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Chapter Text

Merlin is well-accustomed to living with his secrets—with his confusing knowledge of Arthur's destiny—with the constant anxious fear of discovery and ruin, always at the edge of his awareness. He has learned to live with the weight of an entire kingdom resting on his unacknowledged shoulders, and to carry that weight without stumbling even when it threatens to overwhelm him.

But he can't quiet his mind where Mordred is concerned. And by the time he returns with Arthur to the cave of the Disir, Merlin's stomach has been tying itself into knots for two days. Choosing not to use his magic to heal the young knight has left him shaken and unsure. He can't escape the sense of having betrayed something vital in himself, by turning away from someone who needs his help, and he still hears Gaius' soft censure in his mind, even after the arduous journey.

What happened to the stubborn, hopeful young boy who first walked into my chambers just a few years ago?

Somehow, Gaius' disappointment cuts even more deeply than Merlin's own uncertainties. It makes him second-guess himself, even as he obsesses over the future he's seen, the catastrophe he needs to prevent.

He cannot lose Arthur. Surely nothing else matters as much as this singular and desperate truth.

Relief rushes through Merlin when Arthur sets aside his sword at the mouth of the cave—but it evaporates just as quickly when they hear what the three cowled specters have to say.

The words slip sibilant and inescapable from one mouth to the next.

"If you wish to save all you hold dear—"

"—If you wish to save your kingdom—"

"—Embrace the Old Religion—"

"—Learn her ways—"

"—Bow to the goddess."

The words echo through the cave with a truly unsettling sense of having been spoken by a single voice, and Merlin's skin crawls, even as he registers a guilty and impossible hope at the demand.

Arthur shakes his head, visibly saddened. "You know I can't do that."

"Consider carefully," the women reply. "You have until dawn."

Merlin's heart is still racing as he and Arthur make camp a short distance from the mouth of the cave. Darkness has long since fallen, leaving only firelight and the sky full of stars. But this is light enough to let Merlin study his king's face in quick, furtive glances. It's clear Arthur is deep in thought, and Merlin can guess well enough at the tumult within.

Arthur genuinely cares for the men he commands. Merlin knows just how keenly he feels every loss, and how fond Arthur has grown of Mordred in an uncommonly short span. The guilt of Mordred dying not just in service to him, but as a direct result of a confrontation that Arthur pressed, a trespass Arthur willfully committed… Merlin wishes there were some way he could ease that pain without putting Arthur in even greater danger.

Confident as Merlin is that he knows what his king is thinking, he's taken completely aback when Arthur actually speaks.

"How did you know this place was sacred?"

It's none of the questions Merlin anticipated, and so he answers without thinking. "It's obvious."

"Pretend it isn't," Arthur insists.

Merlin stares for what feels like a very long while, belatedly considering his words as he studies Arthur in the dancing flicker of firelight. A sense of something hallowed and eternal permeates this place, so clear to Merlin's senses that it seems impossible anyone could fail to perceive the same. And yet Arthur has asked the question. He's peering at Merlin with curious perplexity, and with quiet trust, and with an intensity that feels out of place in the shadowed clearing.

Clearly it isn't obvious at all, and Merlin needs to tread cautiously if he is to give an honest answer without revealing too much.

There's no point lying outright. No fabrication he might conjure will be enough to assuage Arthur's curiosity, when there are no outward signs to offer up by way of explanation.

Merlin kneels before the fire, buying time by adjusting the placement of the wood—arranging the structure to burn steadily through the night.

"Everything here is so full of life," he murmurs, when the task is complete and he has no other pretext for delay. "Every tree, every insect, every scrap of moss. It's as if the world is… vibrating. As if everything is much more than itself."

Even Merlin. Even Arthur. This place is deeply holy, and Merlin can feel ripples of the Old Religion echoing through him with every breath.

"You feel all that?" Arthur asks. When Merlin glances over, he finds Arthur's brow furrowed, eyes dark and considering. His king is watching him with something disconcertingly reverent—not quite awe, but alarmingly close—and Merlin's breath hitches as he wonders what Arthur sees.

He wonders if his secrets are shining too close to the surface tonight.

"Don't you?" Merlin asks, forcing the words past a suddenly constricted throat.

Arthur shakes his head no, the gesture almost wistful despite the way his mouth presses into a thin line. When Arthur's gaze finally cuts away, Merlin exhales, a complicated mix of relief and disappointment slicing through his chest. He finishes fussing with the fire and returns to his pallet, sitting as comfortably as he can but not settling in for sleep. Not yet.

He wishes they could have departed for Camelot without delay. He knows what Arthur's answer to the Disir will be—it seems cruel that they need to linger here until morning when the result will be the same—when no amount of waiting will change Arthur's mind. But they cannot very well embark across dangerous terrain in the dark.

"I don't know what to do," Arthur says softly, and the words crash across Merlin's senses like a shock of icy water.

No, Merlin realizes. Not ice. Heat. A dangerous flicker of hope, like a flame licking up into impenetrable darkness.

"Really?" The hope hurts even more than the resigned defeat of a moment before, because Merlin recognizes that there can be no real choice. Not in Arthur's heart. Not with the legacy Uther has left him, the lifetime of hating and fearing magic in equal measure.

But instead of confirming Merlin's worst certainties, Arthur murmurs, "My heart says to do anything I can to save Mordred. Even this."

The sudden contradiction of emotions takes Merlin's breath away, and he blinks hard to dispel the threatening sting of tears. "You would consider lifting the ban on magic?"

Mordred cannot be allowed to live. He is a danger to Arthur, to Camelot, to everything Merlin has sworn to protect. But the thought of Arthur repealing the ban, finally undoing the last of Uther's toxic rule, beginning to let the land and its people truly heal… It's so powerful that Merlin has to suppress a shudder.

"I don't know," Arthur admits. He shakes his head, staring hard into the flames of the fire pit. "I've seen the misery that unfettered sorcery brings. Before my father outlawed magic, it nearly destroyed Camelot. In my own time, Morgana has used it for nothing but evil. I've seen so much pain and devastation at the hands of magic."

"You've seen magic do good as well." The words sneak out of Merlin in an involuntary rush, so quiet he half hopes Arthur won't hear him.

But Arthur glances at him with inescapable intensity. "Magic ended my father's life."

"Magic tried to save him," Merlin retorts, too vehemently. Even though magic failed. Merlin failed. He should have been able to save Uther—he should have recognized Morgana's interference in time to change course—instead of walking right into her trap. No matter how much he hated Uther Pendragon, and still hates the very memory of him, Merlin had no desire to let him die.

"Perhaps that's true," Arthur allows, more readily than Merlin expects. Then, still staring far too intently into Merlin's face across the fire, "What would you do, in my place?"

"Me?" Merlin's chest tightens, his eyes burning hotter as the inevitable sheen of tears blurs his vision. "I'm just a lackey. A maker of beds."

"Lackeys can be wise," Arthur insists, and the words are like a punch to the gut.

Merlin knows, for all his king's careless teasing and insults, that Arthur values his judgment. The handful of times Arthur has looked at him like this, has asked Merlin outright what to do, he's always listened. He will abide by Merlin's answer now, without hesitation. Arthur truly does not know what to do, and he is putting his trust in Merlin to guide him to the right decision—for the whole of Camelot—and the weight of that responsibility leaves Merlin shaken to his core.

He knows what he needs to say. Whatever it takes to ensure that Arthur will let Mordred die. He must tell Arthur to refuse the ultimatum, to condemn magic, to maintain the laws of Camelot and forsake the Old Religion.

But his voice sticks in his throat, and the words refuse to come.

"It's not like you to be silent, Merlin." Arthur sits up straighter, leaning forward over his knees as though worry is goading him to study his manservant more closely.

"A kingdom's future is at stake," Merlin hedges, suddenly unable to meet Arthur's eyes.

"And a man's life."

Merlin lets his gaze drift to the dancing flames, watching them twist and spark in the increasingly distorted blur of his vision. He wonders if Arthur can see him clearly enough in the darkness to read the turmoil in his eyes, to see the moisture sheening there, to glimpse the desperate fear and protectiveness at war inside him.

It takes him a long time to find any words at all, and even once he does, they are another evasion rather than an answer to Arthur's question. "You must protect Camelot. The world you've spent your life building, a just and fair kingdom for all."

"And those who use magic? Do they share in the same justice?"

Merlin's mouth snaps shut so hard his teeth click, because this is one question he cannot answer honestly. The answer, as Camelot currently stands, is no. Of course not. If those with magic shared in the protections of a fair and just kingdom, they would not need to hide their talents away simply to exist. Merlin would not need to pretend at being less than he is.

"If I do save Mordred," Arthur presses when Merlin doesn't reply, twisting his fingers together in a restless gesture, "all my father's work will be for nothing. Sorcery will return to Camelot. Is that what you want?"

Of course Merlin wants that. But he also wants Arthur safe. And the war in his heart does not allow for a path between these two incompatible truths. Merlin can barely see at all now, for the thick blur of tears filling his eyes. He's shaking—when did that start?—and his knuckles have gone white from clutching his hands together in his lap.

Arthur sounds increasingly perturbed by Merlin's silence as he continues, "Perhaps my father was wrong. Perhaps the old ways aren't as evil as we thought." A pause resonates through the clearing, agonized and fraught, crushing with the weight of an entire kingdom bearing relentlessly down. "What should we do, Merlin? Accept magic? Or let Mordred die?"

We. Merlin suppresses a shudder of emotion.

He knows what he needs to say. He knows it, with all the heartbroken certainty of this impossible situation. There is only one choice that will see Mordred dead by tomorrow, making him no longer a danger to Arthur. There can be no place for magic in Camelot.

But he can't do it. He isn't strong enough to say the words—to speak this condemnation into existence—to betray not just a world full of people who wield magic, but his own shattering heart.

"I think," he rasps, and when he blinks, a scattering of tears slips down his cheeks. "I think if you were capable of letting Mordred die, we would not be here now."

"That is still not an answer." Arthur's voice is more careful than Merlin has ever heard him before, in all his years of thoughtful and reliable rule. Arthur can see him crying now for certain; he's probably scaring his king, failing so utterly to conceal his own heartbreak. Merlin has never felt so wide open and vulnerable as he does in this moment.

He tries to think the situation through rationally, with only a fragment of success. Mordred is a threat, and it's Merlin's job to excise him from Camelot. But it does not have to be done like this. The alternative is worse—Merlin will need to kill Mordred in cold blood, somehow, without getting caught—but surely he has the raw power to manage the task. He has committed murder to protect Arthur before, and he will certainly do it again. Kilgharrah's admonition remains lodged like a barb behind Merlin's ribs, and he knows he will need to act soon. He should take this opportunity and be done with it.

But he can't give up the best chance he's ever had to bring Arthur around.

"You should agree to their terms," Merlin blurts. The words come out ragged, a river overflowing its banks as the dam holding it back suddenly and violently gives way.

