Chapter Text
For all that Merlin had begged for every available scrap of information about Camelot from travellers, nothing could have prepared him to leave his mother’s cottage to find Morgana and Guinevere dismounting in the middle of the lawn.
He greeted them with the excitement of seeing friends for the first time in a handful of years, but they were sombre. After the bare minimum greetings, Morgana asked seriously: “is Arthur inside? We must speak with him.”
Merlin’s eyebrows rose almost without his permission. “He’s not here,” he replied. “I can call him if it’s important.”
“It is,” she said gravely.
He frowned. “Alright. Come on then, you can stay with me.” He led them, horses in hand, over the hill and across the way to his small hut. He led them inside, and Gwen looked around with a frown.
“Merlin,” she asked curiously, “where is Arthur?”
“Last we spoke he was a heading to the east of Caledonia,” Merlin answered, clearing off a pile of books to clear them a place to sit. “He’s probably still there.”
Morgana looked utterly stricken. “When was the last time he was here?” She asked, worried.
Merlin hummed in thought. “Two years, I think it’s been,” he mused. “He left just after Midsommer, so just over two years.”
The two women looked horrified. “You mean...” Morgana said quietly, “that Arthur doesn’t live here?”
Merlin raised his eyebrows at them. “Arthur hasn’t lived here for five years.”
“I never thought he’d leave you,” Gwen said in disbelief.
Merlin shrugged. “Unrequited love will weigh on anyone,” he replied. “Can I get you something to drink while I talk to Arthur?”
They shook their heads, clearly confused. Merlin smiled at them reassuringly and ducked into the back room. He sat down on his pallet, looking over at the second that had remained empty for many months. He lifted the wolf-pelt from beside him and lifted it to his face, inhaling the scent of Arthur and speaking the words that would open their communication.
He fluttered his eyes closed and, behind them, an image of Arthur formed. The man was crouched behind an outcropping of rocks, crossbow clutched in his hands. The sound of lapping waves could be heard nearby. His eyes were closed in his usual ‘waiting hunter’ expression, but almost as soon as the image formed, he flicked his eyes open. He looked around, eyes wide. “Merlin?” He said, panicked. “What’s happened?”
“What makes you think something’s happened?” Merlin asked curiously.
“We spoke last week,” Arthur replied. “You’re not due to look for me for another week at least. Usually three.”
“Maybe I thought I’d surprise for—”
“Merlin,” the hunter growled, interrupting. “What. Happened?”
“Morgana and Gwen are here,” Merlin replied.
The crossbow slipped in his shocked grasp, but he gripped it before it could fall. “In Ealdor?” He asked, disbelieving.
“Yes,” Merlin confirmed. “They just arrived,” he continued, “they want to talk to you. They said it’s important.”
Arthur groaned, setting his crossbow in his lap. “Do you know how profitable the seal hunting season is, Merlin?” He asked, annoyed.
“I vaguely remember your argument before you fled to Caledonia,” Merlin said in reply, matching his imperious drawl. “Two years ago.”
Arthur rolled his eyes visibly. “I suppose it would be too much to ask for financial compensation, wouldn’t it?” He asked.
“Probably,” Merlin agreed, unable to help the smile that tugged at his lips.
“I’ll leave as soon as I get back to camp,” Arthur promised, his own lips tugging into a smile. “Want me to bring you anything?”
“If you bring me back any of that haggis stuff,” Merlin answered, “you’re sleeping outside for the entire stay.”
Arthur grinned. “Duly noted. See you soon, love.”
“See you in a week,” Merlin replied, before letting the connection drop. He took a moment to inhale the scent of Arthur from the wolf-pelt. For the first few years, Arthur had been returning every month or so—sometimes for short stays. Other times Merlin woke up with a different animal pelt that smelt like the hunter, the one he’d been using missing entirely.
A very painful interrogation one Yuletide had brought out the confession that Arthur liked to have his scent. It’s comforting, he’d admitted, embarrassed. Merlin, who’d been much more comfortable with the idea of Arthur’s affections in the time spent apart, had found a spell that preserved it. Arthur had returned the summer following, but not once since.
