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"And what's that?"
Merlin stilled.
Just moments ago, Gwen was carefully folding Morgana's laundry on the far side of the chambers. He was certain of it—he'd heard her singing under her breath and followed, distracted, the muffled sounds of fabric as she worked on the Lady's gowns.
But her voice seemed considerably closer now. In fact, Merlin realised with a tinge of panic that she was standing right beside him.
Panic was quick to turn into proper dread as she hooked her forefinger into one of the folds of his kerchief and started tugging.
The crisp touch of air replaced the warmth of fabric against his skin, and without really meaning to, Merlin's hand flew to the side of his neck. It was a primordial instinct of self-preservation, the same one that turns grown men into boys when they're caught doing something they shouldn't be doing.
Of course, it was also a stupid attempt to hide the dark blotch that had flowered fiercely overnight, and that until now he'd thought he'd done a decent job of concealing, by winding the scarf three times around his neck instead of the usual two.
Sloppy though it was, the solution had seemed reliable enough when Merlin joined Gaius for breakfast, and the old man didn't appear to notice anything particularly unusual about him. Or perhaps he had, and simply chose to say nothing.
It was hard to tell with Gaius: he often looked at him the same odd way, with that sort of resignation a father has for a difficult child. Only something in the way his eyebrows scrunched between one spoonful of porridge and the next had made Merlin uneasy, as though Gaius knew something Merlin didn't, but deemed it useless to waste any breath on it.
But Gwen, with those keen eyes of hers, managed to spot it from across the room, and that ought to have been a truly remarkable feat. All day he'd been cautious, keeping his distance without making it obvious. Even now, when she had asked for his company whilst she finished the last of her chores, he lingered casually by the window overlooking the courtyard, the reassurance of an entire room stretching between the two of them.
But she had moved like a predator, swiftly and soundlessly, and he was done for before he could even do anything about it.
If he didn't known better, he might almost think it was magic, and that Gwen had just teleported there with not as much as the snap of a finger. But the truth was another: she was a servant, and had been for most of her life. And like all good servants, she had perfected the art of moving in that in-between space in which she was, yes, allowed to exist—but only inconspicuously so.
"Um." As Merlin willed his voice down to an elusive mumble, he tilted his head to the side, trapping his hand between his neck and the slope of his shoulder. "Only a bruise. Don't worry about it."
This would have been enough to fool someone with a slower brain than hers—someone, for example, like Arthur. But Gwen was having none of it. Doubtfully, she hummed, and with renewed urgency began yanking Merlin's hand to get it out of the way.
The grip she held on his wrist was decidedly incongruous with someone so small, Merlin mused—but relentless as it was, he could still recognise Gwen in the gentleness of the pull. Only she could insist so persistently while remaining so mannerly, and Merlin almost felt a heartless brute for refusing her such a trifling thing.
It was, he knew, a battle he had lost from the start. There was no force great enough in the universe to keep a girl from uncovering a new little secret, especially when the secret involved her best friend, and even more so if it might be of the romantic variety.
But she was, in the end, only Gwen—and despite being the blacksmith's daughter, Merlin had far more experience enduring physical attacks than she did in administering them. So, eventually, she had to let go. Or, more realistically, change her strategy.
"How curious." She frowned, and folded her arms over her chest. There was indeed not a trace of defeat in her tone as she continued, innocently, "It's quite an unusual spot for a bruise, don't you think?"
Merlin was fairly sure he could come up with a convincing story, if only he were given the chance—which, unfortunately, he wasn't. Just like that, Gwen lunged for his weak spot, tickling his side right above the hipbone. Merlin yelped, and let go of the hand on his neck.
As the last waves of laughter ebbed in his belly—a bright, chiming thing that filled the silent surroundings—Merlin lifted both hands in defeat. "Alright, alright!"
There was a sparkle of triumph in Gwen's eyes as she tipped closer to inspect the purple mark on her friend's neck, now completely exposed for her curious investigation. She brushed her fingertips over it, where the bruised skin faded into a dark shade of yellow before turning back to its natural pale color, feather-light digits tracing small, careful circles around the uneven edge.
