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The familiar smell of leather and iron filled Arthur's nose as he sauntered into the armoury, plucking his gauntlets from his fingers. The pleasant ache of a successful training session crested through his muscles. He and his favoured knights had been going through their drills, taking advantage of the long summer evenings to hone their skills. Now, they sought their respite, and their cheerful voices accompanied him as he shouldered his way into the large antechamber reserved for his use.

'Did you see the move Lancelot pulled off? He almost had the Princess flat on his back!' Gwaine guffawed, his voice bouncing off of the stone walls as he followed Arthur over the threshold.

'It is true; you don't see that often,' Leon acknowledged. 'It's rare that you are caught off-guard, Sire.'

'It was a lucky hit.' Arthur waved a dismissive hand, knowing his knights would not believe him for an instant. He had already congratulated Lancelot on the training ground, and then left him with the arduous task of clearing up the weaponry, since Merlin was not around to act as dogsbody. He was off somewhere in the Darkling Woods, gathering herbs for Gaius – or so he claimed. 'It won't happen again.'

'Maybe Lancelot will be the one to beat you in the next tourney, Sire.' Elyan's grin was a flash of white as he removed the shields from the lanterns, letting more light spill through the room. At his side, Percival set down his claymore with a sigh, rolling out his massive shoulders.

All around him, the conversation devolved into the usual bickering and wagers that occupied their time. Only Leon abstained, though he watched it all with a fond eye as he helped Arthur out of his pauldron.

'You were proud of him.'

It was not a question, and Arthur did not bother to deny it. Once, in his youth, he might have felt the sting of humiliation. He was Camelot's crown prince, and his father's exacting expectations haunted his every footstep. That had not changed. Yet these days, he had good friends to shield him from the king's disappointment. Not the sycophants and toadies who had once vied for his attention, but dependable men who never failed to acknowledge the others' triumphs.

'He did well,' he acknowledged at last. 'There is no shame in losing to a skilled fighter. Especially one I can call a brother-in-arms.'

'And yet you charged him with clearing the equipment from the duelling ring.'

Arthur grinned as he peeled aside his gorget, the buckles clanking on the end of their straps. 'Of course. He may have bettered me, Leon, but I am still the prince. Besides, it won't take him long.'

Sure enough, before the candles had melted more than a sliver of their wax, the sound of the armoury's squeaky hinges reached his ears. Arthur parted his lips, about to call out, but the thud of the door a second time stilled his tongue.

'Merlin, my friend. What –?'

'I need your help hiding a body.'

Every man in the antechamber froze, the silence thick and breathless. No one so much as moved as they all stared at the threshold, where the door stood ajar only a fraction, blocking them from view.

Yet it was Lancelot's reply, carried on the edge of a weary sigh, that made disbelief stutter in Arthur's chest.

'Again?'

'Don't say it like that.'

'It's the third time this year, and it is only just midsummer!' Lancelot gave a soft groan, but there was fondness to his annoyance. 'Lead the way. I'll grab a shovel.'

'We might need more than one...' Merlin's warning faded away as they both made their departure, leaving the rest of them crouched like rabbits in their burrow, barely able to believe their ears.

'That probably wasn't what it sounded like.' Percival bit his lip, skimming his palm through his close-cropped hair.

'As if Lancelot's trying to help Merlin cover up a murder?' Elyan grimaced. 'I mean... I hope not? But...' He trailed off, apparently unwilling to utter another word. Not that he needed to. No doubt they were all thinking the same thing. Lancelot was loyal to a fault – a good friend to all. Yet Merlin was the first he had made in all of Camelot. If he required aid, Lancelot would not hesitate to offer it.

'Merlin's a lot of things,' Gwaine said at last, picking at the cuff of his gambeson. 'But he's no killer.'

Nobody hurried to agree with him, and Arthur wondered if he was the only one thinking of those moments of rare ruthlessness he had seen Merlin display. He was a compassionate man, willing to help anyone in need, but if he felt someone was threatening his friends...? No, Arthur could see all too easily how Merlin might be driven to such extremes. He was no knight, but in the right circumstances, he would do what had to be done.

'We must have misunderstood,' Percival decided.

'Or misheard?' Leon looked like a man happy to grasp at straws.

'All of us?' Arthur shook his head, blowing out a breath as he grappled with his own indecision. Some questions were best left unanswered. He had learnt that, when it came to Merlin, it was often better not to know. Strange things tended to happen in his presence. Bandits dropped their swords or tripped over tree roots; monsters mysteriously vanished, no longer plaguing the townsfolk... Over the years, Arthur had told himself never to look too closely; frankly he was afraid of what he might see. This time, however, he could not turn a blind eye. Not now a corpse was involved.

Grabbing his belt and scabbard, he lashed it hastily around his waist before sliding his sword home in its sheath. Something must have shown on his face, because Gwaine stepped in front of him, his hands lifted in appeasement. 'Wait. Look, there's got to be a reasonable explanation.'

'Exactly, and I intend to find out what it is.'

'What are you going to do? Follow them?'

'Yes, unless any of you have a better idea?' Arthur raised his eyebrows, looking around at the troubled faces before him. He knew each of the knights almost as well as he knew himself, sometimes. None of them would be content to turn their back on what they had heard. Their honour would not allow it.

'Surely if it were truly something sinister, Lancelot would have been more concerned about people overhearing their conversation?'

'He probably thought the armoury was empty. We said we would meet him in the tavern,' Percival pointed out. 'You'd think he'd sound more upset, though, if it were serious. He's a good knight; not one to take killing lightly.'

'They thought they were alone,' Arthur pointed out. 'Besides, Merlin has all the tact of a mace to the head.'

'Even he would have the common sense to whisper though, wouldn't he? If it was something truly dodgy?' Elyan asked, pulling a face when Arthur just sighed, yanking open the door and beckoning the others to follow. 'We'd better hurry, or we'll lose them.'

'The stables are the closest place with plenty of shovels. They'll go there first,' Gwaine reasoned. 'Unless there's another stash somewhere in the castle?'

'Unlikely.' Percival peered around the corner of the corridor, beckoning with his hand to indicate the coast was clear. They eased out onto the empty duelling ground, the dry grass whispering beneath their bootsteps as the gathering twilight covered the world in its gloaming. Bats fluttered in the dusk, making a feast of the moths that danced for the moon. Arthur cast them nothing more than a fleeting glance as he led the way forward, his heart leaden in his chest.

There was no chatter now. No one seemed willing to utter a word as they hurried towards the stables. At this time of the evening, the grooms would be taking their rest from a day of hard toil. Yet there, up ahead, Arthur saw a pair of figures in a pool of lantern-light, and he flicked his fingers, gesturing for his knights to stay low.

He hunkered down, sheltering behind the wall of the hayshed. Gwaine was nearby, practically breathing down his neck, but Arthur could not bring himself to care. His focus was on the two men who stood up ahead. He would have expected conspirators to be more agitated. There should have been hissed words and waving hands, but there was none of that. They spoke softly, true enough, but it seemed more in deference to the dozing horses and their grooms than because they had any real desire to hide.

'What's going on?' Gwaine whispered.

'They're just talking.' Arthur narrowed his eyes, taking in Merlin's appearance. There was no blood. He did not look as if he had been in a fight. He was a bit pale, maybe, but that could be a trick of the light. If anything, he simply looked exhausted by it all. He leant against the wall of the stable as if it were the only thing holding him up, and his smile was a weary, drab effort as Lancelot gave him an affectionate pat on the shoulder and disappeared into the gloom.

He watched Merlin close his eyes and tip his head back, folding his arms over his chest as he waited. The lantern light caught those cheekbones, painting him in hues of gold, but there was something taut about his posture, as if he were guarding a wound or trying to keep himself under control. It made Arthur's heart surge in his chest, fretful.

Just because Merlin wasn't bleeding it did not mean he was not hurt. He would whine about a splinter if they were on a hunt, but if he were gravely injured, he had an irritating habit of being stoic about it. Arthur's only comfort was that he knew Lancelot too well to believe he would not have seen to Merlin's wellbeing. He was an observant man, and he would not be fooled by a friend putting on a brave face.

A few moments later, Lancelot re-emerged with a pair of shovels slung over one shoulder and a lantern in his other hand. He stopped in front of Merlin, nudging the toe of his boot with his foot to get him to open his eyes once more. Words were exchanged, a question and response, judging by the tone, but whatever answer he got appeared to grudgingly satisfy him, and he passed the lantern to Merlin before gesturing off to the east.

