Work Text:
“Morning, Artie,” Morgana says.
She always starts conversations the same way, tone jaunty like when she’s rattling Arthur’s sword just to elicit a reaction. Usually it incenses Arthur enough to engage, but today her mere presence has Arthur casting a frantic look around the hall to see if anyone will notice them talking.
“Father says we can't play together any more.”
“It’s not like he’ll notice.” Morgana frowns, and Arthur’s stomach lurches like he’s at sea in a storm.
“He’s noticed,” Arthur hisses.
“So what?” Morgana shrugs. “If you like–”
“I don’t.” The words spill, acrid and burning, from Arthur’s tongue. His chest is rabbiting like he’s just finished an intense training. “I’m done humoring you, Morgana.”
Morgana stares at him, the lie stretching baldly between them, and Arthur is paralyzed at the potential that Morgana will just add this to her arsenal of things to hold over Arthur.
Father had been so disappointed.
Arthur can’t be the cause of that again.
“Uther doesn’t want us hanging out at all?” Morgana asks.
“I can’t be associating with girls.” Arthur pushes his shoulders back and broad. “I won’t be weak.”
“Big words for a boy who’s yet to best me,” Morgana retorts. She’s sharp but not mean with it, but that matters little because it’s obvious that she’s not taking Arthur seriously. “You’re really going to let Uther tell you who to hang with and how to dr–”
“I hate you,” Arthur interrupts. He means it, right now. Later, when anxiety isn’t poisoning his belly, he won’t.
Morgana’s breath catches, and Arthur knows the words have landed from the way she offers no immediate retort. In the moment, he feels nothing but relief.
The next time he sits across from her at breakfast, she looks past him with an unassailable air and he knows he’s lost her.
It’s for the best, though. Probably.
Arthur notices Liam because the lordling told Morgana that no knight would dare fight a lady, so she had no sense of her actual skill. Morgana responded by trying to cleave his head from his shoulders. Arthur had already recognized the very real danger Liam was in and sprang forward to disarm Morgana, and Liam wheezed as Morgana lunged at him bare-handed.
“Morgana,” Arthur groans. He doesn’t think about it, doesn’t plan it– had he, he’d have never dared execute– just tosses Morgana over his shoulder and carries her off of the training fields.
“I could kill him,” Morgana says.
“I know,” Arthur says.
“You shouldn’t have interfered.”
“You can’t go killing off lordlings, Morgana.”
“I can. You just said I could.”
“You shouldn’t,” Arthur says firmly. “We’ve all got to grow up. You’re a lady now.”
“And you think growing up means accepting shit takes from a lord wannabe? I’m not going to be limited by someone who can’t button his own britches.”
“You’re a girl,” Arthur says pointedly. “You should be surrounding yourself with ladies and dresses.”
“If that’s all it takes to be a girl…”
She doesn’t finish the thought, but Arthur’s stomach is already roiling, his blood running hot and heavy. He storms away, fully aware that Morgana’s satisfied about pissing him off, and goes straightway to befriend Liam.
Liam thinks Arthur is funny and cool. Liam doesn’t question who Arthur is and cheers for Arthur when he defends his honor.
After Liam, there’s Connery and Tamil.
They don’t question Arthur.
Morgana disapproves, but that’s nothing new.
Arthur’s becoming a man. He can’t be concerned with such things.
He trains hard every day, and he feels his body changing. He looks in the mirror and sees a stranger. Tamil says that Arthur looks like the epitome of man.
And that’s good. That’s what a prince should be.
Arthur has a problem.
A big problem. A six-foot problem who occasionally looks searching at Arthur, who never says “sire” like he means it, and who keeps bringing Arthur sweets like he’s a maiden being courted.
Honor used to be so important before Merlin, and now Arthur’s got it twisted, is more concerned about doing the right thing than how it will make him look, how it will make Camelot look.
He can’t bring himself to regret it, not even when Uther tries, repeatedly, to get Merlin killed.
And it’s hard, because the more Arthur obsesses over doing the right thing, the more he’s made aware.
He’s not right. He’s missing something. He feels a fraud, and as Uther ails, he knows he can’t falter. He has to be strong.
