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Despite knowing—with all the clarity of hindsight—just how many times Merlin has protected him using magic, Arthur struggles to catch up when he wakes in the Valley of the Fallen Kings, with only a dull ache in his back where a mortal wound should be.
He is even more unsettled once Merlin explains what actually happened. It wasn't Merlin's magic that saved him from the arrow embedded in his shoulder, and Arthur can't decide if it's this fact, or the aftereffect of vivid and terrifying visions making Merlin so jittery. Arthur has never seen Merlin so outwardly scared. He seems shaken down to his core. This ignites every protective instinct and then some, all useless when Merlin won't even stand still long enough for Arthur to calm him down.
"Merlin." He puts himself directly in Merlin's path, sidestepping with him when his—servant, friend, companion, lover, sorcerer—tries to maneuver around him. "Stop. Just stop for a second."
Miraculously, Merlin obeys the pleading command. His shoulders are still impossibly tight, his whole body vibrating with barely contained energy. There's barely any space at all between them, thanks to Merlin's arrested momentum, and at such close range Arthur can see that Merlin's pupils have blown disconcertingly wide. The brightness of the sunlit clearing cannot possibly be comfortable, and yet Merlin doesn't even blink.
"We need to return to Camelot as quickly as possible," Merlin insists, swaying on his feet in a way that is nearly as alarming as the unnatural wideness of his eyes.
"No. What we need is for you to breathe. And stop panicking."
"I am not panicking."
Arthur arches an eyebrow worthy of Gaius, unwilling to dignify this protest with a verbal response.
Merlin deflates, his shoulders slumping. "Arthur…"
"Slow down and describe the vision again. Every detail. This is not your quandary to solve alone. Perhaps it is not your quandary to solve at all."
"I was shown these images for a reason."
"What reason?" Arthur prods, and though it's in the same tone he uses when he's actively trying to be difficult, he means the question sincerely. Some mysterious old man, albeit one with power enough to heal Arthur where Merlin's own significant talents failed, does not get to stick his nose into their lives and mess with Merlin's head, only to vanish before answering any of their inevitable questions. It stinks to high heaven, and Arthur refuses to simply take this as some quirk of destiny come to call.
Merlin scowls and admits, "I don't know."
Moving slowly so as not to spook him when he's already riled, Arthur takes Merlin's face between his hands. He holds him there, maintaining stubborn eye contact. Not letting him look away. More than anything in this moment, Arthur needs Merlin to hear him.
"I know you're accustomed to acting unaided," Arthur murmurs. "Protecting us all in secret. Relying on yourself to make impossible decisions, and living with the consequences alone."
Merlin flinches, but Arthur persists, relentless and steady.
"Merlin. You are not alone anymore. If you truly trust me, then trust me with this."
Merlin's throat bobs in a tight swallow, and when he speaks, his voice is uncharacteristically small. "What would you have me do?"
Arthur traces his thumbs back and forth across Merlin's ridiculous cheekbones as he considers the question. It's a victory, however small, that Merlin is listening at last. He can't afford to squander the moment with indecision. He needs to be certain of his own path forward, through the maze of Merlin's vision and his own confusing wealth of foreknowledge. The things he learned from a Morgana who won't exist for twenty years—or perhaps will not exist at all, if Arthur succeeds in turning her from a path that he refuses to believe is inevitable.
Finally, though he's certain Merlin won't like it, Arthur says, "I want you to do nothing."
Sure enough, Merlin's brow furrows, his scowl deepening. "You must be joking."
"No. I want you to leave well enough alone. No good can come of engaging with prophecy head-on. No future is set in stone. We've both seen enough to know better than that."
"Even so," Merlin protests. "Morgana is dangerous. Whatever she intends to do, it will be soon. Taliesin said—"
"I don't care what Taliesin said. We already know Morgana intends imminent mischief. Nothing in your vision contradicts what I learned from the future. I'm ordering you to let me deal with it. If interference is required, I will handle it myself."
He's not sure precisely what form that interference might take. He will have to be desperately careful. What little he learned from his sister, from their place safely ensconced twenty years in the future, tells him this will be a turning point. He had not realized Merlin would play any part in it. Morgana described a fall, a confession overheard from their father's own mouth, and a miraculous recovery, presumably at Gaius' hands.
Arthur wonders now, if it was Gaius who saved her after all.
Regardless, he will do everything in his power to ensure she does not need saving this time.
He can see Merlin struggling with what he has said. An obvious desire to argue flashes in the vibrant blue of Merlin's eyes, as familiar as any sight in Camelot. It makes Arthur's heart clench in his chest, as he realizes he will not win this standoff with reason alone.
