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Arthur’s survived far fiercer monsters than this, but he doesn’t ever remember feeling quite so dead on his feet this early into fighting one before.
It’s a…something he can’t recall the name of, vaguely bear-shaped and less-vaguely bear-sized, scaled like a snake, tusks jutting out from its face that drip with venom. Something out of a nightmare, whatever it is, and he really had dried to keep those tusks away from him, but it had managed to graze him anyway. He’s gotten deeper wounds from training, it shouldn’t faze him, but whatever poison inside that creature is a vicious one.
“Arthur?” Merlin asks, terrified, and Arthur regrets dragging him along.
Merlin never likes fighting monsters, Arthur knows that, but it’s one of the rare times that Arthur can do what a king must and have Merlin at his side for every moment of it, too. He really hadn’t thought they’d need to bring the knights along, but even if he had, he might have been tempted to leave them in Camelot, anyway. It’s so rare that he gets a chance to needle Merlin like he did when Merlin was still just an annoyance his father had foisted upon him, rarer still that Merlin gives as good as he gets. He never seems to have the confidence to in the castle, even when they’re alone.
Not that Arthur supports this wanton insubordination. He just…
Arthur blinks, frowns. He’s gotten sucked into a reverie of memory practically without noticing. Not an uncommon scenario, with Merlin around, but he doesn’t think he’s ever done so when he’s in mortal danger. Is he in mortal danger?
The monster roars, an oddly high-pitched sound for something so massive. Arthur’s years of training or sheer dumb luck aid him in stumbling away from blow after blow. From the malice glinting in the beast’s eyes, it is less than thrilled with this outcome, stancing like…well, now that he looks at it, it really does look more like a boar than a bear, and that’d explain the tusks —
He dives out of the way not moments before he’s gored by it. Unfortunately, he has the feeling his luck’s run out there, because hitting the ground knocks all the breath out of him. Getting up seems an insurmountable task. He blinks — his vision swims even in the darkness behind his eyelids — and then opening his eyes becomes abruptly difficult, too.
Well, Arthur thinks, resigned. At least Merlin’s coward enough to run.
“Oi!”
Arthur groans and lifts his head up, ready to chastise Merlin for trying to take on a monster that could kill Arthur when his manservant can barely lift a sword, let alone wield one. The words don’t quite come, though. His eyes only barely open. If Merlin’s fool enough to look at him and not the beast, he’d notice, but Arthur’s fairly certain he looks closer to a corpse than a king without such close examination.
Sure enough, Merlin’s face is pale and terrified and set with determination, exactly what Arthur was hoping not to see. It’s not a surprise, though. Neither is the fact that he hasn’t thought to go for Arthur’s sword, lying on the ground nearby, though he’s even more exasperated by this fact than by his characteristic stubbornness. Merlin may be a hapless idiot, but he’s one of the bravest and most loyal men Arthur’s ever met.
He never thought he would resent that quality of his, and tries again — fails again — to tell him to run. Better that only one of them die than both of them. Better for Arthur’s death to mean Merlin survived. He could be content with that. There are far worse things to die for.
Merlin murmurs something in a language Arthur doesn’t recognize. A prayer, perhaps — but then Merlin’s eyes flare a bright, brilliant gold, and the sword flies up and digs itself into the monster’s chest.
Venom can make a man hallucinate, surely.
But he couldn’t imagine the sound that comes out of the monster as it dies, no matter how much poison was in his blood. It’s an awful, gasping wail, far more human than he might’ve thought such a creature was capable of. Even Merlin’s stern expression melts into a grimace, equal parts sympathetic and horrified. It’s such a Merlin look.
That moron. Why on earth would a sorcerer come to Camelot? If Arthur had any strength left in his limbs, he’d throttle him and send him on his way to Ealdor. He could tell everyone that the monster took him so no one went looking, quietly tell Gaius the truth. Yes, that’s what he’ll do.
Except he doesn’t. Have any strength left in his limbs, that is — he falls unconscious while vividly imagining the grief on the faces of Camelot’s knights when he tells them how their favorite hanger-on died a hero.
When he opens his eyes some time later, it’s a surprise. He’d really thought that was it for a moment there.
“Arthur! Arthur, you clotpole, if you don’t —”
“Stop calling me that.”
Merlin laughs, the sound too wet with tears to come from a fearsome sorcerer. “I thought you were dead. Don’t move, if the poultice comes off then we’ll have to do this all over again.”
Arthur mumbles something resembling agreement, focusing on staying still instead of watching Merlin…for all of two minutes, and then he can’t help but stare. He isn’t sure what he’s looking for, exactly. Some indication that Merlin knows that Arthur saw his magic, or a malice that Arthur hadn’t thought to look for before? Ridiculous. Arthur can believe Merlin is a sorcerer easier than he can believe Merlin is anything other than the best of men.
“Have I got something on my face, sire?” Merlin asks, more annoyed than nervous.