Merlin comes with a host of problems: gentle Lancelot, the strange Mordred, and Gwaine, who calls Arthur princess but says it with such affection that Arthur can only scoff.
Merlin doesn’t scoff, though. He looks longways at Arthur, ready to intercede– although Arthur couldn’t say whether it is on Gwaine’s behalf or Arthur’s. Arthur doesn’t know his expression, but it has Merlin looking at him with one of those searching, heavy stares that usually ends with firelight professions of service or Arthur waking up in the woods with a knot on the back of his head.
Bit by bit, Arthur’s surrounded by new knights, knights that his secret, traitorous heart knows are more loyal to him as prince than Uther as king. Arthur will reprimand them if they get too out of hand, but it’s only in a handful of passing conversations, each quickly quelled and with an apologetic nod.
They won’t speak ill of Uther because they care for Arthur.
And the more time goes on, the more problems he finds with Uther. Not the petulant complaints of an adolescent, but the profound concerns of justice and equality. So Arthur and his knights will traipse out to halfheartedly track down whichever swamp witch who’s peddling enhanced herbal remedies, and Arthur will see the bitter thoughts pass beyond the knights eyes. But no sooner than does Arthur nod at them than does the acridity settle.
They won’t challenge Uther because they trust that Arthur will, and he’s propelled by it every time.
“So,” Merlin says one evening, late into the night, both of them a little tipsy from a festival that had dragged on a little too long. “Princess.”
“Mhm?” Arthur says, and Merlin giggles like a child.
“You like being called Princess?”
Sobriety pierces viscerally into Arthur’s skull, and he freezes, staring at Merlin. “No I don’t,” he says belatedly.
Merlin stares at him for a moment, nose crinkling in confusion, then shrugs. “Okay.”
“I don’t.”
“Not by me, anyways,” Merlin says.
“Not at all,” Arthur says firmly. He draws himself up to his full height and tries to pull an air of command. It’s never worked on Merlin, but Arthur has little that does. “I don’t, Merlin.”
“Okay,” Merlin says again. He scratches the scruff of his jaw. “You like Gwaine?”
Arthur scoffs freely at that. Gwaine would be a headache of a friend, let alone a lover. He suspects Merlin would be charmed by the challenge, though.
“It’s his way of showing affection,” Arthur says. “That’s all. And given his original opinion of royalty, that’s remarkable progress.”
“You like when Gwaine shows you affection?” Merlin asks. There’s a tease flashing through his eyes despite the way he’s managing to keep his mouth straight.
“Everyone likes affection, Merlin.”
“But not from me?”
“You don’t call me Princess.”
“It’s only because I didn’t think you’d be into it,” Merlin says. “If you’re into it, I can call you Princess.”
“I’m not into it.” Arthur sighs, aggrieved, and turns back to his bed.
“Could Lancelot call you Princess?”
“Drop it, Merlin.”
It's the utterly wrong thing to say because Merlin stops pestering Arthur and looks him straight in the face again.
Arthur clenches his jaw.
“Merlin.”
“If it were something more,” Merlin says, “Gwaine would probably be the most amenable to dabbling–”
“I don't like Gwaine like that,” Arthur says sharply. “Even imply as such and it’ll be a day in the stocks.”
“Been a while since you pulled out the stocks card,” Merlin says, and Arthur has the sudden, terrible certainty that Merlin won't be done until Arthur follows through on the threat. “I just want you to know where I stand on such matters. Doesn't matter who you like. You're still Arthur to me, yeah?”
“Prince Arthur,” Arthur corrects coldly.
“The title’s got nothing to do with it,” Merlin says. “Prince, princess, pauper, king– I'm here because of you, Arthur. Obviously I'd prefer if we were better off and had less oversight by Uther, but I truly believe that who you are and how you lead is going to change our world.”
“Hmm,” Arthur says, unsure whether to feel relieved or unsettled by this unsolicited proclamation. “You're not planning to run off again, are you?”
Merlin laughs, but there's nothing humorous in it. “I think you need me too much for that.”
“Yes,” Arthur muses. “I suspect I might.”