So he cheats. He reels Merlin in and kisses him, long and slow and deliberately soothing. And when he retreats at last—when he sees the dazed and helpless look that has replaced the frantic intensity of a moment before—Arthur says only one word.
"Please."
Merlin's focus seems to clear, but the combative air doesn't return.
"Fine," Merlin huffs. His hands have drifted to Arthur's waist, holding on so tightly that Arthur can feel the grip of those long fingers even through layers of fabric and chain mail. "But only because you asked nicely for once."
Arthur scoffs and lets go, and when they turn together toward Camelot, the silence feels normal at last.
***
The next night, when Morgana slips through the citadel intent on answering her sister's summons, Arthur makes sure he is alone in the corridor to follow her. The red swirl of her cloak is hardly subtle as she navigates the halls with stony confidence, but then what need does she have of subtlety? She is the king's ward, high in Uther's public regard, protected from anyone who might ask inconvenient questions. Even if she were to misgauge the patrols and find herself face-to-face with the sentries, none would dare question or detain her after the acts of heroism she's claimed credit for since returning to Camelot.
Arthur's throat tightens when she turns her head far enough to allow him a glimpse of her face, familiar features set into harsh lines. There is fear in the tightness of her mouth, and something trying to be hard in the glint of her eyes.
She doesn't see him. He has kept carefully to the shadows in his silent pursuit. And when she faces forward once more, he speeds his pace.
He catches up to her before a set of heavy doors that lead to one of the outer courtyards.
"Morgana," he says softly.
She startles so violently that she nearly bumps into the brasier burning at the top of a narrow and winding staircase. Arthur's heart thunders and he reaches out instinctively to steady her before she can fall. The shadows of those stairs seem to reach upwards with grim malice, and Arthur makes sure to draw Morgana safely away from them before allowing her to shake off his grip.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Not even a faint tremble belies her haughty tone.
A pained smile twitches at one corner of Arthur's mouth, as he recognizes how deliberately she is trying to goad him into the distraction of an argument.
"I could ask you the same," he answers in a measured tone, careful not to rise to the bait. "Where are you going at this hideous hour of night?"
Morgana's expression, already stern and arrogant, closes off completely, and there is ice in her voice when she says, "My affairs are not your concern."
Here too is familiar challenge, but rather than meet it, Arthur only pleads quietly, "Don't go."
Her eyebrows rise so high they disappear beneath the hood of her cloak. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." Arthur fights to keep his hands loose at his sides, resisting the urge to clench them into fists or to reach out again, as though if he only holds on tight enough perhaps he can get through to her. "Morgana, I am asking you, as a friend—as a brother, if you will have me—whatever you intend tonight, do not go."
For a damning heartbeat, Morgana looks stricken. Then fury sparks and sharpens in her eyes and she snarls, "You do not tell me what to do."
"Morgana," Arthur says, even more softly than before. "Please."
Rage melts away, leaving a conflicted flash of emotion that she must be too startled to conceal. Arthur doesn't read her well enough anymore to be certain, but he suspects the emotion is fear. Even if it isn't, her hesitation and silence are proof enough that she is afraid.
Arthur hates this. He hates seeing such stark proof that Morgana is scared of him—so much so that she is well on her way to despising him. And just as he felt in his belated awareness of Merlin's magic, ice lodges in his chest with the understanding of just how badly he has failed someone he cares about. He has done nothing to win her trust, and the twist of guilt is powerful enough to make the space behind his eyes prickle and burn.
Morgana's secrets are different from Merlin's. They are malice and anger and revenge. But they stem from the same core of stifled terror, and that is what Arthur must address if he is going to draw his sister safely away from Morgause's manipulations.
"Please," he says again, barely a breath behind the desperate word. "I cannot protect you if I don't know what I'm protecting you from."
Her expression shutters once more, but Arthur can see the cracks in this new facade. The fragility. The glimmer too faint to mistake for hope. He finds himself praying that what he sees is her wanting to trust him, even if she's not yet sure she can.
Caution turns her words stilted when she retorts, "Perhaps you cannot protect me regardless."
"Morgana." He says her name for a third time, deliberately, so fiercely her eyes widen in surprise. When he steps toward her, she doesn't retreat. And when Arthur sets a hand to her arm, the fact that she doesn't shake him off seems an unlikely victory. He meets her eyes with a steadiness he does not feel and says, "I'm asking… I am begging you to let me try."