He came back to the moment to find Morgana and Gwen watching him with morbid curiosity. He smiled. “He’ll be here in a week, maybe a few days sooner if he rushes.”
“I heard him,” Gwen confessed, bewildered. “Like he was actually in the room. And I heard the sea.”
“He’s on the coast,” Merlin replied, coming back over to them to sit at the table.
“Did he say seal hunting?” Morgana asked, confused.
“Yes,” Merlin replied. “They’re a sort of sea-beast. About as long as a tall man, but much heavier. It’s a very profitable venture.”
“Arthur is a hunter?” Gwen asked, bewildered.
“Are you surprised?” Merlin asked. “He always liked to go on hunting trips.”
“He’s hunting for profit,” Gwen pointed out, “he has a livelihood.”
“I expected him to be lying around the village, ordering you about, like he did last time,” Morgana said.
“Arthur never did that,” Merlin replied. “Even from the start he was trying to pull his own weight. Remind me later to tell you about the first time he tried to do his laundry by himself,” he added to Gwen, grinning at the memory.
“It’s just not what you’d expect of the soon-to-be King of Camelot,” Morgana said.
Merlin stiffened those, because he hadn’t missed what she’d called him. “Morgana,” he said carefully, “what’s happened to Uther?”
The Lady bit her lip and her eyes welled with tears. Her handmaiden took one of her hands and gave Merlin an unhappy look. “Uther has become mortally wounded,” Gwen explained carefully. “He wants Arthur back by his side, ready to take over when the moment comes.”
Merlin sat back in his seat, the shock that rang through his body leaving his extremities numb. “He’s not expecting this,” he managed out of a dry throat. “He was convinced Uther would name an heir. He was sure he’d renounced his crown.”
“That was Uther’s plan at first,” Morgana said, her voice wavering. “But before long he decided he would welcome Arthur back as soon as he asked—your pardon as part of the deal. He’s spent the last few years longing to have his son back.”
“All this time,” Merlin said, dazed. “He could have gone home.”
“There’s naught for it now,” Morgana said, reaching across the table and taking his hand. “All that’s left is to wait for him to come home.”
The moment stretched on, and then Gwen ventured: “Arthur tried to do his own laundry?”
Merlin smiled and recounted the story.
..................
Merlin had expected Arthur seven days after their talk. So when he heard a horse approaching five nights later, he armed himself with a long dagger and crept out of his door.
The horseman stopped a short distance away from his door. They dismounted and approached. Beneath the fur-lined hood, Arthur’s grin was bathed in shadow. “Can I just say,” he began, “how glad I am that you greet strangers well-armed?”
“Arthur?” Merlin managed out before the hunter reached him.
He found himself pressed against a warm, hard chest, an arm wrapped tightly around his waist. He stood frozen still while Arthur pressed his lips against Merlin’s own unresponsive ones. The greeting had been the same at the midsommer before he left for years. Just like then, Merlin wondered to himself what it would be like if he did participate.
But, once again, before he could do more than think it, Arthur stepped away and gave him a sheepish expression. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I just really missed you.”
“Well,” Merlin managed out when his throat unstuck. “I didn’t exactly forbid you from coming back.”
“Not exactly,” Arthur murmured, studying his face carefully.
Merlin snapped from his daze. “What are you doing here?” He asked. At Arthur’s arched eyebrow, he prompted: “I didn’t expect you for another day, at least.”
“I made good time,” Arthur replied. “After I had a reason to come back, it struck me exactly how much I really wanted to be here.”
“Arthur?” A confused voice came from the doorway.
Arthur looked over Merlin’s shoulder and smiled wildly. “Morgana!” he said warmly, stepping around the sorceror and approaching her with wide arms.
She stepped back instinctively, watching him as if she’d never seen him before. Merlin took a moment then to compare the hunter from the Crown Prince Arthur Morgana had last seen five long years ago.
The hair was the same, but that was were the similarity stopped. Arthur hadn’t worn finely woven tunics and glistening mail since before they’d come together to Ealdor. Merlin had seen the transition of apparel gradually, but to Morgana he must seem suddenly a wild man.