"Merlin!" she giggled. "Must've been quite the night."
Merlin felt his ears burn, and smiled sheepishly. There was no point in denying what was, unmistakably, exactly what it looked like. "Yeah—yeah, I suppose it was."
He would have to be an idiot, and a complete one, to think that Gwen would let something like this go so easily.
"Well?" She elbowed at him conspiratorially. "Do tell me! Who's the lucky girl?"
Merlin felt another surge of panic flooding his stomach, and again that familiar, desperate urge to flee. "She is, er—" He searched his memory for all the girls he knew, quickly narrowing them down to the ones who might plausibly be willing to bed him. "Willa. Yes! The new kitchen girl."
"Willa." Gwen echoed slowly.
"What?" There was a funny look in her eyes, one that Merlin wasn't sure how to read. "You think she wouldn't be interested in someone like me?"
Gwen scrunched her nose. "No, of course she would," she said thoughtfully. "If you weren't a boy."
"Oh," Merlin said. "Um."
They stared at each other for a while, deliberate in their silence, neither of them quite sure how to continue from there.
"So," Gwen went on, thinking aloud. "If it wasn't Willa—I mean, she couldn't have been, right? Then it must've been someone you can't tell me about."
This was, possibly, an absolute disaster. Merlin made a strangled noise and glanced around the room, hoping for someone to come bursting through the door. But no one came, and nothing was going to rescue him from this conversation. He'd tried, and he'd failed, and now the secret was out. Sort of. It would be very soon, anyway. He could feel Gwen's eyes on him, expectant and a little concerned.
Not really knowing what to say, and not trusting his tongue to limit the damage, he simply said nothing. But with each passing moment, the crease between Gwen's eyebrows deepened.
"Was it… Merlin, was it one of the knights?" she asked. "It'd be all right if it was! I mean, you know you can always tell me anything—or not! If you don't want to. Of course. What I mean is, I don't want you to believe that—"
"It wasn't." Merlin cut in, sharper than he meant to. "It wasn't one of the knights." Gwen had barely paused for breath, as she always did when she was upset, and her mouth started running ahead of her brain. He shrugged. "Not—not one of the knights."
"Uh," Gwen murmured, confused. "Then who—"
Suddenly she clasped a hand over her mouth. "Oh dear. It's Arthur, isn't it?"
Merlin groaned. "Please, Gwen… if someone hears—"
But Gwen wasn't listening anymore—he didn't deny it, which was all the confirmation she needed. Immediately Merlin felt as though he was wearing a giant sign: 'I fucked the crown prince of Camelot, gather round to witness the evidence of the wild act'.
"Oh my god. Oh my god. I knew it."
Merlin ignored that last part, and started picking at the skin around his thumbnail. All of Gwen's oh-my-god's gave him no clue about how she truly felt about the whole situation, for they were all over the place, and the tone too jumbled to make anything of it. So he decided it was best to wait until she calmed down.
It took her a while, but eventually she appeared to be done pacing. With quick, resolute steps she closed the distance between them, hands landing squarely on Merlin's shoulders, holding him in place.
"You went to bed with Arthur," she said. This time, at least, she did not scream.
Merlin gave a soft hum in response. "I went to bed with Arthur," he repeated slowly.
It was strange to hear it in his own voice, out of his own mouth—but not remotely unpleasant. Giddy with it, and with the secret now out, he added, "Hopefully, it will happen again."
Time seemed to stretch in all directions as Merlin stood waiting for the axe to land on his neck. He was sure he ought to be bracing for a scold, or some unwelcomed lecture on decency—instead, Gwen wrapped her arms around him: grounding and warm, an anchor in the open sea.
Shock dissipated easily, and he found himself melting into the embrace, the knots in his stomach dissolving as they'd never been there in the first place. He wondered why he'd ever doubted he could trust her with this—or with anything else in the world.
"It's okay," she murmured in the crook of his neck, breath reaching him like a balm, uneven as she stretched and wobbled on her tiptoes. "If you're happy, I'm happy."
Merlin held her tighter, and breathed in the clean scent of soap in the hair tickling his nostrils.
