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“I have magic.”
Arthur couldn’t remember another time when the stringing of alphabets had invited such stillness to the room that he could hear the embers cracking and the shaky inhale of Merlin.
Merlin. The one who was responsible for the blanket of silence, someone Arthur never thought could actually shut their mouth for half a candlemark.
Guess he was wrong about quite a few things about his wayward servant.
“I swear magic can be used for good, Arthur.” There it is, the rambling the King knew was coming, was waiting for. “I know what you’ve been taught but I—you’ve to take my word for this—I—I’ve only used it for the good. For Camelot. For you…”
Merlin’s swallows heavily, every instinct of his screaming at him to run but he remains rooted to the spot. He was done hiding, running from his King, his friend.
For all that he had hoped and hadn’t hoped would happen, he certainly did not imagine such silence, the stoic nature of the scene as if he had frozen time itself at the revelation. His twiddling fingers still in panic as he keeps his magic in control, locking it in the depths of his heart where secrets largely concerning the King remained.
But no, Merlin concludes at the lightest clenching of jaw of Arthur, no he hadn’t frozen time in fear of the confrontation. Rather he had petrified his King. Arthur has his inscrutable mask on, not the one he wears during hearing the petitions but the one perfectly practised form his peace treaty talks with foreign kingdoms. Meaning, Merlin could hope to move mountains before he could decipher the King’s inner workings of his mind.
“Merlin …” A whisper, a plea coloured with hurt and remorse.
“If you can’t—I can call the guards myself, Sire. Goddess, I’d behead myself if you asked me to.”
“Sire,” Arthur echoes, a huff of breath that pulls the last bit of amusement he would’ve found in the propriety way he’s referred to. He inhales deeply and his exhale of air makes goosebumps race across Merlin’s bony wrist where his fingers are loosely wrapped around. “You really think I’d execute you Merlin?”
The tears that have been welling up in the sorcerer’s eyes slide down his cheeks. The familiarity of the situation tugs at his heart. The banter that only he was entitled to, the you’re-an-idiot-Merlin tone and the on the first syllable of his name in the fond yet condensing way Arthur does. His shaky smile wobbles as the tears keep coming. He’d miss this.
“No,” Merlin answers honestly, his voice hoarse like the very one in his head that had been yelling the same word in his head for years. “No, I didn’t think—I thought—“ he helplessly searches the Pendragon crest on the wooden door in front of him. How could he even hope to describe the war that had waged within him against his mother’s stories about vengeful kings burning warlocks and Arthur Pendragon’s affections, however weird they are? “But the law is the law.”
“The law is the law,” Arthur’s verbal prowess failed him; every single lesson taught by tutors in the way of the Kings always failed in the face of his manservant, his idiot of a magical manservant. He could only parrot what Merlin was telling him, echoing the words and failing to mask the disbelief and incredulity with a strained mocking tone. “And when have you ever followed the law, Merlin? Do you even know how many laws you violate in a day?”
‘One? Two?’
At Arthur‘s glare, Merlin tries again, ‘Uh, none?”
‘Every single one, Merlin.’
‘That’s not true!’ The smile the Prince had been trying to smother breaks forth at his manservant’s indignant protest. ‘I don’t think that is even possible much less I—‘
‘With you, anything’s possible. Your idiocy can never be matched after all.’
‘Hey—!’
Arthur throws his head back with a laugh.
Merlin staggers from the memory. They’d had the conversation before and he remembers sulking all morning for it which was belied by his growing grin that day seeing his Prince laugh after a particularly aggravating council session.
What had started that?, Merlin asks himself even though he didn’t have to. The memory plays right in front of his eyes as described by dying men that they see their life in their last moments. He had been mocking the courtiers, faulting each one not outright—he didn’t want to give Uther another reason for his execution—but in the subtle way he had learnt from the residents of the castle. ‘I’m not saying that Lord Nases is stealing from his people but it’d be better if his family didn’t travel to the Northern kingdom when there is a slightest raise in temperature whilst the people of his land starved.’
It was petty; speaking ill of the courtiers behind their back in retaliation to their constant doubts and ridicules about his Prince that only led to self-doubt. Nonetheless, it made Arthur smile and he knew that his nonstop babbling would do some good for the people he spoke for. Lord Nases had lost his land by next week and Arthur had personally visited the lands to oversee the distribution of grains among the people.
The tears tasted on salty on Merlin’s smiling lips. Over the years, he had had glimpses of the King, Arthur was destined to be and the pride that had filled at the day of his coronation wasn’t simply for the fulfilment of the prophecy but to see the man finally take his rightful throne after the battles with his enemies and his own mind. He’d witnessed the making of the Once and Future King, had taken part in it and was immensely proud of the man, not just for the title but for the man himself that he got to know more than they had ever expected.
He also remembers the guilt from that evening. Eerily alike to their present, the sun’s last farewell rays of the day and the then Prince and his manservant cast aglow in front of the burning fire where they lounged on the furs, chatting, smiling and laughing only joined by the sounds of the armour being polished and the crackling fire.