For all her usual talent for projecting a veneer of icy calm, she looks ready to bolt. Even with the new and seemingly insurmountable distance growing between them, Arthur knows Morgana well enough to read the tension in her shoulders—the subtle flickers of body language signaling that she is alert and ready—as though facing off against an enemy instead of a friend. He's more than half terrified that if she tries to run, the vision Merlin has seen will come to pass despite his best efforts. She could still slip on the long train of her skirt and cloak. The stairs are too near for comfort, and Arthur is already calculating how quickly he can put himself between Morgana and a fall.
But he is also frantically searching for a way to get through to her. For all he knows, this could be his only chance to alter the path she is about to choose.
Finally, heart thundering in his chest, he braces himself to speak words that would have anyone else—saving perhaps Morgana herself, little though she realizes it—executed for treason. "My father will not be king forever."
Her eyes widen, and for a very long time she stares as though Arthur has lost his mind. Perhaps he has. Perhaps he's made a grave mistake in being so candid with her, before receiving any indication that she is willing to listen. But once the words are out of his mouth, he can't bring himself to regret them. Arthur would do and say far worse, if it means a second chance to get this right. He cannot lose his sister to Morgause, wondering all the while if there was more he could have done to hold on.
Finally Morgana snaps to motion, grabbing Arthur roughly by the arm and dragging him along the corridor—thankfully away from the winding shadows of the staircase. She shoves him around a corner, into an alcove lost in even deeper shadow, where the firelight does not reach and only moonlight sneaks in through narrow windows. The faint blue glow from outside is just enough to illuminate Morgana's narrowed eyes.
"Have you lost your mind?" she hisses, shaking his arm hard. Her fingers clasp so tightly that he's sure he will wear bruises tomorrow. "What game are you playing at?"
"No game." Arthur moves carefully, slowly, covering her hand on his arm. Relief floods through him when her grip loosens without letting go. "Is it so difficult to believe I'm worried for you?"
It doesn't seem possible for her eyes to narrow further, but they do, her indecipherable stare boring into him with the sharpness of a well-honed knife. Suddenly Arthur wonders if he was foolish to come after her unarmed. He'd thought it a necessary gesture of good faith, but she is almost certainly carrying multiple concealed weapons on her person. If she's scared enough—if he has inadvertently backed her into a corner—she might simply stab him and be done.
She doesn't draw a blade. Not yet. But her voice is cold, with just a hint of a tremor. "Whatever you think you know about me—"
"Stop," he interrupts, aching for her. For her fear. Her mistrust. Her self-doubt and unanswered questions, and everything else that has led her to Morgause and left her sure she has only her sister to rely upon. All of this happened right under Arthur's nose, and because he did not see, he never once tried to help.
He can feel his breath threatening to turn shallow and quick, and he forces himself steady with pure stubborn will. He doesn't allow the slightest tremor as he curls a hand along the line of Morgana's jaw. She flinches, but she doesn't reject the touch. It's difficult to read anything in the darkness—in the weight of shadows concealing her expression as she stares at him.
Arthur exhales slowly. Then tips his forehead against hers, holding his ground despite her sharp intake of breath.
"Nothing you are will ever make me forsake you." Arthur recognizes the truth of this promise even as he speaks it, an undeniable resonance of honesty in his chest.
He already knows so much of what Morgana will do if he fails to reach her—and he knows just as surely that even in the messy and complicated future he glimpsed, King Arthur never learned to hate his sister. Fear and resent her, yes. But there must be a reason she came back to him in the end, and a reason Arthur gave her a chance even then.
He swallows past the lump of emotion threatening to clog his throat, and vows with a rasp of gravel, "I would do anything in my power to keep you from harm."
Now, belatedly, Morgana jerks away from him with an angry hiss. She steps firmly out of reach, despite the tight confines of the alcove.
"Stay away from me," she snarls, with all the vicious fury of a cornered animal. She sweeps back around the corner, out into the wider corridor, her movements an urgent flurry of cloak and skirts.
But when Arthur steps into the torchlight, he sees that she has stormed back the way she came.
***
Morgana finds him the next day, her eyes shadowed with fatigue beneath impeccable makeup, her jaw set in a stubborn line. Sunlight streams between the pillars of the colonnade, glinting off the beads and embroidery of her white gown, as she falls into step beside him.
When she darts a surreptitious glance around them, Arthur does his own quick check to ensure they are alone. But he doesn't speak. Morgana has sought him out. He can afford to wait and see what she will do.
"Did you mean what you said last night?" she asks, voice little more than a shaky whisper.