"Yeah," he murmured, and knew many things all at once, like how lucky he was to have her. "As happy as I could ever be."
There was a soft rustle of fabric as Gwen nuzzled him and sniffed against his skin. Merlin thought he wouldn't mind staying like this forever: Gwen holding him, a place to belong, Arthur's love branded on his skin so deep he could feel it.
He ached, in the way one does when realising that life was done delivering all its presents, and already gave you all you should have. The happiest of times always come without warning, and just as unexpectedly they tend to slip away, volatile and untrustworthy: they make you feel safe, only to take it all away.
He knew how dangerous it was to be greedy, and see happiness as anything but an extinguishing well from which you could draw only sparingly. He wished he could smother that part of him that still stirred at the though that this time might be different, the water never-ceasing—that perhaps there was still more to live for, plenty of nights yet to be had.
Gwen was all but sobbing on his shoulder, sweet creature that she was, and Merlin found it almost funny that if someone were to walk in the room now, they would likely assume Gwen was the one in trouble, and not him. He shook her gently, just enough to test if she was ready to let go. When they parted, he caught a lingering wetness in her eyes, which Merlin was sure had little to do with him or with Arthur.
He found himself protesting weakly as Gwen took his wrist and pulled him in the direction of the bed. Protesting a little bit louder, he flopped on the mattress beside her.
The fresh linen for Morgana's bed lay pressed and folded in a corner, perfect white squares stacked neatly on top of each other. Merlin observed as Gwen picked them up with tenderness, and just as tenderly moved them far enough so they wouldn't be disturbed, or God forbid, creased.
He wondered how much of what she did was guided by genuine devotion to her duties, and how much by the love she bore for Morgana. He could so effortlessly see himself in her—the way she tended to her Lady's belongings far too similar to the care he took polishing Arthur's armor every night, even when it wasn't expected of him, even when he pretended to hate every second of it.
"How did it happen?" she asked, a trembling note in her voice.
Merlin shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "It sort of just—did."
Over and over, he had replayed the night in his head: the barely-there touches and diffident glances that had led, in the end, to their mouths chasing one another like it was something inevitable. He had searched for the exact tipping point, the thing that had set all in motion—still, he couldn't find any, or make sense of it all.
"I think—" he said, frowning. "I think we'd both wanted it, for a very long time. Only, neither of us had really understood how much."
Gwen nodded and lowered her eyes. "What are you going to do, now?"
Her fingers were worrying at the frayed hem of her sleeves, pulling the loose threads with focused intent.
Merlin knew he had very little to offer. "I haven't really thought about that." He smiled weakly. "Besides, it's not entirely my decision, is it?"
"Do you love him?"
The bluntness of the question took him by surprise. He let it linger in the air for a few moments—not out of doubt, but rather because he needed to grasp the enormity of it, before giving himself over to the only possible answer.
"Yes."
Gwen was still careful not to meet his gaze. A stray curl fell onto her cheek, and she made no move to tuck it back in place.
"How can you tell?"
Merlin could see it now, that beneath the words they spoke ran another conversation entirely—different, yet inextricably intertwined.
"Gwen—" He went searching for her eyes. "I think you already know."
A metallic clang echoed from outside, rich ripples reverberating across the room and startling them both. From the corridor followed indistinct shouting—a young page, perhaps, being scolded for dropping a bowl, or a basin, or some other such thing.
Gwen blinked, the untimely noise bringing her back from the faraway place her thoughts had taken her. She sat up straighter, and with a little smile she reached out for Merlin's hand.
There was hardly anything more left to say.
***
Morgana stared at the game board as Arthur was finishing setting his pieces in place, excruciatingly slow.
He was sulkier than usual, she thought, meticulously lining up the tokens so that each one was placed at an equal distance from the others—a faithful miniature army ready to strike.
The light of day was slowly fading outside the window, the wide sky wearing the warm purples of late summer evenings, bathing everything in a muted, otherworldly hue. For a moment, Morgana was almost certain they had left Camelot, and had been carried—bedchambers and all—into some fairy realm outside of space and time.
"You look ridiculous," she announced to the quiet of the room, not even bothering lifting her eyes from the tabletop.
