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If there is one thing that Merlin knows for certain, it is that Arthur is a good man. He cares about the people in his charge– his knights, his citizens, Merlin– and fights fiercely for them, even when it seems hopeless. For all that his bones are forged of hardened steel, their marrow is made of compassion. Arthur pretends to be nothing more than a construct, an heir, a king, but his heart is as human as they come. It may take him time, but in the end, Arthur will do the right thing, Merlin has no doubt.
If there is a second thing that Merlin knows for certain, it is that Arthur is liable to getting himself killed if left to his own devices. See: years of thwarting assassinations, vengeful sidhe, murderous bandits, and so on. So, when Merlin sees Arthur sneaking away from Camelot’s camp the night before they are about to fight Caerleon, it’s completely reasonable that he follows him.
Stupid prat, Merlin thinks, watching Arthur hand himself over to Annis’ men. If he didn’t know better, he would think that Arthur gets himself into situations like this just to get on Merlin’s nerves. He does know better, though, so he’s fairly certain that Arthur is a) an idiot, or b) has a death wish. Perhaps both.
He shoves his magic down as the warriors tug Arthur away, towards the heart of the camp. Magic will only make things worse– Merlin may be powerful, but he cannot fell an army, and Arthur is unarmed. All using his powers would do right now is expose himself, and he’s no use to Arthur like that.
(Arthur would almost certainly send him away at best– and Merlin would do anything Arthur asked. Arthur would be alone, unaware of his uncle’s treachery and unprotected from the shadows that lurk just out of sight. And Merlin doesn’t think that he could bear it, Arthur looking at him like a stranger, an enemy, a monster.)
Merlin takes a brief, exasperated moment to wonder why Arthur is like this before cursing under his breath and following.
Arthur is lucky that Merlin loves him.
Arthur is taken to an ornate tent, right at the center of the camp. Merlin watches him being shoved inside, like some common criminal, and it makes something angry burn in his chest.
He understands that the murder of Caerleon’s king was wrong. He agrees. He told Arthur not to go through with it, for godess’ sake– but Arthur was manipulated. He was forced to make a terrible decision: to follow his father’s example for what he believed was the good of the kingdom or to follow his own heart. Arthur is young, inexperienced; he tried to do what he thought was best. He isn’t the cold-blooded murderer that Annis’ men treat him as.
Merlin ducks behind a barrel as a cluster of men pass by. Once they’ve passed, he creeps closer to the tent.
“Your Highness, I know that you feel nothing but contempt for me. You feel I’ve done you a grievous wrong, and you would be right.”
Merlin glances about. There is no one coming, so he peels open the side flap of the tent.
“I’m ashamed of what I did.” Arthur stands, unharmed, flanked by the men who dragged him inside. His voice is that of a king, but in the flickering candlelight, Merlin can see the heaviness and regret that lines his face. “It was cowardly, it was unjust, and I am deeply sorry.”
Merlin cannot see Queen Annis’ expression, but her words are venomous. “Sorry does not bring back my husband. Sorry does not bring my people back their king.”
“I realize that,” Arthur says quickly. “I know there’s nothing I can do to repair that loss.”
Annis moves closer, cold. “Then what are you doing here, Arthur Pendragon?” She says his name as though it is a curse or a scourge.
“I want to call off the battle,” Arthur says.
Merlin is torn between fierce love and pride and utter exasperation. Of course Arthur is endangering himself to save his men. Of course.
“It’s a little too late for that,” Annis says, turning away dismissively.
“I don’t propose a truce, but an alternative,” Arthur says. “I invoke the right of single combat. Two champions to settle this matter between them.”
Merlin doesn’t hear Annis’ response. A rough hand seizes his shoulder and jerks him away from the tent.
“I was just looking,” Merlin lies horribly to the warrior, “for rats.”
The warrior scoffs, his grip almost bruising. “In the queen’s tent?”
“I was trying to make sure that Her Highness didn’t have to deal with the rats,” Merlin says.
Before Merlin knows it, he’s been dragged around the front of Annis’ tent and pushed through the flap. The man shoves him harshly to his knees, only a few paces away from Arthur.
Annis’ gaze is shrewd, questioning. Her circlet glitters in the firelight; where the flickering softens Arthur’s features and makes him look more man than king, the flames only make Annis harder and more regal.