The instant the words are out of his mouth, he realizes they are the right words. He will never have another opportunity like this, with Arthur so open and ready to accept the possibility of magic in Camelot. More than anything in this moment, he needs Arthur to make the trade. To dismantle Uther's ugliest legacy and create the Camelot that Merlin has devoted his entire life to helping Arthur achieve.

When he risks a glance across the fire, he finds Arthur looking visibly relieved—like this was the answer he hoped for—like he needed only for Merlin to say it.

"But," Merlin adds, helpless instinct compelling him to continue, "there's something you should know before you do. Something about me."

Chapter Text

Arthur's brow furrows, and he studies Merlin with unconcealed confusion. "What have you to do with the Disir?"

"Nothing." Merlin swipes a hand across his face, a futile attempt to rub away the tears. "And everything. Arthur—"

He falters, trembling like the coward he refuses to be, caught by his king's piercing scrutiny and the wash of firelight.

Finally Merlin rasps, "I have magic."

Arthur stares, exasperation and disbelief coloring his expression in equal measure. "Merlin, be serious."

"I am serious." If he'd thought this through, Merlin would've anticipated that convincing Arthur would require more than simply saying the words out loud. He's spoken these words before, after all, or near enough. And even without the words, there have been so many close calls. So many times he hasn't been subtle enough, or careful enough, or quiet enough. And still Arthur has stubbornly not discovered the secret Merlin is confessing to him now. "I'm a sorcerer."

"Supposing I accept this," Arthur says, in a tone that makes it clear he's only humoring Merlin to see where this bizarre thought experiment leads. "Why tell me now? Before I give my answer to the Disir? Why confess while sorcery is still a crime?"

Merlin swallows hard and wills Arthur to see him. "Because if I let you make the trade without telling you, you'll never forgive me when you learn the truth. You need to go into this in good faith, with your eyes open. And you need to understand that, whatever happens when the laws of Camelot change, you will be protected."

Arthur stares. "Me?"

"Who else?" Merlin whispers. He tucks his knees to his chest and wraps his arms tightly around them, desperate for anything at all to help ground him. "I use my magic for you, Arthur. Only for you. I will always protect Camelot. For you."

Silence rises thick and stifling through the clearing. It stretches painfully, an uncomfortable and off-balance ache, hollow in the space between them. Through the taut and straining seconds, Merlin forces himself to keep meeting Arthur's eyes. He can't read anything through the shadows, and he trembles at the unfamiliar expression on his king's face.

"No," Arthur finally says. "You're not a sorcerer. I don't believe you." But the words sound more like a plea than a statement.

Frustration momentarily overrides Merlin's fear, and he mutters, "That's because you're a stubborn lump of sod."

He expects Arthur to react badly to his insolence, especially now, but the mutinous display seems to ease the worst of the tension that's come into Arthur's shoulders. Arthur still looks discomfited and not at all happy. His eyes glint with trepidation in the firelight. But he doesn't look quite so ready to jump out of his own skin.

"Show me, then," Arthur says quietly.

Merlin considers, silent for a time. Not whether to demonstrate his talents, but how. Finally he eases onto his knees, moving partway around the fire to reach a patch of bare earth halfway between their bedrolls. It's disconcerting, to feel Arthur's attention following him so closely while the thrum of magic ripples beneath his skin. After years of concealment, every instinct is screaming at him that this is wrong. This is dangerous. This is an unforgivable risk, and it could cost him everything.

Perhaps it still is all those things, but Merlin presses his palm to the dirt anyway. And when he murmurs the words of a spell, ancient syllables shivering low and familiar across his tongue, he doesn't try to hide the damning flash of gold in his eyes.

He holds his hand firmly to the ground until he feels the magic take root, and when he finally withdraws, his fingers brush the first twining tendrils of green breaking up from the loosely-packed earth. The vining plant is soft and strong, threaded through with filaments of impossible blue light. It rises taller, spreading into three distinct sections that twist and braid together—until at last three flowers form, cool light glowing through the petals as they spread and bloom to outshine the stars overhead.

"You have magic," Arthur finally echoes, awed and incredulous and shattered.

"I was born with it." Merlin speaks the words like an apology. "I didn't choose this. It's just… who I am."

"You've been lying to me since the moment we met."

The clearing is not so dim now, the plant's strange luminescence allowing Merlin an agonizingly clear glimpse of the red that rims Arthur's eyes, the crushed expression on his face as he averts his gaze, the shine of undeniable tears that stubbornly refuse to fall as Arthur avoids looking at him.

"I had no choice," Merlin says. "Your father—"

"My father has been dead for years. It's me you did not trust."

"It was never about trust." Merlin cannot deny the choices he has made, the secrets he has guarded, the parts of himself that he deliberately kept from his king. But trust was not the problem.

"How can you say that. How great a fool do you take me for?"

"Arthur," Merlin pleads. "What would you have done, if I'd told you a year ago? Three years ago?"

Arthur hesitates before admitting, "I don't know."

"Exactly." Merlin hates that even now Arthur refuses to look at him. "I couldn't put you in that position. I couldn't make you choose between your kingdom and me."

"I would not have hurt you," Arthur says brokenly, staring into the fire and folding in on himself as though nursing a physical injury.

"I know that." Merlin is a little surprised at just how surely he means it, despite all his years of hiding. He's joked more than once about Arthur chopping his head off, but he never truly feared such consequences at Arthur's hand. Arthur could never pass a death sentence on a friend, even one who had betrayed him. "But you might have sent me away. I can't protect you if I'm not at your side."

"You think I will let you continue at my side now?"

The question sends a shard of ice straight to Merlin's heart, and he can't restrain the wounded sound that chokes out of him at the thought. Arthur's attention snaps unwillingly back to him. Catches there. Holds. Merlin's heart is racing again. He feels cold, inside and out, fear sitting like lead in his gut. A hundred useless arguments flood his mind: that it's his destiny to remain at Arthur's side; that Camelot needs him; that Arthur needs him.

In the end, he speaks a simpler truth.

"I would lay down my life for you, Arthur. That hasn't changed, and it never will.

Chapter Text

By the time they return to Camelot, Merlin is completely on edge, his nerves a painful jangle of anticipation. Arthur hasn't spoken to him once since their conversation last night—even the following morning, when they both woke from fitful sleep and rose into exhausted daylight. They didn't bother breaking their fast before Arthur led the way into the cave.

Merlin couldn't have found his own voice even if he'd wanted to, as he listened to Arthur make a solemn vow to the Disir. Camelot would accept a return of the Old Religion in exchange for the sparing of Mordred's life. Arthur swore this on the memory of his mother, and Merlin could feel something far more tangible than Arthur's unbreakable honor binding him with the words.

As the walls and spires of the citadel finally come into view, Merlin studies his king instead of taking in the welcome sight of home. Arthur wears a grim scowl, and the distance in his eyes suggests his thoughts have wandered far afield. Still nursing his pain at Merlin's betrayal, perhaps. He certainly has the look of a man fretting over a grievous wrong.

Arthur probably wishes Merlin weren't here at all right now. He has always preferred to be alone when he's at his angriest, and Merlin can count on one hand the number of times he's seen Arthur this saturated with quiet fury.

But absent an express order, Merlin will not leave. His place is still at Arthur's side—his duty, his destiny, his very heart demand he remain—even if Arthur disagrees. If Arthur wants him gone, it will take more than wordless glowers and tense posture to chase him away.

Even if Merlin's inner landscape is currently a wild, destructive whirlwind of anxiety and guilt, fearing what Arthur will do.

When they enter the courtyard to find Mordred waiting for them—upright and energetic and smiling—Arthur's mood immediately lifts. Relieved warmth writes itself across Arthur's face at the sight of his youngest knight, alive and well, descending the main steps to greet them. The unconcealed protectiveness in the king's expression makes Merlin's stomach clench, knowing what he will ultimately have to do in order to protect Arthur, one more betrayal Arthur won't understand and is unlikely to forgive.

Merlin doesn't relish the thought of killing Mordred himself. For all the people he has killed before, he has only ever reacted out of instinct, peril, immediate necessity. There is something different in the deliberate premeditation of taking a life. He wonders how it will feel.

He wonders how he is going to live with himself when the act is done.

These are useless considerations right now, in the crowded flurry of a sunlit courtyard. Merlin hands off the care of both horses to a stable hand, and watches Arthur drag Mordred in for a back-thumping hug. Mordred returns the embrace enthusiastically, but Merlin doesn't know what to make of the cryptic flash of emotion in his eyes. How much does the boy know? He can't already have learned about the deal Arthur struck to save him—even magic has limits, and Mordred is no Seer. A rush of uncertainty sticks in the spaces between Merlin's ribs, twisting tight in his gut, making him hold his breath when Mordred's gaze cuts directly toward him.

He doesn't acknowledge Mordred's raised eyebrows or unspoken questions. Easier to avert his eyes and stare at the flagstones until Arthur thumps Mordred once more on the shoulder and says with cheerful authority, "Go on, then. I'm sure Gaius is fretting about you being up and about so soon, after such a grievous wound."

Merlin sneaks another glance and finds Mordred clearly reluctant to depart, but even an order so gently delivered is still an order. It takes only a couple of seconds for him to dip a shallow bow and stride back up the steps and through the door—presumably back toward his own rooms and bed rest—leaving Merlin and Arthur suddenly alone at the base of the wide courtyard stairs.

Arthur's brighter mood proves fleeting, and trepidation gnaws at Merlin's gut as he follows his king into the citadel. The main corridor is crowded with knights and servants moving efficiently about their business, and the cooler air does nothing to soothe Merlin's nerves. His heart is racing too quickly as he follows Arthur around a corner, into a narrower side corridor, the space dim with shadows and empty but for the two of them.

Storm clouds have returned to Arthur's expression, and he refuses to look Merlin in the eye.

"I suppose I must decide what to do about you," Arthur says, and Merlin exerts conscious effort not to flinch at the anger turning the king's voice to gravel.

"My lord?"

He wills himself not to panic. This cannot be the moment Arthur sends him away. Merlin still needs to figure out how to get rid of Mordred once and for all. He still needs to protect Arthur. He still needs to be here, in Camelot, to keep everyone he cares about safe through the difficult changes ahead. His destiny remains where it has always been, at Arthur's side, even if the ground beneath that destiny feels suddenly shaky.

"Take the week off," Arthur says at last. The words carry the weight of a prison sentence.

"Arthur, please—"

"This is not a discussion, Merlin." It hurts, the way Arthur still won't look at him, as though the effort is too painful. "If you hope to avoid a more permanent exile, then you will keep your distance until I send for you."

"But—"

"Enough," Arthur snaps, and there is an involuntary edge to the way his gaze catches sharply and suddenly on Merlin. Holding there. Staring straight through him, a plea and a condemnation at once, eyes too bright in the dim shadows of the hallway. "I do not want to see your face or hear your voice. I will not have you underfoot, clouding my judgment at every turn. You will stay away from me until I send for you, or I will banish you from Camelot on pain of death. Is that understood?"

