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Surely it cannot be true, Arthur thinks meanly, that Lord Geoffrey was the fastest sprinter in Camelot as a boy. Merlin and he had bickered over it under their breaths in court just a week prior, and watching the old codger now as he flips through books in the library, Arthur is convinced the man must be immortal for all he moves like he’s got all the time in the world.
Geoffrey closes the tome between them, releasing a cloud of dust that sends Arthur coughing. Geoffrey, for his part, appears not only to embrace the dust, but comes closer to becoming one with the beige wall behind him with every passing second. Distantly, Arthur wonders if it’s not some advanced magical camouflage that has seen Geoffrey through these long years in the library, and resolves to ask Merlin next time he sees him.
He couldn’t ask him outright, of course. Arthur has done nothing to deserve the no-doubt-hours-long rant that Merlin, his newly appointed Court Sorcerer, would subject him to if Arthur divulged a genuine curiosity in magic. No, he would have to ask it in passing, to give an air of nonchalance. Gwen would doubtless remind Arthur that any attempt to pull the wool over Merlin’s eyes would immediately fail and—
“Sire?” Geoffrey materializes in front of Arthur, his ancient face pulled into a miffed expression. “Perhaps you might deign to pay attention. With the recent legalization of magic, Camelot needs to assure her allies of stability.” As soon as his back is turned again, Arthur pulls a face. In Arthur’s defense, if Geoffrey wants him to pay attention, then he should try being more interesting than watching plaster dry.
Arthur hardly remembers what the sun feels like, they have been down here for so long. He has long since forgotten the faces of his loved ones, left only with vague notions of their presences: a whiff of Morgana’s perfume, the sound of Gwen’s quiet humming, a golden laugh that could only belong to Merl—
“Ah, here it is at last.” Geoffrey unrolls the hundredth dusty parchment in front of him, revealing an old record of Uther’s that details which royal and noble lines in the five kingdoms have historically approved of magic use. During the Purge, Uther had used it to decide who he would not consort with. Now, Arthur intends to use it for the opposite. “As you have recently expressed Sire, Camelot should seek to reaffirm ties with those kingdoms who support the repeal of the magic ban.”
“Do you think that will be enough, though?” Arthur implores, looking Geoffrey in the eyes and wishing for drying plaster instead. “Camelot does not have a history of being good to the magical community. Even before my father, magic users were still treated as an outgroup. I won’t stand for it any longer. We need to really sell, not just to our allies, but to magic users everywhere, that we really mean this.”
Geoffrey purses his lips and Arthur sends a prayer to the most powerful being he can think of. And by most powerful, he certainly does not mean Merlin. If Merlin wishes to be prayed to and revered like the powerful sorcerer he clearly is not, then he should quit wearing the flowers that little girls give to him whenever he walks through the Lower Town. The brightly colored things certainly do him no favors when settled into the dark curls at his temples, and Arthur has told him as much.
“Historically, when a monarch seeks to not just reaffirm alliances, but create new ones, there is but one solution.” Geoffrey intones, his beady eyes peeking out from below bushy eyebrows to stare right into Arthur’s very soul. Arthur pouts, feeling that if he shall be talked down to like a child then he should at least be able to act like one.
“Spit it out Geoffrey, I know you have something in mind.”
“Perhaps a strong magical marriage alliance would be beneficial. We would gain allies from it and hopefully see the support of the magical community.” Arthur resists the overwhelming urge to order Geoffrey straight to the stocks. Merlin was the only person he’d confined to the stocks with any sort of regularity over the years, and Arthur found he missed it now that Merlin had a title. The council insisted it was “inappropriate” and “frankly embarrassing” for Arthur to be putting his first advisor in the stocks. Arthur disagreed. Merlin did not.
“Lord Geoffrey,” Arthur sighs, rubbing a hand along his brow in frustration. Gaius says that if he continues with this habit, it will be only his own fault when he bears a frown wrinkle between his brows in old age, which is laughable at best, because if Arthur experiences frustration or stress it is always at the hands of his Court Sorcerer. “We’ve talked about this. I am not, at this point, interested in marriage. And certainly not a political one, either.”
Geoffrey looks over at him then, lips pinched and eyebrows high on his forehead. “No sire. I shouldn’t think you would be the right person for this, anyways. Forgive me for saying so, but I hardly think there’s a magical being in all of Albion that would happily marry you, the son of Uther Pendragon.”
Arthur flushes in anger and embarrassment, despite how he privately agrees with Geoffrey. It shouldn’t bother him so much, really— after all, he intends to marry for love, and is hardly flush with prospects at the moment, magical or not. Still, the claim that no being of magic could ever love him stings for a reason he can’t quite pin.
“No, I was thinking marrying off your Court Sorcerer might be a more effective strategy for gaining magical allies.” Arthur chokes on his own spit. Merlin? Merlin marrying? Tiny Merlin-related babies running around?
“Of course he would have to leave Camelot to act as a foreign dignitary for us in the court he marries into, but the young man is quite endearing. I’m sure he’d be just fine.” Merlin leaving Camelot? Oh no. No, no this cannot be allowed to continue. Merlin knows far too much about Arthur, right down to that time Merlin walked in on him trying to see if he could lick his own elbow. His knowledge on Arthur must go with him to the grave. He simply cannot be allowed to leave Camelot. Arthur must put a stop to this.
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Arthur could not put a stop to it. Once Geoffrey had brought it up in council, Merlin had sent him a panicked look out of the corner of his eye and Arthur tried to put the whole matter to a council vote.
He and Merlin were outvoted spectacularly, feeling the sting of betrayal as they were voted against by the likes of Gwen, Morgana, and every knight who sits on the council. It is decided that Merlin will begin seeing marriage prospects forthwith, and a potential list of suitors is drawn up right then and there. Curiously, for reasons that cannot be at all related, Arthur feels increasingly sick with every name that is added to the list. Eventually, he excuses himself from the council chambers entirely, in a fashion that is absolutely not fleeing because he is a king and kings do not flee. Merlin’s worried eyes and Morgana’s smug smirk burn holes in his back the whole way out.
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The first pitiful urchin to come begging and pleading for Merlin’s hand is Princess Ismar of the Western Isles. She is self-possessed and confident, firm in her convictions but kind in her actions. And she is beautiful: soft curves giving way to long, elegant limbs and soft amber eyes.
Arthur wants to banish her to the farthest corner of Albion, and thinks privately that if he were high king of all the lands, it would be well within his power. Such is the length he is willing to go to for his ex-manservant, not out of any sort of affection for the man, of course, but merely to repay Merlin’s own long years of extremely subpar service to the Crown.
For his part, Merlin has been dolled up by Gwen and Morgana, the traitors, and looks nothing short of royal. He has gone to considerable effort these past days to immerse himself fully in delusion, so as to trick himself into believing he might actually like to marry any of these buffoons. It has worked far too well, Arthur thinks sullenly as he watches Merlin make outrageously friendly conversation with Princess Ismar. Arthur follows the glinting silver rings on his fingers as he gesticulates wildly, causing her to break into peals of attractive laughter and, to Arthur’s shock and utter horror, places her perfectly manicured hand on Merlin’s upper arm.
And because Arthur has never so much as once proven he possesses a single brain cell, he is moving towards the pair before he can be convinced otherwise.