If Arthur were inclined to be quarrelsome, he would point out that he said many things last night. Instead he murmurs, "Every word."
She swallows hard, matching his pace. "Then you're a fool. There are things even you cannot hope to protect me from. If you had any notion at all—"
"No." He stops walking and turns to face her, hating how drawn and sharp she looks. How scared, even now in the light of day, beneath the cracking facade of calm. "You, of all people, know how far I would go to protect the people who matter to me. We're family, Morgana. For all the years we've spent scrapping and tormenting each other, there is no one else I'd rather call sister."
He is skirting dangerously close to the truth, and yet he could not contain this portion of his heart if he tried.
Morgana's chin tips up in a defiant gesture. "And Uther?"
Arthur steps forward, pitching his voice low. "I will not let him hurt you."
She swallows hard. "You once told me… After Gwen's father was killed, you collected me from the dungeons, and you said… You said if I defied him again, you would not be able to help me."
Arthur remembers that awful day. He remembers their brief exchange in the dungeons, under the listening ears of the guards. He does not remember exactly what he said, but he is painfully aware of just how likely it is Morgana has remembered correctly. He was more of a coward then, aware of his father's failings and yet too convinced of his own helplessness to take any stand against him. Perhaps, at the time, he truly couldn't have done more. He had not learned his own strength yet—had so rarely defied his father in even small things.
But he is still ashamed at his past unwillingness to try.
Arthur lets all of his determination, hard-won and stubborn, flash in his eyes when he finally answers her protest.
"I won't pretend he isn't dangerous," Arthur says. His father is dangerous. To so many people—to the people Arthur most treasures—and Morgana still doesn't know the true source of Uther's attachment to her. She has no way to fathom the hypocrisy that would protect her if Uther learned the truth about her magic, and even so Arthur isn't sure if that hypocrisy would stand against Uther's violent paranoia. "But I give you my word, if he ever intends you harm, he will have to go through me."
***
Arthur is shaking with adrenaline when he strides through his chamber door and finds Merlin hard at work polishing his armor.
Merlin's first glance is quick and careless, but his gaze returns with sharper intensity a second later and holds steady, watching Arthur kick the door shut and cross the room.
"What happened?" Merlin sets down the pauldron and cloth. His expression has gone fierce, and he seems to be putting conscious effort into keeping his seat at Arthur's table, rather than rising to rush toward him. "You look rattled."
"Calm down, you overprotective mother hen," Arthur mutters, but he makes no effort to keep the fondness from his voice. As he passes behind Merlin's chair, he ruffles the man's ridiculous hair into an even more ridiculous mess, smiling at the squawk of indignation earned by his efforts.
"You're not going to distract me." Merlin runs determined fingers through his hair, trying without much success to restore order to the chaos. "What happened?"
"I spoke to Morgana," Arthur admits. "Last night. And this morning."
With a quick scrape of chair legs across hard stone, Merlin pushes up from his seat and hurries to Arthur's side. "What did she say?"
Arthur shrugs, wishing he could offer concrete reassurances to ease the worry from Merlin's far too expressive face. It's a wonder the man manages to keep so many dangerous secrets, considering how terrible he is at concealing his emotions. Arthur wonders, guilty as always, at how thoroughly he was fooled when Merlin's strangeness and strength are so obvious in retrospect. At least Morgana has always had a talent for guarding her inner landscape from prying eyes. Merlin is an open book, and it does not speak well of Arthur, that he failed for so long to read the truth written there.
"She offered no confessions or confidences," Arthur says at last. "But she did not go to the Darkling Woods last night, as she certainly intended. And this morning she seemed… I don't think I convinced her of anything, but she was listening."
Merlin's skinny shoulders are still tight, but his eyes shine bright with something like hope. "That's wonderful."
"Yes," Arthur agrees, then huffs a breathless laugh when Merlin hurtles into his arms and wraps Arthur up in a hug tight enough to choke the air out of him. His own body feels bright and wild with relief, and he wraps his arms around Merlin in return.
"I can save her." Arthur buries the words like a confession in the crook of Merlin's shoulder. Holding on with all his strength.
"I know you can," Merlin agrees, and it's the first time he has sounded completely sure.
Arthur tucks his smile into Merlin's skin and allows the moment of hope to warm him through. He will protect Morgana. He will protect Merlin. He has already started down a new path, one he hopes will not repeat the mistakes he made the first time around.
There will be new mistakes. Different mistakes. For all that Arthur has learned a great deal about himself and the place of magic in his world, he is still only a man, hopeful and imperfect and doing his best.
But this time Arthur will not lose the things that matter most.