Misery lodges in Merlin's stomach. He aches to smooth the troubled furrow from the center of Arthur's brow, almost as much as he yearns for his own absolution.

"Yes, Sire," he rasps.

Arthur drags his attention away with a visible shudder, then turns and strides down the corridor. His boots click on the smooth stone of the floor, and his cape sways with his steps. He looks every bit the regal, powerful king Camelot relies upon, and Merlin stares helplessly after him long after Arthur disappears around the corner. He can't remember how to breathe, what with how his heart has just disappeared down the corridor with his king, and it's a long time before Merlin turns around and takes himself the rest of the way home.

He finds Gaius alone in the cluttered workroom, and he has no choice but to tell his mentor exactly what happened.

"I couldn't do it, Gaius," he confesses when he is finished. The burning behind his eyes feels like weakness, and he blinks to dispel furious tears. "I should have told him to let Mordred die, but I couldn't make myself say the words."

"I'm glad," Gaius says. The words startle Merlin, though they shouldn't. He remembers the disappointment in Gaius' face, when Merlin refused to use his magic to heal Mordred. Of course Gaius is glad that Merlin has not chosen to allow Mordred's death after all—he doesn't understand that, having failed to let matters take their natural course, Merlin will need to make an even more difficult choice.

"It was a mistake," Merlin insists, wishing he could simply accept Gaius' approval and let it mollify him.

"No." Gaius shakes his head firmly. "The path ahead may be cloudy, but you did the right thing."

Merlin's jaw clenches and he resists the useless urge to argue. This approbation is temporary. He has done the right thing in Gaius' eyes, but not for any of the reasons Gaius assumes.

He doesn't confess that the result of his decision is that he will need to kill Mordred himself. Considering how disappointed Gaius was in him for simply refusing to attempt a healing spell, one that likely would not have worked anyway, he can only imagine how horrified the man will be upon learning Merlin intends to commit murder. Perhaps Arthur will not be the only one to repudiate him then.

The notion sends acid swirling through Merlin's insides, and he swallows hard to keep from speaking any dangerous truths aloud.

When the silence stretches too long, Gaius asks, "Do you think Arthur will keep his word to the Disir?"

Merlin nods firmly. "I know he will."

On this point, at least, there is no room for doubt.

Chapter Text

In the days that follow, Merlin feels like he barely keeps his head above water, fighting constantly against a vicious undertow of fear, despair, defeat. The restless energy beneath his skin has nowhere to go, caught as he is on the outskirts of court life.

It's a chaotic time within the kingdom—maddening to watch from the outside—as a flurry of frantic energy engulfs the king and his council, all of it wrapped in muffled secrecy as Arthur begins taking the necessary steps to deliver on his promise. Merlin can intuit some of what's going on, purely by dint of how many years he has spent standing a step behind Arthur for every council meeting, every diplomatic encounter, every treaty negotiation. He can imagine the ruckus kicked up by Arthur's advisors, new and old alike, and he does not envy the maelstrom Arthur must be navigating in order to achieve any momentum at all.

Envy or not, he wishes more than anything that he were standing behind Arthur's chair through it all. Merlin belongs there. And he belongs even more in the exhausted quiet of the evening, when Arthur habitually needs to rant his way through quandaries and frustrations, relying on Merlin's presence to browbeat his thoughts into some semblance of order.

At least Merlin need not actually worry for Arthur. The king is not without someone to confide in just because Merlin is gone. Guinevere will be there just as surely—capable and incisive as always—and she will not let Arthur veer from the necessary path.

But Merlin should be there too. And it's more torturous than he ever intends to admit, not being at Arthur's side—not even allowed in his sight—while the very foundations of Camelot shift, changing in ways that affect Merlin to his core.

He wonders how long it will take, for the new laws and decrees to be put officially in place. To be made public, allowing for the free practice of the Old Religion. And how long after that, before the people of Camelot truly trust that only the deliberate misuse of magic will be punished?

These are conversations Merlin, of all people, should be part of. He understands magic in ways Arthur's advisors never could. Not even Gaius, though the old physician will be a better source of information than the rest. Hell, Arthur is only enacting these changes at all because of the choice Merlin convinced him to make—a choice to which Arthur held fast even after Merlin's confession—and surely his king needs him now more than ever.

But Merlin knows Arthur far too well to misjudge the precariousness of his own position. He knows when his king is not to be trifled with. And right now, he is certain all the way down to his bones that if he defies Arthur, he will find himself dragged beyond the kingdom's borders and forever barred from returning.

There's a chance that may happen regardless. But so long as Merlin has even a scrap of hope that he will be allowed to stay, he will do everything in his power to hold onto his place within Camelot.

A week into this lingering limbo, Merlin manages—however reluctantly—to set aside his own looming crisis in favor of considering the problem of Mordred. Each day that passes with Mordred still alive is an opportunity squandered. Worse, even if Merlin had a plan for how to discreetly do away with the young knight, there is no chance to find him alone. Mordred seems to be almost constantly in Arthur's company, so far as Merlin can tell from his displaced position. When not waiting directly on the king, Mordred is occupied with training, with running errands on Arthur's behalf, with patrols among his fellow knights. Busy and in-demand and impossible to corner.

If Merlin cannot get close, he can't act discreetly enough to do what he must without destroying any hope for his position in Camelot.

Even as he considers these obstructions, Merlin wonders if he simply isn't trying hard enough. There must be a way. Maybe the reason he can't find it is the fact that, selfishly, he does not want to. Necessity or not, he has no desire to kill Mordred. Perhaps someone less cowardly would simply get it done, with no care for secrecy, and damn the consequences.

At night in his room, lonely and terrified and increasingly frustrated, Merlin considers this question and wonders if he is simply conjuring excuses not to do it at all.

He certainly can't do anything the day Mordred finds him in the lower town while Merlin is running errands for Gaius. There are dozens of witnesses all around them, the bustle of commerce flowing like the tide of a river, knights and tradesmen and workers alike. Sunlight struggles occasionally through thick cloud cover, leaving the city mostly blanketed in gloomy gray.

Mordred approaches with a friendly air, a wordless tilt of his head inviting Merlin to join him at a remove from the constant motion of the crowd. Even once they've found a place far enough away to avoid being overheard, they are still within sight of too many people for Merlin to consider trying anything. He leans against the drab, dusty wall of the shopkeeper's residence behind him, resisting the urge to set down the parcels and supplies he is carrying.

He doesn't want to encourage a lengthy conversation. He doesn't want to converse with Mordred at all. Trepidation sits too heavy in his gut, tangled in the ugly awareness of what he needs to do.

But he doesn't dare turn aside a direct source of information about the king, aware as he is that Mordred remains firmly ensconced amid Arthur's inner circle.

"Is everything all right?" Merlin asks, using every scrap of control he has to keep his tone bland and level.

"I intended to ask you that question." Mordred's expression is serious, his gaze searching. "You've been notably absent from court these past few days. Considering the changes Arthur has begun to enact, I would have thought you'd be keeping a closer eye than ever on our king."

"I've been busy," Merlin lies.

"Doing what? Delivering tinctures and collecting pots?" Mordred raises an eyebrow, and there is an almost disparaging edge to the glance he drags over the many wares Merlin is carrying.

"Gaius' work is important," Merlin grumbles. But he's not fooling Mordred, and he damn well knows it. The pretense is too thin, his absence from court too conspicuous. He's never been this far from Arthur's side for so many days, absent patrols or battles or direct threats to the kingdom—and even under such dire circumstances, Arthur usually prefers to keep him close. Pretending otherwise, to Mordred or anyone else, is a pointless exercise at best, a humiliating farce at worst.

So Merlin drops the pretense and slumps against the wall, a posture of defeat.

Silence lingers to the point of discomfort between them before Mordred finally asks, "How did you convince him?"

Merlin averts his eyes across the wider crowd, straightening up again as fear makes him instantly more alert. Mordred hasn't said anything outright—anything that would give away his secrets even if overheard—and yet Merlin finds himself searching in all directions, making sure no one has ventured too close to their conversation.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says, still not meeting Mordred's eyes, keeping the young druid firmly in his peripheral vision as he keeps his gaze on the marketplace.

"Merlin." A rueful smile flickers at one corner of Mordred's narrow mouth. "The king told me of the deal he struck with the Disir. Of the vow he made, in exchange for my life. I know you were there. You cannot tell me you had no hand in his decision."

Tightness catches Merlin's words in his throat and holds them there for several painful seconds before he manages to answer. "The alternative was to let you die. Why should Arthur have needed any convincing beyond that?"

The silence feels different this time. Pensive. Heavy. Deliberate. Mordred is watching him again, a close study that makes Merlin's skin crawl. He grinds his teeth against the urge to break the silence, not sure whether it is fear of what he will say or the pure and spiteful stubbornness of refusing to give Mordred the satisfaction. Let Mordred be the one to speak. He's the one who sought Merlin out in the first place.

"He knows about your magic, doesn't he?" Mordred murmurs.

The question, soft as it is, slides into Merlin's chest like a knife between the ribs, and his neck twinges with how hard his head jerks as he stares at Mordred in shock.

"Don't look so alarmed." Mordred's tone is placating and yet not at all soothing. "He hasn't told me anything. He hasn't told anyone. I'm sure of it. If he had, there would be no silencing the gossip at court."

Merlin doesn't answer. He still doesn't trust his voice.

Mordred cocks his head to one side, considering. "Is that how you convinced him to make the exchange? By explaining everything you've done for Camelot?"

"No," Merlin bites out, grinding his teeth and willing the twisting unease in his gut to settle.

"But—"

"If my magic had persuaded him," Merlin rasps, voice pitched to a vicious whisper, "don't you think I would be at his side right now?"

Mordred stares as though this statement puzzles him beyond measure. As always, there is something disconcerting in the weight of Mordred's gaze—an intensity shifted slightly out of focus—like he is using additional senses to read the world around him. It's familiar by now, and yet for all the times Merlin has been at the center of the unsettling scrutiny, he's never felt it quite so keenly as this.

"He sent you away," Mordred realizes, and Merlin doesn't know what to do with the touch of sympathy bordering on pity. "Not forever, I hope? He clearly hasn't banished you from Camelot."

"Not yet." Resignation flows through Merlin, and he breathes a long, exhausted sigh. He has no quarrel with Mordred. Even knowing what he needs to do, it's not as though the young knight has done anything to earn Merlin's ire. Nothing but seek him out, apparently concerned for his well-being. And even this is only necessary because of events set in motion by Mordred protecting Arthur at the cost of his own life.

Guilt claws its way up inside Merlin, impossible to entirely separate from the deep wellspring of mistrust he feels for this young man who is like him in so many ways. He thinks, in the absence of the prophecy—in the absence of the complicated history they share—he could come to genuinely like Mordred. It hurts, to consider that without the cruel knot-work of destiny, they might have been friends.

"Surely he won't drive you from the kingdom," Mordred insists, stubborn as ever. "Arthur needs you. He values your counsel above all others."

