by the fabric and her sniffling.

“No, no, it’s not you at all. It’s just—I’ve been trying to find the courage to tell you this all day—my heart belongs to another.”

“It does?” She sniffs and wipes under her eyes.

“Yes, I’m sorry to say that it does.”

“My father never said anything about that.” She drops her hands and the handkerchief to her lap and her gaze narrows. “In fact, no one said anything about that. Typically, men who are betrothed don’t go courting other women.”

Arthur bites his lip. He should’ve thought this through, really. “It’s a secret,” he supplies. “No one knows because my love is—is a servant!” He knows Guinevere would protest at being implicated in such a lie, but she’s not here at the moment and the two of them are close enough that it could be plausible while Catalina is unlikely to strike up a conversation with her.

“A servant?”

“Yes.” Arthur nods firmly. He has no choice but to stick to his story now.

At the same time, Isabetta and Helen break into laughter again. Arthur wrenches his head over to see Merlin lounging on a log and beaming at the two girls as he folds his hands behind his head. Really, Arthur should dock him a day’s pay if he’s going to spend the whole time flirting instead of working and—

“Oh. I see. Your manservant is quite handsome.”

Arthur whips back around to face Princess Catalina. “No—no.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t go gossiping around about it. Merlin was quite nice; I wouldn’t want to make him the object of the court’s attention this fortnight.”

“It’s really not—” Arthur stops himself. If she believes him already, why is he working against that? “You promise you won’t say anything?”

She mimes locking her mouth shut. “My lips are sealed.”  Princess Catalina looks down at the last remains of food in between them and the daisy he’d picked for that was now beginning to wilt. “I only wish you’d told me sooner.”

Later that night, as Merlin removes Arthur’s tunic, he speaks, “So, Princess Catalina took the rejection rather well.”

Arthur shrugs as Merlin pulls the fabric over his head and leaves his hair ruffled. “Is it that hard to believe I can charm a woman even when turning her down?”

Merlin hums as he folds the fabric. “More like you were so repulsive she never wanted to be with you in the first place.” 

Arthur tosses his belt and Merlin dodges it without looking. 

“Really, though, what did you tell her?”

Arthur rolls his eyes and makes a straight line toward his bed. He’s tired enough from the day—his feet ache and he did get burnt by the sun where his arms were bare. “Never you mind,” he tells Merlin. “A Prince has to have some secrets.”

TWO

Merlin feels the buzz of magic before he sees the user. The power smells like rot: death and decay. He draws in a breath, sharp, and curls his hand into a fist and clutches at his thigh, determined not to let his reaction show. 

Next to him, Arthur finishes his tankard of ale and signals to the barkeep for another. He sways slightly as he does—the tankards are bigger than the ones in the court of Camelot, they were riding all day, and the drinks aren’t watered down. It’s a storm of factors and usually it wouldn’t be an issue (in fact not drinking much in a tavern as seedy as this one would raise some flags) but now the thought of Arthur not being as sharp as normal makes Merlin’s heart flare with fear. 

He whips his head around, searching the crowd, but just like Arthur and him there are too many people packed in here all wearing hoods and ducking their heads to get a proper look at many faces. A cold sweat pricks at Merlin’s neck. 

Truthfully, Merlin isn’t even entirely sure where they are. The village must have a name, but it’s more of a crossroads than a town in and of itself.  On top of everything, there’s a monster lurking around in the woods somewhere not far off from here and Arthur intends to kill it, even though Uther told him to leave it be since it was on the border of Cendred’s kingdom. 

“Relax, Mer-lin,” Arthur teases and tugs at his sleeve. “There’s no chimera in here.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Merlin mutters but he does slowly turn back toward his own drink. The bard is playing loud and off key and the music grates against Merlin’s ears. The dim flicker of candlelights do nothing to help ease Merlin’s growing headache—he can’t see anything clearly, he can’t make out anything with certainty. 

Reluctantly, Merlin reaches for his own ale, but as he’s about to take a sip the buzz of that awful magic piques. Merlin jolts; the tankard slips from his hand and spills over the bar. The barkeep swears and Arthur scrambles to pick it up. “Mer-lin,” he scolds. 

Merlin doesn’t care. He turns, slow, looking out at the crowd once more. No face reveals itself to him. 

So Merlin goes to them. Leave here, he thinks and pushes the thought outward with his mind. 

No one so much as flinches. 

And then, So the great Emrys—nothing more than an errand boy for a Pendragon. Disappointing. 

The hairs on Merlin’s arms and neck lift with a static charge and a cold chill trickles down his spine. Leave now, Merlin thinks. I don’t want to fight. 

A dull chuckle echoes in his skull. You would fight for him? For the son of the man who slaughtered our kind?

He is not his father. Merlin bites his lip and tries to take a deep breath. Next to him, Arthur argues with the barkeep over the split ale. 

“Come on, help me with this,” Arthur says as he desperately tries to wipe the bar clean. He hiccups as he tries to mop the liquid dripping onto the floor up with a rag. 

So he accepts magic then? So he’ll lift the ban? 

Merlin’s nostrils flare. Give it time.