No one stopped them as they picked their way through the streets, but then, who would bother to do so? A knight of Camelot and the prince's manservant were not exactly suspicious. If anything, it was Arthur and the others who would draw unfriendly eyes, scurrying along behind and ducking into alleyways so as not to be seen. It would be easier to simply catch up and confront the pair of them. That would be better than all this cloak and dagger subterfuge, but he knew Merlin too well to believe he would answer with the truth. He would spin some story, the same as he always did.

And Arthur was tired of living in ignorance.

'Huh,' Gwaine grunted, narrowing his eyes as Lancelot and Merlin turned right, away from the main road. 'Where are they going?'

'There's a small gate in the east wall not far from here. It's usually locked and barred. There's no watch to guard it.' Leon sounded grim. 'Perhaps they have a key?'

Arthur sighed, scrubbing a hand across his brow. 'About a year ago, Merlin was complaining about having to walk all the way from the main gate when some of the best herbs grew off to the east. I would not be remotely surprised to find out he's been using this route instead of walking past the guards, the fool.'

Elyan sucked in a breath through his teeth. 'That's risky. What if he'd got lost or injured while out there? No one would know he was missing!'

'And if he is up to something, it's a good way to come and go unseen.' Percival sounded like he did not even want to speak of his own suspicion, but nor could he hold his silence.

'You really think – what – that our Merlin's out there killing people and hiding them in the woods? And that Lancelot is helping?' There was a gentle thump, as if Gwaine had slapped Percival in the arm. 'Don't be thick. They're our friends. If there's anything off going on, then there'll be a damn good reason for it.'

'Keep up,' Arthur hissed, 'or they'll be so far ahead that we will never find out the truth.'

It did not take them long to find the narrow little gate, barely wide enough for one man. The latch lifted easily to Arthur's touch, and he mouthed a curse. Merlin was either cunning or he was careless. For all their sakes, Arthur hoped it was the latter. He wanted all this to be some sort of misunderstanding, yet with every passing moment, a reasonable explanation seemed to drift further out of their reach.

The fringe of the Darkling Woods stood ahead of them, looming in the twilight. The star of the lantern was their only guide, and more than once Arthur feared they would lose its glimmer between the trees. Yet its winking glow led them ever deeper until, at last, it came to a halt.

Arthur's breath tried to catch in his chest as he crept closer. His heart felt like it was climbing in his throat, stumbling in its steady beat. The weight of his sword dragged at his hip, and he rested his hand on the pommel, the better to stop it scraping the ground as he finally got close enough to hear what the two were saying.

Not that a word stirred the air. In fact, there was a stunned edge to the thick, heavy silence, as if Lancelot could not believe his eyes.

'My friend,' he managed at last, glancing towards Merlin. 'I think you overestimate my abilities with a shovel.'

Arthur squinted, trying to make out what Lancelot was staring at. Not that he had much luck. At this distance, the lantern shed little light on the subject. It was as if the two men were an island surrounded by a sea of darkness.

Merlin sighed, dropping his head into his hands as if he simply did not have the strength to face what lay before him. 'What am I going to do? We can't leave it here! Someone will stumble across it, and then we'll be in trouble.'

'Perhaps a little more light?' Lancelot suggested, looking at Merlin as if he thought he had another lantern tucked away somewhere, which was impossible. They carried no packs, just a pair of shovels and a single flame encased in glass.

'I don't know if I can. This took... a lot.'

Now that he paid attention, he realised Merlin was swaying slightly, as if he were struggling to stay upright. The pallor of his face was not a trick of the light. His skin was the colour of milk, robbed of all vitality. Yet he could just make out the stubborn angle of Merlin's jaw: clenched and set.

'What is he doing?' Elyan whispered from where he hunkered at Arthur's side. 'I don't understand. What –'

Then Merlin stretched out his hand, and a seed of light unfurled. It started small, no bigger than an egg, but in the blink of an eye it grew to the size of a man's head: cool, swirling blue.

Shock ran tingling fingers down Arthur's spine, pressing aches into his thighs as his breath choked in his throat. That – that was sorcery: forbidden – punishable by death. That was his foolish, inept manservant casting a spell while his best knight watched on, unconcerned.

Were they both mad?

Arthur's head felt as if it were full of the clamour of Camelot's bells: a crashing crescendo that made no sense. Magic was against the law. Its use was treason, and his duty was clear, and yet...

Yet this was not the first time he had set eyes on that same light. He still dreamt about the caves in the Forest of Balor, sometimes. They were not night terrors about skittering spiders and a woman's cruel smile. He dreamt of that glow and the comfort it had brought him in the darkness. He had never thought he would see it again, but there it was, floating in the bowl of Merlin's hand like a storm in a soap bubble.

Magic had helped him that day; he had always wondered who wielded it. Now he knew.

Part of him whispered that Merlin had been half-dead in Camelot's healing rooms, miles away from the Forest of Balor. How could he possibly have been the one to save him? Yet Arthur was no fool. He could feel that same sensation of companionship and kindness coiling through the air, soft like morning mist. For too long, he had turned a blind eye, happy to live in the blissful illusion of ignorance. He had excused the strange things that sometimes happened around Merlin as fair fortune. Now, there was no escaping the sight before him, not the man who held the magic nor the scene illuminated by the spell's acid glow.

A massive creature lay there, dead and staring, impaled upon huge wooden stakes that looked as if they had been driven into the ground by a giant.

Someone made a noise: a little pop of sound. He could not be sure which of the knights had uttered it. For all he knew, it could have been him. Yet it was just enough to carry on the night air, and he winced as Lancelot and Merlin both spun around, the two of them staring into the shadows. The light from the magic orb crept across the ground, stopping short of where Arthur was tucked behind a tree trunk.

He was tempted to pull back and creep away. To tell himself, just as he had done so many times before, that he was better off in ignorance, but this revelation had not been his alone. All the knights had borne witness. What were they thinking, in this moment? Were they considering their oaths, as he was contemplating his? Were they grappling with what the law would have them do next? There was no nuance – no reasonable excuse. Sorcery was a crime, and the punishment was death.

Yet none of them had bared their swords and stepped out into the light.

'You were alone in the armoury, right?'

Lancelot winced at Merlin's question, and for the first time, true fear painted his face. He had not balked from his request for aid, nor from the monster. It was only now, faced with the prospect of discovery, that his tanned skin took on the sallow tinge of uncertainty.

'I thought so. I was to meet the others at the tavern. I believed they had gone on ahead, or I would have warned you before you began to speak.'

Merlin closed his eyes, horror a brief flash over his expression. Arthur's heart gave a wretched little twist. It was too late now to turn his back on this. The only choice was whether he let Merlin and Lancelot find him, or whether he revealed himself.

'The armoury wasn't empty.'

A few steps was all it took to carry him into the sharp glow of the spell that still hovered above Merlin's head. Would those calm blue tones darken with anger? Would he lash out? Arthur liked to think he knew Merlin better than that, but he could not be sure. After all, he was a Pendragon, and Merlin a sorcerer. There was only one way that was meant to end.

'We were all there.'

Arthur glanced over at Leon, seeing how he kept his hand away from his sword. He did not even let his fingers rest idly upon the pommel. Nor was he the only soul to leave the sanctuary of the shadows, yet the men who emerged were not the confident knights Arthur knew so well. He had never seen them so uncertain.

Gwaine's jaw worked, chewing over his words, and he did not miss how he canted his body towards Merlin and Lancelot, as if he was prepared to throw himself between them and the edge of a blade. Percival hunched where he stood, his arm folded and his shoulders drawn up to his ears, as if he could hide from whatever unfolded before him. Elyan's gaze kept flicking between Merlin and the monster behind him, trying to make sense of it all.

Arthur was not sure what he expected. Dramatic excuses or wild stories. He had heard plenty of both from Merlin when he'd caught him somewhere he shouldn't be. Arthur braced himself for panic, but he should have known better. Merlin never behaved how he ought. He was a useless manservant who thought manners and etiquette were things that happened to other people. Now, faced with Uther Pendragon's sorcerer-slaying son and several knights of the realm, he did not cower or flee. Nor did he summon any magic to defend himself. Instead, he merely clenched his jaw tight before taking half a step forward, meeting Arthur's gaze head on.

'I enchanted Lancelot to help me. He's innocent. He doesn't know what he's doing – ow!'