"He may have done before," Merlin grudgingly allows, though even coming this close to acknowledging Arthur's faith in him feels like something of a betrayal. "But what use is my counsel if he cannot trust me?"

"He will learn he can still trust you."

Merlin huffs a pained sound and shakes his head, surprised at how poorly this attempt at reassurance sits in his heart. "Your optimism is a kindness, but I'm afraid it will have little bearing on Arthur's decision."

"Merlin—"

"Thank you," he interrupts, unable to tolerate the offer of comfort from a man he cannot afford to befriend. "I appreciate what you're trying to do. But there's no point. Either I will be allowed to stay, or Arthur will exile me forever, and there is nothing I can do to sway him."

"Perhaps if I talk to him—"

"No, Mordred." A spark of panic threatens to light a blaze in Merlin's chest at the thought. His reaction surprises his companion, and he swallows back a curse at the incredulous widening of Mordred's eyes, the piercing study driving Merlin to explain. "He'll ask too many questions. He will wonder why you're defending me. You can't risk revealing that you're a druid. Not yet."

If Arthur is this torn over whether or not to banish Merlin, with all their years of devotion and friendship—with the more complicated attachment neither one of them has ever been reckless enough to acknowledge—there is no question how he would respond to facing the same betrayal from Mordred. He would banish his youngest knight without any hesitation at all. Theirs is a nascent friendship. It would not survive the cataclysm, especially when Arthur is already raw from learning of Merlin's closely guarded secrets. There is no chance he would allow Mordred to remain in Camelot.

And if Mordred leaves—if he disappears into some other kingdom and goes to ground—Merlin will not be able to do what must be done.

Mordred is watching him again, and Merlin's answering glower utterly fails to scare him off.

"What will you do if he banishes you?" Mordred asks.

"I don't know," Merlin admits. And though he can't do anything to chase away the miserable tightness behind his ribs, he fights to keep the turmoil off his face. Mordred is the last person he needs seeing him in distress. "I can't think about that right now."

He startles when Mordred sets a hand to his shoulder and gives what is surely intended to be a reassuring squeeze. It takes everything Merlin has not to dart away, or twist his arm sharply out of Mordred's grasp. The touch leaves him shaky, with fear and guilt and a dozen other ugly emotions that leave his chest hollow.

"I'm sure he'll come around," Mordred murmurs—a useless platitude—then drops his hand and turns away.

Merlin watches his retreat, stomach sinking with every step Mordred takes toward the citadel.

Chapter Text

When the week ends without word from Arthur, Merlin pours all his fading self-restraint into not storming across the citadel to pound on the king's chamber door.

Arthur said until I send for you, and Merlin's impatience isn't quite enough to make him force Arthur's hand. He's too genuinely terrified of the consequences. Better to wait, as he has been bade. So long as he's still within the borders of Camelot, he can at least be certain Arthur hasn't yet chosen to banish him. If such a decision had already been reached, Arthur would not hesitate to deliver on his threat. He wouldn't drag this out longer than necessary, no matter how deep the anger runs.

So long as Merlin is still welcome to come and go—still permitted within the walls of the city and the citadel—there is hope. And Merlin clings to it so desperately it's a wonder his heart doesn't burst.

Perhaps it's inevitable that Gwen should finally seek him out, though after so many days he truly doesn't expect her to. Unlike Mordred, she can't very well seek Merlin out for a discreet conversation in the lower town. And within the castle walls, she is rarely alone. Guinevere is by no means a prisoner, but as queen, the geography of her existence is circumscribed by questions of safety and decorum. These considerations weigh heavily on her, unfamiliar burdens that she took up when she accepted Arthur for a husband and the crown for a responsibility all her own.

She seeks Merlin out anyway, as inescapable as the sunrise.

Gaius has long since departed for a long morning of seeing to patients who require care in their own homes, insistent that he did not need Merlin's assistance today. Considering how regularly Merlin has been accompanying Gaius on his rounds—occasionally even seeing to patients himself when there are too many—he thought it strange when Gaius firmly rejected his company this morning.

He's still puzzling over the quandary, wondering if he's done something to offend his mentor, when the workroom door swings inward and the queen herself interrupts his work.

Merlin readily sets down the brush and vial in his hands—cleaning potion bottles is dull work—and wipes soapy water from his hands as he rounds the workbench. He dips a bow that has gone from teasing to habitual in the years Gwen became queen, and when he straightens he finds an expression of familiar exasperation on her face.

It hurts his head—and perhaps his heart, a little, in the most quiet and selfish ways—how out of place she looks in this space, in all her finery. Not quite so disconcerting as the handful of times he saw Uther standing in the center of Gaius' workroom, but nearly. As a serving girl, Gwen came and went at her leisure, her simple frocks and kirtles perfectly in keeping with the dusty workspace and casual atmosphere of these chambers. Now she stands just inside the door wearing a gown of soft, rich purple, the low-cut bodice embellished with intricate gold embroidery. She wears no circlet, but sapphires glint from her ears, and her hair is twisted into elaborate braids atop her head.

She clasps her hands in front of her, watching him closely. The weight of her regard makes Merlin feel restless, and he fights not to avert his eyes.

"Did you need something? Are you looking for Gaius?" He knows better than to add my lady to the end of either of these questions. Gwen may tolerate his insistence on bowing to her, but she would never allow him to take decorum so far.

He feels instantly guilty for the way her cautious smile falters.

"No, of course not. I came to see you." She worries her lower lip between her teeth for a moment, a nervous habit he hasn't seen her indulge in ages. The gesture smudges the color tinting her mouth, but a subtle swipe of her tongue a moment later smoothes it out again, paler than before. "Might I have a moment of your time, Merlin? As a friend?"

Emotion twists in his chest—gratitude and guilt—and an awareness, so fierce it's almost painful, of just how much he adores Gwen. How terrified he's been of losing her friendship alongside his fear of losing Arthur.

"Won't Arthur be angry you're talking to me?" he asks, voice tight with all these impossible feelings.

"Let him be angry." Gwen seems to take Merlin's words for an invitation, as she closes the door firmly behind her and steps farther into the room. "He is my husband, not my keeper."

Merlin hurries to collect the sturdiest of Gaius' rickety wooden stools, setting it near the desk strewn with books—as far away as possible from any of the messier experiments and concoctions on the other work benches. He hesitates only a moment before collecting a seat for himself as well, sitting near her with a feeling like he's about to be lectured or rebuked. But when he makes himself meet her eyes once more, he finds only kindness in her face.

Suddenly he can't decide whether he's more surprised that she came to see him, or that she took so very long to do it.

Gwen offers a sad smile, as though easily reading the source of his confusion. "I would have come sooner, but I didn't want you to feel cornered. I thought it best to wait and give you the chance to approach me on your own terms." A hint of sadness—maybe even remorse—shines in her eyes as she murmurs more softly, "But I began to suspect I could wait forever and you would not come."

Merlin's flinches away, shame burning a flush across his face. "Arthur must have told you, though," he mumbles, as his evasive focus comes to rest on a dusty stack of books. Surely Gwen would've had too many questions to be put off, even if Arthur had wanted to be circumspect. She would have insisted on an explanation for Merlin's sudden and conspicuous absence. And if Arthur had refused, she would have sought Merlin out immediately to bully an explanation out of him instead.

That she waited this long means she knows about his magic. The enormity of this fact sits like lead in Merlin's stomach, as he waits for her condemnation.

But Gwen only sounds rueful when she says, "Arthur did not need to tell me."

Merlin's gaze snaps to her, the a movement so sharp that his neck twinges, and he stares at the unexpected serenity of her expression. Dust dances in the sunbeam slanting in from a high window, turning the warm brown of her skin ethereal in the late morning light, and her eyes are so full of fondness that Merlin's chest constricts. When he opens his mouth to speak, the words refuse to come.

"He did tell me, of course." Gwen considers Merlin, apparently unperturbed by his helpless silence. "Arthur explained every detail of your confession, and of his bargain with the Disir. He told me the night you returned to the citadel. He was… not pleased, when I expressed no surprise at his revelations."

Merlin's eyes widen at the possibility that he may have gotten Gwen into trouble—but she doesn't look worried enough to suggest she's fearful of the king's wrath.

"No," Gwen says, taking pity and answering Merlin's unvoiced questions. "He has taken no action against me, and he doesn't intend to. I also pointed out that you never confided your secret to me, and it was not mine to share in any case, especially when the laws of Camelot would outlaw your very existence."

Merlin's voice abruptly unlocks, and he asks shakily, "But how did you know?"

"Merlin." Exasperation creeps into the fondness of her tone, her expression, her posture. "How long have we been friends? How many times have you used your magic to protect the people you care about, including me? Did you really think no one was paying attention?"

"Arthur certainly wasn't," Merlin grumbles, fidgeting on his stool.

"No indeed," Gwen says with a soft, sad half-smile. "My husband is a good man and a wise king, but when it comes to matters of the heart he is… not very bright."

Merlin's own heart gives a tiny spasm at the way she says this—the knowing and affectionate glint in her eyes suggesting she has seen far more than just Merlin's magic—all the way through to the emotions he tries so very hard not to acknowledge. Her expression makes it clear she doesn't begrudge him his devotion, and he's so overwhelmed by the quiet intensity of her gaze that he feels only relief when her smile turns more sheepish.

"Besides," Gwen says in a lighter, almost teasing tone, "I was half in love with you myself when you first came to Camelot. And you were not half so careful as you thought."

"I'm always careful!" Merlin protests, embracing the less complicated surge of indignation. It should be awkward, to hear her speak so openly about the fleeting infatuation he made a point never to acknowledge, but this is somehow easier terrain. Perhaps because those years are so far behind them, and Gwen clearly harbors no lingering romantic feelings toward him. Perhaps because the shy and self-conscious serving girl has grown into a regal queen who knows full well she has nothing to prove. Perhaps simply because Merlin trusts her, and somehow—despite the magic—she seems still to trust him, and that matters more than any clumsy history they might share.

In any case, Gwen gives him a look that is equal parts pity and affection as she chides, "Merlin. You used a magical poultice to cure my father of an illness from which no one else ever recovered, and then asked me the very next day if he was feeling better." Her smile twitches higher at the corners. "More than one person told me later, about how you barged into Uther's council and proclaimed yourself a sorcerer to try and save me. You were not careful at all."

Merlin finally allows his own sheepish smile, grudging and small. "Perhaps Arthur is right and I am a fool."

Guinevere's face turns serious. "He doesn't truly think that. He once told me you're the wisest man he's ever known."

Merlin's eyebrows rise. "Really?"

"He also promised if I ever told anyone, least of all you, that he would set fire to my favorite nightdress." She smiles softly, leaning forward as though they are sharing a conspiracy. "Fortunately, I care little for material possessions."

Despite the anxiety that's been humming nonstop beneath Merlin's skin since his return to Camelot, he laughs at this, humor bouncing through him with an almost painful brightness. God, even as king, Arthur is peevish and petty and ridiculous in his pride. This fact should not be charming. It isn't charming. But it's so thoroughly, undeniably Arthur that Merlin's heart squeezes.