Time? I’ve lived a whole life in hiding. How much longer shall I wait?

“I think we should leave,” Arthur says. Sluggish, he grips Merlin’s forearm. “You’ve made a scene.”

Merlin brushes his hand off. “Yeah, sure.” He stands, numb. He is not his father. He will bring magic back.  Distantly, Merlin is aware the barkeep is shouting at the two of them to get out. 

The buzz of magic crescendos and darkness, like a veil, wraps around Merlin’s world. NO, he thinks. Don’t touch him. He gathers his own magic, ready to push back. He is under my protection. 

At the same time, Arthur chucks a few coins on the bar and stands up and tries to pull the hood of his cloak further over his head to hide his face all at once. As he does, he lists to the side, ready to faceplant against the man next to them who is built like a tree trunk. 

Merlin moves without thinking. He wraps his arm around Arthur’s waist; Arthur drapes his arm over Merlin’s shoulder. “Thanks,” he says, his words slurred but still a rare compliment. Arthur starts to straighten up and Merlin readies himself to be pushed aside, but instead, Arthur does the opposite—he leans in. It’s for only a moment, a fleeting second, but his cheek grazes Merlin’s and he sinks all his weight onto Merlin’s side.

Then, acting as if nothing happened, Arthur rights himself and straightens the clasp of his cloak. “Come on, then.” He pushes through the crowd. A few of the patrons turn to look, but no one seems to give them a second thought. In a place like this, they’ve probably seen much worse. 

I see how it is, the voice teases. 

Merlin swallows the bile in his throat, ready to tell them that it’s not like that. He can’t quite manage the words. 

Have your fun now, young Emrys, but know that we won’t wait forever for the tides to turn—

He’s mine, Merlin thinks back, sharp and hot. No one else will lay a hand on him. 

Merlin storms out, following the path of space in the crowd Arthur has created. He doesn’t look back and, after he crosses the threshold and steps into the cool, dewy night, he slams the door behind him with an extra gust of wind. 

THREE

Most kings have spymasters, but as regent, Arthur’s not sure if it’s entirely within his rights to appoint one. Whether it is or not, though, is a moot point now. He’s crouched in an alcove, ear against a gap in the stone, listening to the conversations that the Mercians are having. 

Arthur shifts and cups his hand around his ear. His thighs burn from squatting and Merlin’s much too boney elbow digs into his hip. 

Merlin wiggles in place like a petulant child and sends his elbow further into the flesh of Arthur’s side. “ Ow, ” Arthur hisses and pushes Merlin’s arm away. “Watch yourself.”

Merlin tilts and sticks out his hand, catching it on the stone to balance himself. “You’re the one who had the brilliant idea to spy on the Mercians yourself,” Merlin spits back in a harsh whisper and rubs at his elbow, even though Arthur hardly gave him more than a light brush. “You could’ve just sent me in as a cupbearer and they would’ve said everything they’re saying right now, paying me no mind.”

Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Most people underestimate Merlin and even fewer would believe he could read and write. He simply could’ve lingered in the room, put together the conversation, and taken a quick glance at any letters or records they had on the tables. Arthur clears his throat. “That wouldn’t have worked, Merlin. Be realistic.”

Arthur can’t see his face, but he can practically hear Merlin rolling his eyes. Unfortunately, Arthur can’t hear much else—the Mercian’s conversation has halted. It’s hard to make out Merlin’s expression in the shadows of the alcove, but Arthur thinks he’s frowning too. 

“Arthur…” he whispers. 

Arthur waves him off and turns. The gap in the wall isn’t big and he can’t see much through it, but through the shadows, it seems like the meeting room is empty. 

Down the hall, the click of shoes on stone echoes off the wall. Arthur freezes. Have they been caught? How unbecoming this would be—if the Mercians thought he was eavesdropping, it could ruin the relatively friendly relations. Even if they are plotting to overthrow Arthur while Uther is unwell (which is what Arthur suspects their whole plan is), he doesn’t want a war to be his fault. 

Merlin, too, looks pale. He frowns; his eyes dart from the hollow sound of footsteps back to Arthur. He’s smart and has undoubtedly put together what exactly this could mean for Arthur personally and Camelot as a whole. 

“Arthur,” he whispers. His voice is smooth and deep and Arthur will admit that something in his chest breaks loose when he hears his name. Now, with Morgana gone and his father not lucid, no one calls him just Arthur anymore. “Do you trust me?” Merlin looks at him fiercely. His eyes are intense but he doesn’t break his gaze.

“Of course,” Arthur replies. He doesn’t have to think about it; it’s a simple fact, a truth he knows in the depth of his heart.

“Then I’m sorry about this in advance.”

Arthur’s about to ask what, exactly, Merlin is sorry for when Merlin answers the question for him. His slender hands reach forward and cup Arthur’s head; his lips are on his lips, he turns his head to the side and deepens the kiss. 

For a moment, Arthur flounders. His heart skips and his mind lurches to a halt. Merlin smells of the same soap Arthur uses. His skin is soft and, when Arthur reaches up, he finds that his dark hair is softer still. There’s something else too, under the layers of him. Kissing Merlin, Arthur decides, is like the moment between lightning and thunder. The world crackles and buzzes and something unspoken hangs between them. He waits for the next beat. 