Merlin has the distinct feeling that he’s fucked up. He looks to Arthur, apologetic. “Sorry about this.”
The surprise on Arthur’s face changes quickly to anger, and behind that, fear.
Annis’ attention snaps to Arthur. “You know him?”
“He’s my servant, he must have followed me here.” Arthur has clearly been wrongfooted and Merlin curses himself; he should have paid more attention to what was happening outside the tent, or better yet, kept Arthur from ever leaving his own tent. “I knew nothing about it.”
Annis’ eyes don’t leave Arthur when she gives the guard her orders. “Kill him.”
“Wait,” Arthur says, and Merlin loves him. “Please. Let him go. He’s just…” He looks at Merlin, then, eyes flitting over him as though trying to reassure himself that Merlin is still here, breathing, “... a simple-minded fool.”
Even furious with Merlin, Arthur is trying to save him. See? Merlin wants to say. This is the kind of man he is. This is the real Arthur Pendragon.
The warriors’ wait for Annis’ call.
“That,” she says coolly, “is two favours you’ve asked of me this night, Arthur Pendragon.”
Arthur bows his head.
Annis turns her back on them, sweeping across the tent to sit in a carved throne. Her gaze falls, not on Arthur, but on Merlin.
There’s something about it that makes Merlin want to squirm. He feels exposed, like a nerve.
“Very well.” Annis looks back to Arthur. “You will have your trial by combat. However,” she says, “I will choose your champion.”
Arthur’s head snaps up. For a moment, he’s clearly uncomfortable, then his expression clears and he squares his shoulders. “As you wish. You have your pick of any one of my men.”
“Him.” Annis’ eyes do not leave Arthur’s. “At noon tomorrow, your servant will fight on behalf of Camelot.”
Merlin wonders if he misheard.
“Merlin?” Arthur says, a bit blankly. “Your Highness–”
“Those are my terms,” Annis interrupts.
“Merlin is not a knight, nor is he a warrior,” Arthur protests. “He’s afraid of his own shadow half the time!”
“Yet he had no qualms about walking into the heart of my camp,” Annis says.
“That’s because he’s an idiot,” Arthur says, gesturing with poorly concealed desperation. “This is not his battle, it is mine. If you do not wish to pick one of my knights, I volunteer myself to be Camelot’s champion.”
Merlin’s blood runs cold. Selfless, noble, stupid Arthur. Merlin cannot let him fight.
Annis’ brow raises. “You would take the place of your servant?”
Arthur’s jaw tightens. “I would fight my own battles instead of allowing one of my citizens to suffer in my place.”
“How very noble of you,” Annis says. “Unfortunately, the time for nobility has passed. If the champion I have chosen will not fight— as we agreed— my army will be ready to march at dawn.”
Merlin doesn't need to see Arthur’s expression to know what is going through his head.
It is Merlin or Camelot. It’s a cruel decision— Merlin knows that despite the front Arthur puts on, Arthur considers him a friend. It will kill Arthur to make this decision.
Merlin must make it for him.
“Merlin is not–”
“I accept,” Merlin says. His heart hammers in his chest. The earth digs uncomfortably into his knees.
The tent goes silent.
Arthur laughs, a short, humourless thing that sounds as though it’s been punched out of him. “You cannot be serious–”
Merlin turns to Queen Annis, if only so that he doesn’t have to see the fear in Arthur’s eyes. “I will fight your champion.”
“He will not,” Arthur says to Annis, then hisses at Merlin, “You cannot accept her demand to be Camelot’s champion. I am the king–”
“The King of Camelot accepts your terms,” Merlin says over him.
“Merlin—“
Annis rises. “I will inform you of my champion at dawn. Should you go back on your word, Arthur Pendragon, all of Camelot will pay. That, I promise you.”
Merlin’s blood runs cold.
Annis draws close to Arthur, sharp and cold and regal. “You can keep all of Camelot if my champion wins,” she says. “Your cowardice tore from me the man I love. Now, it will do the same to you. That is recompense enough for me.”
Arthur has given up trying to project an air of kingliness. He glares at Annis as though he wants nothing more than to strike her down.
“You have no idea,” he says, low, “what you speak of.”