Yet, now were the King and his warlock in front of the burning fire, clueless as to whether their confessions were bridging the chasm the years of lies had created or if they had finally fallen into the deep chasm itself.
If only, Merlin had thought that evening, if only you knew what laws I’ve broken.
“Merlin,” the King sounds determined though desperation drips from the name and for once, he lets it.
Merlin is pulled back, gently. The grip around his wrist remains loose, weak enough for him to escape it with a shake but he doesn’t. He promptly collapses in front of his King’s chair, his head bowed and tears dripping down his cheeks.
“Merlin,” Arthur says his name with an edge of order this time. He refuses, he doesn’t want to see the blond’s face. He was afraid of what he’d find there. Hurt? Betrayal? Anger?
Arthur, the stubborn prat, pushes his kingly face into his view. And oh there, he’s grown so much over the years. That boyish smile, the arrogant cock of his head that he had seen when he had met him for the first time is lost to time. Dredged up only within the confines his chamber or on the field, playing with swords with his knights.
Merlin’s heart pangs. He will miss that. Arthur’s hands are rough where they come to rest on the sides of his head. Emboldened by the action, he places his own hands on the face that he wouldn’t be able to see every day anymore.
“Merlin,” his voice is deeper now like the lines near his eyes. It should not be but the years hadn’t been kind for the both of them. It still makes him smile through his tears, makes his heart sing to know that those particular marks on his skin were born of joy. “Tell me everything,”
“It’s—,” Merlin smiles, swallows. “Long story,”
Arthur nods. His brows are furrowed and his eyes are wide. His hair dances with the moment. Merlin could almost believe this was that Arthur. The young, cocky bully from then but then he’s looking at him. Earnest, hopeful, assuring. His anchor to the mortal world and the King. “We’ve got nothing but time,”
“No,” he laughs, a pathetic wet thing. He moves to pull away but Arthur’s grip is iron and he is nothing but flesh and bones. “We don’t—"
“We do.” He cannot hope. Arthur’s not that cruel, he wouldn’t do that to him. He looks and looks. Arthur doesn’t look away. The blue that he could traverse across kingdoms but will never be to find an appropriate match is so sincere that it takes his breath away.
“No—“
“I’m very sorry Merlin,” he’s speaking over him with that same sincerity that Merlin cannot bring himself to interrupt.
“All these years,” Arthur’s eyes flick away to the walls as if seeing said years play out on there and his lips twitch into something of a bitter smile. “The way I’ve treated you…”
“No Arthur—" Merlin’s shaking his head vehemently. That self deprecating expression is familiar enough for him to snap into his fiery self. He cannot stand it. “You have nothing to be—"
“Shut up Merlin,”
It is familiar enough that it breaks the tension and makes Merlin smile. Nothing but a twitch still it blooms when Arthur does as well.
“Don’t start that. I know how I behaved and I’m very sorry for it—“
“But you’re working on it!”
Arthur looks at him from the corner of his eyes, annoyed but still deigns to give him a nod. “Yes, thanks to you and our dear friends. Now, I cannot imagine what it must have been with the—the—"
Merlin’s smiling again. The bitter one.
Arthur holds his chin high, hard to do so when it was so being so carefully cradled in Merlin’s hold. “The magic. So tell me, now at least please,”
That’s a first. Merlin almost breaks down crying again. They didn’t have time. Though his plans to flee tabled—Arthur had the determination he donned facing armies and rat stews—Arthur is the King, he had meetings to attend to and diplomats to meet.
Arthur doesn’t rush him. He holds him like the most precious thing in the world and simply looks. Determined. Adoring, even awed.
Merlin throws caution to wind and himself at Arthur. It gets a ‘oof’ but he couldn’t care less. Time wasn’t something he had but acceptance. Insistence to stay and tell the tales. The short and long tales that man that he thought would have had him burnt on the stake wanted to hear. Assurance that he would stay as well and listen to the tales.
Arthur’s arms are strong around his torso and even in the light of the knowledge of him having something as otherworldly as magic, he’s steadfast in his resolve to keep him safe. “I will kill you if you’ve honestly thought I would have had you killed Merlin,”
Merlin laughs, a wet thing. Joyful, familiar. That’s the same exasperated tone that he used when he packed flowers instead of hunting gear. “Doesn’t make sense, Arthur,”
“It doesn’t have to,”
And yes, it didn’t have to. The King and his manservant could share an embrace by the flames and talk of magic, myths and beings of no one can comprehend. They could skip out on meetings and piss off diplomats because they are the King and Emrys, the most powerful warlock to ever walk the earth. And they are Arthur and Merlin first which mattered to them more than anything.
Arthur and Merlin lounge on the furs, chatting, smiling, laughing. Arthur empties the fruit bowl, throwing fruits at his manservant, his friend, his saviour at every point he suspected the tale was being exaggerated. Merlin laughs and the fruits levitate in the sky before delicately peeling itself and presenting them to him.
Arthur looks at it in awe and then at Merlin. Merlin blushes and tries to say something along the lines that he’ll stop and gets an apple thrown at him in response.
And if they hold hands the entire time. It doesn’t have to make sense.