Lancelot was not one to strike another without due consideration, but there was no missing the outrage in the thump he gave Merlin's shoulder. 'Do not even think about it, my friend. I made my choice long ago.' Those brown eyes met Arthur's, and though there was sorrow in those depths, there was nothing apologetic in his expression. 'Sire, Merlin means no harm. Not to you, and not to Camelot. I would not have kept his secret if I had any doubts.'

'Shut up, you idiot,' Merlin muttered, his voice thick with misery. 'Unless you want to burn too?'

Something seized in Arthur's chest, as if someone had reached between his ribs to catch his heart and lungs in a massive, clenching fist. It was so sudden that he could barely breathe, denial a rock threatening to crack his bones to splinters. The pain thudded through him, impossible to escape. He could only stand in its path and weather it.

Merlin spoke of the fate that awaited any sorcerer found in Camelot, and all Arthur felt was furious refusal. Part of him, childish and lost, ached to realise that Merlin thought so little of him. Yet what did he expect? He had never said anything to contradict such an assumption, nor acted in any way that might make Merlin think twice. Until this very moment, he had not even known it himself. Perhaps he was not as fanatical about the laws as his father, but he had always understood it was his duty to uphold them. Now, in the shadow-shrouded woods and with his knights at his back, he realised the truth.

'No.' It was a rasp of a denial, hardly a royal command. He shook his head, trying to get the words out. It felt like there was a flint lodged in his throat: fear and horror and bitter, exhilarating rebellion. Standing up to his father for his own sake was impossible, but for Merlin...? 'That's not – No pyre. No axe, either.'

Maybe he imagined it, but it seemed as if the woods themselves rippled with relief. Lancelot's eyebrows flew up to his hairline, and he could feel how the knights behind him all seemed to settle into themselves, no longer braced on some unknown brink.

Yet it was the look on Merlin's expression that smoothed away the sharpest edges of his emotions: not doubt or suspicion, but the tiniest flicker of a wild little grin. He looked as if he had always hoped Arthur would show mercy, but never really dared to believe in the possibility until that moment.

Of course, he wouldn't be Merlin if he didn't poke at the whole situation like someone testing the pain in a bruise.

'But I'm a sorcerer? It's against the law, and you took oaths?'

'So did Lancelot,' Leon pointed out, moving forward to stand at Arthur's side, shoulder-to-shoulder. 'Yet it seems he did not have any trouble keeping your secret.' There was, perhaps, just a hint of a reprimand curled in those words, but Arthur had known Leon for years. He recognised when he was more curious than outraged. Maybe none of them had expected this, but he took it in stride with barely a blink.

In fact, maybe it was his imagination, but it seemed that all his knights were a little more at ease, as if some long-lingering question had finally been answered.

'You would have done the same in my boots.'

Not a fragment of doubt made its way into Lancelot's voice. He spoke as if he knew each of his brothers-in-arms down to their very souls. Perhaps he did. Only Arthur got a slightly more hesitant look, as if he were the unknown figure in this particular sum of well-meaning treason.

'He saved us all from the griffin, Sire.'

'You were the one holding the lance,' Merlin protested, pinching his thumb and forefinger over his nose.

'Which would have done nothing if it was not enchanted.' Lancelot shrugged off what sounded like an old argument, ignoring how Merlin huffed and rolled his eyes. 'I could not turn on a man who had saved my life, as well as that of Camelot's prince and more than a dozen knights. It would not have been right.'

The clamour in Arthur's head had reached almost deafening levels: a cacophony of emotion that was so entangled he could not pick apart the threads. Betrayal and anger stood upon a shaky foundation, unable to bear their own weight. Fear lingered like mist wreathing the ground while outrage blazed in his heart. Merlin knew him better than anyone, and it turned out Arthur had not known him at all. The griffin had been years ago. All that time, Merlin had been practicing magic, and Arthur had remained wilfully oblivious.

He almost felt embarrassed at his own ignorance, except he could not lie to himself. There had been suspicions: things he had ignored so he could walk an easier path. Now, that road was closed to him, and he found himself lost in the woods, uncertain of which way to turn.

A deep breath swelled his lungs, and he dropped his hands to his hips, falling back on his training as a knight. It had stood him in good stead through moments of confusion in the past. This time would be no different. In a given crisis, the best path forward was to gather your allies and take action. With that in mind, he turned around, facing the knights who had followed him out here into the dark.

'We must keep this a secret. So much as an idle word in the wrong ear could damn us all.' He would like to think his father would not condemn his only son and heir to the pyre, but Arthur could not be certain. The knights, however, would not be shown an ounce of mercy. 'If you have any concerns, now is the time to speak of them.'

'Er. What exactly is that thing? And how did you kill it?' Elyan raised one eyebrow as he pointed at the creature lolling on the forest floor.

Merlin glanced over his shoulder. 'I don't know. All I saw was a lot of sharp teeth, and I didn't want to be eaten. I ripped up the trees and used them like stakes.'

Arthur blinked. Now that he looked properly, he could see that there was an exquisite precision to each blow. It was no messy slaughter. Branches had been ripped from the tree's trunks to leave the shaft. Had sorcery honed them into points, too? How deep did they plunge into the ground?

Exactly how strong was Merlin and his magic?

'And you can't just use a spell to bury it?' Elyan closed his hands over in a folding gesture. 'Because two shovels are absolutely not going to cut it.'

'I already tried.' Merlin lifted his right hand palm-up, urging the bubble of light higher still. His fingers shook, though whether that was with exhaustion or fear, Arthur could not be sure. All he knew was that Merlin was probably not as calm as he appeared. 'I was worried I was going to dig up half the woods.'

Arthur winced, noticing the starburst of disturbed soil. It spread out in every direction, the size of Camelot's marketplace. One or two trees had a slight lean, as if their roots had been shaken loose of their moorings.

'It happens when I've done something big.' Merlin gestured to the slain beast. 'My magic doesn't get weaker, but my control isn't as good. I can't rein it in.' Those narrow shoulders jerked in a shrug, and Arthur did not think he imagined the tiny, breathless hitch in his voice. 'So it's better to do things the normal way.'

There was a moment's silence, practically choked with unvoiced questions. Arthur could not be the only one wondering just how common an occurrence this sort of thing was. He remembered Lancelot's weary resignation when Merlin asked for his help. Exactly how many times had his manservant been bumbling through the woods, only to slay a beast that would have devoured Camelot's townsfolk in a heartbeat?

'Right.' Percival cleared his throat, jerking a meaty thumb over his shoulder. 'I'm going to get more shovels. Elyan, you're coming with me. You stay here with Prince Arthur.' He pointed at Leon before shifting his finger to Gwaine. 'And you, stay here with Merlin. You should probably start digging.' He frowned in Merlin's direction, but it was concern that shadowed his gaze, rather than fear. 'Except for you. Maybe you should sit down? Before you fall over?'

Arthur ducked his head to hide his smile. One of the things he liked about Percival was how level-headed he could be in a crisis. He was not a man who looked like a commander, but he could step up, forging a clear path while everyone else lost themselves in their confusion.

'Do what he says.'

It was all the confirmation anyone needed. Elyan bobbed his head before walking backwards. 'We'll be as quick as we can.' He pursed his lips, as if he wasn't entirely convinced he would not return to a scene of misery and bloodshed. 'It's going to take us all night to bury that thing.'

Arthur grimaced, because truer words had never been spoken. Part of him wondered if they were better off just trying to cover it with bracken and hope for the best, except he dreaded to think of the stench in a day or two. Merlin had the right idea, though perhaps that was because he had so much experience in keeping his own secret. How many bones lay buried in these woods by his manservant's own hand?

He dithered where he stood, tempted to go after Merlin like a hound after a rabbit. He wanted to pin him against the closest tree and growl his questions. He wanted to shake him until every last secret fell out. He wanted to cup that narrow face, as gently as he could, and make sure he really knew Arthur meant what he said. He was angry, and he fully intended to have it out with Merlin in the privacy of his chambers come the morning. Still, he was not furious enough to condemn a man – a friend – to the executioner.

Even if he did not suspect that Merlin had saved his life more times than he cared to count, he would not turn him over to the king's justice. The very thought made him ache in ways he could not bring himself to look at too closely. Worse, he was painfully aware of his own hypocrisy. If it were a stranger, he would not have hesitated to make an arrest. If they had resisted, he would have run them through. What kind of prince did that make him? How could he uphold laws that he did not truly believe?