When the quick burst of mirth fades to something more sober, he can't stop himself from asking, "Why did you never say anything, if you knew?"

Gwen's head tilts just barely to one side, as something sad falls like a shadow across her features. "When Uther was still alive, I knew the impossible position you were in. And after… I always hoped you would trust me enough to come forward of your own volition. I didn't want to rush you, or force your hand if you still did not feel safe."

Merlin's gut clenches, his regret so sharp it's physically painful. "I'm sorry."

"I need no apology from you, Merlin." The unambiguous forgiveness in her eyes leaves him breathless.

"Why… Why are you here?" he asks once his lungs are working again. Gwen has gone to the deliberate effort of seeking him out. She is probably the reason Gaius turned down his offer of assistance today, if she warned the old physician she was coming. People will gossip, and Arthur will certainly know she was here. Even if Gwen has nothing to fear, it certainly will not lead to easy conversations.

"Because you're my friend, obviously. I miss you, Merlin. It's strange, not seeing you every day." She chews on her lower lip for a moment before admitting, "And because I'm worried for you."

Merlin freezes, spine straightening sharply. "Has he told you what he intends to do? Is he going to exile me?"

"I don't know." Concern hovers over the words like an apology. "I don't think he knows. I've convinced him not to do anything rash, but he's…"

"He's what?" Merlin demands. Gwen's tapering silence doesn't feel like reticence so much as a pensive pause—like she's not sure how to convey what she means—or doubts whether it makes sense to begin with. "Gwen, please."

"He's grieving," she says at last. "I don't know how else to describe it. He feels he's lost a friend."

Merlin wants to put his fist through the nearest wall, and it takes him several seconds to stop grinding his teeth and speak. "How can I convince him otherwise, if he won't even see me?" Despite his best efforts, Merlin's voice rises with each word, until he's nearly shouting by the end of the question.

Gwen doesn't look startled or alarmed by his outburst. If anything, she looks heartbroken on Merlin's behalf, an expression just shy of pitying.

"I don't know," she says quietly. "But if anyone can find a way, it's you."

Chapter Text

After his conversation with Gwen, Merlin starts nudging his way back in at the edges of court life. It's a risk. He's careful to avoid putting himself directly in Arthur's path—he knows his king's habits and routines well enough to stay out of the way—but he can't continue as he has been, lost and disconnected and too far away to have any idea what's going on at court. The changes Arthur is making are too important, and even if Merlin can't help, he desperately needs to know what's being done.

He tells himself it's this, and the need to keep a closer eye on Mordred, goading him into tempting fate this way. And most days he nearly believes the pretext. That he isn't indulging some destructive urge to find himself face-to-face with Arthur, and damn the consequences.

He faces mild confusion from the knights, the courtiers, the fellow servants who have inevitably noticed Merlin's absence. Arthur has apparently kept his thoughts so private that no one knows Merlin shouldn't be here. They must know Arthur is displeased with him, but no one comments or gives Merlin any grief, which means no one knows enough to risk the king's ire. This conspicuous silence on the subject of his absence is uncomfortable, but convenient in that it saves Merlin from telling any further lies. He can simply exist, and listen, and help other people with their chores while absorbing every scrap of information he can glean about Arthur's new reforms.

The emergent laws surrounding magic are complicated—and though they are being implemented methodically and gradually, there's no avoiding the inevitable tangles and complications. Knights and councilors alike have their hands full dealing with the changes, as word spreads more widely every day, no longer a secret.

Most of the people Merlin accosts have no problem telling him everything they've heard, despite Merlin being far more circumspect about his own situation in return. After all, if Arthur hasn't ordered the knights to avoid him, then why shouldn't they be just as candid as always? Merlin has been the most trusted servant of the royal household for years. Absent an express edict from the king, who would dare shut him out now?

And the more Merlin learns about Arthur's efforts toward magic, the more brightly hope kindles in his chest. He feels so many things at once, watching these first clumsy steps to build a Camelot that can truly begin to heal from Uther's Great Purge: protectiveness so powerful it leaves him shaken; anticipation for the pushback that will unavoidably come; fear for his own position, when he knows full well he can't continue to keep his secrets if he is going to stay in Camelot once magic is legal.

Keeping busy without actually doing his job is a feat that occasionally sends him to areas of the castle he wouldn't normally frequent. This is how he finds himself in a small inner courtyard not far from Gaius' chambers, cleaning statuary, of all things. The space is wide and circular, paved in intricate mosaics. Blue sky stretches through an open portion of ceiling above—a circular gap, perfectly symmetrical—surrounded by evenly spaced support columns and arching overhangs.

Merlin doesn't know anything about the art collected in this space, though it can't have been Uther's doing. The pieces are beautifully carved, lithe human figures and fantastical creatures, marble portraits and tall pedestals, improbable scenes set into stone. The statues have been carefully maintained, protected from the elements despite the openness of the space they occupy, and Merlin finds himself relaxing into the work of scrubbing away dust and grime—not the slightest bit tempted to use his magic and hurry his work along, despite the fact that he's been abandoned to this task alone.

He's just finished tending to a marble fish three times his size when he hears footsteps and—impossibly—the sound of Arthur's voice approaching. The brush he's been working with drops into the bucket with clatter, as Merlin peers in the direction of the courtyard's only door.

He can't leave. Not if Arthur is close enough for his voice to reach Merlin's ears—not without putting himself directly in the king's line of sight, which he has been expressly ordered not to do. So he peers into the shadows, the door itself barely visible past the glaring brightness of the sun pouring down from above, and remains out of sight behind the ridiculous fish.

Merlin's breath hitches when Arthur strides into the light, his footsteps crisp on the tiled ground, his hair glinting in the dazzling sun. His gaze cuts around the courtyard, and Merlin responds instinctively by ducking fully behind the statue, leaning against it with heart racing. Perhaps the effort isn't necessary. Merlin is deep in shadow after all, and Arthur seems to be taking it as a given that the space he's entered will be empty at this time of day.

A second set of footsteps follows Arthur into the courtyard, but Merlin does not have long to wonder who they might belong to.

"Your counsel has always been invaluable to me, Gaius," Arthur is saying, voice clipped and low. "Why shouldn't I require your thoughts?"

"I am at your disposal, of course," Caution measures the words, and Merlin doesn't need to see his mentor's face to know Gaius is guarding his expression closely. His words are followed by the creak and then thump of the door shutting. "I was beginning to think you were avoiding me as well."

A beat of silence suggests this comment landed too near the mark, and then Arthur murmurs ruefully, "Perhaps I was."

He sounds so sad that Merlin finds himself peering out from his hiding place, despite the risk of being spotted. He finds Arthur standing at almost the perfect center of the round courtyard, sunlight painting his features stark and bright as he stares resolutely toward an empty space between statues. Merlin takes in the king's sullen profile and aches with wanting to comfort him. A useless instinct, when Merlin is the cause of the pain clenching Arthur's jaw, pinching his brow, putting sharp tension into his shoulders beneath the dark blue tunic.

Arthur looks steady and regal and yet somehow completely desolate, and Merlin's heart stutters just looking at him.

Gaius maintains a watchful, patient silence. It's finally Arthur who speaks again.

"Did you know?" he asks, so quiet that Merlin strains to hear him.

"Did I know what, Sire?"

"Don't be evasive, Gaius." Arthur turns toward the old physician with a heavy glower. When Gaius only peers back at him, unperturbed, Arthur heaves an exasperated sigh. "Merlin. He's a sorcerer. He has been concealing his true nature the entire time he's been at court."

"Ah," Gaius says, as though Arthur has just made an observation of little consequence.

Arthur studies Gaius with an expression that would set any knight trembling, but Gaius' only reaction is to quirk his habitual eyebrow.

"You knew." Arthur doesn't sound surprised by this confirmation. He crosses his arms over his chest. "How long?"

"Since the day he first arrived in Camelot, my lord."

This time, Arthur looks taken aback. Only after several seconds does he recover enough to point out in a deceptively casual voice, "You realize protecting him was an act of treason."

Suddenly, Merlin understands why Arthur has dragged Gaius to a rarely used courtyard for this conversation. Arthur would not want to risk Merlin overhearing or stumbling in to interrupt. Whether thanks to his own lingering uncertainty, or his desire for honest answers, Arthur obviously could not risk confronting his court physician in the workroom where he would almost certainly cross paths with his unwanted manservant.

"Treason was the farthest thing from my mind," Gaius says, sounding unflappable and calm—though Merlin knows him well enough to recognize the practiced facade in that tone. "He was a boy in need of guidance. He meant no harm."

"He lied to me." Rage rumbles like a distant wildfire in Arthur's words, and his volume rises by thoughtless increments. "Every day, for years."

"He did it to protect you, Sire."

"He did it to protect himself," Arthur thunders.

Gaius' voice does not rise to meet his rage. "He could hardly have fulfilled his destiny if Uther had sent him to the pyre."

Arthur flinches at that, but he doesn't bother pointing out that Uther has been dead for years. Instead, he quiets, seeming suddenly smaller as he echoes, "His destiny?"

Merlin holds his breath in the quiet that follows, holding perfectly motionless lest the smallest movement draw Arthur's attention. Silence grows and lingers, devastating in its weight, and when Merlin risk a glance toward Gaius, he can tell his mentor is considering his next words with unimaginable care.

Fear squirms in Merlin's gut, and if he had some way to tell Gaius to stop, he would do it. Gaius knows more of Merlin's secrets than anyone. Whatever he intends to say, it cannot possibly be anything Arthur will want to hear. Whatever it is, surely it can't help Merlin's cause. Arthur is already reeling from the shock of Merlin's magic and lies. No good can come of telling Arthur more before he makes peace with these truths.

But unless Merlin wants to reveal his presence, there is nothing he can do to prevent Gaius from murmuring at last, "Merlin doesn't just have magic, Sire. There are those who say he is the greatest sorcerer ever to walk the earth."

Arthur's eyebrows rise in an expression of disbelief so profound Merlin might be insulted if he weren't on the verge of panic.

"Merlin," Arthur echoes dubiously.

"Yes."

"The man who can't carry a tray of food across the castle without tripping over his own feet."

"Yes, my lord."

"Is the greatest sorcerer ever to walk the earth?"

"So it's been said," Gaius confirms.

"By whom?" Arthur gapes, anger momentarily overcome by bewilderment.

"The druids. The Great Dragon. Other practitioners of the Old Religion scattered across the five kingdoms."

Arthur blinks at this, visibly nonplussed. "The Great Dragon—the one who nearly razed Camelot to the ground—said Merlin was the greatest sorcerer ever to walk the earth." He shakes his head as though to clear it. "No. Repeating it more times isn't making it more plausible. This is ridiculous, Gaius."

"I've seen what he can do, Sire," Gaius says softly. "And I suspect you have too, if you think back with your vision clear."