Arthur sighed tiredly. "So do you, but at least I have the decency to keep it to myself."
It was meant to be their habitual daily bickering, which was, in truth, the real purpose of these meetings. They were both too stubborn to admit they enjoyed each other's company enough to seek it out openly; they had found, instead, that they could agree on being hostile parties in a game that could never truly end. For every winner, there was always a loser demanding a fair rematch the following day.
Though this time something was off in her brother's retorts. Morgana couldn't quite name it, but she suspected it had something to do with the only new detail in this same old scene: the ratty scarf wrapped firmly around his neck.
She could ignore it, of course, and focus on the game ahead; making a fool out of Arthur by beating him at his precious game was something that always lifted her mood. Not that her current mood needed any lifting: the day had treated her kindly, and the night had granted her the same courtesy.
But seeing Arthur so woeful, and knowing she had the means to make him even more so, was a call she could never resist.
Besides, it was the only way she knew to nag him into addressing whatever was vexing him, and force the words out of him by sheer exasperation. Her methods might not have been virtuous, but they worked—with Arthur, at least.
"I never thought you the type to care about fashion," she said casually. "Though I would strongly advise you to stop experimenting, and leave such things to those fortunate enough to have some taste."
Arthur grimaced and said nothing, which she took as a cue to persist.
"Is there a reason for this sudden change?" She quirked an eyebrow, and stretched out her hand to start the match. "Trying to charm a new crush, perhaps?"
"Throat."
Swiftly her other eyebrow joined the first. "What was that?"
"I have a sore throat," Arthur huffed.
"Of course you have."
She patiently waited for him to make his move on the board. He was always one to want to carry the game from the start; she, on the contrary, preferred to take things slow. The crudest mechanics of war were foreign to her, but one thing she knew: being patient was oft more effective than rushing headlong into victory.
As expected, Arthur seemed more keen on the game than gossiping, and was steadfast in keeping his mouth firmly shut, and his eyes on the board. Morgana considered whether it would be better to put the matter to rest, and leave him alone with his own ruminations.
"I don't—I don't have a crush, by the way," Arthur said, after a long pause.
The words spilled out of his mouth like a vile thing, as if it the mere act of uttering them would have been enough to taint his honor for eternity, and the idea so distasteful it scarcely deserved the same dignity as the rest of its kind.
Morgana tried to keep her expression perfectly flat, but her lips twitched of their own accord. "I'm sure every lady in Camelot will be relieved to hear."
Forgetting for a moment that he was being plagued by Thoughts, Arthur snapped his head up to glare at her. "Shut up," he protested. "Women love me."
Morgana nodded condescendingly. "They do," she said. "From a distance."
It was little more than her usual jab, yet there was something inherently true about it.
Arthur had never shown much interest in the opposite sex, and she'd long ceased to wonder about it; what still surprised her, was that the opposite sex seemed to return the feeling in earnest. Girls rarely bothered to soften their laughs in his presence, or linger close by when he passed, their eyelashes reluctant to flutter in the dizzying way they did with all other knights.
And though Morgana could perfectly understand the feeling, since she knew Arthur and his personality, she also had to admit that he was undeniably handsome, and in possession of both a sword and a crown. On paper, he ought to be the perfect embodiment of every girl's wettest fantasy—yet, he was rarely wooed, and seemed perfectly content to leave it that way.
It was probably for the best that no one thought much of it; it would have been ill-suited for the crown prince to chase skirts like any common fool. But he was also a boy, and that seemed to matter to no one at all.
It pained her still to see him so stunted in his affections, as in all other aspects of life that didn't involve wielding a weapon and pointing it at people. She'd always blamed it on Uther, and all he demanded of him; but now, she was beginning to wonder whether there might be more to it.
"Is that Merlin's scarf?"
She watched in fascination as Arthur nearly choked on his own tongue. He had always been so easy to read, it was almost no fun at all.
"What has this to do with anything?" he grouched. "Would you just… can we just play, for God's sake?"
Since he asked, Morgana eagerly moved her piece forward, tossing one of Arthur's off the board with a flick. The antler token rolled across the tabletop, wobbled a couple of times, and then settled in defeat.