“Who goes there!” a harsh voice barks out. 

Merlin jumps back and Arthur misses his warmth. He blinks as his mind tries to catch up with what just happened. 

“You—oh! Your Highness.” It’s a Mercian guard. He lowers himself in a deep bow. 

Merlin wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve. His lips, already so full, are now further swollen and his hair sticks up at the back. He casts a look at Arthur, his eyes wide.

Arthur searches for the right words. “Um,” he lands on. He smooths his hair and finds his courage. “I trust you’ve found no issue here.”

The guard shakes his head. “Sorry to have disturbed you, Your Highness.” Without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks off. 

Once he’s out of earshot, Merlin snickers. He leans forward clutching at Arthur as he wheezes with laughter. 

Arthur doesn’t laugh. He’s grateful for their cover of shadow—he hopes that in the darkness Merlin won’t see how he’s red through his cheeks to the tips of his ears. 

FOUR

Merlin is both further from home and in more trouble than he’s ever been before, which is certainly saying something. Both are accomplishments in and of themselves, but together? Merlin isn’t really sure how he’s managed it. 

He doubts he’ll top this one, though. For as many times as he’s ruminated over what would happen if the truth was revealed in Camelot, somehow his anxiety has never conjured up the scenario of what would happen if he were to reveal his magic before a foreign court. 

But the knife—another stupid blade, of all things—had been thrown and the aim was true to the newly crowned King Arthur’s chest and Merlin moved without thinking. He’d held the blade midair before turning it back on its sender and Merlin’s aim was equally as true. 

The whole court turned on him in an uproar. At least Merlin assumed it was uproar, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying now, could he? Either way, they slapped cold iron cuffs on him and shoved him in the dungeon, where he now currently lies. Just once, as the Norman knight was yanking Merlin down the hallway by the scruff of his neck, he caught Arthur’s eyes. They were cold—distant. As if, where it counted, Arthur simply shut off part of his mind and heart. His lips formed a hard line and his jaw held tension. 

I’m sorry, Merlin tried to say. He couldn’t manage to get it out. 

Merlin groans and shifts against the damp stone at his back. Fever clouds his judgment; he can’t decide if there’s a way out of this. If he searches deep in his soul, he bets he could find the thread of his power and pull it free. He could shatter his iron cuffs and blow the door off its hinges, or better yet, he could take down the whole side of the cell and walk out a free man. 

He would be free and he would have nowhere to go. Camelot, Ealdor… they’re across the sea. Merlin doesn’t speak a lick of the language here and, even if he did pick it up, he would simply have to hide his true nature all over again. From afar, how could he protect Arthur? 

Obviously— obviously— he did not want it to go this way. But now that it is going this way, should he simply accept it? This way, Gaius won’t have to see his pyre. His mother will get the word in time, but there won’t be as many rumours and nasty tales of his cruelty from gossiping townsfolk. 

Merlin rubs at his wrists. It’s hard to see anything between the darkness of the dungeon and the blurring at the edge of his vision, but he’s fairly certain that his flesh is red and raw where the iron digs into his wrists. Sweat trickles down from the nape of his neck and joins the cold dampness on his back; his stomach rolls and a drop of condensation (he hopes it's only condensation) flecks his face. 

Distantly, footsteps fall on stone and a metal rattle echoes down the hall of the dungeon. Keys? It has to be. Merlin sits up straighter and tries to wipe the muck and dried tears off his cheeks and face whoever is coming, even if he’s not sure he has the strength to stand on his own feet. 

Sure enough, the clatter grows closer and closer and the thunk sounds of the key in the hole, even though Merlin still can’t make out who is there. The door squeaks as a stocky man pushes it open. 

“So what is it?” Merlin tries to grin. “Drowning? Axe? I really hope it’s not the pyre, that’s my one request.” 

As the figure steps closer, Merlin realizes there’s someone behind the guard. Even in the dark, the wave of his hair and the line of his beard are familiar. “Gwaine?” 

He hums. “Your request is duly noted, but there will be none of that today.”

Weight lifts off Merlin’s chest and shoulders and he laughs with disbelief. The guard reaches forward and unlocks the cuffs, too. They clatter onto the flagstone and the ringing bounces off the walls and Merlin laughs again at the absurdity of his luck, his endurance. 

He tries to stand, but wobbles. Gwaine is next to him before he asks for help, shouldering his weight. 

“What happened?” Merlin searches for his face, for the familiarity of his features in the dim light. 

“The princess did some sweet talking, from what I gather.” Gwaine shifts Merlin’s weight and takes it almost entirely. “We’re going home.”

They’re on their boat, pushing off from the docks before sundown. The original plan had been to stay here for weeks, still, and now they’re heading home, the relations between the kingdoms worse than ever before. 

Arthur hasn’t spoken. Merlin only saw him for a short moment—he stormed up the gangway and marched straight to his quarters without a word. Anger, like waves, radiated off of him. He might not have used his words, but Arthur certainly wasn’t quiet then and isn’t still. He’d stomped and huffed and Merlin can still make out the sound of slamming doors coming from where he’s hidden himself away. 