This, it seems, is the final straw. Arthur's expression shutters, grim and hard, and he turns his back on Gaius as though the suggestion has physically wounded him. Maybe it has. After all, Arthur has surely been reviewing his memory for weeks, searching for signs of Merlin's magic. Arthur must have some suspicions, some questions, some certainties, but none of them will reach the true scope of the things Merlin has done since coming to Camelot. The deaths he has prevented and caused. The rescues and harms. The number of times he has saved Arthur's life and then concealed his involvement with all the instinct of survival.

When Arthur strides away, it takes every scrap of self-restraint Merlin possesses not to follow him.

"My lord?" Gaius calls after him, just as Arthur finishes yanking the door open.

The words make Arthur pause and turn, half in shadow as he throws Gaius a questioning look over his shoulder.

Gaius tucks his hands into his sleeves and continues, "You must realize the lengths to which he would go, to ensure that you are safe. Merlin's loyalty has only ever been to you."

Arthur stands perfectly still for several seconds, absorbing this information without any outward change to his forbidding expression. Then, without acknowledging Gauis' closing volley, he turns and strides into the shadows, through the door. Vanishing into the corridor with heavy footsteps that fade quickly into the distance.

Merlin remains silent and motionless until Gaius departs too. Then he puts his back to the nearest pillar and slides to the ground, clutching his knees to his chest as emotion shudders through him.

He's shaking, and his eyes burn with the imminent threat of tears.

If Arthur sends him away—if Arthur refuses to forgive him—he doesn't know what he will do.

Chapter Text

Merlin does not need to kill Mordred after all.

When warning bells echo through the citadel, Merlin is just beyond the gates on his way back from the forest. He drops the basket of herbs he spent three hours collecting, not caring where any of it lands as he lurches to a sprint. He hurtles past the guards without interference, every instinct dragging him toward his king.

Arthur will be in the council chamber at this hour, with Leon and Guinevere and a handful of strategic advisors. Merlin doesn't slow, even once the bells fall abruptly silent. His boots clatter across hard stone, his awareness sailing past the flurry of knights and servants he passes in the corridors. He navigates the castle with thoughtless instinct, terrified he will reach his destination and find Arthur bleeding on the ground.

But when he finally bursts through the council chamber doors and skids to a stop, it isn't Arthur he sees lying on the floor.

"Mordred," Merlin breathes, heart hammering in his chest as he takes in the sight of the young man lying pale as death in the space between wide pillars. Gwen sits on the floor in a chaos of skirts, Mordred's head pillowed in her lap. Blood seeps from a ragged gash in his chainmail, pulsing steadily from Mordred's flank and pooling to stain the soft blue of Gwen's dress. Arthur kneels beside them, expression bleak as he watches the color drain from Mordred's face.

An unfamiliar man, covered head to toe in leather armor, lies crumpled against the far wall. Perfectly motionless, in that way only the dead can achieve.

Leon stands directly between the dead stranger and the king. Half a dozen guards loiter about the room, clearly awaiting orders, but Leon looks as lost and frozen as Merlin feels. He is staring not at his king, but at Mordred.

Merlin steps to Leon's side, close enough to whisper, "What happened?"

"An assassin. He used sorcery to evade the patrols and breach the citadel. And his weapon…" Leon's gaze cuts toward the edge of the room, where a rough-hewn spear rests not far from the place Gwen holds Mordred. Merlin doesn't need the rest of Leon's explanation; he can all but taste the power on that spear. It lingers, viscous and oily and wrong. He will need Gaius' help in figuring out how to destroy it.

But that is a problem for later.

"What about Mordred?" he asks softly.

"Mordred protected the king," Leon murmurs. "He put himself in the spear's path."

Just like in the cave of the Disir, Merlin thinks with a jolt. An ugly certainty is starting to crawl up his spine. The parallels cannot be coincidence; there is something more powerful at play here.

"Did you kill the intruder?" Merlin asks, glancing up at Leon in time to see him flinch.

"No. Mordred killed him." Leon's throat bobs in a tight swallow. "With magic."

"Oh," Merlin breathes.

There is nothing else to say, as he steps away from Leon and moves farther into the room. It doesn't seem possible that his clumsy entrance could have gone unnoticed, and yet when he draws near there is obvious surprise in the way Arthur's gaze jerks up and catches him. For once, Merlin doesn't acknowledge his king. He is too busy staring at Mordred. At the increasingly shallow rise and fall of his chest beneath heavy armor. At the urgent flutter of dark eyelashes over dangerously pale skin. At the stain of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.

Merlin drops to his knees beside Gwen, avoiding her skirts and setting a hand to her shoulder. "Let me."

She blinks at him, expression measured but eyes bright with moisture. Then she nods and shifts Mordred carefully, so that his head rests on Merlin's legs instead of her own. He checks Mordred's pulse—faint and beginning to fail—and then touches Mordred's damaged side even though he already knows what he will find.

"I'm sorry," Merlin murmurs, and he's not sure whether it is Mordred or the others he's apologizing to.

He startles when Arthur's voice rises, sharp and clipped, to address everyone still gathered in the council chamber.

"Get out. All of you. Now." His expression, when Merlin glances cautiously up, is thunderous—but Arthur meets his eyes steadily and says, "Not you."

He clearly does not mean Guinevere either. But when Leon lingers after the guards have gone, looking uncharacteristically hesitant, Gwen rises from the floor in a sweep of blood-stained skirts. She gives Merlin's shoulder a squeeze on her way past, then takes Leon's arm and tugs him toward the door. The glance she exchanges with Arthur contains a whole conversation Merlin cannot begin to decipher, and then she is gone, the doors thumping heavily shut behind her.

Leaving Merlin alone with Arthur and a dying young knight.

"Can you save him?" Arthur rasps, once they are alone. "Can your magic save him?"

Merlin drags in a ragged breath, unmoored and shaken. He should not try to heal Mordred. He's meant to be making sure Mordred dies. It's the only way he knows to protect Arthur from the doom Merlin has foreseen. And here, fate—or perhaps the triple goddess herself—has put the solution directly into his hands. He doesn't need to commit murder. He can simply allow Mordred to finish bleeding out.

But Arthur sounds shattered and frantic, and Merlin rouses himself to try, emotion overriding his better judgment. He levels an open palm over Mordred's wound and pours everything he has into the attempt. Because Arthur is heartbroken, and he knows Mordred has magic, and he is asking Merlin to save him anyway.

Merlin tries with raw magic first. Instinct and unrestrained power pour through his hand and into Mordred's body with a glow so bright it makes Arthur flinch away. When that doesn't work, Merlin tries every spell he knows, each more desperate than the last. The syllables rush off his tongue, and his vision glows violently gold as he pushes even more power into the body beneath his hands. Frustration clogs his throat as he realizes, this should be working. The wound is deep, but it shouldn't be this far beyond him. There is an ugly aftertaste of enchantment hampering his efforts. His magic refuses to take hold of the damage, trickling uselessly through his fingers without doing any good at all.

If this truly is the hand of the triple goddess delivering her judgment, it seems she has taken the question of Mordred's death entirely out of Merlin's hands.

More than once, Mordred cries out at these efforts, seizing and arching off the floor despite his failing strength.

"I'm sorry," Merlin gasps. He's panting from the exertion, as the last of his spells finally fails him. "Arthur, I'm so sorry. The spear was enchanted. There's nothing I can do."

His gut twists in a complicated tangle of anger, relief, guilt.

But when Arthur turns moisture-bright eyes on him, he doesn't look disappointed in Merlin. He looks… grateful. And resigned. And when Arthur pushes Merlin aside so that he can cradle Mordred's head in his own lap, Merlin casts a gentler spell.

"What did you do?" Arthur asks, when the worst of Mordred's trembling subsides.

"A spell to take the pain away." It isn't enough. "I may not be able to save him, but I can ease his suffering."

Mordred's breath is still shallow, but it doesn't sound quite so labored now. Something more peaceful has settled over him. Soothing him. Merlin's chest constricts, an icy sensation closing around his heart as he watches regret paint shadows across the planes of Arthur's face. When Mordred's eyes flutter open, his expression is shockingly lucid.

"My king," Mordred rasps, barely audible.

When his eyes close again, he is gone.

Merlin stays with Arthur through the quiet moments after, grateful not to be sent away. He remains there after Mordred's body has been carried to Gaius—and the would-be assassin a short while later, with far less ceremony. The council chamber feels cavernously empty around them, as he and Arthur stand alone in the silence, neither one of them acknowledging the stains of blood drying on the stone floor and all over Merlin's hands.

"He had magic," Arthur says, the words quiet but jarring as they break through the silence. He sounds simultaneously crushed and awed, and Merlin's heart hurts for him.

"He was a druid." Merlin wonders how much to explain. Would having more information clarify the chaos of Arthur's thoughts? Or will it only upset him more? Finally, unable to hold the words back, Merlin asks, "You really don't remember saving his life?"

Arthur's brow furrows. "What are you on about?"

"You smuggled him out of Camelot when he was a boy. You reunited him with his people."

Merlin has wondered, more than once. It seems an impossible thing to forget, and yet it's been equally clear that Arthur didn't recognize Mordred. Perhaps Arthur never learned Mordred's name, or perhaps he thought it a coincidence. But surely he can't have forgotten the first time he defied Uther's decrees against magic.

Arthur's expression clears. "The injured druid boy. The one Morgana tried to protect."

"Mordred remembered what you did for him," Merlin says softly. "It was your kind heart that won his loyalty. I think it's what brought him to Camelot, even in the face of a law that forbade his very existence."

A flicker of emotion darkens Arthur's expression. "And you?"

"Me?" Merlin falters.

"What of your existence? Why did you come here? Why did you stay, when my father's laws would have seen you killed?"

Merlin drops his voice lower, gentler. "You have always been a better man than your father."

"But not a better king."

"Don't say that. You can't mean it."

"It took an ultimatum to make me repeal these unjust laws. What kind of king does that make me?"

"One who is willing to learn." A shiver rushes through Merlin at Arthur's choice of words. These unjust laws. Sitting on the outside through this whole process, Merlin's had no insight into Arthur's thoughts. He trusted the king would keep his word, but beyond that? Merlin has barely dared to hope that Arthur truly believes in the changes he's been forced to enact.

When Arthur only scoffs, Merlin allows himself to step closer. He whispers a quick spell to clean away the worst of the drying blood, then sets a hand on Arthur's arm in a gesture that would never be tolerated from a normal servant. Insubordinate at best, treason at worst, and Merlin does not care. He does his best to project reassurance through the touch.

"No man can be perfect," he says. "Not even a king. We can only strive to do better, every day. You understand this in ways your father never could."

"How can it possibly be enough?" Arthur's voice shakes with so much emotion that Merlin's whole chest goes tight.

He doesn't have an answer. It is enough. It has to be. Arthur is a good king whose citizens love him. With the changing laws, with the new safety those laws afford the people who have not been safe in Camelot since the purge, this will be more true than ever. But nothing Merlin says will convince Arthur of this fact, if Arthur does not believe it himself.