Annis ignores him. Her skirts drag across the dirt as she moves to stand in front of Merlin, looking down on him with a cross between derision and pity.
Merlin meets her gaze.
“You should have chosen a better king,” she says.
There is no better king, Merlin thinks, but before he can say so, Annis has waved a dismissive hand and he’s being roughly hauled to his feet and shoved outside behind Arthur.
The men deposit them at the edge of Caerleon’s camp. None of them speak.
Arthur doesn’t say anything either, even once the tents are far behind them. His jaw is tight and he radiates fury, though whether it’s towards Annis or Merlin, Merlin couldn’t say. Both, probably.
The cliff face towers over them and Merlin looks up, imagining noon tomorrow, Camelot’s army looking down as he faces some faceless, hulking champion. He sees Arthur, watching as Merlin is cut down— because he certainly will be… unless he uses magic.
Merlin swallows down nausea.
With two armies watching him, any use of magic would be noticed. He would be exposed. It wouldn’t matter if he won the fight; he would lose anyway, trudging up this same path to face Arthur’s look of betrayal and his judgment.
Now, it seems Merlin is the one who faces an impossible decision.
It’s quiet save for the crunch of their boots on gravel. Arthur is only a few steps ahead of Merlin, but it feels like an insurmountable distance.
Which is better? For a friend to die, still a friend? Or for a friend to live, but irrevocably changed?
What does Merlin want?
The question surprises himself. It’s been a long time since he’s thought about what he wants. The answer comes surprisingly easy.
He wants to live. He wants to fight for Camelot tomorrow— not for glory or recognition, but so that Arthur doesn’t have to. And he wants Arthur to know him, truly.
There has never been such a horrible time for Merlin to reveal his magic, he knows. Uther died only a few months ago, seemingly at the hand of a sorcerer, and there is a traitor in Arthur’s court. Arthur is under tremendous pressure, too, which makes him more likely to lash out. And to do it in front of not just Arthur, but the whole of Camelot, and an enemy army….
They reach the top of the cliff, but instead of making for their camp, Arthur turns the opposite direction, stalking off down the edge of the cliff.
Merlin follows. “Arthur—“
“What—“ Arthur whirls on him, eyes wild, “— the hell were you thinking?”
Merlin raises an eyebrow. “What the hell was I thinking? I’m not the one who waltzed into Caerleon’s camp, completely unarmed!”
“I had everything completely under control,” Arthur snaps, “until you showed up–”
“Someone had to look after you,” Merlin says. “It’s not like I was trying to get caught–”
“You made me look weak! A king who cannot control his servants is no king at all–”
“You proved yourself as king by pushing for a solution that would save men on both sides—“
“You should have let me handle it—“
“By refusing Annis’ terms?” Merlin demands. “I know you, Arthur, you never would have forgiven yourself for sending someone who isn’t a warrior into battle. But if you continued to refuse, that would have lost you any respect you might have won from Caerleon. You can’t throw away your kingdom for a servant–”
“But I would,” Arthur snaps. “Gods, Merlin, if it would save you, I would.”
Merlin’s world comes crashing to a halt. It’s like the breath has been punched out of him, fragile and shuddering; it’s warm but he swears he can see it, glistening in the space between them.
He has always known that Arthur cares. But for Arthur to say it, so visceral, so vulnerable–
“But you don’t want to be saved,” Arthur says, voice hard, shaking every so slightly, “You never want to be saved; you’re always throwing yourself into harm’s way; poisoned goblets, stray crossbow bolts– and now you’ve entered a fight to the death.”
Merlin fights the urge to reach out, to touch. Arthur’s eyes are damp at the corners and all Merlin wants is to brush his tears away with the tips of his fingers and pull Arthur into his arms and swear it will be alright. Though Arthur always feels, it isn’t often that he lets others see, and the falling of the warrior’s facade is horrible as it is wonderful.
“I am King now,” Arthur says, “and still, there is nothing I can do to stop it.”
The air is heavy between them. It presses down, suffocating, and Merlin doesn’t know how to reassure Arthur that it will be alright without it being a lie.
“You seem awfully confident that I’m going to die,” Merlin says, trying to keep his voice light.
Arthur looks so very tired when he shakes his head. “You can barely hold a sword, Merlin.” There’s none of his usual exasperation in the inflection of Merlin’s name. He’s just… defeated.