“Princess Ismar!” He exclaims, crossing the hallway in abnormally long strides and holding his arms open in what he hopes looks welcoming, instead of a gesture for how far apart her and Merlin should be standing from one another. Putting her hand on his arm! It’s downright indecent. From the bewildered expression on Merlin’s face, the smile Arthur has hastily pasted on falls somewhere between uneasy and completely deranged. He stops in front of them, sweating bullets as Merlin examines him with a contemplative eye. Ismar, who could never claim to have the depths of knowledge on Arthur that Merlin bears like it is his job—and it was his job, to be fair— only smiles pleasantly at Arthur.
“Your Majesty, you are looking well. I thank you again for hosting me in Camelot, I am ever so honored to be acquainted with Emr— um, I mean, Merlin.” And here she smiles shyly at Merlin from under her lashes, touching the back of her hand to the back of his. Merlin swallows awkwardly and Arthur throws up into his own mouth. Vile woman.
He stretches his painfully wide smile just a bit further, and bites out through wickedly sharp teeth, “Yes, I’m glad too.”
Merlin clears his throat, meeting Arthur’s eyes before flickering over to meet Ismar’s.
“We…err. We’re going…on a picnic?” He ends this statement with the confidence of someone who has never known a fact in his life, and Arthur seizes onto it in an effort to quell the panic rising in his throat.
“You don’t seem sure.” He croaks pathetically. Merlin chews on his lip. Beside him, Ismar takes his hand in hers, and Arthur can practically hear the scream as another angel loses its wings.
Merlin straightens up slowly, as if accepting the truth as it falls from his lips, “No…no I’m quite sure. Ismar is here so we can get to know one another, anyways, and the weather is lovely. It would be a waste not to. Wouldn’t it?” At this, he turns to Ismar with a small, private smile. Not that Arthur would know that much about Merlin’s smiles. It’s not as if he’s carefully catalogued each one in his mind like an antiquarian butterfly collector. It’s not as if he counts the days between them. Ismar squeezes Merlin’s hand in hers once, twice.
It’s not like that at all, Arthur thinks snottily, flexing his own hands and feeling strangely empty.
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It takes no time at all for Arthur to fall down a rabbit hole of what-ifs. What if Ismar is using Merlin to get access to top secret information on Camelot? What if she puts her hand on his arm again? The gods above, in all their infinite wisdom, have never known a heart to bleed like Merlin’s. Is she trustworthy? Is Merlin?
The answer to the last question is obvious. Arthur would sooner doubt his own loyalty to his kingdom before he doubts Merlin’s. But Merlin has only just started blooming again, Arthur muses. Emerging from his shell like the radiant sun cresting the east each morning, Merlin takes to the day with an energy and excitement Arthur hasn’t seen from him in years. As it transpires, being the only barrier standing between Camelot and complete magical ruin for almost a decade does wicked things to even the sunniest of dispositions. If relearning Merlin’s a thousand little idiosyncrasies as he heals has been the greatest privilege of Arthur’s lifetime, and it certainly hasn’t, then Arthur might go so far as to say he would protect Merlin’s well being with his life.
This all clearly means he needs to keep a closer eye on Princess Ismar.
Cursing and stumbling his way through the autumn foliage, Arthur follows Merlin and Ismar at a distance great enough to keep himself hidden. Eventually he sees them stop their horses at the edge of a grassy slope, where Merlin flicks his wrist and the picnic assembles itself nicely while Ismar looks on in glowing admiration. Arthur scowls. Looking around frantically, his eyes land on a dense evergreen bush wedged up against a rock that has his lips curving into a wicked smile.
Yes, that will do perfectly.
He wedges himself between the bush and the rock, straining to hear Merlin and Ismar talking.
“—can be cute but vicious. I adore it, really,” coos Ismar. Merlin dips his voice low in response, and Arthur strains to hear, fearing the worst. He takes a step further into the bush, irrationally believing the slightest difference in distance will make his snooping more productive. His right foot sinks down lower than expected when he steps, but he takes advantage of the thick foliage to further hide himself and listens intently for treasonous remarks.
“—not so sure about that. They’re gentle creatures at heart. Harming others isn’t truly in their nature.” Merlin remarks with conviction. Arthur hasn’t the faintest idea what they’re even talking about.
“That makes two of us then,” Ismar hums with a quiet laugh, and Arthur pulls a face. Beneath him, the moist earth has squished into his boots and he silently shifts his weight. Or tries to, at least, and finds immediately that his boot has sunk into cloyingly thick mud and removing it would produce the type of high-pitched squelch that would immediately blow his cover. He grunts in frustration, still trying and failing to listen to Merlin and Ismar while handling the situation he’s found himself in.
“—terribly inhumane, not to mention—”
As he attempts to quietly shift his weight again, Arthur’s other boot slips in the mud and he throws his arms forward to catch his balance, face-planting right into the bush.
“—the information might not even be relia— did you hear something?” Arthur froze as Merlin’s voice paused in suspicious silence. He peers through the leaves, marveling that this must be how bandits feel right before they jump out and scare you and then perish at the end of a sharp sword. Ismar frowns and pulls Merlin back into a heated conversation on what Arthur thinks is about magical creature policy. The gravest mistake she could have made, Arthur thinks with an appropriately solemn nod to himself. There are few topics Merlin is more passionate about, and Arthur had long ago given up arguing with him about it, lest he see his own grave far too early.
Eventually, Merlin and Ismar pack away their picnic supplies and trail back to Camelot, still discussing the finer points of ethics around magical creature use in warfare. Ismar is well spoken, intelligent, and confident. Arthur thinks gloomily that she has just the patience and the sharp mind to keep Merlin on his toes. In a marriage like that, they would always be challenging the other to grow and improve. And what’s more, Ismar was not afraid to challenge the mountains of knowledge Merlin possesses on magic— something that Arthur struggles with, blind to the capabilities of magic as his upbringing ensured. This is bad, he thinks to himself bitterly, spitting out leaves and scrambling to follow their horses back to Camelot.
That is not a good idea, as it turns out. In his wild scramble to extract himself from the tangle of branches, his foot catches on a slick patch of mud. Between one blink and the next, Arthur’s feet are flying out from underneath him and he has landed on his back with the dramatic groan of a man thrice his age. In the background, he can hear Merlin laughing, the soft clop clop of the horses hooves as they trot away, and a soft flutter of wings somewhere above him. Arthur squints up at the bright sky in fury. He feels a sudden warm, wet splat hit his forehead and closes his eyes as the bird poop slides down over the bridge of his nose. And I have not done a thing to deserve this, Arthur seethes to himself. He has nobly sacrificed himself on the altar of Merlin’s good heart, and this is what he gets in return!
When Merlin sees him later that day, he only stares and asks if Arthur has just lost a fight with a forest. Arthur only sighs.
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Half a week later, Arthur sweeps into his own council chambers, in his own damn castle, to find Merlin sitting in Arthur’s seat at the Round Table. Privately, Arthur is thrilled. Merlin has been excused from the council meetings since this whole courting mess began, and if Arthur ever had a private thought not worth voicing, it might detail the manner in which he’d missed Merlin’s wisdom, or his laugh, or the perfectly circular freckle under his left eye.
But Arthur is the King, the most public figure one can be, and as such he does not and certainly has never had a single private thought. For this reason, he tells Merlin exactly what else is on his mind.