He shook his head, stepping forward and grabbing one of the shovels where Lancelot has left it stuck in the ground. He did not feel as if he could be gentle, right now. His body brimmed with buzzing, anxious energy. If he reached for Merlin, it would be with bruising fingers and words eked out between clenched teeth. It would be far better for him to put some of the sharp edges of his temper to good use. He would leave the care of Merlin to people more capable of tenderness.

'How are we going to do this?' Leon asked, stopping at Arthur's shoulder with the other shovel in his hand. He sounded like he was speaking of far more than concealing the carcass, but Arthur had no answers for him. He cut a sideways glance, seeing the sympathy in his old friend's eyes. Leon looked as if he could see the turmoil Arthur tried so hard to hide. Yet at least there was no judgement in his gaze. He did not look at him as if he feared his wits were addled, or as if he were making some dire mistake. There was approval there, subtle but heartfelt, and Arthur clung to it as he turned to face the scene before them.

'We'll have to try and dig underneath it as best we can, and cover it over. We cannot make a hole big enough, and even if we could, it's too heavy to roll into a grave.'

'That, and it's pinned in place. If those trees were as tall as these' – Leon gestured to the pines that still stood around them – 'then their tips are buried at least eight feet into the ground.'

'All right, look. We leave them where they are. Merlin at least broke them off at the base of the trunk rather than pulling them up at the root. People will just think they're dead. As long as the beast is covered deep enough that nothing tries to dig it up, no one will know what's here.'

Leon nodded along, and Arthur shot him an exhausted sort of look, knowing he was biting back the obvious truth. It would take them far longer than a single night to build a hill over the creature, and even then, the earth would clearly be disturbed. True, it would be better than leaving a monster's corpse slumped in the woods for someone to find, but only just.

'We should at least tuck its limbs in before it goes all stiff. Make it as small as we can.' Gwaine folded his arms across his chest, surveying the creature's sprawl. 'The tail, too.' He glanced over his shoulder at where Lancelot was talking to Merlin in low tones, too quiet to be heard. It was not the urgent panic of someone frantically trying to plot their escape. Instead, Lancelot had shrugged out of his cloak, his armour gleaming in the lantern light as he bundled Merlin in the red fabric. He kept every movement easy and gentle, his smile both fond and a touch crooked, as if he knew Merlin wasn't as calm as he looked.

Arthur had to turn away from the sight. Part of him wished he could be that for Merlin, stepping forward to offer his reassurances and comfort, but he was in no fit state to do so. Lancelot had the benefit of time and familiarity. He had known about Merlin's magic for ages. The knowledge of it had settled within him. For Arthur it was still too raw: like burning tar stuck to his skin. There was no escape, but he could not deny the pain of it.

Digging was steady, exhausting grunt work. In life, the beast must have been a formidable sight. In death, it was heavy and awkward. The meat had not yet turned rigid and inflexible, and it still took he, Leon and Gwaine shoving with all their might to force its limbs towards its belly and reposition its tail. By the time it was curled up, they were sweating miserably in the chill night air, their muscles panging from the effort.

'You take first shift with the shovels. I'll join you as soon as Percival and Elyan return.'

'And what are you doing?'

'Checking on Merlin.' Gwaine said it almost like a challenge – as if he were expecting Arthur to order him not to. 'He's had a rough night.'

Arthur bit his tongue, refusing to point out that they'd all suffered a fundamental shift in the way they saw the world. At noon today, he had not been a traitor to the crown. Now he was here, rooting around in the forest earth, besmirched in grime and sheltering a sorcerer. It was almost laughable how quickly a man's circumstances could change.

He paid no mind to Gwaine's departure, nor to the long moments that he and Leon working in silence. He hacked at the ground, vicious and vindictive, though he could not say what he imagined in place of the soil and roots he disturbed. Was he angry at Merlin, or himself? Was it his father's ruthless pursuit of his laws that troubled him, or his own insipid defence of those same decrees? Did he hate himself for being weak now – unable to raise his blade to a friend – or his weakness in the past, when he had not wielded his weapon to protect those who needed it: druids and mages and innocents?

It was as if someone had lit a candle and chased off the shadows of his excuses, leaving him alone to grapple with the ugly truth that was revealed.

'Speak, Sire.' Leon's command was low and soft, meant only for his ears. 'Better to rage at me than somebody underserving. Be that Merlin or yourself.'

'You think he does not deserve it?' The question took him by surprise, more because, deep down, he felt the same. Oh, he longed to yell at Merlin for never having trusted him, but logically, he could find no fault with that decision. He wanted to shout at him for being the kind of fool who would learn magic in a place that would see him dead for even a glimmer of skill, and yet he could not bring himself to regret Merlin's abilities. He had saved Arthur's life more than once, and those of their friends. Of that he had no doubt.

'I suspect that the matter is not nearly so straightforward,' Leon replied. 'Does it hurt that he has hidden it from us? Yes, of course. I considered Merlin my friend. I still do. Yet I cannot fault him for it. Revealing his nature could have literally spelled Merlin's doom. There are some things that even the strongest friendships cannot survive. I think, perhaps, he did not want to put any of us in the position where we had to choose between our oaths and our compassion.'

'Lancelot chose.'

'But I do not believe Merlin chose Lancelot.' Leon tilted his head, giving Arthur a look that felt far too knowing. 'I got the impression it was an accidental discovery – much like our own.'

Arthur chewed over his words as if they were stones, practically breaking his teeth on their sharp edges. Yet when he spoke again, it was not anger that seeped out of him, but fear.

'How am I going to keep him safe? You know how he is. He didn't even check to see if the armoury was empty before asking for Lancelot's help. Anyone could have heard him!' Horror made Arthur's fingers clumsy around the handle of the shovel, and he had to stand there, weathering the wash of it as it rushed down his limbs in chilly waves. 'It's a miracle none of us found out before this.'

He glanced over, seeing how Gwaine reached out to ruffle Merlin's dark hair, looking both fond and worried. Lancelot had built a little campfire to offer warmth, feeding it sticks with steady patience. He knew his knights would step up to the challenge, but it did not stop the insidious uncertainty curling between his bones. One word of suspicion was all it took to bring down the full wrath of his father's so-called justice.

'It will be easier, now that we know. We are all in agreement. If Merlin knows he can rely on us, there is a chance he will be more circumspect.'

Arthur scoffed at that. It did not seem likely. Merlin was many things, but subtle was not one of them. Still, he could see what Leon meant. They could not hide a secret they did not know existed. Now that they understood the cause behind all their good fortune, they were better prepared to help Merlin keep it hidden until the day it was no longer necessary to conceal his nature.

Until sorcery was legal in Camelot once more.

He stiffened as the notion drifted across his mind. It was only a glimmer, like a stray mote, but he could feel how its seed could flourish in fertile ground. It was not something he could look at too closely, not now, when anger still made his thoughts raw and turbulent. So it was he ushered it carefully to one side, to be taken out and inspected at a better time.

The sound of approaching footsteps caught their attention, and Arthur only relaxed when Percival and Elyan reappeared carrying extra shovels, as well as another pair of lanterns and a couple of waterskins.

'Were you seen?' he called, relief trickling through him when they shook their heads. Percival bent down at Merlin's side, offering him a drink and a smile. Perhaps none of the knights knew how to bring Merlin the emotional comfort he needed, but they seemed intent on making sure he was all right, physically speaking.

It was Lancelot who rose to his feet, scrabbling his way out of his chainmail and gambeson before setting them both aside. He picked up a shovel, saying not a word as he got to work.

Arthur might have expected some kind of apology, or perhaps a breathless explanation. Instead, Lancelot held his steady, bottomless silence as he heaved soil up against the creature's flank, slowly concealing its scales from sight.

'Who taught him?' The question slithered past his lips, unstoppable. It felt like a test, though of what, he could not quite be sure. Part of him longed to find out just how deeply Merlin had trusted Lancelot, while another wanted to try and trip him up – to prove to him that, despite being taken into Merlin's confidence, he still did not know him as well as Arthur, bar this one, glaring omission.

Lancelot paused, his dark eyes soft with far too much pity for Arthur's liking, though he could not quite understand the root of it. 'Perhaps it would be better if you spoke to Merlin about it yourself, Sire.'

'That's really not a good idea.' It would end in shouting. Arthur knew himself too well to believe otherwise. Even now, he was desperately tempted to simply throw aside his shovel and bully his way into Merlin's space. He wanted to snarl his demands and pick it all over until he understood, but he did not trust himself not to say something in the heat of the moment that scarred them both forever. Whether he liked it or not, he had his father's temper, and part of him hoped to spare Merlin its sharpest edge.