"I'll take it as a yes, then."
Morgana could see it all making sense now: the kerchief, Arthur's brooding temper, his flustered reaction at the mention of his servant. And hadn't he been late to practice that morning?
The pieces were all seamlessly slotting together to form a perfectly clear picture.
She could not fault her brother: Merlin was striking, and there was something about him beyond mere looks, something many before had failed to resist. If those were really Arthur's inclinations in matters of love, it was hardly surprising that Merlin, of all men, was the one who had claimed his heart. If anything, she was rather relieved of it.
Arthur was still withdrawn into his unresponsive silence, nervously nibbling at his lower lip. His distress was clear in the way his jaw troubled under the skin, as if he were in the process of deciding whether to bare his soul, or make a spectacular lunge for the window.
Morgana felt the overwhelming urge to grab his shoulders and shake him with all she had. It was tiring, at times, to have to do all the work—but such were things with her brother.
"Are we still going to pretend there's nothing unseemly beneath that scarf, and that you simply woke up with a sudden concern for accessories?" she asked, attempting a tone that could pass as encouraging.
"Morgana—" Arthur groaned, running a hand over his face. "Can we not do this?"
"Of course," she said. "But I am your sister. And if I've loved you all my life despite that awful personality of yours, there's hardly anything you can do now to change it."
Arthur took a moment to let her words sink. "That must have been really hard for you to admit."
Despite herself, she smiled. "You have no idea."
He let out a weak laugh, then took a deep breath. The exhale came out ragged and laboured, and by the time it passed, the air between them had shifted.
Curious, Morgana lifted her eyes to take him in. One last blade of sunshine brushed across Arthur's face, and the softness of its touch seemed to take ten years off his features.
A deep longing filled her chest, as if she had forgotten she ever had a brother, and was now seeing him for the first time in long years. Suddenly she remembered the little boy who used to challenge her with a wooden sword in the courtyard—the way they tumbled and screamed in the rough grass just outside the castle's main gate, where they could be, for a blessed minute, nothing more than kids.
The boy Arthur had been was gone now: the years had hardened him into the man before her—a rougher Arthur. An angrier Arthur. It was so easy to forget that he had once been young, wild and full of hope—that the crushing sadness he carried had found him only later.
But somewhere, resilient as only children know how to be, that boy still lived—Morgana knew it. She knew it because she had begun to see him again, in passing glimpses, ever since Merlin had arrived in Camelot.
Arthur knew it as well—and knew that she knew. There was something close to resentment in the way his body was tensing under her stare now—but it wasn't directed at her, Morgana understood, rather at himself.
"What do you want me to say?" he resumed, his voice a painful and mortified growl. "That I have no idea what's gotten into me? That it just—that it just happened?" He frowned, and lowered his eyes. "Or that I'd gladly make it happen again, if I had the chance? Christ, Morgana."
He shook his head, as though trying to rid himself of all that was finally closing in on him. In a moment he was on his feet, his grip tightening on the edge of the table.
Morgana said nothing. She folded her hands in her lap, and waited. Some of a man's toughest battles are fought far from the battlefield, and are the ones that must be faced alone.
"I don't know." Arthur drew in a shaky breath and closed his eyes. "All my life, I've never truly known anything. But with him—"
He froze, unsure how to finish. His fingers moved instinctively to the scarf wrapped around his neck; it was merely a touch, but the moment he realised what he'd done, he groaned.
"God. This can't be good, can it?"
At long last, Morgana felt perfectly justified in rolling her eyes.
"Good Lord, Arthur," she groused, vaguely aware she ought to feel guilty for how harsh her words sounded. "Will you ever get over yourself? Surely you know you're not the first person to fall in love—and you certainly won't be the last."
She ignored the horrified look in her brother's eyes and, before he could open his mouth to protest and deny everything in his usual fashion, she went on.
"Do spare me the details, I beg of you. I can live with just knowing that beneath all the pointy toys and that big, scary chain mail, you are just one soft, hopeless, dummy."
Arthur opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, trying to decide which of the things Morgana had said offended him most.
He jabbed a finger at her. "I am not soft."