“And just what do you think you’re doing?”
Merlin looks up at him from where he is turning a sharp bejeweled letter opener over and over in his hands. It is alarming how Arthur’s heart rate spikes every time the glinting, deceptively sharp end of the tiny blade passes within slicing distance of Merlin’s smooth, pale skin. Merlin, he thinks, should come with a warning label.
“I’m reading through your most recent letter from Queen Annis, since you didn’t see fit to do it yourself.” Merlin rolls his eyes, his laughter betrayed by the quirk of his lips. “God forbid you do your own work, you prat.”
“Well some of us actually learned to read and write years ago and feel that now such menial tasks are below us. You however—”
“No no don’t put this on me, I know you’re just procrastinating on responding to her! You were the one who called Annis a fat cow last Samh—”
“I said she was strong as a well-fed heifer! That’s a compliment!”
“She certainly didn’t seem to think so.”
And Arthur cannot refute this so he only scowls at Merlin, who throws his head back in uproarious laughter, exposing the long expanse of his throat. Arthur swallows, suddenly feeling dizzy and dry-mouthed. He clears his throat.
“So… how was the Princess? I didn’t get to see her envoy off, but I heard she departed this morning.”
Merlin looks back down at the letter opener, which he had taken up fidgeting with once more.
“She was fine. But we decided perhaps it would be best not to…pursue further courtship.” Arthur blinks at him owlishly, feeling a cold relief rush through his chest. Merlin looks up at him then, the late-afternoon sun streaming in from the stained glass windows to paint his face in beautiful transparent hues. A patch of blue on his cheekbone matches his cornflower eyes, a streak of scarlett across his lips the red of Arthur’s cloak. His heart clenches in his chest at the sight.
“It didn’t feel…right. Maybe she could tell I…” Merlin swallows thickly. “I don’t know. She was an excellent conversationalist, opinionated and well informed on every topic she could be. We would’ve learned a lot from one another, I think. But she was completely convinced it was ethical to use magical creatures in scare tactics to interrogate or torture prisoners of war. You know how I feel about that, no matter how you slice it, I don’t think it’s right to the prisoners or the magical creatures. Camelot would never do that; you would never order it of me, I know.”
Arthur nods silently.
“And…well. She’s a princess, now. Someday she’ll be queen. She’s expected to produce an heir and I’m just not sure I can give that to her.” He adds quietly, looking down at his hands as he toys with the letter opener. Arthur draws in a sharp breath, his mouth hanging open only slightly. For all they have teased each other over the years, they’ve rarely ever discussed romantic prospects for real. The very thought makes Arthur’s heart thrum in his chest for all he wishes he could give Merlin his happily ever after.
“She…err.” Arthur’s voice is pitched awkwardly high. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “She doesn’t catch your eye?”
Merlin stands up in one swift motion and makes his way casually past Arthur and towards the door of the Great Hall. He looks back at Arthur and gives him a weak smile, eyes full of emotion.
“No.” He pauses, as if for emphasis. “But Sir Gwaine is quite the looker, isn’t he?”
And then he is gone, sweeping through the doors in his Court Sorcerer robes and leaving Arthur’s mind spinning. That emotion in Merlin’s eyes— Arthur recognizes it at the last second, only because he sees it in the mirror whenever Merlin is on his mind. He thinks it might have been longing.
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The second disaster starts like this: Arthur dreams. He dreams of a tall, dark man dressed in elegant greens and browns, his presence somehow a familiar balm on Arthur’s soul.
For a moment, Arthur is confounded as to why this man’s presence is so familiar, so reassuring. And then he realizes, this is what it feels like to be around Merlin— Mother Earth reaching up with each blade of grass to cushion the man’s every footfall. He is loved by the Earth, without a doubt, as much a part of the forest as any field mouse or shrew or fern. He is a Druid, Arthur knows without asking.
In his dream he sees, horror of horrors, the Druid man take Merlin in his arms and twirl him around in a tight circle, the light catching in Merlin’s dark curls. There is nervous laughter and their faces are so close and—
Wack!
“Would you—”
Wack!
“—wake up—”
Wack!
“—you clotpole!”
Arthur launches into wakefulness like a drowning man with a fresh breath of air, catching the pillow Merlin is launching at him again just in time. And this would all be well and good—after all, he’d had years to get used to the particular brand of violence Merlin always brought to waking and dressing him— except that in his sleepy bewilderment Arthur overestimates his strength and pulls the pillow towards him. And Merlin is on the other end. So, of course, he topples onto Arthur in a great calamity of howling, and shoving, and elbows as sharp as daggers.
“Merlin! You great buffoon, what is wrong wi—wait a minute.” Arthur draws up short. “What are you doing here? Surely I don’t need to remind you that you don’t wake me anymore. You haven’t for 6 months.” He adds this last bit without pouting, because it’s not pouting, what he’s doing. He is sticking his bottom lip out fashionably, of course, because Arthur is the king and everything he does should be held in the highest regard.
“Yes, well.” Merlin fidgets awkwardly. Arthur stares. “I had some news to deliver anyways, I thought we might discuss it over breakfast? We rarely share breakfast anymore.”
He flushes red as the words leave his mouth, as if just realizing how intimate they sound, and Arthur blanches.
“Share? Stole, more likely, right off your prince’s plate! And for years, too. The gods only know where you put it all away, Merlin, there are skeletons in my dungeons with more meat on their bones than you.” To this, Merlin only scoffs and rolls his eyes, plopping himself down in a chair at Arthur’s table. And really, Arthur has given up being surprised by Merlin’s unique ability to intuitively know what it is he really wants. He keeps Arthur’s heart in his pocket, wrapped safely in his insipid, ratty neckerchief that has definitely never seen the inside of the laundress’ room. It even probably smells like him, that confounding combination of herbs and something else Arthur can never place. Insolent peasant smell, probably.
Arthur drags himself from bed and over to his wardrobe, throwing an acidic glare over his shoulder. Merlin, for his part, has apparently decided that even though he will deign to bring his king breakfast, picking out his clothes for the day is much too difficult. He has his feet propped up on the table, unknowingly displaying the longest, leanest legs in all of Albion. If Arthur looks his fill, it is only because he and Merlin are having a conversation and it would be rude not to give Merlin his undivided attention. He does up the laces on his trousers and turns to dig through his closet for a suitably unwrinkled tunic. There is absolutely no reason for Merlin to know that Arthur refused, quite loudly, to take another manservant after his shift into being Court Sorcerer.
“You had something you wanted to discuss?”
Silence is the only answer he receives, and glancing over his shoulder he sees Merlin staring off into space with a dazed expression on his face, his cheeks faintly pink.
“Merlin?”
Merlin startles, eyes no longer attempting to burn a hole in Arthur’s back muscles.
“Yes? Oh! Oh, right.” Newly clothed, Arthur sits down across from him at the table to dig into his food. “Another suitor will arrive for me today. He’s a druid, apparently, with pretty strong magic.”
Arthur swallows thickly and pastes a convincing smile on his face. Merlin meets his gaze head on, seeming to search Arthur’s face for a specific reaction. Whatever he’s searching for he doesn’t find, because he looks away with a small frown.
“Are you looking forward to it? The Druids really like you, right?” Still frowning, Merlin nods slowly.