Merlin startles when Arthur reaches for him, one broad hand coming to rest on his shoulder, the other curling impossibly gently around the back of his skull. Merlin allows himself to be tugged forward, breath catching when Arthur presses their foreheads together. A heartbeat later, Arthur's eyes slip shut and he holds Merlin there. Just breathing, deep and slow. Merlin waits, trembling, his vision blurring as he watches his king mourn.

When he can't bring himself to keep still another second in the face of Arthur's sadness, Merlin reaches out in return, curling a hand along Arthur's jaw—putting everything he has into keeping the touch steady.

"You are enough, Arthur. You are everything this kingdom needs."

Arthur inhales slowly without opening his eyes. When he tilts his head just enough to nuzzle Merlin's hand, the fleeting touch feels so intimate that Merlin's knees nearly give out beneath him.

When Arthur finally lets go and steps away, Merlin wants desperately to follow. He makes himself stand in place with conscious effort, letting his arms fall to his sides and forcing himself to a stillness that feels completely unnatural.

"You may remain in Camelot," Arthur says, staring stubbornly at the scrolls and maps spread across the table. "But I no longer require your services. You're free to pursue some other occupation."

"What?" Disbelief quickly giving way to rising panic in Merlin's chest. "No!"

"The matter is not up for debate."

"Please. Arthur, please." He crowds thoughtlessly forward, and it's all he can do not to touch Arthur, force him to meet Merlin's eyes. "I know you have no reason to trust me after everything I've done, but if you give me a chance… If you let me remain at your side—"

"And have you hurl yourself into harm's way, so I can lose you too?" The vehemence in Arthur's voice takes Merlin aback. He sounds desolate and raw and fiercely protective, and there is agony in the far too honest words.

Merlin rallies, putting all the confidence he can into his answer. "You won't lose me." He steps closer, allowing himself the guilty comfort of standing near enough to feel Arthur's feverish heat radiating toward him. "I've been protecting you for years, and I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere."

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut. The jerky shake of his head isn't quite a denial, but it isn't acquiescence either. Merlin doesn't know what to make of it.

When Arthur finally speaks, it's only to say, "You should get some rest. I'm sure you've overexerted yourself."

And in the end, Merlin has no choice but to obey.

Chapter Text

Merlin returns to the physician's workroom just long enough to tell Gaius he won't be leaving Camelot. He hasn't been banished. He doesn't need to leave his entire life behind and find somewhere to disappear. The relief is so powerful he could cry.

But after accepting a hug from his mentor, and a quick dinner that sits like lead in his stomach, Merlin is too restless to remain in Gaius' quietly worried company.

Even if it were late enough to justify turning in for the night, Merlin couldn't bring himself to do it. His whole world feels like it's been upended by today's near miss—by how close he came to losing Arthur simply because he was not there—by the apparent contradiction, in Arthur allowing him to remain in Camelot while rejecting Merlin's place at his side.

And by Mordred's death, which leaves Merlin feeling numb and sad rather than relieved. Mordred saw Merlin for who he truly was and wanted to be his friend anyway, and only now does Merlin allow himself to wonder what might've been, if he had actually given the young knight a chance. It hurts more than he ever could've anticipated, mourning someone he never allowed himself to know.

It's a warm evening as he wanders, first the corridors within the castle, then the battlements above. Endless and restless momentum carries him, even though his whole body feels shaky. Arthur was right. He did overexert himself. He put everything he had into trying to save Mordred, and his every step feels unsteady as he wanders. He keeps moving well past sunset, into a darkness lit by a full moon, stars unimpeded by cloud cover.

Finally, what feels like hours later, he settles at the edge of a parapet, sitting on the low stone wall and letting his legs dangle over the edge.

The surrounding stillness lasts only a moment before his quiet sulk is interrupted by a rustle of movement. Merlin grips harder at the wall, turning in surprise to peer over his shoulder—and startles to find Guinevere striding along the stone walkway to join him. She's wearing a clean dress, simple and light, the pale fabric all but glowing in the moonlight. Her hair hangs loose past her shoulders, and she wears no jewelry at all. When she stops directly beside him, Merlin smells just a hint of lavender and cloves.

Her presence leaves him off-balance for completely new reasons, and something appallingly like shame makes him twist forward to avoid her eyes. He's not sure which has him more uncomfortable: the fact that he was not the one to save Arthur today; or the tingling memory of Arthur's mouth grazing his palm.

"Are you all right?" Gwen sets her hand between his shoulder blades, the touch so light he could almost pretend she isn't touching him at all.

"How did you find me?" Merlin asks, instead of trying to conjure up an honest answer.

Fond humor touches her voice. "Percival told me where you were."

Merlin blinks in confusion, peering at her despite his discomfort. "How did Percival know?"

"Merlin." Now she sounds exasperated. "There was an assassin within the citadel less than six hours ago. The patrols are keeping a close eye on everyone. Of course people know where you are."

"Oh." He turns his gaze forward again, out across the lower town, the distant hills, the spindly silhouettes of enormous trees along the far horizon.

Gwen allows him to linger in silence for only a moment before murmuring, "You didn't answer my question."

Well. So much for evasion. Merlin sighs. There's no real point trying to hide his turmoil; Guinevere knows him too well. Besides, she's his friend. She won't let this go, and she won't believe him if he lies.

"I don't know if I'm all right," he admits, heart lodged in his throat and voice gone pathetically small. "I'm grateful Arthur is allowing me to stay in Camelot, but it's not enough. I can't protect him if he won't let me close. Nothing's the same, and I know that's my fault, but I can't… I don't know how to… I feel so…"

Helpless, he thinks. He feels utterly and completely helpless, because this is no battle to be fought or quest to overcome. This is a consequence of his own actions, and he doesn't know what to do.

Gwen is quiet for a very long time. If she's waiting for him to finish his thought aloud, she will be waiting forever.

Finally she says, "You love him."

Merlin freezes. His hands clench so tight around the wall of the battlement that he feels pain where his fingertips scrape the uneven stone. Panic sends his heart racing at a frantic clip, and it takes him either several seconds or an eon to gather up enough of his voice to speak.

"I'm his friend," he says, shaken and low.

"Oh, Merlin. We both know you are something far more complicated than that."

Merlin turns his head too quickly and stares at his queen, his face flushed with mortification, a wild spike of guilt twisting his belly. "Gwen, I swear to you, I haven't… We wouldn't… I don't even know if he…"

But Merlin does know. He recognizes the deeper truth, when he remembers the careful way Arthur touched him in the council chamber. The warm press of Arthur's forehead. The anguish in Arthur's voice when he admonished Merlin for throwing himself in harm's way.

The trembling stillness between them, and the way Merlin's heart tried to crack itself in two when Arthur dismissed him.

"It's all right." Gwen's voice breaks through the chaos, impossibly gentle. When she slides her hand higher along Merlin's back, curling cool fingers around his nape, there is comfort in the touch. "I know you haven't. And I'm not angry. Surely there is room in Arthur's heart for both of us."

Merlin swallows hard and shakes his head. "You make it sound easy."

"Oh, I have no illusions that this will be easy." Her voice carries the warmth of a rueful smile, and her thumb brushes along his hairline, back and forth and soothing. "But it's clear he cares for you. I would not see you both miserable for fear of wounding my feelings. Not after everything we've been through."

"Gwen," Merlin breathes. He can't bring himself to look at her. He wonders if she can feel how hard he's trembling beneath her hand.

"I've never doubted my husband's devotion to me," she says, in a voice so sure and strong that Merlin knows it's the truth. "And I do not intend to start now."

Merlin swallows again. Considers. Finds himself suddenly terrified in ways that have nothing to do with Arthur sending him away.

"I don't know what to do," he admits.

When he finally looks at her, Gwen's smile is so reassuring he could cry.

"Don't worry." She lets go her soft grip and playfully ruffles his hair. "We'll figure it out."

Chapter Text

For all his fear and frustration at Arthur's stubbornness, Merlin stays as close as he can manage to the king's side, now that he's at liberty to do so.

He does his best to focus on his work as physician's apprentice, and remains constantly underfoot about the palace. After all, he's been learning from Gaius for years, and not just the magic. More and more often of late, he has stepped in as a physician in his own right, all while balancing his secrets and his duties as Arthur's manservant.

Doing more of the same isn't much of a change after all. And now, in the absence of Arthur's condemnation—in the wake of grudging forgiveness—Merlin can come and go more freely. To the rest of the court, Arthur has couched his dismissal as a concession to Gaius' needs as court physician, and though it's a thin pretext, it clears away any lingering stain of disapproval. There is no longer any need to skulk about the citadel and glean his information from gossip. He can make a blatant pest of himself, sticking his nose anywhere he pleases to stay abreast of happenings at court.

He can even corner Arthur himself, to interrogate his king about the shifting landscape of Camelot's ban on magic. Merlin doesn't think he's imagining the way even Arthur seems relieved to finally discuss these things openly with him. They have so many years of secrets to untangle, and Arthur has a lifetime of questions about magic that his father never prepared him to face.

Merlin attends Mordred's somber funeral: full honors for a knight of Camelot, despite the discovery of the young druid's deception, and Merlin is glad of it. Mordred proved loyal in the end. Merlin wonders if things might've been different, if he had given the boy a chance after all. Visions or not, he was wrong about Mordred. And while he will never repent his choice to protect Arthur first, above every other consideration, he still mourns the friendship he and Mordred might have shared.

He finds himself restless in the days following the funeral. After so many years of the same routine—of rising before the sun, to bring Arthur's breakfast and wake his king—Merlin barely knows how to manage a day in which he has actual time to himself. His heart, at least, no longer aches the way it did when he was barred from Arthur's side.

Merlin makes sure to cross paths with Arthur almost daily, in fact. A deliberate effort, though not a difficult one. Who knows the king's schedule better than Merlin, after all? He can tell Arthur is constantly exasperated, occasionally frustrated, and usually pleased to see him. But even so, this seems an untenable balance.

It feels like there are invisible strings twining tighter between them with every passing day. Merlin would close the distance at the slightest provocation—if only Arthur would give any sign of wanting him to do it.

Today though, Merlin's thoughts are elsewhere, spinning fascinated circles around a spell Gaius showed him this morning. It's a small bit of magic, the slightest manipulation, but if he can harness it with enough finesse, he might be able to extend the life of some of Gaius' most valuable tinctures. The ones that require ingredients that are both delicate and beastly difficult to obtain, the ones that need to be mixed and ingested almost immediately to have any effect, because any length of time sitting on a shelf fades their potency so quickly as to make them useless.

And because of Arthur's efforts to lift the ban on magic, Merlin will soon be able to embark on such experiments without even the letter of the law standing in his way.

The possibilities hold his focus so completely that Merlin isn't paying attention to his surroundings, as he crests the top of a winding staircase and rounds the corner too quickly.

He barely has time to notice the flash of a red tunic in his peripheral vision, before he's colliding with a broad chest—Arthur he thinks, automatic and instinctive as breathing—and a sharp elbow connects with his sternum as Arthur curses in matching surprise.