'You'll have to speak to him sooner or later,' Elyan murmured. 'For both your sakes.'

'Not now.' Arthur realised Percival had also joined them, working in silence. Only Gwaine still lingered by Merlin's side, though whether that was to keep him company or make sure he didn't flee into the night, Arthur was not certain. 'Just answer the question.'

Lancelot sighed, his hair brushing his cheekbones as he continues to hack at the earth. 'Nobody. According to Merlin, he has been doing magic since before he cut his first tooth. He was born with it.'

The symphony of shovels fell quiet. Arthur was not the only one who had stopped what he was doing, too shocked to continue. Leon had frozen at his side, while Percival and Elyan both blinked in surprise. Were they like him, he wondered, tempted to call that out as a lie? Did they have a sinking dread in their stomach that it was the truth, and that everything they had been told of sorcery was wrong? His father had always made it sound as if it was a choice, and yet...

Gods.

'His poor mum,' Percival murmured, making Lancelot smile and Elyan huff. 'Can you imagine a toddler capable of magic?'

'She is a very patient woman,' Arthur acknowledged, resuming his toil. 'Though why she sent her son here, I don't know.'

'She had hoped Gaius would teach Merlin some control, since he was once a sorcerer himself. I don't think it worked quite the way she intended.' Lancelot sounded wry, and Arthur wondered how many of the white hairs on Gaius' head these days could be blamed on Merlin and his recklessness.

'Gaius had magic?' Leon's surprise was more wholesome than suspicious. 'I didn't know that.'

'Most people don't. He was, in his own words, self-taught and not very strong. But he is probably one of the few left in Camelot who knows any of the basic principles. He once described Merlin's magic as a bull in a marketplace. Big, powerful, and challenging to control.'

'He managed all right with this.' Elyan stepped back, gesturing to the beast before them. 'A quick, clean kill. It would have taken at least half the knights in Camelot to slay it, and imagine the casualties.'

'And that is assuming it can be killed by normal means.' Lancelot sighed, cuffing sweat from his brow and leaving a smear of mud in his wake. 'It could have been like the griffin: immune to anything but magic.'

The full story of that incident came out of him in halting, hacked up chunks: little nuggets that filled in the holes of Arthur's knowledge. At the time, he had been too grateful that the beast was dead to question its downfall. Now he knew that, if not for Merlin, Lancelot would probably have died that day: his life thrown away in a futile effort to save Camelot from the rampage.

'Well done for not dropping the lance.' Leon sounded genuinely impressed. 'I cannot say I would have kept a level head in the same situation.'

'I nearly did,' Lancelot acknowledged. 'Then I had a dead griffin, a dozen or so unconscious knights and one very panicked sorcerer to contend with. He thought I was going to kill him there and then.'

Arthur said nothing to that, turning away to hide his relief. He had thought Merlin had trusted Lancelot where he could not find faith in anyone else. It was comforting to know that he had been just as scared, despite the flawless, devoted friendship that had arisen between the two men almost at the moment of their meeting. It made Merlin's secrecy feel a little less personal, and something small and hurt inside him found a fragment of succour.

'He did not run, though.' Lancelot paused, his head tilted as he considered the memory. 'I thought I'd have to chase him through the woods to promise my silence and instead... He just awaited my judgement.'

'Brave.' Percival sounded almost proud.

'Stupid,' Arthur muttered. He hated how well he could picture it in his mind's eye. If Uther ever discovered what he was, would he even try to flee? Would he fight back, or would he face the pyre, unflinching? How was he meant to protect someone who threw themselves into danger, time and again?

The stamp of Gwaine's footsteps announced his approach, and Arthur looked up in surprise when he smacked him none-too-gently in the arm. 'Switch places. I'll do that. You sit with Merlin.'

Arthur had no idea what his expression did, but Gwaine's lips curled in a sneer. There wasn't much that could make that roguish face ugly, but his derision managed it. 'He's asleep, Princess. Out like a candle. He won't hurt you, but someone needs to keep an eye on him. It might as well be you.'

'You aren't worried I'll chop his head off?'

'Even you're not that stupid.' Gwaine yanked the shovel out of his grip, almost knocking him off his feet with his ferocity. Arthur knew that belligerent temper all too well. Gwaine was fiercely protective of those he decided were worthy of his friendship. He was surprised he didn't clock him over the head with the tool in his grasp. Yet there were layers to his command that he could not ignore. Arthur might be the target of his disappointment, but despite everything, Gwaine still trusted him enough to look out for Merlin's safety.

Grumbling under his breath, he climbed out of the shallow furrow they had managed to dig, kicking his feet through the leaf litter before deciding to quiet his approach. Not because he thought Merlin was dangerous. He wasn't afraid, no matter what Gwaine believed, but it still might be a bad idea to make a sorcerer feel threatened by his presence.

Not that he needed to worry. Gwaine had not told a word of a lie. Merlin did not even flinch as he approached. There was no defiant glare. He did not huddle as if awaiting Arthur's judgement. Lancelot's cloak covered him from chin to hip: a makeshift blanket. Those dark lashes painted fans against his cheekbones, and they did not so much as flutter as Arthur settled at his side.

Once, he might have tucked himself in close, colliding at the shoulder and hip. Now, he kept himself at a pointed distance: a couple of inches that felt like a mile.

For long moments, he stared at the toes of his own scuffed, muddy boots, his feet kicked out in front of him. It felt safer than glancing in Merlin's direction. He did not know what to feel, now, when he looked at him. It was all a mess in his head. His father's words about treachery kept rattling around the caverns of his skull, but he could not marry that vicious, hateful rhetoric with the notion of Merlin. Every time he tried, he recoiled.

Merlin was many things: compassionate and kind, silly and sorcerous... but he was not a traitor. Even if the king's law said otherwise. Arthur wanted to rage. There was definitely anger in his heart. It glowed like an ember, sullen, dark crimson, but there was no spark to it. He almost felt as if he didn't have the right to the sharp, clean slice of fury. Merlin had lied, but he had done so for good reason. When it came down to it, could Arthur really blame him for his secrecy?

Something slithered by his hip, making him twitch in surprise. His first, repulsed thought was that it was some kind of snake, but a closer inspection showed the delicate tendrils of a vine pushing aside the deadfall as they sought the shattered moonlight that drifted down between the branches. It was a small, thready plant, but even as Arthur watched, it thickened, unfurling leaves of bright, emerald green. It latched onto the tree behind him, and he observed its inching progress up the bark.

The notion of retreat flickered across Arthur's mind. Yet he had never been the kind of man to run, and he was not about to start now. There was nothing dangerous about the plant. True, he had never seen one grow so quickly before, but try as he might he could not dismiss the sensation that strafed against his skin. It felt like the gentle touch of burnished sunlight on a summer's day: a kiss of warmth in the depths of the night – almost comforting.

A flower the size of his palm unfurled a short distance above his head, its moon-pale petals gleaming. More joined it as the vine climbed ever higher, picking out a constellation of blooms up the tree's strong bole. They let out a soft fragrance, and Arthur watched as the moths danced around their hearts, lost in their worship.

Before long, he realised that the creeper was not the only plant to have flourished near where they sat. A carpet of forget-me-not sprawled across the ground, interspersed with the delicate arch of bluebells. Both should have withered months ago. Yet here, it seemed that time held little meaning.

Was this the magic of which he was meant to be terrified? Was this the power his father had railed against from the balcony as some poor condemned soul wept at the stake? If it were witnessed by anyone else, that would be Merlin's fate. He would be executed, and all for what? For saving Camelot from a rampaging beast and growing bluebells while he slept?

Cautiously, Arthur reached out, brushing the edge of one fingertip over the curved stem of the closest cluster of flowers. He had expected them to be insubstantial, but they felt as solid as he was. Only the glimmer of gold around the flower's frills suggested anything unusual.

'They won't bite.'

He yanked his hand back, a gasp of surprise catching between his lips as he turned to glare at Merlin. The wretched man had not moved, but those lashes had parted, revealing a sliver of blue. How long had he been watching Arthur, and what had he seen?

Anger tried to rear its head anew, pressing words against the back of his teeth, but Arthur swallowed them down. It was a flash of heat, rather than something sustainable, and he would not burn their friendship to ash so carelessly.

'Flowers, Merlin,' he managed. 'Really?'