“Yeah, I’m hoping so” He perks up a bit in excitement. “I’ve actually arranged for us to go see Aithusa! I hope they’ll get along, there are so few people that appreciate Aithusa without fearing her.” The corner of his mouth ticks up mischievously. “You know, it might be nice to talk about magic with someone who actually knows the difference between a sorcerer and a warlock.”
Arthur whips his head up in outrage. “I know the difference!”
He draws up short at the teasing glint in Merlin’s eyes, and settles for pelting Merlin with rolls from the breakfast platter until they are both laughing so hard they can barely breath. Merlin’s eyes sparkle with mirth and Arthur is just reaching over to pick a fluffy tuft of bread from his hair when Leon knocks to announce the arrival of the newest suitor.
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Arthur is not his father. The Druid from Arthur’s dream is standing in the castle foyer.
Arthur is not his father, so he will not put a violent end to the Druid man’s life simply because he has magic. But what he is is fiercely protective of Merlin, and if the Druid man smirks in Merlin’s direction one more time Arthur is going to have his head on a stick, magic be damned.
Bedoa is the head of a large Druid camp north of the Darkling Woods, well respected by his people and peers across Albion. His arrival is met with great fanfare from the residents of the castle, who have perhaps never seen a Druid that wasn’t tied to a pyre. As such, Arthur finds himself sullenly trailing Morgana and Gwen after Merlin, who is politely listening as Bedoa dramatically reenacts his most heroic moments as leader of…hmm… maybe twelve whole druids? Or whatever. Arthur’s kingdom is bigger. He scowls and looks away from Bedoa, resolutely not thinking about the other ways he is sure he is bigger and better.
Eventually, Morgana falls back to distract him with ruthless ribbing about being bested by Sir Leon in training earlier in the week. Something that, by the way, certainly had not actually happened. There are always rumors flying around the castle, and who’s to say if that had really, truly occurred or not. They are redirected by Gwen into the dining room for an early lunch, which is just as well because most of the breakfast Merlin brought them had ended up on the ground anyways and Arthur is beyond famished.
When at last Arthur redirects his attention to Merlin, it is to see the man standing at the window with Bedoa, his cheekbones casting wicked shadows by the noonday sun. They are in deep discussion about…something, Arthur is sure. Something that involves cryptic little hand symbols and complicated words in the Old Religion that Arthur has no hope of ever understanding. The back of his throat suddenly tastes sour, as if he has not brushed his teeth in days, and he swallows harshly. It occurs to him, not for the first time, that Merlin deserves this. He deserves that which he has never really had, a peer of his same age, interests, and values, with whom he could discuss magic. Someone who is not Gaius, who is still very much a father to Merlin. Or Arthur, for no matter how hard he tries to understand, he does not have the same ethereal connection to magic with which Merlin lives and breathes.
It is upsetting. Arthur could read every book on magic remaining in Camelot in an effort to understand it, and he has, and still it would not make a whit of difference. He has legalized magic because he recognizes it is not evil and certainly those who possess the ability should not be punished for it. But when he sees Merlin’s eyes glow gold, or children playing magical games in the streets, or a young fawn sleeping in a patch of sunlight—he knows they understand something deep and true about the universe he does not. More than upsetting, it is unsettling to think that for all the support and counsel Merlin has given him over the years, he cannot return the favor on magical matters.
Bedoa can though. Arthur’s blood boils.
When at last Merlin and Bedoa have decided they are done cryptically whispering to each other, they join Arthur, Morgana and several other members of the Round Table for an early luncheon on the rear terrace of the castle. Arthur watches with eyes sharp like daggers, noticing with a smug sense of victory when Bedoa does not pull out Merlin’s chair for him, does not even appear to think about it. Next to him, Morgana leans over to whisper in his ear.
“The creepy older gentlemen who stare at me whenever I walk through the Lower Town smile less conspicuously than you are right now.” Arthur’s smile drops so fast his cheek muscles hurt. “But by all means, continue projecting your outdated, reputation-driven ideals on chivalry and relationships onto your dearest friend.”
“There is nothing wrong with pulling his chair out for him! Which Bedoa notably did not do.”
“Right,” Morgana responds into his ear with great cheer, “And remind me, when was the last time you pulled out a chair for Merlin?”
Arthur scowls and does not dignify this with a response, which is his right. So what if he thinks his and Merlin’s relationship, spanning years and hundreds of miles of travel together as it has, might rise above introductory displays of chivalry. They have literally laid down their lives for each other time and time again. Arthur has never treated Merlin like a delicate flower, because he is the most stalwart and dependable man in all of Albion and not a day goes by where Arthur doesn’t wish to brag about that. Merlin is a true feather in Camelot’s cap, magic or not.
But bragging does not also lend itself to parading about his hand for marriage, Arthur cannot help but think. He is startled back to attention by a warm, slender hand settling heavily on his forearm. He looks up to meet Merlin’s smiling blue eyes, marvelling as his plush pink lips form themselves around the sounds of his name.
“—I was telling Arthur about it earlier. Bedoa, I was thinking you and I could go see Aithusa! She’s my baby dragon, and such a good girl. Because she’s still young she has lots of energy, so she stays far from the Citadel just until she can control her fire better. She’s growing so fast and I’m so proud of her, trust me you’ll love her! I was able to arrange for Kilgharrah to bring us to her.”
Bedoa furrows his brow and lets out a low chuckle.
“Sure…visiting a baby dragon. Difficulty believing that you really have one aside, it’s not…well…” He purses his lips, the humor still evident in their mocking quirk. Arthur glances over at Merlin, who doesn’t seem to suspect anything is amiss as he beams at the man.
“Well what?” he questions eagerly, no doubt hoping his less-than-captive audience will match his enthusiasm.
“It’s just… it’s not a very romantic first date, is it? Rather boorish. I suppose you would get along with a dragon though. Magical creatures, and all.” Arthur’s jaw drops in outrage, so offended is he by Bedoa’s implication that Merlin isn’t human that he is nearly surprised by Morgana drawing in a sharp breath next to him. Merlin does a spectacularly depressing impression of the Big Bang in reverse, becoming so small and upset so fast that Arthur has whiplash. He wilts before their very eyes, and Arthur is reminded with vivid clarity how excited Merlin had been to show Aithusa to someone who might truly understand her. It was a show of trust and one Merlin had gone to lengths to arrange for the two of them to bond over and… oh. Oh. Arthur is going to kill Bedoa.
Just as he is opening his mouth to make the kind of accusations that start wars, Morgana’s razor sharp nails dig into his forearm in warning. Her lips are pressed tightly together in anger, but she shakes her head subtly, “Don’t.”
Arthur’s jaw drops and he hisses angrily, “What do you mean don’t? Unhand me so I can–”
“I’m serious!” Morgana hisses back at him quietly, nails clenching harder against his skin in emphasis. Arthur winces. In the background, he is distantly aware that Merlin and Bedoa are conversing. “You can’t take away Merlin’s autonomy. You of all people understand how much he is giving up to this marriage for the sake of his duty to Camelot. Don’t take away his right to kick this man in the ass if he so chooses.”
And Arthur hates that she is right. What he hates even more is the horrifying possibility Merlin will marry someone Arthur doesn’t approve of. Rather late in the game to be coming to such a realization, he knows, because it is followed closely by the equally nauseating realization that he doesn’t approve of any of them. Can’t, in fact, think of a single person he would be overjoyed to see Merlin marry. No one deserves him. Damn it.