"Ow," Merlin blurts, losing his balance, stumbling backward as he tries—and fails—to recover his equilibrium.

Time slows, not with magic but with simple adrenaline. He's going to fall. He's going to fall on his ass and probably hit his head, and he'll make a complete fool of himself in the process. Or even worse, he's going to keep right on tumbling down the stairs, and need his magic to save him from being even more badly hurt, and—

Arthur catches him.

Merlin blinks as his momentum jerks to an abrupt stop, Arthur's arm wrapping firmly around his waist as quick reflexes arrest Merlin's fall. Suddenly Arthur has inescapable hold of him, not quite an embrace but dizzyingly close. Arthur's other hand has wrapped hard around Merlin's elbow, grip tight enough to be distinctly uncomfortable, and his startled face fills Merlin's field of vision.

It takes an extra span of heartbeats for Merlin to realize his own hands have twisted themselves up in the fabric of Arthur's tunic. He should definitely let go now that he's steady on his feet—should take a careful step back before the stunned confusion on Arthur's face has the chance to transform into something else—but he can't seem to make himself let go. Arthur isn't letting go either, and the stillness between them is suddenly so fraught that Merlin can't breathe.

Before he can consider doing anything foolish, Merlin hears another set of footsteps approaching with brisk efficiency, and then a rustle of skirts as Guinevere sweeps around the same corner and comes to a more graceful stop.

Merlin's cheeks blaze bright and hot as he meets her eyes, but she only quirks an eyebrow at him. Amusement softens her expression.

Quick as that, Merlin's lungs resume their normal function. He huffs a wry sound, too quiet to be a laugh, and only wobbles a little when Arthur takes his hands off of Merlin with a jerky movement. Arthur's single backward step looks just as unsteady as Merlin feels, and when Merlin looks directly at him, he finds his king wearing an expression of flustered heat and…

Guilt.

Merlin's heart pulses painfully in his chest, and he clenches his teeth to keep from saying anything reckless. His hands fall to his sides, and he knows his blush has crept all the way to the tips of his ears. He spares an uncertain glance for Gwen before brushing past both her and Arthur, then hurries along the corridor.

It's a cowardly retreat, but Merlin doesn't care. Whatever's going through Arthur's head right now, Merlin can't stand there and watch him sort through the tumult.

His heart can't take the strain.

Better to run away and regroup. He'll put himself back together, get his defenses up. Let Arthur come to him, and inevitably pretend away whatever just happened as perfectly normal happenstance. Leave well enough alone, the same way they always do, and save the consequences for later.

Chapter Text

'Later' turns out to be barely more than an hour after their disconcerting collision by the stairs. Merlin is grinding dried yarrow, alone in the workroom when the king storms in like a thunder cloud.

"Where's Gaius?" Arthur demands, offering no greeting at all.

"Not here." Merlin blinks at him, too startled to be offended. He wonders what could possibly have gone wrong in so short a time, or have discomforted Arthur enough to make him seek out Gaius even knowing he would surely find Merlin here. "He's in the lower town. I can fetch him if you need—"

"No." Arthur's expression turns grim, and a spike of worry twists in Merlin's chest. The anxiety only sharpens when Arthur turns around and closes the door, bolting it firmly.

"Sire?" Merlin's pulse kicks up faster, as Arthur strides across the room wearing a battle-ready expression. The urgency in Arthur's step is enough to make Merlin set aside the pestle and turn to face his king. "Is everything all right?"

"You tell me." Arthur's scowl deepens. "I've just had the most bewildering conversation with my queen."

"Have you?" Merlin fights to keep his expression bland, even while his heart threatens to hammer its way right out of his chest. He falters a moment, flustered and hiding it poorly, then picks up the mortar full of powdered herbs and carries it to a workbench covered in empty jars. He's not sure the yarrow is sufficiently pulverized to transfer into the ready containers, but it's the only pretext he has to avoid Arthur's eyes.

"Merlin," Arthur growls and follows him. He hovers at Merlin's elbow as though it is taking an intolerable effort not to yank the first jar right out of his hands. "Why is my wife telling me I have her blessing? Her blessing for what?"

"How should I know?" Merlin prays the words don't sound as shaken as they feel coming out of his mouth. He spills some of the herbs, but mostly the yarrow ends up in the jars, as he works with steady enough hands and finds everything sufficiently ground after all.

Unfortunately, once he's finished stoppering all the jars, he has no choice but to turn and face the inevitable.

He expects to find impatient confusion on his king's face—maybe a glint of familiar irritation—but instead, Merlin raises his eyes and meets a look so wild and vulnerable that his breath catches in his throat. Arthur's shoulders are tense. His mouth has pressed into a thin line, as he stares with an air of pleading desperation. He is clearly waiting, taut and wrong-footed, for Merlin to give him a better answer.

No, Merlin realizes with startled awe. Arthur is not confused. He is terrified.

"Oh," Merlin breathes. And then, "Arthur…"

When instinct urges him forward, he reaches without hesitation, curving his hand along Arthur's jaw. He traces his thumb hesitantly over the king's stubbled cheek, just barely brushing the corner of his mouth. The touch makes Arthur draw in a shuddering breath, and then his hand is covering Merlin's, holding tight. Another moment stretches urgently between them. One heartbeat. Three. Ten.

Then Arthur drags Merlin into his arms, tucking his chin over Merlin's shoulder and hugging him so hard it's a wonder there's any air left in his lungs.

Merlin's heart thunders louder than ever, and he decides he doesn't need air anyway. Not when Arthur is holding him like this. Merlin tangles his fingers in the back of Arthur's tunic and squashes his face into the side of the king's neck, squeezing his eyes shut against a sudden sting of tears. Relief and something far more potent have formed an inextricable knot inside him, and he can feel his magic responding. Warming beneath his skin, desperate to protect Arthur, frantic to keep him close.

"I don't want you to die for me," Arthur whispers, burying the words in the crook of Merlin's shoulder. "I couldn't bear it."

The embrace loosen just enough for Merlin to draw fresh air into his lungs, but Arthur doesn't let go.

Carefully, hesitantly, Merlin presses a tentative kiss to the spot below Arthur's jaw, where the king's pulse is racing just as fast as Merlin's own. He resists the urge to point out that if it means protecting his king, dying would be worth it. He would give his own life a hundred times over, if that's what it takes to keep Arthur safe. But just because this is achingly, agonizingly true, doesn't mean it's what Arthur needs to hear.

So Merlin swallows down this particular truth, and instead says, "You can't protect me by sending me away."

Arthur trembles in his arms, the sensation unfamiliar and strange.

"I know." Arthur nuzzles in along his throat, inhaling slowly as though scenting him—as though committing him to memory. "You were right. Your place is at my side. I can't keep denying that."

Merlin stills, hope igniting in his chest so suddenly that the shock of it is almost painful. "Does… Does this mean you'll let me come back?"

Reluctantly, Arthur unwinds his embrace and pushes Merlin gently away.

"I don't know how we're supposed to do this," Arthur admits. His callus-roughened hands are careful as they frame Merlin's face, and his eyes glint with a ferocity that catches like an ember in Merlin's chest. "Things can't go back to the way they were."

"Why not?"

Arthur snorts a startled laugh and shakes his head ruefully. "I can't very well have the most powerful sorcerer of the ages carrying my bathwater."

"I never minded before."

Arthur raises a single eyebrow in an expression that would make Gaius proud.

Merlin huffs. "All right, I minded a bit. But I don't regret it. And I would do it again without hesitation." He considers for barely a moment before blurting, "Does anyone else know about me? Anyone besides Gwen?"

"Gaius does. But then, you don't need me to tell you that." Arthur drops his hands to his sides, where they tense briefly into fists before loosening with what looks like deliberate effort. "If anyone else knows, they haven't confided in me. Why?"

"Because if you haven't told anyone, then why can't we go back to the way things were? At least… for a while? The kingdom will need time to adjust to the new laws. Surely there's sense in keeping a concealed weapon at the ready."

"You're not a weapon, Merlin." But Arthur's eyes narrow, his head tilting just barely to one side in a look that is not entirely disapproving. "You would continue to play the servant, for the sake of strategic advantage?"

"It's a good idea." Merlin tries very hard to sound reasonable instead of pleading. "My magic has gone unnoticed for years. Why should that change now? If no one realizes you've got a sorcerer protecting you, they'll continue to underestimate you."

"You mean they'll underestimate you." But Arthur's expression is already beginning to clear. "I can't ask this of you. You've been forced into the shadows too long already. What kind of friend would I be, to keep you there now that I know the truth?"

"It's the smart move." Merlin can think of no better way to guard Arthur while the dust settles. He squares his shoulders and insists, "I would do far worse to keep you safe."

He has done worse. And so long as Arthur is among the few who know the truth, then keeping his secret will not be anywhere near the torture it was before. Even now, the fact that Arthur knows is making him feel lightheaded, as though it's still a new revelation. Arthur knows, and he is here, trusting Merlin. Watching him with an expression that somehow manages to be both exasperated and awed at once.

Arthur's jaw clenches—a moment of decision—and then he gives a single decisive nod.

"Fine. We'll do this your way. For now."

Merlin releases the breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. He barely has time to let his posture slump with relief before Arthur is reaching for him again—tangling his fingers in Merlin's hair—dragging him in, this time for a kiss so fierce that Merlin stumbles against the workbench and nearly knocks over the freshly sealed jars of yarrow. Arthur follows, thank god, and Merlin wraps his arms around impossibly broad shoulders as Arthur crushes him close.

It feels like an eternity before they surface. Merlin's eyelids have gone heavy and his lips are tingling. His magic hums, an eager roil of energy inside him, pleased by Arthur's proximity and giddy from the kiss.

Arthur's arms have drifted around Merlin's waist, and he seems disinclined to let go as he searches Merlin's expression.

What he's searching for, Merlin cannot begin to guess.

"Soon," Arthur murmurs, tipping his forehead softly against Merlin's and holding there, "I will name you my official court sorcerer."

Merlin's eyes widen, and his insides give a delighted flutter. "You will? Truly?"

"Truly." Determination darkens Arthur's gaze. "We'll give it a year. Exactly one year of secrecy, since you make an appallingly good point about strategy. Then I will acknowledge you openly, and see to it you receive the respect and credit you deserve."

Merlin shivers at Arthur's tone—the mingling of reverence and adoration that makes it clear Arthur does not just mean to acknowledge him as a sorcerer, but as… this. Whatever this is. Whatever balance they find, between themselves and Gwen, though somehow Merlin can't imagine a year will be long enough to finish sorting out exactly how they fit together. It's still an overwhelming and welcome sentiment, and Merlin's mouth twitches helplessly at one corner as he lets the truth of Arthur's regard settle over him.

Arthur is still watching Merlin, clearly waiting for agreement. Only the faintest flicker at the corners of his eyes gives away that he is nervous.

"All right. One year." Merlin smiles wider and bumps his nose playfully against Arthur's. "I'll look forward to it."