A tired sigh stirred the air, and when he spoke, he sounded as if he only had strength for honesty. 'Magic likes life. It's capable of almost anything you can imagine, but this? Growing things? It's as easy as breathing.' He shifted where he sat, and Arthur didn't miss the flinch of discomfort that shattered over his face – there and gone again. He had thought Lancelot had checked him over for injuries. Now, he was not so sure, and a dark wave of worry washed through his chest.

'What is it? Are you hurt?'

Merlin blinked at him, and it stung to see that glimmer of surprise, hastily hidden. Did he really think that Arthur would be indifferent? Did he believe him to still be that oaf who had chased him around the marketplace, content in his simplistic little world?

'Sore, that's all. Like you might feel after a long battle. Though it's not my muscles that ache. It's... something else.'

'You'd actually need to have muscles in order for them to ache,' Arthur pointed out uncharitably. He meant for it to sound more waspish than fond, but judging by the faint glimmer of Merlin's smile, he had not been successful.

He folded his arms across his chest, watching as a poppy bloomed by his feet, its raggedy petals wavering in the breeze. 'You're not doing it on purpose, are you? The flowers I mean?'

The silence that followed his question was a touch surprising. He knew Merlin: chatty to a fault. He'd watched him try and talk his way out of the most ludicrous situations before, all hasty words and cheeky grins. Now, there was none of that. Merlin made no excuses. Was it a relief, Arthur wondered? Did it feel good to have his secret out in the open, or was he still in that glassy arena of shock, where there was no room for anything but the truth?

'No.' Merlin swallowed, shifting his feet and tucking himself deeper in the folds of the cloak that covered him. 'Not right now. I'm too tired. It seeps out. It'll stop by morning.'

'Good. It might be a bit hard to explain, otherwise.'

Merlin gave him a baffled look. 'What?'

'Someone's bound to notice if there's flowers growing in the cracks in the castle walls, and that wouldn't end well. Not for any of us, but especially not for you.' Arthur shuffled where he sat, his shoulder nudging into Merlin's, determined. He didn't know much, right now. Magic was a mystery to him, and his certainties were few, but the one truth he could claim rang through his head as clear as a bell. Whatever else he felt, however sore his heart, he would do what he could to keep Merlin's secret hidden from those who would do him harm.

'You're not going to try and get rid of me? Send me away?'

Arthur tensed all over, a new quagmire of conflict rising up within his chest. That was what he should do, for Merlin's own good, if nothing else. Camelot was not safe for a man like him. He risked his life every day he spent at Arthur's side. He would be better off in another, friendlier realm, but the idea of him being gone left Arthur breathless. He had thought betrayal had bruised his heart, but now despair caught it in its claws: agonising.

'Do you want to? Leave, I mean?'

'No, you prat!'

It was not magic that lit Merlin's eyes, but his indomitable spirit. He should have known he would not stay subdued for long. He might be weak from slaying the beast and exhausted by the emotional turmoil of his secret being discovered, but he was still very much himself.

'You wouldn't last a week without me!' Merlin blew out a breath, the cloak falling into a rumpled pile in his lap. 'Besides, this is my home. I know it's not safe. It never has been, not from the moment I first walked through the gate... but I'm not going anywhere.'

He wasn't asking permission to stay. Arthur knew that well enough. If he tried to send Merlin away, even in the name of his own safety, he would fight against it every step of the way. It should have been infuriating, but some small part of him sagged in relief to know that Merlin was determined to remain in Camelot.

'If my father catches you...'

'He won't.' Merlin shrugged. 'He hasn't yet. He thinks I'm a useless servant – the same as everyone else in the citadel.'

'You are a useless servant.' Arthur's gaze drifted to the monster's body. 'It just so happens that's not all you are.'

The others had paused to look up at Merlin's outburst, wary, no doubt, of an argument between them. It was only grudgingly that they had returned to their toil, and Arthur knew they would be straining to pick out their conversation.

'Sorry.' Merlin picked at the cloak bundled in his lap, those blue eyes downcast. The mage light traced icy highlights in his hair and limned his profile in its pallor, but it was the stubborn angle of his jaw that Arthur noticed, not belligerent, exactly, merely resolute.

'This isn't about the magic, is it?'

The look Merlin gave him said it all. He would apologise for many things, but not the talents that had been in his gift since birth. 'For hiding it. I didn't want to, but...'

Arthur's breath caught in his throat. He wished he were as compassionate as Lancelot, or as relaxed as Gwaine. He wished absolution was something that came easily to him. He wanted to say it was all right. To claim that he had not been pained by Merlin's silence or his secrets, but he knew himself better than that. It would be of no credit to either of them if he spoke with haste, choosing the easy road for their friendship and hurting himself in the process.

'I know.' He leaned his head back against the trunk of the tree, its bark scraping at his hair as he admired the vine building its citadel above them. 'I know you had your reasons, and that they were damn good ones. I just –' He pursed his lips and cleared his throat. 'I need time?'

He had not meant it to sound like that: a request, more than anything. Gone was all hint of princely command. This was an entreaty for space to think about the whole sorry mess and find his own way to the road that would put their friendship back on steady ground. That was what he wanted, for his own sake as much as Merlin's.

Words lodged in his chest, explanations and excuses, but one look at Merlin suggested he didn't need them. He was caught in that gaze, but it was not a harsh, disappointed expression. Instead, he fancied he could see a glimmer of pride, as if Merlin appreciated his honesty. It made a tiny bloom of warmth unfurl beneath his ribs: the first flower, perhaps, in the garden of his forgiveness.

'Thanks. For –' Merlin waved a vague hand before shrugging his shoulders.

'For not being my father's son?'

'For being you.' Merlin's shoulder nudged into his own, not a collision but a simple press. There was timidity there; he was unsure of his welcome, and Arthur couldn't blame him. All he could do was lean back, the two of them propping each other up.

Perhaps his heart was a mess of confusion and hurt, understanding and uncertainty, but at least they had not been robbed of this. A firm foundation remained between them – solid ground on which, Arthur promised himself, they would rebuild something stronger than ever.

The night inched onwards. Eventually, he had to abandon his place at Merlin's side, trading out with Leon as he reclaimed a shovel. Part of it was necessary. It was hard work, pitching about the forest floor in an effort to hide the monster's body. However, it also gave people an opportunity to speak. Everyone took turns in keeping an eye on Merlin, and the soft hum of conversation was a nibble of sound at the edge of Arthur's hearing. There were no fights or cries of outrage. It was, to his mind, as if everybody was simply taking the time to make sure that Merlin was still the man they knew, despite this latest revelation.

He was proud of them, each and every one. It seemed the knights had taken this discovery in their stride. In fact, they each acted with more grace than Arthur could claim. In the end, the general consensus was they all should have realised the truth far sooner than this.

'We didn't want to see it,' Elyan decided, 'because if we did, that would mean we had to face up to it before we were ready.' He waved an arm, indicating Merlin's treason and the decision they had each made to spare him the king's justice. 'Because it's not just a vow, is it? It's not just words. We have to keep him safe.'

'He's managed it, though,' Percival pointed out. 'Deliberate or not, he has the whole citadel fooled, except Lancelot and Gaius.'

Lancelot uttered a pained little noise, jabbing at a piece of flint and bending down to pitch the rock aside. 'He is not exactly mindful of his own safety,' he admitted at last. 'If a choice lay before him of saving his friends using magic or keeping his secret, he'd condemn himself in a heartbeat. In theory, that's an admirable quality. In practice...?' He trailed off, and Arthur could see now that there was a strain Lancelot carried with him. Not the burden of Merlin's confidence, but the fear that accompanied the prospect of its revelation. 'Merlin's a good man, but there are days I worry that may be his undoing.'

'But not today.' Arthur leant atop the handle of his shovel and lifted his chin. 'We have promised to protect him, and we will do so.' He scrubbed a hand across his brow, grimacing at the mud staining his palms. 'I've done it before, though I didn't know it at the time. Once, Guinevere was accused of witchcraft. Merlin confessed he was the one responsible before the entire court. My father was right there.' His stomach swooped, torn between amusement and the kind of dread that could kill a man. 'I made up something – some story about him being a fool in love...'

Had he believed his own lie, back then? He could not remember much beyond the bright, shocking pop of panic and his utter disbelief at Merlin's stupidity. He'd bodily removed him from the room and then pulled a dense shroud over his own, faint suspicions.

Yet never, not even for a moment, had he regretted his actions that day. Not when the alternative would have left Merlin to the negligible mercy of the king's justice.