His attention is called back to the scene at hand when Merlin clears his throat, all eyes around the brunch tables meeting his. “We’ve compromised on a ride through the forest to see how progress is coming on the permanent Druid settlement being constructed to the east.”
A hot knot of anxiety lodges itself in Arthur’s throat, which he clears with all the poise and dignity of a man of his station and absolutely does not choke on saliva. “That’s half a day’s ride one way.”
Merlin nods in assurance. “We’ll leave early tomorrow morning and be back by the evening.”
He says it with the terrible confidence of someone trying to maintain a grasp on their remaining dignity, and for once Arthur cannot bear to argue with him. No matter what his private thoughts on it are, Morgana’s words echo in the back of his mind. Merlin is a man, with magic, and thoughts, and feelings, and a very nice arse, and Arthur must trust him to make the decision that is best for himself.
So, they will go on their ride tomorrow.
And that is that.
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The next day, Arthur alternates between worrying about Merlin and worrying about magical policy decisions, which are the same thing, he says to himself, because his magical policy decisions are hollow shells of words that do nothing without the magic touch—literally—of his Court Sorcerer. He has worked himself into a state of proper anguish by the time he hears a raucous commotion explode in the hallways outside his chambers.
“Go!” Merlin exclaims, and Arthur is out the door in a second. It has been an age and a half since he has heard such clear distress in Merlin’s voice, and hearing it now has him tripping out of his chair and to the door in fugue state. He blacks out and comes to in the hallway, which Merlin is moving down with long, quick strides, each slap of his boots on the stones angry and powerful. His eyes are red-rimmed. Behind him, Bedoa trails with a disbelieving expression.
“My lord Emrys, please!” He laughs nervously. “Surely you don’t mean it. Just take some time to think—”
Merlin whirls on him and advances with startling speed, getting right up into his face with his pointer finger. Bedoa goes cross-eyed looking at it, the picture of true horror blooming on his face as Merlin speaks to him quickly and quietly. He is practically shaking in anger, and really the cruelest thing Arthur could do is leave Merlin to finish him off. Which is exactly what he does, watching on with eyes narrowed as Bedoa tucks tail and flees the scene. Merlin watches him with an unreadable expression, until he turns around and sees Arthur lurking in the doorway to his own chambers. Which is his right, by the way, but one might think it a criminal offense from the way Merlin’s face dissolves into miserable horror immediately. He had not intended for Arthur to see this, clearly.
Arthur swallows roughly. He had hoped, naively, that they might one day reach a place where Merlin feels confident divulging anything on his mind to Arthur without carefully considering the reasons why he shouldn’t. He is allowed his own thoughts and feelings, of course, but Arthur desperately wants to be there for Merlin as Merlin always is for him. But the fact remains that Merlin, compassionate and a willing, empathetic listener to every grievance in the castle, has never once displayed the ability to comply with expectations and thus has always been a deeply private person himself. And it is a damning indictment of how whipped Arthur is that he is hopelessly taken with even this tiniest bit of Merlin, despite how bothersome it can be to him at times.
Arthur opens his mouth to inquire about…well, anything that has happened in the last 5 minutes would be a great start.
“Are you o—” Merlin cuts him off by fleeing past him and refusing to make eye contact. Arthur whirls around to try and catch him by the shoulder, but by the time he turns around Merlin has already disappeared.
Merlin shuts himself in his chambers for two days, refusing to speak to anyone but Gaius. When at last he leaves them, he doesn't leave Arthur’s side for two more.
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Against all odds, Arthur is beginning to hope he might make it through this whole ordeal with only scrapes and bruises.
Merlin has rejected the last two suitors to visit Camelot, and fended off a barrage of offers via messenger from across Albion. He is even beginning to find it all a little funny—Arthur’s favorite suitor had been a squat pig farmer old enough to be Gaius’ brother who had apparently been using magic to fix up his house for years, and had offered Merlin pickled pigs feet for dinner every night if only he might have Emrys’ hand in marriage. Arthur had watched in glee at this proposal, Merlin stepping on his foot and sending the man a winning smile anyways. Arthur’s laughter had quickly soured in his mouth upon the farmer’s insistence that Merlin, as his husband, could be assured he would never have to muck out the pigsties.
Score 1 for the pig farmer, he thinks grumpily, feeling somehow both outdone and like even his most slovenly of subjects are more deeply connected to magic than he is.
Nevertheless, Arthur feels thoroughly heartened to see the ease with which Merlin rejects each prospect, and is just beginning to think that they might all soon put this nonsense behind them, when he receives a letter alerting him to the imminent arrival of a Lord Finan.
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Arthur clenches his jaw tightly, watching with mounting unease as the newly arrived Lord Finan gracefully dismounts from his stead and bends immediately into a sweeping bow first to Merlin, and then to Arthur. This choice escapes neither of them, and Merlin’s eyes sparkle at having been put before the king. And… wait, is he blushing? Arthur admires the pretty pink flush that paints Merlin’s cheeks as Finan takes his hand and, with Merlin’s permission, lays a delicate kiss on his knuckles. Which, of course, Arthur is completely normal about and has no tumultuous feelings towards whatsoever.
That afternoon sees Merlin and Finan taking a stroll around the castle gardens, getting to know one another. Arthur invites himself along as their minder because he is the king, and he will do as he pleases. Nevermind that neither Finan nor Merlin are at risk of producing…er…accidental offspring.
“I know!” Merlin exclaims in excitement, so loudly he startles a nearby flock of birds into flight. Arthur winces, thinking about bird poop and recent encounters. “Isn’t Aithusa incredible? I’m so glad you got to meet her at the yuletide festival in the white mountains last year! I knew Kilgharrah took her, but what a coincidence. Isn’t she precious? White dragons are an omen of strength, you know.”
He has been jabbering on like this with impressive stamina for almost an hour now and Lord Finan, to his credit, has matched his excitement at every turn. Finan beams back at Merlin, his eyes mere lines of mirth for all they are obscured by his apple-red cheeks. Finan, unlike Bedoa, does not have the sense to be completely insipid. Instead, he is a darling.
“Have you any books on dragons I might borrow? I’ve been so curious to learn more since last Yule, but I haven’t any literature on them. I wouldn’t even know where to start!”
Merlin whirls on him, clutching at Finan’s hands with glee. Their cloaks swirl around each other’s knees, as if dancing, and shy. Arthur bites down on his tongue to keep from doing something stupid, like rip their hands apart.
“Do I? Only the most thorough collection of accounts on dragons and Dragonlord ancestry in Albion!” Merlin throws a smile over his shoulder at Arthur, sweet as pie. “Arthur has been helping me collect sources, to figure out who my Dragonlord ancestors really were and how they lived their lives.”
And this is true. Arthur would pull the moon from the night sky if Merlin wished to hold it in his hands, and as evidence has spent many a late night over the past year painstakingly tracking down what material culture and scholarship remain on the Dragonlords. He does this out of love, but there is no doubt that guilt has a hand in it as well. After all, Finan did not actively participate in the needless slaughter of thousands of people just like Merlin. That is not a problem their relationship would ever have to interface with, at least in the way Arthur and Merlin’s would have to, has had to. It is just another reminder that he has no place sharing a destiny, nonetheless a bed, with Merlin and the very thought gives him intense heartache.