Merlin’s still staring at him with his eyes flashing like gleaming knives, and Arthur thinks that both of them are in too deep for this moment neither of them are sober enough for.
“Good night,” Arthur says despite the fact that he's still fully dressed.
Merlin bows his head and leaves the room.
And that last bit is the part that burrows, irksome and unavoidable, into Arthur’s mind.
“Take it easy, Princess,” Gwaine shouts, an enormous grin stretching across his face. “Big day ahead of us.”
Arthur feels tension punch between his shoulders, feels Merlin’s eyes on his back, and knows he could take this moment to set things straight.
It’s a rare moment of hesitation, and Gwaine falters midswing. Arthur could take advantage here, should take advantage here to teach Gwaine about dropping his guard, but the smile is quickly dimming on Gwaine’s handsome face, not from his mouth, but from his eyes, which have turned sharply piercing.
“Alright,” Merlin says, cutting in between the swords. “Knock it off, Gwaine.”
Arthur tears his eyes away from Gwaine and casts a look around the rest of the knights on the field. They've all stopped parrying and are looking at him with a nauseating amount of concern.
“Arthur?” Gwaine asks.
“It’s fine,” Arthur says, jaw clenched.
“Yep,” Merlin agrees cheerily. He's herding Arthur back like Arthur doesn't have a sword, and Arthur holds his sword high so that Merlin doesn't hurt himself on it. “Sorry, Arthur, I did up your pauldron wrong.”
Merlin hasn't messed up Arthur’s armor in years. He’s put in on Arthur perfectly while still half-asleep. When Arthur had commented on Merlin’s improvement, he’d said he practiced with Gwen until he could do it blind after the first tournament.
He keeps saying things like that, things that sound like they mean everything, delivered with the same off-the-cuff demeanor as polite conversation about the weather.
“Centerfold,” Arthur yells, and his knights snap into the new practice rotation.
“I made it weird,” Merlin says, undoing Arthur’s pauldron just to redo it exactly the same way. “My tongue got loose, and I've made things awkward. Know I won't say a word to anyone on it.”
“You're chummy with Gwaine.”
“Not even my mother,” Merlin swears. “I know how it feels to be different, and I wouldn't let you be mocked for it.”
Arthur is ready to deny it, but Merlin makes it very difficult to lie to when he’s staring intensely like that. “You'd fit in well with the mice,” Arthur says instead. He flicks Merlin’s ear, grinning when Merlin swipes to block him and misses.
“Ha ha,” Merlin says. He pats Arthur’s shoulder. “Have fun beating up your men.”
Gwaine stops calling Arthur princess, and then Uther dies, and Arthur’s having a lot of feelings about it. Of course he didn't want Uther dead, but his death lets Arthur breathe like never before.
He wonders the first night if Gwaine will start calling him Queen. Just thinking about it sets his nerves on fire, and he’s staring out into the pitch of the new moon night when Merlin bumbles into his room.
“Hey,” Merlin says carefully, but Arthur is tired of being treated carefully. Merlin’s refusal to abide by decorum has been one of Arthur’s favorite things about him, and he craves it now.
Arthur takes a breath. His chest is tight, and he feels ready to explode. Merlin doesn't deserve that. “What do you want?”
The night is dark, dark enough to play tricks on the eyes. Arthur stares into the swirling darkness.
“You will be a great king,” Merlin says, warm and certain.
Arthur’s heart twinges. He bows his head.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” Merlin says.
There are many correct answers, but Arthur is tired of giving the correct answers.
“A queen would not be respected as a king,” Arthur says. “Well, Morgana could pull it off. But it would be through fear. And I don't want to rule by fear.”
“But you are a king?” Merlin steps to Arthur’s side.
Arthur hums a non answer.
Merlin swallows hard. “Maybe, if it were something you wanted..?” He stops, and Arthur turns as though the missing words will be spelled out across Merlin’s face.
Arthur doesn't know what Merlin was about to say. He yearns for what he doesn't dare know.
“You could be queen to me,” Merlin says.
Arthur’s shaking now, trembling so hard that speaking feels impossible.