Arthur rolls his eyes and makes a point of turning his face away. Merlin yelps in outrage and tells him to stay still again, this time much more sternly. He sounds like Gaius, actually.
Later, Arthur will ask him how long he’s had magic. He’s clearly practiced with it if he’s not throwing up about having killed a monster.
The faintest stirrings of hope at that. Perhaps he won’t have to send Merlin home to Hunith after all. It’s certainly the smart thing to do, but Arthur’s always been a little foolish around Merlin. He just…he can picture all too vividly the regret he would feel if he sent Merlin away. He can’t imagine regretting keeping him close.
Arthur regrets not telling Merlin to go back to Ealdor. It seems nothing short of a miracle that Arthur hadn’t noticed Merlin’s magic before, because now that he knows, he can’t stop seeing it. Merlin uses it to light the fire when he thinks Arthur’s turned away. He comes back to his chambers partway through the day to see his armor floating and polishing itself. His bath is hot even hours after the chefs have gone to rest for the night.
Not that he’s upset about the last one, mind. Late night councils are always exhausting.
But the situation is untenable, clearly. Merlin’s going to get caught any day by this rate. Arthur could change the laws today and he’s certain Merlin would trip into the pyre before his quill touches parchment.
How does he broach this conversation? Merlin, you idiot, go home before one of my father’s staunchest supporters kills you himself. Merlin, why didn’t you tell me? Merlin, it might really kill me to lose you to this, and then all you’ve done will be for nothing, so do me the kindness of leaving somewhere I cannot follow you so that our kingdom may stand.
(His imaginings do become more…overwrought when he has nothing but his own mind to distract him.)
Arthur needs advice. He can’t go to the knights, though he’s certain at least a few of them would protect Merlin just as fiercely as they would him. He certainly can’t go to any of his advisors. But there is one wise man whose loyalty to Merlin isn’t in question.
“Gaius?” Arthur asks, dropping by the old physician’s quarters.
“Ah, sire,” Gaius says, already sounding resigned to whatever whim he’ll have to follow. “I’m afraid Merlin is out.”
“At the tavern again? That…” Arthur sighs. “That is fine, Gaius. I’ve come to talk to you about a sensitive matter.”
Gaius frowns, arching a brow with a judgmental look that always made Arthur nervous as a child. “Sire?”
“Merlin is a sorcerer,” Arthur says, because he’s thought a thousand times about how to start this conversation, and nothing’s right, so they may as well cut to the heart of the matter.
Gaius laughs, unconvincing. “I am not so wizened with age that I would not recognize if my own apprentice was a sorcerer, Your Majesty.”
Arthur waves a hand dismissively. “You’ve no need to lie in his defense, though I appreciate your loyalty. I have seen it with my own eyes and I do not wish to see him hurt. That is, in fact, the exact concern that I have come to ask you about.”
There’s a long, long pause before Gaius speaks again. “Who else know?”
“None that I am aware of, but it’s only a matter of time if Merlin keeps this up,” Arthur says, exasperated. “I’m uncertain how I didn’t notice before. The man wouldn’t know subtlety if you hit him over the head with it.”
Gaius snorts. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. What do you intend to do with this knowledge, if not kill Merlin?”
“If I overturn our laws on magic without cause, the people will think me ensorcelled,” Arthur says. “And if I point out who exactly prompted this change of heart, then they will think they have the target they need to slay to return me to my senses. I can sway the court to my favor with time. I just need him to stay alive until then.”
“I see,” Gaius says. “Is there a reason you haven’t brought this to his attention yourself?”
Arthur rolls his eyes, hoping the mask of irritation is enough to cover up the way he doesn’t have a real answer for that. “When has he ever once listened to me? He’d get himself caught out of spite alone.”
A sound, then. It’s not quite a snort, not quite a huff, and definitively not from Gaius or Arthur. Arthur’s hand goes to his sword as he tries to place it, squinting at the door to Merlin’s chambers. Gaius looks largely unconcerned.
“Merlin isn’t in the tavern, is he?” Arthur asks, face too-hot.
“No,” Gaius says, mouth curling with amusement. “He is not.”
“I’ve listened to you plenty of times,” Merlin interjects from the other room, clearly unable to help himself a moment longer, clearly proving Arthur’s point. “How long have you known?!”
They devolve into an argument that feels familiar, even when Merlin uses his magic casually so as to scare Arthur away, the idiot, as though Arthur hasn’t seen him doing this exact thing for days now and that isn’t the problem. Still, there’s an undercurrent of hysterical relief to Merlin’s every word.
Arthur can’t help but be thankful for it. No matter the magic or the trials ahead of him, he knows this tone from Merlin. He knows Merlin, exasperating quirks and all.
“I’ve not been caught yet,” Merlin adds, childish.
“Let’s not gamble with your life, Merlin,” Arthur says, smacking him over the head for good measure. If he doesn’t put any real force into the blow, well. That’s between him and Merlin.