“I did almost beat you with a mace, back when we first met,” Merlin quips. “Who knows, I might surprise you.”
For a moment, a flicker of a smile, and then Arthur’s face hardens back into despair.
“And if I don’t…” Merlin shrugs, trying not to think too hard about it. “Well. It doesn’t sound like Annis will make Camelot suffer even if her champion wins.”
“She doesn’t care about Camelot.” Arthur doesn’t look at him. “She cares about me. Your death is all she wants.”
Merlin hears Annis’ words. That is recompense enough for me. He doesn’t understand, though; she doesn’t know him as Emrys, just as a servant. He’s just… Merlin.
“An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,” Arthur says, heavy.
“… A king for a servant?” Merlin says, a bit lost. “It’s a bargain if you ask me—“
“A love for a love,” Arthur says quietly.
Merlin forgets how to breathe. His head spins as a thousand memories flash past his eyes; lingering touches he thought he was just reading into, fond smiles and late nights by the fire and a million other moments. And throughout all of them, love, love, love.
“Oh,” Merlin says. “You—?”
“I’m sorry,” Arthur says. And he means it, is the thing; and Merlin has always hated how little Arthur thinks of himself, as though he can be nothing a burden; and the way Arthur’s face has split apart, broken, makes Merlin ache, and—
Merlin doesn’t think. He crosses the distance between them and slams into Arthur, their teeth clacking painfully as Merlin presses their lips together. There is nothing gentle about it; it’s pure, desperate need when Merlin grabs at Arthur’s cloak roughly and when Arthur’s hands tug Merlin to pull him closer. One of them makes a sound that’s almost wounded, but they don’t stop.
For all the tenderness of Merlin’s feelings– for all that he wants to protect, comfort, shield Arthur, to give him the easy, gentle affection he has never had– he and Arthur have never been soft. Their words have always biting, their touches always playful at best and bruising at worst. This– this almost violent push and pull– is woven into them. It makes Merlin’s blood sing in his veins.
Merlin only pulls back when he thinks his lungs might burst. His hands stay gripping at Arthur, still holding them so very close.
Arthur looks a mess. His lips are swollen and his eyes wide, darting across Merlin’s face as though trying to memorize it. He’s speechless, Merlin realizes a bit abruptly, and despite everything, something pleased (and a bit smug) flares in his chest.
“If you think that I’ve been washing your socks all these years for the pay, you’re more of a dollophead than I thought you were,” Merlin says. It startles a laugh out of Arthur and Merlin smiles.
Arthur’s expression has changed into something like awe. “You—“
“Have terrible taste, clearly,” Merlin says, “since I’m in love with you, too. I think you’ve hit me over the head too many times in training.”
“I don’t hit you that hard,” Arthur says, lips quirking. It’s his first real smile in days. “In fact, I would argue that this is the first real proof we’ve found that suggests that you aren’t a complete idiot—“
Merlin hits him, even as his smile feels wide enough to split open his face. “Shut up. You have no idea how embarrassing it is to like you!”
“I hardly think—“
“Gwen agrees with me.”
“She does not.”
“Yes, she does. I was trying to tease her about Lance and she said being in love with you is far more embarrassing than anything I have on them.” Which is true— but in the end, Merlin was able to turn it back around on her because at one point, she’d liked Arthur, too.
“Well, it’s embarrassing to like you, too,” Arthur argues.
Merlin sputters. “I am not—“
“Gwaine will never let me hear the end of it,” Arthur says, “and don’t get me started on Leon—“
At the mention of the knights, they go quiet. The future comes crashing back down on them.
Tomorrow, Merlin fights. Tomorrow, Merlin loses.
“I can’t,” Arthur says, and he can’t finish, but he doesn’t need to. “Merlin—“
Merlin cups the back of Arthur’s neck firmly. “It will be okay.”
“Come back to me,” Arthur says. Pleads.
Merlin’s heart hammers in his chest, but there is only one thing he can say. He has never been able to deny Arthur anything that is in his power to give.
“I swear it,” Merlin says.
Arthur has faced his own death a hundred times before, but right now, he is more afraid than Merlin has ever seen him.
Merlin can’t stand it.