He wore thick, well-worn breeches made from a grey, speckled pelt Merlin could now recognise as sealskin. A threadbare tunic of raw wool could just be seen beneath the brown-sealskin vest and the russet wolf-pelt draped around his shoulders.
He walked now, not with the arrogance of a prat who knew his position, but the fluid walk of a man who was at home in his skin. The paunch of a nobleman was long since gone to the muscles and grace of a hunter. His face was thin in a way that spoke of years with only adequate food, and the eyes were knowing.
A neat scar cut through his eyebrow, luckily skirting to the side of his eyesocket and between his temple and cheekbones. Merlin had been frantic when he’d looked on to Arthur to see the swipe that had caused that wound. He’d nearly fled to Mercia to the hunter’s rescue—but that had been the season Arthur had travelled with Lancelot. Arthur was saved, but the scar was still an unhappy reminder of the dangers the hunter faced without Merlin at his side.
That was the scar that Morgana traced with shaking fingers once he’d come close enough. “Oh, Arthur,” she sobbed, and fell into his arms.
The hunter glanced over his shoulder at Merlin for help while he awkwardly patted her shoulder and let her cry on him. The sorceror shrugged and tied up the horse to the stile beside the stallion. It snuffed happily in greeting and they nosed each other until Merlin came between them to unsaddle the tired mare.
He left the saddle by the side of the house, but took off the bags and carried them inside. Gwen was watching the hunter nervously, clearly unsure how she was supposed to react to the once-prince.
He huffed loudly and dropped the pack on the table. “What on earth have you got packed in here, Arthur?” He asked, breaking the tense silence in the room.
“Gifts,” Arthur replied, smiling warmly. He took the pack when Merlin reached for it, tutting in disapproval. “No peeking. You’ll get yours when we see your parents.” He carried the pack into bedroom and sank into the seat when he returned. “So,” he said, “why don’t you start by telling me what was so important that I had to abandon the hunt mid-season?”
He asked it with a smile that faltered the moment Morgana started weeping again. Gwen took her hand and looked at the hunter with sad eyes. “It’s the King,” she explained, her voice thick.
Arthur glanced at Merlin over his shoulder for reassurance, but the sorceror sighed and shook his head—expression solemn much like the two women. “He was wounded in a battle for the lower city,” he explained gingerly, resting his hand on the hunter’s shoulder beneath the thick wolfpelt. “He lives, but the court does not know for how long.” He swallowed and squeezed Arthur’s shoulder tightly in reassurance. “He’s calling for his son and heir back.”
Arthur made a strangled noise, hand coming up to grip the sorceror’s hand as he looked at his lap. “I...” He swallowed audibly, then lifted his head to look at Morgana. “He asks for me?”
She nodded, tears falling unchecked. “He was not in a good way when we left, Arthur,” she said, her voice breaking. “Your uncle, Agravaine, has taken over as acting steward—but you’re wanted back in Camelot to take the crown.”
Arthur stood then, pacing to the far end of the room, then the width repeatedly in his agitation. He turned to Merlin with begging eyes. “What should I do?”
Morgana opened her mouth to answer, but she fell silent under the realisation that Arthur had asked the sorceror and not the room in general.
“It’s always been your destiny, Arthur,” Merlin told him wisely. “No matter what the path you took to get here, it is where you are meant to be.”
Arthur whimpered softly and crossed the room, embracing Merlin tightly. An arm wrapped tightly around the sorceror’s waist, the other cupped the covered neck and held it in place. He rested his forehead against Merlin’s, closing his eyes and breathing for a long moment.
Morgana and Gwen glanced at each other—it was obvious they were intruding on a private moment, but couldn’t move without breaking it.
“Arthur,” Merlin murmured softly.
The hunter sighed and straightened, looking to the two women with resolution carved into his expression. “You should rest. We will leave at first light tomorrow.” They nodded, wary, but didn’t naysay him.
Arthur turned back to Merlin and nodded, before heading back to the bedroom. “We’ll have to visit with Hunith and Balinor now,” he said.
Merlin nodded and followed Arthur and pack out of the hut, glancing over his shoulder to smile reassuringly at the two women, heading over the hill to the village.