It’s not even about sex, he bemoans to himself as he watches Merlin fiddle with a flower crown he is making. Of course, it’s not not about sex either, but mostly what it is about is pushing his sweaty hair off his forehead when he is ill, and fighting back to back with him against bandits, and holding his hand in front of all of their people.
It is autumn, late enough to be chilly but early enough that the autumn flowers are still in bloom. As Arthur watches, Finan takes Merlin’s hands, pink with cold, and rubs them between his own to warm them up. Arthur shivers, pulling his cloak further over his shoulders. Merlin does not notice, too busy placing the flower crown on Finan’s head and smiling ear to ear.
That evening, Merlin deigns to grace his sovereign with his presence once more. Having descended rapidly into a mood so black and acidic that it might’ve burned the lacquer right off the wooden furniture, Arthur refuses to so much as acknowledge Merlin’s presence. Not that this seems to matter, he considers moodily, as Merlin keeps a perfectly pleasant conversation going with the inside of Arthur’s wardrobe as he rifles through the King’s clothes. His nattering consists only of compliments on Finan’s exceptional character.
“So.” Arthur sniffs at length, having only just remembered that Merlin has an impressive vocabulary for someone who rarely ever says anything of value. He doesn’t really mean it, of course, except right about now he sort of does. “Enjoyed yourself today, did you?”
And he is not miffed about this in the slightest. Merlin may flirt with whomever he chooses, suitor or not. And it is flirting, what he’s doing. Never mind that he seems incapable of acknowledging Arthur’s own attempts at flirting with him. He had even been, shudder to think, kind to Merlin with no ulterior motive. Why, just the other day he’d told Merlin to take the afternoon off from his Court Sorcerer duties!
Well, he had strongly suggested it.
Ok, so, he’d threatened to throw Merlin in the dungeons if he didn’t get off Arthur’s case about the baker’s guild. In Arthur’s defense, an afternoon spent in the dungeons would certainly have been a break of some sort.
“I did, thank you for asking.” Merlin turns to give Arthur a cheeky grin over his shoulder, the soft fabric of Arthur’s ceremonial cloak brushing up against the smooth, rosy skin of Merlin’s beaming cheeks as he slings it over his shoulder. For an ex-manservant-turned-Court-Sorcerer, he still insists on doing a surprising number of his old duties. Arthur eyes the cloak with envy.
“And I don’t suppose it would’ve crossed your mind to finish that report on hedgewitchery I asked for?” Merlin pulls a face in response.
“You’d have to pay me to get me to finish that.” Arthur’s jaw drops in astounded outrage.
“That is exactly what I do!”
Merlin’s brow creases, as if not wishing to concede that Arthur might, for once, have made a particularly salient point. An uncomfortable silence stretches out between them as Merlin begins folding Arthur’s freshly washed tunics. Well, Arthur is uncomfortable, seeing Merlin’s long, deft fingers smooth out the wrinkles in his own clothing and absolutely not thinking about other uses for long, deft fingers. Merlin, for his part, seems perfectly content with his work, and even hums a little tune through the small smile gracing his lips. At length, Arthur clears his throat to gather Merlin’s attention.
“In all seriousness though…Lord Finan. You seem to have nothing but praise for him. Is it true? He’s treating you…err…appropriately?” Merlin’s smirk softens into a genuine smile, his eyes creased at the corners with fondness.
“Yes, in fact we got on quite well. He is kind, clever, and quite fascinated by magic. With a good sense of humor, too!” Arthur rolls his eyes, valiantly pushing down the hot jealousy raging in his chest. Magic, magic, magic. He cannot escape it, and he does not want to, but it taunts him nonetheless. He was born of it, and yet it seems to only distance him from Merlin.
“And he’ll need one, with you as a husband.”
“And he—hey!” Merlin breaks off into a choked laugh, balling up one of Arthur’s tunics and throwing it at his face. Openly guffawing now, Arthur comes to the sudden sobering realization that he has precious few moments like this left with Merlin. Maybe Finan will share these joyful moments at Merlin’s side, and if not him, another man will.
“Maybe he’s the one.” I’m the one, Arthur’s traitorous brain screams. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot ignore it.
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The worst part is, Arthur likes Finan, he is appalled to discover. He has all the attributes Arthur seeks in a Knight of the Round Table. He is honest, even-tempered, holds no prejudice against the common man, and has a childlike-fascination of magic that Merlin preens under like a flower in fair weather. He has even practiced it, a bit. He is everything Merlin deserves and Arthur’s greatest nightmare wrapped up in 1.8 meters of golden musculature. Arthur has taken to demolishing Camelot’s extremely finite supply of straw training dummies to bits in the early hours of each day, before his kingly duties begin, in order to feel he has some control over his own court. The weather has altogether failed to read the room, and thus each and every morning this week has been insultingly beautiful.
It is on one such horrifyingly auspicious, sunny day, almost a week into Finan’s visit, that Arthur is joined on the training pitch.
“Good morning, your Majesty. I hope I’m not interrupting you.” Finan stands at the edge of the field, politely awaiting… something. Arthur frowns and sheaths his sword, trying to figure out what game the man is playing. Lord Finan stands tall, his stance open and honest. He holds Arthur’s gaze with confidence and modesty, if one can possibly have both. This is another thing that Arthur begrudgingly approves of: Finan acts like a man who knows he is only a man.
“Lord Finan. What can I do for you this morning?” Finan dips his head only slightly, affording Arthur respect, but hardly more respect than one affords the common man.
“Nothing, really. Only to share the training pitch…?” He trails off, clearly leaving Arthur the opportunity to say no. It occurs to Arthur with startling clarity that Finan has read him like a book. So few of Arthur’s courtiers have ever clocked, nonetheless respected, the fact that Arthur has always valued his personal space. And right now in the early morning air, covered in sweat and tufts of straw, Arthur feels that the whole of the training pitch is his personal space and is suddenly incredibly grateful that someone else can sense what he does not have the words to explain. The only other person who can read him like this is Merlin, who has perversely come to the completely erroneous conclusion that more of his presence in Arthur’s personal space is what is needed to survive the new fresh hell wrought each day by the rising sun.
Arthur clears his throat and nods to the remaining dummies on the field, of which he counts himself as one.
“Of course. There is a well on the other side of the armory, if you find yourself in need of water.”
A comfortable silence stretches out between them as they work separate drills. Arthur observes Finan out of the corner of his eye and is pleasantly impressed by what he sees. He is never in need of reminding that Merlin can defend himself, but it is some small consolation that if he is to send the piece of his heart that lives in Merlin’s chest away in a marriage of political convenience, it will be well taken care of.
Half an hour passes like this, before Finan catches Arthur’s eye and offers him a smile. His brown eyes carry the same kindness Arthur sees in Gwen’s and Lancelot’s.
“Your Majesty—”
“Arthur, please. I prefer just…Arthur.” And he hates himself for this. He has given up his last vestiges of power over this man, by throwing out his own title, under the flag of Merlin’s happiness. Finan is just too damn likable.
“Arthur, then. I want to thank you.” Arthur frowns.
“It’s not a problem, Camelot welcomes you. We are always happy to extend our hospitality.”