Merlin, meanwhile, hangs around the side of the ship, making himself as small and silent and unnoticeable as he possibly can. The breeze rushes through his hair and he drinks in the smell of the sea, of the fresh air, of the brine. Gulls call overhead. In the distance, the sun sinks lower and lower into the grey. Only this morning, he’d believed that he’d never see this again. 

He rests his hands on the side of the ship and sighs. Ugly, red welts circle his wrists where the cuffs were and somewhere on the boat there’s probably one of Giaus’ salves that would take off the sting, but most likely it’s near Arthur’s cabin and Merlin doesn’t want to push his luck. 

“That looks nasty.” Lancelot comes up to his side and leans on the railing next to him; he frowns and his brow is knit with concern.

Merlin’s face warms and, on instinct, he hides his wounds. “It’s nothing. Just a little sore.”

“You’ll get Giaus to look at it?”

Merlin hesitates. 

“That wasn’t really a question.”

Merlin turns back to the water. “I—Gwaine told me that Arthur talked the Normans out of executing me.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know how.” Or why, he adds. Why would Arthur help him after this betrayal? In some ways, it could’ve been an easy answer for Arthur—Merlin would’ve gotten his punishment and Arthur would have been absolved of the guilt of having to be the one to deliver it. “What if he told them to free me because I would face my fate in Camelot? Or what if he expects me to leave in exile the moment my feet touch the soil on the other shore?”

“Do you honestly believe that?” Lancelot, for a moment, sounds as if he has something more to say. Instead of speaking, though, he bundles his hands and peers down at the water flowing and churning against the hull of the ship.

“Lancelot? Do you know what he said?” Merlin studies his face.

Lancelot sighs. “Basically, he insinuated the Normands drew him into a trap. That they failed to protect him adequately and forced your hand.”

Slowly, Merlin nods as he follows. The knife thrower, whoever he was, must’ve been a rogue agent and not part of a coordinated effort. After all, no kingdom wants to be drawn into a needless, bloody war. Needless, Merlin supposes, in the eyes of rulers. What counts as a needless war in the eyes of the common folk is nearly always different. 

But overall, there would be no reason for the Normans to want Arthur gone and even less reason for them to want him dead in their court. 

“That’s it?” Merlin asks. “Reason enough got me free?” It made some sense to base his argument on the worst thing that could have happened, Merlin supposes. But Arthur hadn’t died and Merlin was only a servant, a servant who broke the law of a foreign land. They shouldn’t have spared him. Merlin’s life should’ve only been a pawn that had to be sacrificed to avoid a war. 

Lancelot concentrates harder on the water. 

“Lancelot?”

“Fine,” he whispers, “but not a word of this, you understand? I’m not even sure Arthur knows I’m fluent. Only a few of the older knights are.”

Merlin’s head bobs in acknowledgement. 

“He told them you are his protector, that you were only dressed as a servant. That you’re actually his, um,” Lancelort stumbles over his words and coughs into his hand. “His consort.” 

Merlin’s mind goes numb. There is no threat of an axe awaiting him in Camelot, no possibility of having to flee the moment the ship reaches shore. 

“That was a smart choice,” Merlin finally says. Sometimes, he has to give Arthur credit where credit is due. “Then they couldn’t have carried out an execution without starting a war.”

Lancelot gives Merlin a long look. “Yes, of course. Good strategy.”

FIVE

The thing at Arthur failed to consider when he appointed Merlin as Court Sorcerer was that it meant he would actually get to see his friend significantly less than he had before. He’d been thinking of how nice it would be to openly ask Merlin for his counsel, or to sit across from him at a feast, or to have hours in the library together uninterrupted. 

While those elements did prove to be true, he keenly misses all the little moments in between—Merlin at his side in the stables before a long ride, Merlin at every meal (even the simple ones taken in his quarters and just a step away at a feast), Merlin there to listen to him rant and rave after every meaning, Merlin carrying his swords after training. Against all possible odds, Arthur even finds himself missing the way that Merlin would throw open the curtains and call for him every morning. 

It’s not that Arthur doesn’t like his new manservant, Ricard—he’s perfectly competent and punctual, and now that he’s gotten used to Arthur is even letting his dry sense of humour show—but he misses his friend. 

When Arthur catches Merlin in the highest turret of the tower, legs folded in the window alcove as he stares out over the kingdom, he realizes he can’t remember the last time the two of them spoke alone. 

“Oh, Arthur. It’s just you.” Merlin gives him a wan smile before turning his head back out the window. 

Arthur follows his gaze as he walks up beside him and looks out the window. It’s open a crack and the breeze that comes in is light and soft and carries the scent of snow melt and spring flowers. In the distance, white still pockets parts of the city and land beyond, but the sun is strong and even by the end of the day, everything might be different. 

Merlin also looks different now than he ever did as a servant. He wears the fine, deep blue clothes well; he sports a trim beard along his jaw. He’s only been in the role a little over a year now, but he’s grown into it. Or, perhaps, it was what he was always meant for and that was why he was such a terrible servant. 