He’s allowed to pull Arthur close now, so he does, wrapping his arms around him and tucking his face into the crook of Arthur’s neck. For a moment, Arthur is stiff, and then he, too, melts into the embrace.
“I’ll come back,” Merlin whispers. He doesn’t know if Arthur can hear him or not.
I’ll come back, he thinks, but you might wish I hadn’t.
They hold each other for a long time.
Merlin sleeps in Arthur’s tent that night.
They share a bedroll, their bodies twining in sleep. Arthur’s heart beats steadily beneath Merlin’s splayed hand, and he knows that were Arthur awake, he would feel the ghost of Merlin’s breath on his collarbone. It is the best thing that has ever happened to him. It is the worst thing that has ever happened to him.
Arthur has commanded that Merlin live, so Merlin will live. When the fight ends tomorrow, Merlin will be the one to walk away, back up the path that runs up the cliff face. His magic will be exposed, and he will be known.
And it will all be after this. This one night, where Merlin can sleep in Arthur’s arms and know that his feelings are returned; where he knows what it is to kiss Arthur and have Arthur kiss him in return.
Perhaps Arthur loves him enough that he can forgive the lies and the secrets between them. Perhaps he doesn’t. Perhaps Merlin, the clumsy, endearing servant is worthy of love, and Merlin, the worn, powerful warlock is not.
Merlin could not begin to guess how Arthur will react tomorrow, but he cannot let himself hope that they will ever have this again.
He spends the night somewhere between euphoric contentment and feeling as though his heart is trying to claw its way through his throat. Despite the darkness, he tries to memorize the curve of Arthur’s lips and the line of his jaw; the way he softens in his sleep, feeling, perhaps for the last time, safe beside Merlin.
He has woken Arthur up a thousand times before, but this time is different. This time it’s with a gentle hand that brushes the hair from Arthur’s eyes and the sound of Merlin’s heart breaking, because how horrible, to have something so wonderful only to lose it so soon.
Arthur grumbles a bit, pressing his face into Merlin’s chest. He has always been more endearing than he should be in the morning, what with how reluctant and grumpy he is.
Just this once, Merlin wishes that he could ignore the rest of the world. He wishes he could stop time and preserve this last moment before everything changes.
Merlin takes a breath to steel himself. “Arthur,” he says, poking Arthur in the side, a bit less gently. He can’t quite muster his usual cheer. “Rise and shine.”
Arthur grumbles something in response, his tone reverberating through Merlin’s chest. Then, he goes very still.
Merlin feels Arthur’s face scrunch up with confusion.
Arthur’s expression is completely lost when he lifts his head. Then, he takes in Merlin— the way the two of them are pressed together— and his lips quirk into a smile. “This is a lot better than my usual wake up.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Merlin tells him. He regrets it as soon as the words are out of his mouth; he didn’t mean it like that. Or maybe he did.
Arthur’s face shutters over, but not before Merlin glimpses the grief in his eyes. He begins to untangle the two of them, silent.
Before he can properly get up, Merlin grabs his arm, and Arthur looks to him.
“I’m going to come back,” Merlin says. “As long as you want me to, I’ll come back.”
Arthur watches him.
“I mean it, though,” Merlin says, forcing some levity into his voice. “This is the only time you’re getting woken up like this. Even if I was your consort, I’d never give up annoying you out of bed.”
It doesn’t fix things, but Arthur nods, his eyes softening for a moment before he shifts, turning from lover to king. “We should make sure everything will go smoothly today. I need to inform the knights that we won’t be going into battle. And you’ll need armour.” He untangles them the rest of the way, giving a lingering squeeze to Merlin’s shoulder as he rises.
Just like that, the moment is over, and Merlin watches as Arthur slips out of their— of his tent and into the darkness.
He does not see Arthur for several hours. The next person to step inside the tent is Lancelot, while Merlin is in the midst of sharpening Arthur’s sword.
“I hear that you need to learn how to fight,” Lancelot says.
Merlin feels rubbed raw, like an open wound, but he grins anyway, a quip halfway to his tongue, when it hits him like a lance.
Arthur will not be the only thing he loses today. Lancelot may know about his magic, but once Merlin is exposed, he will likely, at best, be banished from Camelot. His friends, the life he has carved out for himself— he will have to leave them all behind.
His grin falters.