“Arthur,” Merlin whispers, and he reaches forward to catch Arthur’s elbow. “Is it–”
“I can’t,” Arthur says.
“You quite literally can,” Merlin says. “You're king. Queen? And Camelot knows you. Camelot loves you, no matter.”
Arthur shakes his head. “I can’t.”
“Alright,” Merlin says. “Alright. Can I?”
Arthur can't say yes. He doesn't know what this means, how far this goes, and he can't start playacting with a kingdom to run.
“My queen?” Merlin says, and Arthur hurriedly wipes away beading tears. “Oh, Arthur. Come here.”
Merlin’s arms wrap around Arthur’s shoulders, and Arthur always forgets how tall Merlin is, how his gawky arms have enough of a wingspan that Arthur is easily embraced.
“Please,” Arthur rasps. “But just here.”
“Wherever you want,” Merlin agrees.
“Just here,” Arthur says, more firmly this time.
Arthur was foolish to believe that would be the end of it.
For the first few weeks, nothing particularly changes. Merlin gets all squirrelly before leaving for the night and mutters a quick “Sleep well, my queen” before running out the door like he expects Arthur to pursue him with a battle axe, when in reality Arthur’s grinning giddily into the pillows.
Then Arthur rips a nightshirt while trying to get dressed– it feels improper to have Merlin help with dressing now and Merlin has thankfully taken the cue– and Merlin mends it with a fine lace. When Arthur points out that the lace is fragile and likely to get ripped, Merlin shrugs and says he'll just mend it should something happen.
Arthur wears that nightshirt every night and keeps it folded under the pillow during the day. When Merlin washes it, he always gets it back to Arthur by the evening.
Arthur skips a few haircuts. Merlin brings in some books to study braids while magicking Arthur’s room clean.
Arthur dons Igraine’s necklace beneath his clothes for the banquet, and when Merlin flashes him a grin halfway through, Arthur tugs the pendant onto display.
There’s rumors circulating that the king is smitten, and Arthur does nothing to quell them. The knights investigate enough to know that there’s no one new, but none of them read into it.
It's a few months into Arthur being king when Gwaine calls him princess again. Gwaine immediately goes to correct himself, but Arthur gives him a grin and presses on.
Gwaine reads that as the permission it is.
Things change faster after that. Lancelot makes a few pronoun gaffes that neither Arthur nor the knights correct, the tailors start cutting high waisted pants that accentuate Arthur’s hips, and one day traveling through villages to provide famine relief, there’s a group of children playing knights led by a loud girl who gives Arthur her hair ribbon.
Things are good, but there's work yet to be done. Arthur is terribly aware that a king needs a queen, and cannot stand the idea of marrying a woman who can only see Arthur as a king. Something within Arthur has been set free and can no longer be contained.
There are still those moments of euphoria when Arthur catches glimpses of a queen in passing reflections and recognizes herself, but the high fades quickly as kingly duties become more pressing.
“You were very diplomatic,” Gwen says after Arthur gets out of a meeting that contained no fewer than three marriage proposals.
“Would you be queen?” Arthur asks, somewhat desperately.
“Ah,” Gwen says. “Very kind of you, your majesty, but I've been seeing Lancelot.”
“Right,” Arthur says.
“Thank you.”
Arthur snorts. “No need for such formalities with me, Gwen.”
“Anyone would be lucky to have you, Arthur,” Gwen says earnestly.
Arthur snorts.
“I mean it,” Gwen says fiercely. “You're a good person and absolutely gorgeous. Obviously people are trying to arrange marriages for power, but there’s not a girl who wouldn't be happy to have you.”
The words sit heavy with Arthur, and when Merlin comes in for the evening, Arthur is tucked into bed.
“Everything alright?” Merlin asks. He’s already reaching to lay a hand against Arthur’s forehead. Arthur lets him. “You don't feel warm.”
“I have a question about magic,” Arthur says.
“Go on.” Merlin plops on the edge of Arthur’s bed, and Arthur’s heart aches at Merlin's familiarity.