“Yes, just me. Your king.” Arthur rolls his eyes and lightly smacks Merlin’s arm with the letter. “This is for you, by the way. Since you can’t be bothered to do your job and stay in your study I had to come find you.”

Merlin takes the envelope without a word and inspects the seal. “From Nemeth?”

“So it would seem.” 

“At least it’s not the druids again,” he mutters under his breath.

“What?” Arthur’s heart drops into his stomach. “What about the druids?” The treaty is still new and delicate; peace is a precarious thing. If something is going amiss… Arthur tightens his jaw. He doesn’t want to think about that possibility yet. 

Merlin, though, doesn’t answer. He rips the letter open, scans the note, and swears. “It’s that idiot Mithian calls her magical advisor.”

“Nemeth is a valuable ally—”

“Twice, Arthur, twice he’s written to me about spells to keep the rats out of the grain storage! This is the third letter now!”

“Protecting the food supplies of our allies is valuable—”

“Anyone could do that! I could’ve kept the rats away better as a servant without magic than he can with magic and a whole court behind him.  I told Mithian to take on that farmgirl, Ella. She could’ve done that in her sleep. But no,” he says, drawing out the ‘o’, “the counsel bullies Mithian into taking on a fool who couldn’t even trick a child with his weak—”

“Merlin! It doesn’t matter! Just take Killgarah, set the wards, and be back before sundown. I don’t care about all that—what was that about the druids?”

“Oh, that. It’s nothing really.”

Arthur gives him a pointed look. “We agreed no more secrets.”

Merlin lowers the letter, presses his head back against the flagstone, and sighs. “We did, didn’t we?” He turns away from the window and swings his feet toward Arthur. 

“So,” Merlin starts, “there’s this festival coming up. Beltane.”

“I might’ve heard of it,” Arthur quips.

“It’s important for the druids, you know. It’s about spring, about rebirth and renewal. Specifically, this Beltane they see it as being extra significant—it’s just the renewal of the spring, but it’s the renewal of magic to the land.”

Arthur nods along to Merlin’s words and Merlin, after that, doesn’t elaborate further. “That’s good though, is it not?”

“It is!” Merlin adds. “It most definitely is.”

“So…?”

With another long, drawn-out sigh, Merlin sags forward. His shoulders roll up to his ears, he turns his head away, he drops the letter onto the windowsill. “Theywanmetogetmarried.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Merlin’s cheeks burn red. “They want me to get, uh, druid married basically.”

In his chest, Arthur grows cold. “Married?”

“Kind of. Maybe I’m overthinking it—it only has to last for a year and a day, and it doesn’t have to be romantic, or even sexual in nature.”

 “Oh,” Arthur manages. What else is he supposed to say to all that? “I wasn’t aware you were courting anyone.” He tries to not let it sting but it does, it does sting him so brilliantly in his raw heart. 

Merlin shoots him a pointed look. “I’m not. Which is sort of the whole problem. If I can’t find someone, they’re going to pick suggestions. I mean, they won’t force me to marry at the end of the day, but it's a show of good faith and a sign of prosperity if I have someone at my side.”

Arthur nods slowly; he knows that predicament all too well. Mostly, his advisors have given up on trying to get him to marry in any serious sense, but the small, ribbing comments happen too often for Arthur’s liking. 

 “Maybe I’m overthinking it,” Merlin continues. He winds one of his rings—one imbued with a shielding spell, like the one he added to Arthur’s signet—around his lean finger and bites the edge of his lip. “I mean, it’s not actually like a real marriage anyway.”  Colour rises in his cheekbones. 

Arthur hopes his face doesn’t match. “Oh?”

“It’s more of a—a sworn partnership. A commitment to each other, to be by the others’ sides.”

“I see.” Arthur folds his hands over his chest. He’s already lost Merlin in all the small and quiet moments of his life. If Merlin marries or joins into whatever the Druidic equivalent is, will Arthur lose him in all the rest of the moments too? He can’t imagine Merlin would want to sit next to him at feasts or seek him out in rare free afternoons if he has another person to whom he’s sworn himself. 

“I should just get it over with,” Merlin says and it’s clear he’s talking to himself more than Arthur. “I mean, I’m sure Gwaine or even Elyan or Percy would go along with it for my sake.”

“I’ll do it,” Arthur says. He shuts his mouth the moment his words are out. Percy and Elyan are busy and Gwaine would make a terrible partner—Arthur does harbour a lot of care toward his knights but that doesn’t change the fact that Gwaine’s more likely to end up in a tavern than on the altar.

“Arthur… I can’t ask you to do that.” Merlin laces his fingers together and Arthur finds himself staring at his lean, strong hands. There’s a burn mark across the back; he must’ve been experimenting with potions again.

“You didn’t ask me you dolt, I offered. Besides, it’s good for me too. It’ll show the druids I’m committed to making this whole magic thing work.”

Merlin nods. “‘This whole magic thing’. Yeah. Right. Good.” He gives a wan smile. 

“See? Not too difficult is it now? You can get back to work.”

Merlin turns the letter from Nemeth over in his hands. 

