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There’s a glow about Merlin. Always was. Obvious now, though, what with his irises shining orange like every poet’s sunshine. And the tendrils of flame — which weren’t tendrils before, anyway, just flickering, shapeless things — rise higher, and curl around each other, until they form into a small, delicate, fire-spun dragon. It flaps its wings once, twice, and for a second Arthur swears it’s looking right at him. And then it’s gone, and in its place, a horse, galloping along the—
“Merlin,” Arthur says. A shiver runs through him, all the way down his spine. He stares, hoping he looks like he knows what he’s talking about, rather than just being shocked and mildly terrified.
Merlin flexes his fingers in the fabric of his tunic, looking as unsure as Arthur feels. Arthur has no idea why. For once, he’s the one who knows what he’s doing. And yet—
“Well. There you have it,” he says.
Something inside Arthur drops and shatters. “There I have what,” he snaps. “What are you— what is this even meant to tell me? You’re magic and you think that makes it easier for me? Let’s just— what, drop the secret of the century on Arthur and see what he does with it? Real clever, Merlin.”
Merlin’s face twists like rope. Lost and angry and hurt and back to nothing, again.
“Yes,” he says slowly. “I’m sure it’s much more difficult for you than it is for me, still being legally allowed to exist and all. How does it feel when your every action’s not punishable by death? I’ve always wanted to know—“
“Why,” Arthur says hotly, feeling the anger rush to the tip of his tongue and spill right over, “didn’t you tell me sooner? I could’ve done something, maybe, I could’ve helped you.“
Merlin gapes. “What do you mean, helped me? You’d have me burned at the stake! Or my head chopped off!”
Hurt blooms quick and steadfast in Arthur’s stomach. “You really think that poorly of me?”
“You know what?” Merlin shoots back. “Yeah, maybe I do. It’s not like it makes a difference anyways. First it’s why did I tell you and then it’s why didn’t I. What do you want from me, some… secret third thing? You want me to not be magic at all? I bet that’s it.”
“That’s not what I said—“
“Oh, you know right well you meant it. You’re not above your father, Arthur, so don’t act like you are.”
Arthur opens his mouth. Closes it. He wants to hit Merlin but he doesn’t, because instead he is thinking about every time Uther called him his son, a true Pendragon, Camelot’s rightful heir, and the way the words blazed inside him every time he heard them. He swallows and curls his hands into fists beneath him.
“I just don’t know what to think,” he says quietly, through gritted teeth. “I have no idea what to do.”
“Alright, why don’t you just execute me—“
“That’s not funny, Merlin.”
All at once it grows very quiet. Rustling, sure, but mostly just quiet, shuddering between every leaf on the ground and every breath Arthur takes. Disconcertingly, staring at the pale outline of the hand Merlin hasn’t shoved in his pocket, Arthur realises it is true. He has absolutely no idea what to do, except sit and keep breathing, and even that is almost too much to ask of him.
“I didn’t think you’d trust me enough to keep me alive,” Merlin admits, quietly. And then more silence. Too much of it; an overabundance, like feet upon feet of snow, just as cold and thick.
“I’m not sure I do,” Arthur says finally, fully aware that it isn’t true at all. He’d see himself dead before he hurt Merlin.
“But you’re not going to kill me.”
“No.”
“Alright.”
In his peripheral vision, Merlin shifts. Arthur is finding the ground more interesting in this moment than he has in his whole life. There’s a beetle, jade and shiny. Hello, beetle. He resists the urge to crush it with his foot. A dent where a rock might once have been. The outline of one of his footprints. Some clumpy moss.
“It scares you, doesn’t it,” Merlin’s voice says, disconnected and floating. “Magic.”
Arthur bites his tongue painfully. “I— don’t know,” he says. What he means is yes, but all Merlin has done is conjure up a harmless little dragon and suddenly it seems very foolish to admit that such a thing might scare him. “It’s outlawed. It’s a crime.”
“Yeah, and—“
“I don’t know, Merlin.”