“Not for that.” Finan rushes to correct him, with the kind of gut-wrenchingly sincere expression that makes Arthur’s smile feel waxy and fake on his face. “And not to Camelot, either. I mean to thank you, really. For trusting me to court Merlin. It is clear, just from the few days I have spent with him, that you mean the world to each other. I cannot imagine it is easy to entrust his happiness to someone else. And I wanted to reassure you as well, that should Merlin decide I am worthy of his affections permanently, I would never come between your friendship. It is often enough in a world filled with violence and cruelty that we make an enemy out of our closest friends. I could never see such a pure relationship as your own ruined by my hand.”
Relationship, Arthur thinks dizzily, sick in the head and the heart alike.
And isn’t this just great? Finan has laid his heart at Arthur’s feet and promised Merlin’s happiness and Arthur cannot get rid of him now. He has no excuse. Arthur wants to knight him, and to banish him, and to marry him to Merlin so he knows Merlin will be so respected, and to marry Merlin himself so as to not give up on his heart’s desire before it is too late. It is disgusting, really, how Merlin attracts the most noble men across Albion to his side.
What a mistake this has all been.
I hardly think there’s a magical being in all of Albion that would happily marry you, the son of Uther Pendragon. Geoffrey’s words haunt him, he cannot escape them.
Arthur stutters out what is surely a pathetic response to Finan, and grabs his gear, fleeing the field without so much as a backward glance.
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When Finan arrives at Arthur’s chambers the next day, seeking permission to approach Merlin for his hand in marriage, Arthur thinks of Merlin’s bright, bright smile.
If that smile is the only thing left of Merlin he can still pretend is his, he will do anything to preserve it.
He blesses their partnership.
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“You’re looking a little green at the gills, brother dearest,” Morgana coos. She sets her wine glass down and peers at him across the banquet table with far too much understanding in her gaze. Arthur knows better than to make eye contact with descendants of Medusa, lest he freeze and spill all his secrets, so he settles for ignoring her entirely. And because Morgana has never so much as once minded her own damn business, she continues, “They look lovely together, don’t they?”
She is right. Merlin is all dramatic features, high cheekbones and long sweeping lines of life. Next to him, Finan is a powerful presence, his broad shoulders and kind smile more disarming than any bout Arthur has ever fought. They make a handsome couple. Fitting neatly into one another’s space, they look like they ought to always be sharing the same breath of air. Merlin is speaking animatedly to Lord Finan. Finan’s eyes sparkle as they follow Merlin, watching him like he is the only one in the room. The worst part is, Arthur can’t even hate him for it. He, too, understands the gravitational pull of Black Hole Merlin. His presence sucks the air from Arthur’s lungs, seems to pull light from every corner of the universe solely to power his smile. Arthur has always marveled at his adaptability, at how the world bends to Merlin’s will— not in the way of magic or wishing on stars, but how he can as easily be invisible as he can be unmistakably present. He is the smallest and largest man to ever live. He is inescapable, inevitable. Arthur crossed Merlin’s event horizon long, long ago, and there is no coming back from that.
Merlin turns, catching his eye. His face is alight with a more exquisite joy than Arthur has ever seen, and for the Gods’ sake he cannot lose this! And he practically already has. Merlin is still holding his gaze, eyes too shiny for Arthur’s comfort. His heart does backflips in his chest, perhaps trying to climb out of his throat and end his suffering early. Merlin’s cheeks are flushed the prettiest pink, looking soft and warm and just the right size for Arthur to cup in his hands. Merlin’s tongue darts out to glide across his lower lip and smiles softly at Arthur, who feels as if he has been clobbered over the head by a mace.
Between one moment and the next Arthur has surged to his feet. He is sweating and shaking and coming apart at the seams and how can he give up now, at the very end. Blinded by emotion, Arthur trips over the legs of his chair trying to extract himself from the table. Morgana and Leon startle from their places by him, Leon’s hand falling to the pommel of his sword as he searches for the threat. But the only threat, as far as Arthur can tell, is his own cowardice for not fighting for Merlin harder. Of course they were meant to be together, of course, who else would—
He whirls around in search of Merlin, desperate for one last chance, and is promptly punched in the gut by what he sees before him.
Across the banquet hall, Merlin is kissing Finan.
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It goes like this: Arthur takes it all for granted. Everything, right down to the warm meals brought to his chambers and the sister he had but didn’t have and Merlin in the middle of it all, shining. Shining like the most noble idiot in all the land, accidentally-on-purpose the greatest man Arthur has ever known and in the end when it mattered most, Arthur could not muster the courage to tell him all this in time. What a fool he has been.
He runs, is what happens. Takes great heaving breaths to match great heaving steps that take him far, far from the banquet hall and the lean curves of Merlin’s body that are Finan’s to behold, now and forever. Merlin had kissed him. On the cheek, but that is proper form for a courting couple who have not yet wed. Arthur is ill with grief.
And it’s not just that. It’s that he really is disgusted with himself, for how he has waltzed through this entire courting mess, the attitude of one Very Assured that things will all turn out in their favor conveyed through his every action and thought and errant hope. And, damn it all, Merlin deserves better than someone who will stand on the sidelines and wait for him to float into their arms. He has been tried, and tested, and ultimately bested, and not even by a man he can loathe entirely. Denizen of Hell, thy name is Arthur Pendragon.
Skipping his chambers entirely, Arthur rounds the doorway to the castle’s northern tower and steps quickly up the narrow spiral steps. His throat burns with yearning and shame. When he reaches the top he slams the door shut and throws his back against a wall, breathing loud and ragged—which is just another reminder of his failure, because it’s not even for a properly raunchy reason involving Merlin and a vial of oil.
He stews in silence for a couple of minutes before the distinct sound of footsteps ascending the stairwell reaches his ears. And not just any footsteps, but Merlin’s, because Arthur is cursed with a lover’s knowledge of this man. This apparently includes such outrageously cheesy things as banning Cook from serving tomato soup ever again because Merlin is allergic, specifically bathing in oils of Merlin’s preferred scents, and recognizing his booted footfalls even in near-complete darkness.
Merlin rounds the corner with frantic speed, a small brass candle holder lighting his way. He draws up sharply as he sees Arthur, but relief floods his face and Arthur can be sure that Merlin was following him.
“Arthur,” he breathes out. “Is everything alright? You fled the banquet like a man possessed!”
Arthur squirms, judiciously not thinking about how ravishing Merlin looks in the silver diadem of leaves adorning the crown of his head. Crown, he thinks dizzily.
“...Arthur?” Merlin takes a step closer, and Arthur startles into awareness.
“Fine!” He blurts, aware he must appear a madman. “I’m fine. I needed some air. Nothing is wrong.”
Merlin is looking at him oddly. He takes a few steps closer to Arthur, setting the candle down on a stool beside them. Arthur can feel the warmth radiating off of him in their small room at the tip-top of the northern tower, and his skin pebbles in nauseous anxiety and desire to rid his heart of secrets.
“Are you sure?” He asks softly, eyes sparkling with resolve and a touch of wonder. “Because Morgana said—”
“That harpy!”