Lancelot moves closer, brow furrowing with concern. “Merlin?”
Merlin takes everything and shoves it to the furthest corner of his mind. He ignores the way it leaks back to the surface like blood.
“Yeah. I’m Camelot’s champion, apparently,” Merlin says.
“Me, Gwaine, Leon, Elyan, Percival— we all offered to take your place—” Lancelot watches him carefully, “— but Arthur said that it had to be you.”
Merlin is surprised that his voice comes out so evenly. “It does.”
Lancelot doesn’t seem to be reassured, but he doesn’t ask any questions; just nods and says, “The knights thought you might want some pointers before you go. They sent me to come find you.”
Merlin doesn’t think that he could find the words to express how much he loves his friends. He doesn’t think that he could find the words to express how much he’s going to miss them.
“I promised Arthur I would come back,” he finds himself saying. “Whatever it takes.”
Understanding flashes across Lancelot’s face. “Then let’s ensure that it won’t come to that.” He offers an arm for Merlin to grasp, as though Merlin were another knight of the round table.
Merlin knows that it is too late for anything to prevent his fate, but he grips Lancelot’s forearm and nods.
The sun steadily approaches its zenith; every inch it rises is felt like sands slipping through an hourglass. Throughout Merlin’s brief training, the knights keep glancing at its arc, faces drawn.
Merlin tries to remember this easy camaraderie. Catalogues the affection with which Leon ruffles his hair and Elyan claps him on the back. Memorizes Gwaine’s easy grin and the gentleness with which Percival offers Merlin his sword. It’s not enough, but he doesn’t think memory ever could be, when the knights are so full of life.
He’s clumsy with a sword as ever, but Leon declares him much improved anyway when Arthur comes to find him. The worried line of his jaw gives the lie away, but none of the knights argue.
Arthur hovers at the edge of the field, like he doesn’t want to interrupt. He’s clearly troubled, and Merlin knows that he saw his last attempt to spar with Elyan, which wasn’t particularly impressive.
Gwaine starts towards Arthur, face hard, but Percival grips his shoulder, holding him back.
“You should go,” Leon says, regretful.
Merlin looks around the knights, one last time. “Thanks,” he says, and he means it.
Lancelot nods at him, solemn.
Merlin starts towards Arthur.
“Merlin?”
Merlin turns.
“Good luck,” Lancelot says.
The sun has risen higher. Merlin feels it, though he’s blocked from its light, back in Arthur’s tent.
Percival’s sword sits on the table. The vague hum of the camp is muffled by the tent walls. And Arthur is fastening the straps on Merlin’s first vambrace with a devotion and determination that makes Merlin’s breath catch in his chest; as though these flimsy pieces of metal over his forearms will bring him back in one piece.
Part of Merlin wants to take these last few moments and tuck them close to his heart. He scarcely wants to breathe for fear of disturbing this peace, coloured with nerves and grief as it is.
But Merlin knows, nothing will be the same when he returns to Arthur. It will not matter that the Merlin who walks onto the battlefield will be the same Merlin who walks back off; everything will be irreparably changed.
It would be easier, to let it simply happen. To let Arthur find out by watching from above; allow his face to harden with hurt and betrayal where Merlin cannot see it happen. Except, Arthur deserves to hear it from him, after everything.
Arthur doesn’t comment on Merlin’s shaking hands. Instead, he takes them in his own and presses an achingly gentle kiss to each of Merlin’s palms.
Merlin cannot look. He closes his eyes. “Whatever happens today… please don’t think any differently of me.” He aches, he aches, he aches. “Everything that I am is for you. It always has been.”
Arthur lowers their hands and moves onto the next vambrace. It’s a moment before he replies.
“You said that to me once before,” Arthur says, “in Ealdor. Remember?”
“Yes.” So many years since then, and it feels as though nothing has changed. In this moment, Merlin is still the same, scared boy who doesn’t quite know how to come clean. “I loved you then, too,” he says, instead of I have magic.
Arthur finishes with the fastening. “This time will be the same,” he says, a quiet determination, desperation in his voice, “because you’ll come back.”
I have magic, Merlin doesn’t say.
He swallows. Meets Arthur’s eyes and swears that he’ll remember the way Arthur looks at him now, as though he is loved.