What he doesn’t say is that he would know if Merlin wasn’t sitting cross-legged across from him in the middle of the woods, a matchbox in his hand and virtually no need for it. His legs are drawn up in that awkward way they always are, like he’s got too much leg and no idea what to do with it. There’s dirt under his nails. He looks almost curious and suddenly much less afraid than Arthur and that’s what does it. That’s what makes him so unsure. Paralyzes him, like a deer in fucking headlights.
He’s expecting Merlin to be the one to break the silence. That’s how it always is. But Merlin, apparently, is intent on making this as difficult as possible for him, because he just sits there, fiddling with his matchbox, waiting for something to happen.
Well, fine. Fine. Arthur takes the bait. “Er. Why a dragon?”
The surprise that flits across Merlin’s face is gone as quick as it comes. “Dunno. Always had a thing for them.” Seemingly he’s omitting something, but Arthur has no clue what. “Why’s it matter?”
“See—“ Arthur huffs in frustration. He is learning far too much about Merlin today for him to be comfortable with. “Why don’t I know that?”
“You never asked,” Merlin says plainly. “I would’ve told you.”
“Well I couldn’t just ask.”
“Why not?”
Arthur resists a sigh. “It—“ He digs his heel into the dirt. “It was alright. The dragon.”
“What?”
“I said—”
“I heard you,” Merlin says. “You just don’t mean it.”
“I do,” Arthur says, tearing a clump of moss from the ground.
“That’s. The nicest thing you’ve ever told me,” Merlin says, completely sincerely and without derision. “You really didn’t hate it?”
“No, I didn’t.” He feels like he is dragging his fingers through his own shame, dark like ink. Coming up with black-stained palms. Fear-covered. “It was pretty. I suppose.”
“You liked it.” There’s a soft sort of grin around the edges of Merlin’s mouth now, and Arthur is sure he’s staring. Probably has been for quite some time. It’s just— it’s hard, to look away from an explosion.
“If it wasn’t made by sorcery,” Arthur says tautly. “Then, I would’ve liked it.”
Merlin shakes his head, but he’s still smiling, the lines on his forehead lesser. “There is truly no pleasing you. No matter what I do.”
It’s— odd. Suddenly and dramatically Arthur has the urge to say a hundred different things all at once, but sifting through all of them he finds nothing distinct, nothing he can shake out of the mass and present to Merlin as a pristine token of what he really means. Merlin is right, perhaps. Not even Arthur can make himself happy.
“Maybe,” he says. Maybe. Really. Very eloquent, Arthur. “Or maybe you’re just— a man of many surprises.”
Merlin blinks bemusedly, and there is still far too much space between them. Arthur tries to expand upon the blue of his eyes, tries to find something in it; a spark, maybe, of that orange from before. But he’s feet away, and all he can see is blue.
Merlin shifts so his palms are settled against the ground, shoulders rolled back, chin tilted up to stare at the canopy of nondescript colours above them. The stark outline of his nose and mouth is black against the watery darkness of the night sky. Arthur has no idea what he is looking at. He never learnt to read the constellations. This, too, could be something Merlin knows that he does not; and star-patterns don’t matter, not in the grand scheme of things, not like magic does, but right now they are all Arthur can really see. Like an anchor; we latch onto what is around us. When we want something, or someone, it’s very hard to ignore it. Maybe that’s why Arthur cannot let go of Merlin, no matter how infuriating he is or whatever else he does to warrant it. He is forearm-deep, now, in this thing he can’t name.
They put the fire out the traditional way. Arthur doesn’t ask, and nor does Merlin, and they go to sleep; close but not touching. Arthur can reach out and brush his fingers over the soft wool in Merlin’s blankets, feel the rise and fall of his rhythmic breaths. He should be afraid to fall asleep so close to something this dangerous — the raw essence of it — knowing he could die in his sleep and do nothing about it. And yet he has to stop himself, many times, from laying a hand on Merlin’s sleeping back, just to make sure he is still there.