“And don’t even think about sending him a spell that will attract more rats or I’ll send you to the stocks, Court Sorcerer or not.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Merlin mumbles. “I wouldn’t have followed through with the plan anyway.”

The enormity of what he agreed to doesn’t hit Arthur until later that night as he’s alone in his bed, staring at the canopy, waiting for sleep that won’t come.

He told Merlin he would marry him. 

He practically insisted on it. Arthur rubs his hand against the scruff of his face. Sure, Merlin had said it’s not a true marriage—that it’s more of a partnership. It’s only for a year and a day, too, and it will help foster peace with the druids. In a life that has so rarely offered up victories, this is a win-win-win. 

So why can’t Arthur let it go?

Arthur sees Merlin exactly once before Beltane. It’s so brief they hardly get ten words in each. Merlin tells him that someone will send over the robes for the ceremony. Arthur asks if they’ll need to be altered; Merlin reminds him he knows the measurements. 

For once, Merlin is the one instructing Arthur not to be late. Then, before Arthur can even ask more about it, Merlin rushes off, deep in conversation with one of his apprentices. 

Great. Just great. 

The ceremony takes place at dawn. It’s supposed to represent renewal and rebirth or something like that, but Arthur is really just tired. And cold, a little, as he stands in the clearing.

Two positives: the clearing does look very nice (it’s been decorated with candles and the flowers are in full bloom) and the robes Merlin sent are rich and red and fit wonderfully. Part of Arthur had feared it would be some ridiculous billowy white sheet that they’d dress him in. 

Merlin stands across from him, once again in robes the colour of blue ink. Maybe a third positive—he looks brilliant. Powerful. The candlelight flickers across his face as he smiles and, behind him, the sky is starting to flood with colours. In front of both of them, Iseldir chants away in a language that Arthur doesn’t understand. There is no one else around aside from the birds and willow trees, and the privacy makes it all the more intimate. 

Arthur shivers. The breeze still carries the chill from the far-off mountains and the sun isn’t yet out to warm the air. 

Merlin glances at him and mouths you cold?

Arthur’s eyes flicker to Iseldir; he doesn’t want to be rude to the druids, but he nods slightly. Freezing, he mouths back. 

Instantly, warmth floods his world and when he meets Merlin’s eyes again, the gold flares before fading. Merlin gives him a familiar smirk. The chill is gone—Arthur’s wrapped in a blanket of warm air and the cold breeze no longer touches him. 

He starts to mouth back thank you , instead, Merlin starts chanting along with Iseldir. Arthur freezes. Was he supposed to memorize something? Or join in.

After a few moments, Merlin stops. “Take my hand,” he says. 

Arthur does. He hopes Merlin doesn’t notice his palm is sweaty. Merlin’s sleeves ride up and Arthur can make out the faint scars that circle his wrist, the ugly reminders of where the cold iron had cut off his power. Arthur swallows. It’s a stark reminder, but it proves all the more why this is important. He cannot let magic be feared and hunted. 

 Iseldir takes both of their hands, though, and wraps a length of ribbon around them, binding them together. He chants in the old tongue once more and then claps his hands together and smiles. 

“It’s done,” Iseldir says. He’s beaming. “Congratulations to you two.”

That night, there is a feast for Beltane. Arthur can’t remember the last time there was this much life in the castle—Camelot, for him, had so often been a place of darkness and death, even if it is his home. 

“King Arthur!”

Arthur turns on his heel. It’s been a long day and it’s rapidly turning into an even longer night. He doesn’t know how much he has left in him to make pleasant small talk and nod and smile. 

At his shoulder, though, is Princess Catalina. She’s married now—has been for some time—but Arthur can’t remember to whom so he smiles all the same and nods with respect. “Your Highness.”

She beams as she raises her cup to her lips. “I’m happy for you. Truly.”

“Oh, thank you.” It seems a bit much, considering their relationship is distant and formal at best. 

“I mean it,” she continues. “It’s not often that True Love triumphs above all else but I’m so glad to see it has this time.” Her eyes water and she sniffles. “It’s wonderful that you were able to say your vows.”

Arthur feels his cheeks grow hot. “Yes, I suppose it is.” It seems simpler to agree than to try and explain the series of elaborate ruses and misunderstandings that lead them here. 

She takes her leave after another weepy congratulation and from nearby, Grwaine shoots Arthur a look. 

“What was that about, Princess?” he asks.

Arthur levels him with his gaze. “Never you mind.” It’s a night for celebrations; there’s no point arguing, even if Gwaine is still staring with a brow raised in an expression that could rival Gaius. 

Arthur lets himself sink into the music. He looks across the busy hall toward Merlin, whose face is red from the wine. Music echoes off the high arches of the hall and the floor is backed with his friends and allies, all dancing away. This is good, Arthur thinks, this is home. 

He leaves the festivities early with Merlin. Together, they walk up to the East Wing of the castle. 

“Thank you for this, Arthur,” Merlin says softly. His words slur together ever so slightly.

“Of course. It’s good for both of us, you know?”

Merlin hums in agreement as he fiddles with the fastening on his jacket. “Yeah,” he breathes. “This is good.”