“I will,” Merlin says.
In the end, the battle is short.
Merlin holds Percival’s sword in one hand, standing at the base of the cliff with Arthur and Camelot watching from above. Before him, Caerleon’s army stands. He can make out Queen Annis at its front, waiting, not impatient, but sharp, expectant.
From beside Annis, her champion makes himself known. He’s at least a foot taller than Merlin, more muscled than even Percival. His sword glints in the sun, deadly and cold.
Merlin looks back and picks Arthur out in the crowd behind him.
Forgive me, he thinks, and turns back around.
Caerleon’s champion stops a handful of paces from him. The man lifts his sword, teeth bared.
Merlin’s heart is hammering in his chest. Percival’s sword slips in his sweaty grip, but he clutches it like a lifeline and holds it up.
He ducks out of the way of the first strike. The second, he tries to block, but the sword goes flying out of his hand. Automatically, he steps back, feet catching on the uneven ground, and he goes sprawling to the ground.
The man’s sword plunges towards Merlin’s chest.
Come back, he hears Arthur beg.
Merlin’s eyes burn gold, and the man’s sword shoots backwards, pulled from his grip, and embeds itself in the dirt a dozen paces away.
The man’s eyes widen and he looks between Merlin and his sword for a moment before lunging for the blade he knocked from Merlin’s hands.
Percival’s sword flies to Merlin’s grip before Caerleon’s champion can reach it. Another flash of gold and the earth has risen up around the man, pulling him down to his knees. He struggles uselessly as the grass grows, winding itself around his legs and trapping him, left only to Merlin’s mercy.
Merlin holds the sword in his hand to Annis’ champion’s throat.
Everything is silent.
He looks past the man who kneels before him, to Annis. She’s too far away for Merlin to read her expression, but he sees her nod.
Merlin steps back, sword hanging limply in his grip. He doesn’t dare look to Camelot’s army— to his friends, to Arthur— as he retreats.
His mind is buzzing. They know. Arthur knows. So many years of secrecy, and he has torn it all down with little more than a wave of his hand.
How will Merlin be welcomed? With a blade to his chest? Righteous hurt and fury? With an embrace?
It doesn’t matter, he thinks. Whatever Arthur gives him, he will take.
When he walks into Camelot’s camp, the men recoil from him. (He doesn’t see Lancelot, or Gwaine or Elyan or Leon or Percival, which is a small blessing, perhaps.) No one stops him as he goes to Arthur’s tent, heart heavy and hands trembling.
Arthur is waiting for him inside.
Merlin doesn’t know what it means, that Arthur trusted that he wouldn’t run. That Arthur knew that he would come back, like he promised.
“You’re a sorcerer,” Arthur says. Fury is written into every line of his face. His eyes blaze with wild hurt, and something in Merlin withers.
“Yes,” Merlin says. He does not apologize.
“For how long?” Arthur demands.
Merlin spreads his palms helplessly. “Always. I was born with it.”
“So you’ve lied to me,” Arthur says. “You’ve been lying to me since we met.”
I wanted to tell you, Merlin wants to say, but that doesn’t change anything. “I’m sorry.”
Arthur begins to pace, his words dripping with anger. “You know, the law demands that I execute you.”
Merlin shakes, but he drops to his knees anyway, bowing his head. “If that’s what you want.” Urgency bleeds into his words. “But before you do, Arth— Sire, you have to know about the traito—“
Arthur jerks back, visceral horror flickering beneath his hurt. “No— dammit, Merlin, get up.”
Merlin looks up. “Sire?”
Arthur paces like a madman, then stops abruptly and looks back at Merlin. “What am I going to do with you?”
Merlin doesn’t have an answer, but in the end, he doesn’t need to; Arthur is across the tent in a heartbeat, dragging Merlin back to his feet with an angry grip and burying his hands in Merlin’s hair and kissing Merlin as though their lives depend on it.
Merlin kisses back immediately, pushing into Arthur as much as Arthur pushes into him. It’s rough and bruising, but that’s how their touches have always been. That’s how they have always been.
Merlin grabs Arthur’s hips, holding him tight enough that he’s certain to leave fingerprint bruises. The tug at his own hair is almost painful, but he doesn’t care. This kiss is anger, it is absolution, and despite the harshness of it, Merlin knows, everything is going to be okay.