'And it worked.' Gwaine did not sound surprised. 'Because when people think of an all-powerful sorcerer, they picture some dodgy bloke in a robe raining down fire, not someone normal, like our Merlin.'

Arthur pulled a face at that. He would hardly call Merlin "normal", but he knew what Gwaine was getting at. His father was right about one thing: sorcerers did live among them, but how many of them were just trying to exist and keep their loved ones safe? How many of his people spent every day living in fear of discovery?

He shook his head, not yet ready to face up to the answers. Instead, he bent his back to the task at hand, measuring out the passage of the night in the weight of shifting soil and the sweat that itched down his spine. The conversation carried on around him, ebb and flow, but he took heart that all his friends appeared united in their resolve. Any uncertainties were hammered out between them, and by the time dawn's silver light threaded the horizon, they were as stout and firm of purpose as ever.

The only problem that remained was the thrice cursed corpse in the woods.

'At least it's no longer visible?' Leon sounded as if he were trying to encourage an exhausted knight through their failure. They had moved all the soil they could, fighting stone and root to build a hillock over the carcass, but what was left in the wake of their efforts stood out like a carbuncle. The matter was not helped by the trees that still pinned the corpse in place, which now prickled outwards, odd to the eye.

'Not buried it very deep, though, have we?' Percival scratched his temple. 'In a week or two it'll reek, and creatures will have no problem digging it up and chewing on its bones.'

'Maybe we could spread it about that people shouldn't come out this way, because of a foulness? Or would that make it worse?' Elyan pulled a face, as if he suspected he knew the answer to his own question. Perhaps some of the more sensible townsfolk would stay away, but others would take the risk just to sate their curiosity.

'I think I can work with what you've done.'

Arthur turned, looking at where Merlin stood. He'd draped the cloak around his shoulders, and though he was still pale, there was a flash of determination in his eyes. 'What are you going to do? I thought you didn't have the strength, or control, or whatever?'

'I've got enough. Resting helped.' One narrow shoulder hitched up in a shrug, and Arthur shot a glance at Lancelot, hiding a smirk when he realised the man had done the same in his direction, the two of them sharing their doubt. Merlin may have accidentally unveiled a shocking secret tonight, but in the end, he was still the man Arthur knew: stubborn all the way down to his bones.

'Did it, mate?' Gwaine asked, sounding like he didn't believe a word of it. 'You look as if you're about to fall flat on your face.'

'Thanks.' Merlin's lips quirked, his smile wry and faint, but there all the same. 'I've got strength enough to make this a bit more convincing, at least.' He glanced towards the east, where the day's first blush made itself known. 'Unless you want to keep digging?'

Arthur almost laughed at the expressions on the faces around him. They were, all of them, aching and weary, with blisters on their palms and sweat brining their skin. In some ways, it seemed foolish for Merlin to risk discovery, but Arthur had to admit he doubted he would find a word of reproach from any of them. Besides, if he was honest, he found himself curious – wary and eager in equal measure. It was one thing to see the miraculous flowers, but another to witness Merlin use sorcery deliberately.

Grudgingly, they clambered out of the shallow trench they had dug, all of them moving to array around Merlin. This close, Arthur could feel the subtle shake in that lithe body: nerves or exhaustion, he couldn't be sure. He tried to imagine himself in Merlin's shoes – his treason so newly revealed and freshly accepted. Did he believe them yet, or was this a test of sorts? Something to see if they could weather his nature when it was more than just words upon the air?

Arthur's doubts may linger, but he decided there and then that he would not be found wanting.

He braced himself, ready to stifle a flinch. He anticipated a language he didn't understand and for Merlin to look somehow shadowed by his power. Instead...

There, in dawn's soft silver gloaming, it felt as if he had stepped into a sunbeam. Warmth trailed across his skin and ruffled his hair, stealing the breath from his lungs. All around him he got the sudden sense that the world was paying attention, as if Merlin had called out and the woods themselves answered. Yet he had not uttered a single word. The outstretched fingers of his right hand did not so much as tremble, and Arthur watched, fascinated, as the sun rose in Merlin's eyes: bright, dazzling gold.

In front of them, the earth gave a soft groan, more a purr than a roar. There was a hiss like shifting sand and the occasional creak of wood. Arthur had anticipated something calamitous: a judder and a shift. Instead, it was as if the soil became water, rolling in gentle undulations as, deep below, things shifted about to make more room for the dead beast that went to its grave.

The spars of the trees pinning it in place vanished in a cloud of glittering motes. Other little hillocks formed, and the breeze rattled around the leaf-fall, obscuring bare soil. Bracken crawled forth, leading its conquest, and a few mushrooms bloomed with alarming speed.

The end result was a small, woodland clearing that looked as if it had been there for centuries. The uneven ground hinted at fallen trees and questing roots, rather than something monstrous, while a bottomless sort of peace settled over the land.

'Steady!' Lancelot's warning made him turn back to look at Merlin, alarm spiking through him. Where before he seemed to have gathered his strength, now he looked as if he had one foot in his own grave. Sweat glossed his brow, and a trickle of blood escaped his nose, leaving a rusty smear as Merlin cuffed it away. 'Will you be all right?'

'Yeah.' His response was little more than a reedy sigh, and Arthur cupped his elbow, bracing his listing frame as the first strains of the dawn chorus stirred to life around them. 'Just give me a moment.'

It was Percival who stepped forward, shouldering a few shovels while Elyan grabbed the rest. 'Best we get these back before they're missed,' he explained, 'unless you need me to carry Merlin to the castle?'

'No.' Merlin shook his head, then winced as if he regretted it. 'I can get there.'

'We should not draw attention to ourselves if we can avoid it,' Leon decided with a nod. 'Let us return to the gate together, and we'll see what may be done.'

Arthur stuck close to Merlin's side, ready to catch him if he stumbled. Yet though his movements were slow, he did not lose his footing. Instead, he marched on: a soldier who had the end of the battle in sight.

They crept through the little gate in the wall and went their separate ways. Elyan and Percival headed for the stables to stealthily return the shovels, while Leon and Gwaine made for townhouse and barracks respectively. Arthur's promise that there would be no training today eased their departure, and he was soon left with only Lancelot and Merlin for company.

'Let me get him to the healing rooms, Sire,' Lancelot urged. 'Our presence in the halls will draw less attention if you are not with us.'

Arthur grimaced, knowing that he spoke the truth. Yet something in him railed against the idea of leaving it like this, and tightened his grip on Merlin's elbow, pausing in a pool of morning shadow.

'Thank you for what you did in the woods.' He kept his words as circumspect as possible, wary, even now, of being overheard. 'You probably saved many lives with your actions. I didn't say it at first, and I should have. Now go and rest. George can attend me today.'

Merlin drew in a little sip of air. 'And what about tomorrow?'

Arthur could sense it: a break in the flow of their lives. If he wished it so, he could dismiss Merlin from his service: a different kind of exile. He could choose to widen the cracks that had formed in their friendship until nothing but rubble remained. Part of him, the bit that reminded him of his father, whispered in spiteful tones, but it was a voice he could drown out with ease.

'I'll expect you with breakfast as usual.' He lifted his chin. 'One day lazing around is more than enough. Now go, before you fall over where you stand.'

Perhaps to some, his words would seem terse, but he knew Merlin understood all that he could not yet utter. A soft smile dimpled his cheeks, and Arthur's title was as derogatory on his lips as always.

'Yes, Sire.'

Looking back, Arthur could see how that night had changed everything. Sometimes, he wondered how much longer Merlin might have clung to his secret if they had not followed him into the woods. Would he have held his silence until Arthur was king? Or beyond? Would he have taken it to his grave?

Thank the gods it had not come to that.

The thing was that, once given, Merlin's faith in him was absolute. He hid nothing from him, neither his magic nor his joy. Every day, he seemed to prove with a hundred treasonous little spells how he had no shame in his abilities. Uther may have made sorcery monstrous in the eyes of the people in Camelot, but it was clear Merlin did not believe a word of it.

And, bit by bit, he showed Arthur that there was nothing to fear from magic when it was wielded by a friend.

'Were you always like this?' Arthur asked, watching as his clothes folded themselves and his discarded boots trotted obediently into the wardrobe. 'Have you ever actually done a day's hard work in your life?'

'Looking after you is hard work,' Merlin teased. 'And no. I used to do a few chores with magic, but now I don't have to hold myself back, do I? Not in here.' He tilted his head, indicating Arthur's chambers, where wards gleamed in the stones to keep their words muffled and secret.