Arthur nods. “I’m only saying this once so don’t ask me to repeat it, but if there’s anyone that I had to pretend was my partner for a year, I’m glad it’s you.” 

“Pretend.” Merlin’s face goes slack; his eyes glass over and grow distant. “Yeah Arthur, I’m glad it’s you too.”

As it turns out, life being fake-druid-married to Merlin looks a lot like life before the ceremony. Only now they have excuses to meet more often for dinner, they have reason to have more private audiences, more shared walks and trips to the outer villages. 

In some ways, it reminds Arthur of their early days. Some afternoons, he even forgets the crushing weight of being king, he forgets about his responsibilities, he puts his fears for the future on hold—he enjoys Merlin’s presence by his side. Some mornings, Merlin even comes in from his chambers across the hall, pulls back the curtains, and wakes Arthur himself. For old times’ sake, Arthur pretends to hate it. 

The difference is that now Merlin can catch the thrown pillow midair and send it right back at Arthur without even lifting a finger but that’s a small detail. 

Moments like those... they add up. Merlin heats his baths; Arthur brings Merlin hard-to-find herbs when he comes back from North Umbria. 

A year can pass rather fast, Arthur comes to learn. 

Before he knows it, Beltane is on the horizon again. 

“Not much longer,” Merlin says at dinner one night in Arthur’s chambers. He sips his wine. “I’m sure you’re sick of me by now. A few more days and then you can be rid of me.”

The fire crackles; it’s been a cold year. Arthur has food in his mouth and roast on his fork but he doesn’t bother to swallow before replying. “I doubt I’ll ever be rid of you.”

Merlin laughs dryly. “Not for lack of trying.”

Arthur hums in agreement and takes another bite.

“Seriously though, Arthur. You’re free. You’re free to court, you can find an ally for Camelot—”

“Not you too.”
“I’m just saying! You won’t have to worry about me holding you back anymore.” Merlin balls his hand into a fist and his eyes flicker down.

“Merlin, you’ve never held me back in my life. You—you push me forward. You make me better.” Arthur’s mouth is dry. 

It hits him, all at once, that this must be what love is. 

He is in love with Merlin. 

He sets his fork on the table and pats his mouth with the napkin and coughs. 

He loves Merlin—how could he not see it before? Merlin, somehow, got through his defences. Merlin has been such a constant, reassuring presence and Arthur can’t imagine his life without him; he’s been gone on Merlin for so long and Arthur didn’t even know.

When Uther spoke of his love for Ygraine, he’d characterized it as something instantaneous. He said he’d known when he saw her across the great hall that he loved her and he never wavered in his conviction. 

Arthur certainly didn’t love that brash and gangly peasant boy who called him out in the training field. But now, imagining life without Merlin is like trying to imagine life without breathing, life without a beating heart. Maybe that was because loving Merlin was as natural as breathing, as natural as his heart beating. How could he not have seen it before now? 

“Arthur?”

“Hm?”

“Nothing,” Merlin mutters. “Another fortnight. Well, plus a day.”

Arthur raises his cup. “A fortnight plus a day,” he says. Merlin clinks his cup against Arthur’s and they both drink. 

Arthur searches for more time at the bottom of his cup. He wishes that he had more time, or that he could’ve come around to his senses earlier. The amount of time he’s wasted…

If only there was more time. 

If only he wasn’t Merlin’s king; if only he could confess to Merlin freely and Merlin could answer. What was love if it wasn’t freely given? 

No, Arthur could never ask. Merlin would never deny Arthur anything—Arthur couldn’t put this burden onto his shoulders. He would simply swallow his epiphany and love Merlin from afar: same as he always did, same as he always would. 

+one

Merlin woke early on Beltane. He’s spent a year dreading tomorrow and still it came all the same. Sometimes, in his head, he’d turn over his dilemma: is it better to never get what one wants or to get exactly what one wants for only a year?

Maybe the first, Merlin decides. Maybe things would be better if he’d never gotten a taste of his dreams, maybe life would be better if he was left to wonder what life as Arthur’s partner would have been like instead of getting a small sample of it this past year.

It’s not like it was ever real, anyway. Arthur made that abundantly clear; he’d only agreed to it to strengthen relations with the druids and save Merlin some hassle.

Merlin rubs at his neck. His hair is getting too long—it’s started to curl around his ears but he’s been avoiding shearing it back. There’s a part of him, something fragile and delicate like a bird in the cage of his ribs, that can’t stand to change anything at all. He can freeze this moment, if he wanted. He can magic the sun to halt in the sky, the rivers to stop flowing, the winds to stop changing.

But what good would any of that do if Arthur isn’t here by his side?

As much as they claimed there wasn’t true heart in their partnership, there really was. They fulfilled the purpose of the ritual, even if they hadn’t been fully serious going into it. Merlin couldn’t deny that—for the year, they’d been each other's sworn partners. They listened to each other, they valued the other's opinions, and they were at each other’s sides when no one else was. 

Now Merlin has to just let that all go. It seems absurd, honestly, to drop his feelings like that. To discard them like rubbish. But how can he tell Arthur his true feelings? He’s asked so much of Arthur already—he’s asked forgiveness, for change, for his trust, for his support—how can he ask another impossible thing?