“—Morgana said you’d benefit from my company. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
And he is too close to Arthur, right now, and far too sincere for his own good. The achingly sweet part, to the point of pain, is that Arthur knows Merlin does love him. Merlin has never put so much as a lick of emphasis on any act of devotion he carries out for Arthur, he simply does it because he cares, more than anyone Arthur has ever known. To do what is kind, even above what is right, takes a heart that loves the world more than itself. Merlin does love Arthur, but how one loves a great big oak tree—grateful for its existence, proud to swing from its branches, but one day he will leave in search of a greater love. One that can embrace him. And the oak tree is only a tree. Arthur has roots, and cannot follow.
Arthur says nothing. He is too afraid he will do something entirely inappropriate, like profess his undying love to a man who is engaged. Merlin, because he has no understanding of Arthur’s personal space, grabs hold of the left cuff of his dinner jacket. They stand there in silence for several long moments, Merlin rubbing absentminded circles into the fabric at Arthur’s wrist. Eyebrows creased in concern, he at last huffs out a breath and bites his lower lip in a move that flips Arthur’s stomach upside down.
“Alright, you clotpole. Don’t want to talk, then. I get it. But I’m not leaving you here alone like this.” He takes Arthur’s hands in his and pulls them down to sit against the wall together. Looking at him now makes Arthur’s throat tighten, the meager light from Merlin’s candle casting shadows that emphasize his high cheekbones and smooth skin. “I’ll talk.”
And talk he does, about everything and nothing, for several long minutes as Arthur stews in his thoughts. At last when Merlin is coming back around to the topic of Finan, edging closer with every absentminded comment on “nice, broad shoulders”, Arthur cannot stand it any longer.
“Don’t marry Finan.”
“—and Gwaine knows—wait what?”
That’s not how he’d intended to go about it at all. In fact, Arthur had begun to ponder if perhaps the monks might take him, resigned as he was to eternal solitude and watching the love of his life from afar. But destiny has other plans, and suddenly it is as if a dam has been broken, and the words tumble out of Arthur unbidden.
“Well, no that’s not what I meant. Don’t just… don’t think Finan is your only option. Or, or Ismar, or that one pig farmer, or any of them. I know the council decided this was your duty and I know I gave Finan permission to approach you and if he makes you happy you should but…”
“...but?” Merlin inquires quietly, gripping Arthur’s sleeve in a surprisingly strong grip.
“...but know that I could make you happy to the end of our days. To have and to hold, for better or worse, for rich or poor, in sickness and in health. Gods forbid, we’ve done all that already! You’ve seen me sicker than a dog, and king of all the land, and met my awful father. Maybe I don’t have magic, I’ll never understand it the way you do. And I know I’ll never make up for what my family has done to yours. But I love you, and I can’t help it. Don’t marry Finan. Please.”
Merlin looks at him with his mouth agape, completely flabbergasted. Seconds tick by like this, before at long last he swallows and answers shakily.
“You don’t need to worry. I’m not marrying Finan, I’ve already told him.” Arthur’s eyes flit up to meet his in shock.
“But…you kissed him at the banquet! And he asked for your hand just yesterday, I thought for sure he was asking and you’d said yes.” Merlin is already shaking his head.
“He did ask me. I turned him down. He took it very well, all things considered, and I…well I told him I’d endorse him if he tried out for a knighthood in Camelot. He is trustworthy and brave, and I thought someday you might want him at the Round Table. He liked the idea, and I kissed him on the cheek as a thank you for taking it all so well. He’s a good man, but not the one for me.”
“Right. Yes. That was…good of you. He would make a good knight.” Arthur answers awkwardly. The wave of relief he feels rolls through him is followed quickly by another wave of anxiety. They are silent for a few seconds more, the flame of the candle flickering as a brisk breeze blows through the open window of the tower. Merlin shivers, and Arthur reaches around to drape his cloak across Merlin’s shoulders. At length, Merlin clears his throat.
“You never asked about my outing with Bedoa.”
“Huh? Oh right. Him. I don’t know, you so clearly hated it. Wasn’t sure you’d want to talk about it.”
“Right, yeah. I didn’t. Gods, he was an ass. I mean, I joke about you being an ass all the time but he was seriously—”
“—such an ass, yes! I hated him too. Not sure what I would’ve done if you’d married him. Permanently retired to a castle in Northumbria, maybe.” Merlin huffs, a small smile gracing his lips.
“I would’ve bumped him off for the inheritance, obviously. Who do you think I am?” Arthur laughs loudly, for the first time in days.
“He’s a druid! What would your inheritance have been, rocks and leaves?” And Merlin is laughing now too, eventually tapering off into deep breaths, thick with humor.
“Yeah, ok. Well, actually our ride to the east was almost pleasant. It was on the way back that he stuck his foot in his mouth.” Merlin’s expression darkens, all traces of humor lost. “He asked me when I was going to give up on the bit and finally off you, which I guess is what he believes my destiny as Emrys really means. I’m sorry, but if there is one thing I can never compromise on, it’s you. I can’t be with someone who doesn’t respect you!”
Merlin’s voice has reached a fiery crescendo, and Arthur swallows hard around the lump in his throat, feeling that he really should not find Merlin’s anger so attractive. And he is grateful that at least Merlin seems to be on a roll now, because the last of his words have dried up in his mouth.
“And that’s just the start of it!” Merlin exclaims, looking the picture of true misery. “It’s just, ugh, if I believe that magic is neither good nor evil, that the only evil lies in the hearts of men—and I do believe that. And I’m going to preach it, and enter into a political marriage to do so, then I want to marry someone who believes that too. That magic is just like love: it has no duty to be inherently good or evil. It should not be assigned a moral binary like Bedoa or Uther believe, or used to scare prisoners straight like Ismar believes. Magic just is. No one seems to get that. Everyone has an agenda!”
Arthur thinks back on his envy of Ismar, Bedoa, and Finan, his feelings of genuine inadequacy when it comes to understanding magic, and begins to wonder if Merlin is the only one who actually understands it. Maybe they’re all just pretending, and Arthur is the only one to never get the memo.
“—and the only person that I really feel understands that, is you!”
His voice echoes around the small space, shocking Arthur to his core. Merlin sighs and rubs a hand over his face.
“Maybe that’s why I couldn’t stand to see Bedoa treat you that way. Couldn’t stand Ismar’s politics, couldn’t even stand Finan, in the end. None of them will ever get it because none of them are you.”
Arthur has no breath in his chest, struggles to pull air in, but all he can hear are Merlin’s words playing on loop in his head.
None of them are you. None of them are you. None of them are you.
Cold fingers cup his cheeks and he flicks his eyes up to meet Merlin’s baby blues. The soft candlelight paints Merlin’s skin gold. Arthur sees his old friend, the perfectly circular freckle under Merlin’s left eye, and thinks he has never seen it so close and so beautiful before. Choked up as he is, the first words out of Arthur’s mouth have the clumsy quality of someone who has spent an hour crying.
“Be careful Merlin. You almost sound like you love me or something.” Merlin chuckles wetly, also looking as though he could shed a few tears.
“Yeah, well. Sometimes I am overcome by delusions. Gods forbid a man go mad.” He hums softly, pressing his cold nose forward until it bumps softly into Arthur’s.
The back of his mind, the only part which is not entirely preoccupied with MerlinMerlinMerlin, wonders if he is about to be kissed.
Turns out, he is.
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You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won't tell you that he loves
you, but he loves you.
- Richard Siken, Crush