"Oh, please." Morgana waved him off. "Sit down, now."
Arthur scowled, but begrudgingly lowered himself onto the chair. Once he was seated again, he cast a hesitant glance at the board, as if wondering whether he was meant to go back to the game like nothing had changed. He took up a piece and slowly slid it to the side, in a move that made no sense whatsoever, but that Morgana would pretend otherwise.
It was kind of endearing to see him like this.
"You know—" She leaned back in her chair. "Instead of that awful thing, you could have asked for some of my powders. I could have helped."
"Powders?" Arthur scoffed. "Did you take me for a girl?"
Morgana closed her eyes, considering homicide. It had been quite silly of her to think that being in love could make her brother any less of an nuisance.
"My mistake," she allowed, clinging to the unfortunate notion that she did love him. And besides, she probably wouldn't have fancied the woes of a life as a fugitive. "I just assumed such concerns would be well beyond you, having had an entire cock down your throat."
Before her, Arthur turned the beautiful color of ripe cherries. "I have not—" he snapped his mouth shut, not daring to continue the sentence.
He made a pitiful attempt at clearing his throat, then began fidgeting restlessly with the pieces on the board.
When he was done blushing like a virgin, which he clearly was not any longer, he said, "So you don't—hold any—grudges against me?"
Morgana couldn't help but soften at the ill-concealed apprehension in his voice.
"Why on Earth would I ever?" she said firmly. "If anything, I'm relieved you won't die alone as a sad, wrinkled old man."
Arthur made an annoyed sound, but no words accompanied it.
The room fell quiet again—a warm sort of quiet, this time. Something in Morgana's words had loosened the tension that lingered between them. Even so, she knew there was still more she could do for him.
"Arthur," she said. "I don't know what goes on inside that dense skull of yours—I can only assume it's something entirely idiotic. So let me be clear, and save you the trouble of thinking: there is nothing wrong with you." She tilted her head to the side, brushing a lock of hair behind her shoulder. "Sorry. I mean, clearly there's plenty wrong with you—just not this particular thing."
Arthur's lips quivered. In the dying daylight, he had the helpless look of something lost and startled—a fawn, wide-eyed and motherless.
"How can you say?" His voice reached her only as a whisper.
Morgana saw all he desperately needed—and all he should have, but life kept refusing him. She felt the gravity of the moment, and her responsibility to do it right.
It was Uther, she knew, who had failed him—not out of cruelty, but from an incapacity to love. And when you are raised thinking that love is a reward to be won, rather than a right of the human soul, love (or the absence thereof) festers deep. You begin to question whether you have ever really deserved it, and if you have any right to make others endure the burden of knowing you.
Morgana inhaled slowly. "I can say," she replied, "because how could it be wrong if it makes you happy?"
Arthur remained silent, his finger absently scratching the polished surface of the table.
"Are you happy?" she asked, then.
The diligent scraping of nail on wood ceased at once. Morgana studied him, the lines and shadows chasing each other on his face as he fought with her simple question.
"I don't know," he conceded at last. "I've never really thought about it. Can people like us—like me, even consider such things? Isn't a ruler's only concern the safety of his kingdom? Does it matter whether I'm happy, as long as I do right by my people?"
It was instinct that made Morgana reach out across the table and cover her brother's hand with her own. "Oh, Arthur—of course it matters. Nothing else does."
Arthur looked unconvinced, but his hand remained firm under hers. The stiffness of his muscles betrayed the effort it took to give himself over to that tenderness without protest. Morgana couldn't remember the last time they had held one other like brother and sister—or whose fault it had been that they'd stopped.
"If I—" Arthur continued. His eyes were bright—shining with the last traces of light in the darkening room. "I think… if I were ever meant to be happy, it would be with him."
Morgana smiled softly, giving his hand one last gentle squeeze before letting go. "Then you have your answer."
Arthur nodded and, to her surprise, smiled back. It was so faint and quick it could have easily passed as some trick played by the shadows—but not to her. She saw it.
Without a word, they began to gather the tokens from the board. There was still plenty of time to play—just not tonight.
Tonight, someone was waiting for him.