But they agreed no more secrets: the condition of their relationship going forward after the disastrous way his magic came into the open.

So here Merlin is, outside Arthur’s door, about to turn his life upside down. He knocks and waits and after a few moments, Arthur answers.

His hair is ruffled and he’s still clad in his nightclothes. Arthur glances down the hallway, like he’s looking for someone else. “Just you?”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“No—it’s not—I’m never disappointed to see you.” Arthur hesitates and purses his lips. “You’ve just never bothered to knock before.”

“That’s not true,” Merlin says as he steps inside.

“When was the last time you knocked?” Arthur gestures to the table where breakfast is already laid out, probably thanks to Ricard. It’s only meant for one, but that one is the king, so there’s more than enough for Merlin to steal some meat and cheese. 

Merlin takes the first bite and the food goes sour in his mouth. His stomach is too knotted up to eat anything at the moment, even though he feels liable to faint at any time.

“You alright?”

Merlin nods as he swallows. He stares at the food, not daring to even try to eat anymore. 

“Merlin. It really seems like you’re not alright.”

Merlin sighs and leans back in his chair. Soft spring light floods in through Arthur’s window and illuminates the floor. It’s spotless—there’s no dust in the air nor streaks on the glass. “Arthur,” he says softly, “we agreed no more secrets.”

Arthur stills. He sets down his cup, he folds his hands. “We did, didn’t we.”

“Yes. So—”

“I’m sorry Merlin,” he replies, his gaze cast down. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—” he stops and sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, further ruffling it upward. “I didn’t want to make you feel obligated or uncomfortable or anything like that.”

“Arthur? What?” Merlin’s mind races. Did Arthur know all along? Was he trying to spare Merlin’s heart by not mentioning he didn’t reciprocate?
“If it makes you feel better, we can forget the whole thing, alright?”

Merlin is tempted to nod and agree. It would be better to put the whole humiliation behind him, but Arthur isn’t fully making sense and Merlin came to find him with the intention to speak the truth and, for once, he’s going to confess. Leaving things unsaid never brought any good to his life; it only amplified the hurt, year after year. 

“No, Arthur, I need to speak.” Merlin puts his hands on the table. 

“Do you really?” Arthur’s cheeks flush faintly. 

“You can yell at me or tell me to leave or whatever you want after, okay? But I need to say this.” Merlin draws in a breath. So many times in his life, he’s had to be brave. He’s faced monsters and sorceresses and enemies hellbent on his destruction. He’s been beaten, he’s been on the verge of death, he’s thought he’s run out of all hope. Yet somehow this simple act is so much worse than anything he’s ever faced. 

“I love you,” Merlin says. It feels enormous; it feels so small. 

Arthur stares. He doesn’t move, he only blinks. His mouth hangs open and, if Merlin were in a better mood, he would’ve quipped he was about to catch flies. 

“That’s all.” Merlin gives him a small smile before he stands and turns to leave. 

“Wait—Merlin!” The legs of Athur’s chair screech against the floor as he stands. 

Merlin freezes. His heart races and cool sweat clings to his skin but he’s said his piece, he’s done what he came here to do. There is nothing for him to be afraid of anymore. Nothing aside from Arthur’s reaction. “Arthur, I—”

Merlin doesn’t finish his sentence. Arthur’s lips are on his. His hands cup Merlin’s face and the callouses on his sword hand press at the line of his beard. It takes a moment for Merlin’s mind to catch up but when it does, he closes his eyes and leans in. Arthur is warm against his body, warm and familiar and safe. 

Finally, after deepening the kiss, they part. Merlin’s out of breath, his lips feel swollen, and he’s sure his hair is a mess from Arthur’s hands carding through it.

“I love you too,” he says. His words spill out quickly like he’s afraid if he doesn’t say it all at once he might not say it at all. “I love you, Merlin. So much. I didn’t want to burden you—”

“We agreed: no secrets.”

Arthur chuckles and he leans forward, resting his forehead against Merlin’s. Merlin rubs a circle on his back. He could spend the day like this. He could spend his life like this. 

“No secrets,” Arthur repeats. “I don’t want to break the vows.”

“Neither do I.” Merlin’s breath catches and he steals another kiss. Part of him is also afraid that this moment will vanish all too soon, that he’ll snap back to reality. 

“Do we have to tell Iseldir or…?”

Merlin shakes his head. “He’ll be waiting for us in the clearing at midnight ready to dissolve the bond. We just, well, we can just not show up.”

“Mm.” Arthur nods and steps in closer. He twists a bit of Merlin’s hair and tucks it behind his ear. “I can think of a much better way to spend our nights instead.”

The day after Beltane, Merlin wakes in a bed that’s softer than his own. Light streams in and, outside, a lark sings to the dawn. 

Next to him, Arthur snores. His face is down in the pillow and his bare back faces upward. Merlin shuffles in and draws the blanket around them. He wraps Arthur in his arms and rests his chin against Arthur’s freckled shoulder. 

This time, he doesn’t wake him up.