It had been months since that fraught night in the woods, and steadily the sharp edges of their discord had smoothed away, allowing them to fit together anew. At first, they had argued, all the anger seeping out of them like foulness from a wound. It took time to heal, but the effort was more than worth the wait. Before, Arthur had not known anything stood between them. It was only now that Merlin's secret was out in the open that he realised he had held himself at a distance.

All that had changed. Merlin trusted him, and Arthur would rather raze his kingdom to the ground than break his faith.

A soft, metallic whisper filled the room as Merlin worked, sharpening Arthur's sword. It was one of the few things he still conducted by hand, those nimble fingers moving in strong, slow sweeps as he whetted the blade. Arthur's armour got the same, intense focus. Merlin knew where his priorities lay, and Arthur's heart fluttered to see his easy devotion on such unapologetic display.

It filled his chest with a tender, familiar warmth. One that had grown day-by-day.

He had thought, when he discovered Merlin's magic, that those first stirrings he tried so hard to ignore had withered, unable to weather the winter of betrayal. Instead, it seemed they had merely hidden away in the dark, their roots questing ever deeper through him. Now, tender shoots had grown into the kind of briar he could not escape. It caught his heart in silken thorns, leaving him breathless and needy in his solitary bed.

Nor was it an aimless desire, easily sated with another's willing body. If that were the case, he would have slaked his lust and left it at that, but no one else would do. It was not just his flesh that cried out, but his heart as well, and he did not know what to do for the best.

Perhaps, if their friendship had not changed, he would be able to lay the idea to rest. It would have been a regret, but something he could stifle. Yet there was no denying that the tone of their interactions had softened since the summer. Once, they would have fooled around like a pair of boys, shoving each other with affectionate violence. These days, Merlin rested a hand on the back of his arm or nudged at him instead: gentle and tender. His smiles had grown deeper, easier, as if Merlin could not contain his own soft joy, and there were moments between them where the air turned hot and sticky: ripe with something unnamed.

Even better, he told Arthur everything. There were no more secrets between them, none except this one held silent beneath Arthur's tongue.

Princes did not ask, or so his father said. They issued commands and expected them to be obeyed, but the very thought made Arthur feel sick. He had never been comfortable taking servants to his bed. He feared they lay with him out of obligation rather than desire.

With Merlin, there was not only the matter of his rank. Arthur knew he was a sorcerer, and he would never use that to his advantage, but the possibility still lingered. After all, Merlin had once believed him capable of cutting off his head. Would he fear that, if he did not attend Arthur between the sheets, he would expose him to his father's justice?

Gods, what a mess.

'Are you all right?'

Arthur blinked, swallowing hard as he managed a nod. 'Yes. Just thinking.'

For once, Merlin offered no quip about the dangers of taxing his intelligence. In fact, the seriousness of his expression made him look far too wise, like he might actually know what he was talking about. Arthur half-expected to have the truth bullied out of him, but instead Merlin set aside his sword and got to his feet, filling a pair of goblets from the wine jug on the table and pressing one into Arthur's grasp.

Not so long ago, he would have scoffed at sharing wine with a servant, even one who was his closest friend. Now, he could not imagine it any other way. He did not remember when they had started the habit, only that it had grown between them naturally: a way to make the revelation of their confidences just that little bit easier.

Merlin had settled himself on the hearth rug, and he shot Arthur a look as he tilted his head. 'Come on, then. You might as well be comfortable while you fret.'

'Princes do not fret,' Arthur argued, despite all evidence to the contrary.

'Well, I don't see a crown, so...'

Arthur snorted at that, because really, Merlin had not changed since the day they met. Even back then he had treated Arthur's rank as more of a curse than a blessing. He certainly had not shown the same respect that everyone else thought was Arthur's by right. He had hated it – desperate to put the mouthy peasant in his place. These days it came as a relief. Merlin saw him for who he was, rather than the role he had been born to fill.

There was peace, there, in being seen for who he really was: flaws and all.

The rug was soft beneath him as he settled at Merlin's side, taking a sip of his wine and letting the moment furl around them. More than once, he thought he felt the weight of Merlin's sideways gaze upon him, but every time he looked it was to find him staring at the flames that danced in the grate, his lashes lowered and his expression content.

Yet there was something else there, a hint of tightness at the corner of his eyes, as if he were a man who had reached a difficult decision. One he intended to see through, no matter the outcome.

His goblet clanked as he set it aside, still mostly full. The wine slopped a little, spilling red upon the flagstones. 'I don't think I ever said thank you. Not properly.'

Arthur blinked, and this time, those blue eyes met his, almost indigo in the firelight. 'For what?'

'For being the kind of man I hoped you'd be, when you found out about me.' A sigh curled upon the air. 'I know I've mentioned it before, but you have no idea how much I longed to tell you. I just... I didn't have the courage. I thought –' Merlin's voice strained a little. 'I was scared.'

'Of course you were, considering the punishment. We've been through this, Merlin. I understand why you didn't say anything, even if I wish you had.'

'That's not what scared me.' Merlin rolled his eyes when Arthur gave him an incredulous look. 'All right, that's not the only thing that scared me. I thought that, even if you didn't march me off to the dungeons in chains, I'd end up losing you. Losing this.'

Arthur put down his drink, trying to ignore how his hands were suddenly damp with nerves. His heart thrashed in his chest, excitement and doubt warring with one another. This wasn't what he thought it was, he told himself. His hopes were little more than wishful thinking. Yet he could not still the question on his lips. 'Our friendship?'

A subtle flicker of indecision cross Merlin's expression: that of a man faced with a choice and wondering whether to risk it all or take the safer path. It was so quick that Arthur almost missed it, but he saw the resolve that followed as clear as day. For as long as they had known one another, Merlin had never backed down. Not once.

This time was no different.

'Yeah.' He took a deep breath. 'But this as well.'

It was the softest kiss, little more than a brush of Merlin's lips over his own, so unexpectedly shy that Arthur briefly wondered if he had dreamt it. Yet it was a declaration all the same, tremulous, but undeniable.

He did not let Merlin pull back. Something in him felt as if it might break if he permitted his retreat. Instead, clumsy fingers fumbled in the collar of Merlin's tunic, holding him in place as Arthur tilted his head, changing the angle for a better, more desperate taste.

A breathy moan stirred the air, music to his ears. He did not even know who had uttered it, Merlin or himself. There was only the warmth of him and the scent of his skin, the nervous flutter of those fingers against Arthur's jaw and the tempting flicker of his tongue.

All this time, he had been picking over his desires in his head, turning them this way and that to try and find a path forward, and it turned out Merlin wanted the same thing.

Wanted him. Not prince or heir, but just Arthur. Nothing more and nothing less.

At last, Merlin drew back, leaving Arthur's mouth feeling kiss-swollen and warm. His eyes were almost black and his clothes deliciously rumpled, tousled about by the eager clutch of Arthur's fingers. Yet he did not go far, running the tip of his nose down the bridge of Arthur's in a soft little nuzzle. 'So, that's not just all in my head then?'

'Definitely not.'

'Thank the gods for that.'

Arthur bit his lip, tempted to lean forward and claim another kiss. That was so much easier, but he would not let himself fall blindly into this. His body may ache for Merlin's touch, but he could not share his bed only to find it cold and empty the next day.

'I was trying to find the courage to ask you,' he managed, his voice little more than a rasp. 'Not just for one night, but for – more.'

A grin curved Merlin's mouth. 'So you were fretting over me?'

'Perhaps.'

'Arthur...'

'You didn't answer my question.' He swallowed, sweeping his thumb over the delicate skin of Merlin's throat and feeling the pulse that throbbed there.

Merlin narrowed his eyes, all mischief, even as he tilted his head in appreciation of Arthur's touch. 'You didn't actually ask one.'

Arthur did not know what he had expected. If he thought that love, or something like it, might make Merlin's tongue any less sharp or his teasing any softer, then he was very much mistaken. Still, it occurred to him he would not want it any other way.

'Can I court you?'

Those dark lashes fluttered, a quick little blink, but no words escaped Merlin's lips. Instead, he leant forward, catching Arthur's gaze and offering a dimpled smile.

His kiss was all the answer Arthur needed, tender and passionate: a wordless promise.

Yes.

Camelot's bright future lay ahead, little more than a dream, but as Arthur's heart sang with happiness, he knew the truth of it. Whatever happened, whatever path his life took, Merlin would be with him.

Always.