“I’ve never been so angry with you,” Arthur says when they break apart.
“I know,” Merlin says.
“I thought you were going to die,” Arthur says.
“I promised I’d come back,” Merlin says.
Arthur pulls Merlin into an embrace. He’s like a vice. Merlin couldn’t care less.
“We need to talk about this,” Arthur says after a long moment. He’s quieter, now. More tired than upset.
“I’ll tell you everything,” Merlin promises. He doesn’t pull back, and Arthur doesn’t let him go.
“Later,” Arthur says. “Right now, I just want….”
Merlin holds him a little tighter, trying to reassure himself that this is real. Arthur knows. Arthur is angry, but despite, perhaps with it all, he still wants Merlin.
The moment they’ve carved out for themselves is interrupted by voices outside the mouth of the tent. The words are muffled, but Merlin recognizes the cadences of the knights and Agravaine. He stiffens, but Arthur doesn’t move.
The voices rise. The exchange lasts another minute or so, and then the voices go quiet.
Gwaine slips inside.
Merlin jerks away from Arthur, mostly due to surprise. Beside him, Arthur startles, clearing his throat.
Gwaine beams.
“Glad to see that you two’ve kissed and made up,” he says.
Merlin can feel his ears flushing an embarrassing red.
Arthur’s jaw drops. He gapes at Gwaine like a fish.
Gwaine sobers a bit. “Your uncle is in a right mood. We turned him away, but… well. He’ll be back.”
Arthur does not seem surprised. He purses his lips, clearly unhappy. “Thank you, Sir Gwaine.”
The bow Gwaine offers is marginally less mocking than usual. “Sire.”
Arthur rolls his eyes, and for a few moments, everything is as it was.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Gwaine says, wagging his eyebrows suggestively. He moves back towards the flap, then pauses, looking to Arthur. “You made the right choice. Good thing, too, or we’d’ve had to stage a coup,” he says cheerfully, and then, to Merlin, “Now, if you still want us to stage a coup–”
“Get out,” Arthur says, unimpressed.
With one last grin and a cheeky, “Think about it, Merls,” Gwaine disappears.
“I won’t have them stage a coup,” Merlin says as soon as he’s gone.
Arthur snorts. All too quickly, he grows solemn. “My uncle will want you tried and executed,” he says.
Merlin knows how much it hurts Arthur to go against his family. He doesn’t want to make it worse, so he keeps quiet.
“I won’t let that happen,” Arthur says, catching Merlin’s gaze. “I know that no man, no king, should be above the law, but I swear to you, I will make sure that until the laws reflect what is just, you will have a full pardon for any and all magic you have done while in Camelot.”
Merlin cannot believe what he is hearing. His heart hammers against his ribs. “You would legalize magic?”
Arthur shifts, unsure but unwavering. “I… need to think,” he says. “I need to learn. It will take time. But I want you to be welcome in Camelot.”
There are tears prickling at the corners of Merlin’s eyes. He’s fit to burst after everything, humming with half a dozen feelings that he can’t tamp down, no matter how hard he tries. His magic has been revealed. Arthur cares. Arthur doesn’t care. He will keep his home and his life, and the golden age he’s been dreaming of, where he doesn’t have to hide anymore, is beginning to dawn.
He scrubs at his face, nodding rapidly. “I’d like that.”
They take each other in.
Arthur looks tired. There’s still a hurt sheen to his eyes, but he stands tall and looks every inch the king that Merlin has trusted him to become. He looks like the man that Merlin fell in love with, uncertain but determined, flawed but righteous.
“First thing’s first,” Arthur says. “We need to speak with Queen Annis and ensure that our agreement stands. Then, we return to the citadel, where I will make sure that everyone knows you are under my protection. And then…”
And then, they begin picking up the pieces. Arthur will ask questions Merlin doesn’t want to answer, and Merlin will tell him anyway. They’ll argue, more likely than not, and both of them will probably storm off at least once. They’ll say things they don’t really mean, and make up with stilted, painfully intimate apologies. It will take time, to rebuild and relearn, but they’ll figure it out.
“Okay,” Merlin says, and means, I love you.
“Okay,” Arthur agrees, and despite it all, Merlin hears it for what it is. I love you, too.