“I was conceived by magic. Would it be possible…”
“To conceive?” Merlin supplies when Arthur abandons the question. “I couldn't make any promises. There would still need to be a place for the baby to gestate. But no, you wouldn't need to, ah…”
Arthur's face is pouring heat.
“Intermingle,” Merlin says. He's managing to keep from blushing, but his ears are bright red. “Do you have a lady in mind?”
Arthur dives under the blankets.
“Or,” Merlin continues, and his voice is wobbling something awful, “a fellow?”
Arthur’s breath catches. “It could be a man?”
“I know of no magic that could make a man bear,” Merlin says. “But if you’re asking–”
“I don't want a partner,” Arthur says. “I won't take a partner who looks at me and sees only a king.”
“You'd show them how to see you," Merlin says. "You could have your pick of partners. Anyone would be lucky to have you, and they'd see you, Arthur. Of course they'd see you. What’s your preference?”
Arthur pulls down the blanket and ignores the last question. “Gwen said the same thing.”
“Gwen is very wise.” Merlin tugs on Arthur’s braid. “My queen's been practicing her fishtails.”
Fire lights in Arthur’s stomach, and it’s different from the usual flow of euphoria. Maybe it’s because of Merlin tugging on the braid or Merlin’s fond, lopsided smile, but Arthur is struck with the sudden instinct to tug Merlin down and pin him to the bed.
“I asked Gwen if she’d be queen,” Arthur says instead of assaulting poor Merlin.
Merlin’s smile droops. “But she’s seeing Lancelot.”
“She said no.”
"Ah."
“Would you?”
Merlin blinks. “Would I?”
“Be queen,” Arthur says.
Merlin’s eyes are wide. “What does that mean, Arthur?”
It’s so like Merlin to play a simpleton when he’s had the answers all along. Arthur wraps a hand around Merlin’s hand in her hair. “I don't want to stop being king. I need a queen. You don't need to pretend to be a lady. You just need to be there for me. To see me.”
“You could have anyone,” Merlin says.
“I don't want anyone,” Arthur says. “You don't have to say yes, Merlin. I understand.”
“You don't.” Merlin strokes a thumb across the pulse of Arthur’s throat. She feels so delicate in Merlin’s hands, but none the weaker for it. “You've had me all along.”
Arthur frowns slightly. “Even like this?”
“In every way, my queen,” Merlin says.
“Kiss me,” Arthur commands, and Merlin complies with a fervor that clarifies a lot of things.
“Hi, Morgana,” Arthur says.
Morgana spins around with her sword drawn. She looks Arthur up and down, her gaze heavy on Arthur’s elegant robes and plaited hair.
“You've changed,” she says.
“Yeah,” Arthur says. “You too.”
“I hate you.”
“I used to hate me too,” Arthur says. “I'm sorry, Morgana. You were good to me, and I was scared.”
“You've got Emrys with you.”
Arthur laughs. “Can't get rid of him, even if I wanted to.”
“So you have everything.”
“No,” Arthur says. “Will you come home, ‘Gana?”
“And join your little collection of loyalists?” Morgana scoffs. “Never.”
“Good,” Arthur says. “I would be alarmed if you did. But it might be easier to overthrow me if you were in the court.”
“I don't trust you,” Morgana hisses.
“Fair,” Arthur says. “But I miss you dearly, and should you ever be open to it…you are my last surviving kin, and I would treasure any reconciliation you'd permit.”
Morgana's eyes glitter. “And if I refuse?”
“Then I wish you a long, prosperous life,” Arthur says. “And I'll leave you to it.”
“You hurt me. Uther hurt me.”
“I did,” Arthur says. “I'm sorry.”
She bows her head and listens as Morgana moves restlessly around the shack.
“What would we even do, Arthur?”
“I was hoping you might harangue me,” Arthur says.
Morgana laughs, a surprised, broken sound.
“And if I want to kill you?” Morgana asks.
“Emrys could use the practice,” Arthur says. “I fear he’s growing rusty.”
“Hey,” the wind shrieks indignantly.
Morgana holds out her hand, and Arthur takes it.
“Okay,” Morgana says.
Arthur cradles Morgana’s hand between her own and feels the last scars on her heart ease up.