Chapter Text
Camelot, Late Afternoon
Merlin had spent enough years in Camelot to recognize trouble long before it arrived. Trouble rarely announced itself plainly, preferring disguises: a visiting noble with too many compliments, an ancient artifact that absolutely no one should touch under any circumstances, or, occasionally, a crown and a demand for breakfast. Today’s trouble arrived beneath silk coverings and an armed escort.
The entire castle had been preparing for the arrival since dawn. Servants hurried through corridors carrying flowers and polished silver, guards had been stationed throughout the courtyard, and fresh banners hung from the walls. Merlin had discovered they required an astonishing amount of work for things meant mostly to flutter in the wind and make the courtyard look important.
Now he stood on a ladder above the courtyard entrance, trying to secure one while a servant argued with him from below.
“It’s crooked,” Merlin said.
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
The servant squinted upward. “You said that five minutes ago.”
“Because it was crooked five minutes ago?”
“And now?”
Merlin tilted his head. The banner swayed gently in the breeze. “It remains committed to being crooked.”
The servant made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for patience and Merlin grinned. The afternoon sun warmed his face, voices echoed across the courtyard, and somewhere nearby horses stamped in the stables while the smell of hay drifted through the air alongside fresh bread from the kitchens. For once, the castle felt almost peaceful, which was exactly why Merlin distrusted it; peace in Camelot tended to be temporary.
“Merlin!”
There were some voices a person never truly confused with anyone else’s. Merlin closed his eyes briefly.
“There he is,” he muttered.
The servant below looked sympathetic. “Good luck.”
“Thank you.”
“I don’t think it’ll help.”
“It never does.”
Merlin climbed down from the ladder and turned just as Arthur crossed the courtyard toward him with the determined expression of a man who had already decided somebody was being incompetent and merely needed to identify the culprit. Experience suggested the culprit would be Merlin and experience was usually correct. Arthur stopped several feet away, looked up at the banner, then at Merlin, then back at the banner; the whole process took roughly two seconds, but Merlin could practically see the disappointment forming.
“What?” he demanded.
Arthur folded his arms. “Why are you climbing ladders?”
Merlin blinked. “Because that’s generally how you get to banners.”
“You’ve been assigned to decorations?”
“I volunteered.”
Arthur stared at him and Merlin immediately regretted admitting that.
“Why?”
“I thought it might be nice to help.”
Arthur looked genuinely alarmed. “You chose additional work.”
“Yes.”
“Voluntarily.”
“Yes.”
Arthur glanced around the courtyard as though searching for witnesses. “What did you do?”
Merlin rolled his eyes. “You know, most people would simply thank me.”
“Most people would probably hang the banner straight.”
“It’s straight.”
Arthur looked up at the banner, which tilted noticeably to one side.
Merlin frowned. The banner had betrayed him.
Arthur’s mouth twitched, the expression gone almost immediately, but Merlin still saw it. Unfortunately, he noticed nearly everything when it came to Arthur: the way sunlight caught in his hair, the way his eyes brightened whenever he won an argument, the way he always pretended not to laugh before laughing anyway. And the way his voice changed when he was genuinely worried about someone. Particularly when that someone was Merlin.
That train of thought was dangerous, so Merlin abandoned it immediately. Arthur was still looking at the banner.
“It’s crooked.”
“Thank you.”
“You just said it wasn’t.”
“I’ve grown as a person.”
Arthur snorted and Merlin felt absurdly pleased with himself. This was another problem: Arthur’s amusement had become entirely too important. Not that Merlin intended to examine that observation too closely; self-preservation demanded otherwise.
Before Arthur could produce another insult disguised as conversation, movement on the castle steps caught Merlin’s attention. Morgana descended first, naturally, because Morgana never merely arrived anywhere; she appeared with purpose, confidence, and the unmistakable air of someone expecting entertainment. Gwen followed several steps behind, carrying a stack of folded parchment.
The sight of her immediately softened Arthur’s expression. The change was small enough that most people would never have noticed it, but Merlin always did and the familiar ache settled quietly beneath his ribs. He had spent years learning how to live with it: watching Arthur and Gwen grow closer, listening to nobles speculate about royal marriages and future queens and destinies that seemed obvious to everyone except perhaps Arthur himself. Or perhaps even Arthur. Sometimes Merlin suspected he knew perfectly well.
Gwen reached them first and smiled. “Arthur.”
“Gwen.” It was simple, warm, comfortable, the sort of greeting people developed after years of trust.
Merlin looked away before his thoughts could become even less useful. Morgana noticed immediately, because of course she did; nothing escaped Morgana. One dark eyebrow lifted and Merlin concentrated very hard on something else: the weather, the banner, a passing horse, his imminent death.
“The delegation should arrive soon,” Gwen said.
Arthur sighed, not dramatically and not loudly, but with enough precision for everyone nearby to hear. Morgana smiled.
“You sound excited.”
“I’ve spent two weeks listening to advisors discuss destiny.”
“And?”
“I would rather be attacked by bandits.”
Merlin laughed. Arthur pointed at him.
“You won’t be laughing when they start discussing heirs.”
That made Gwen blush, Morgana laugh outright, and Arthur regret speaking immediately. The prince of Camelot could face monsters, assassins, and political negotiations without hesitation, but mention marriage and he transformed into a deeply embarrassed twenty-something.
Before anyone could continue, horns sounded from the castle walls. Conversation faltered throughout the courtyard as heads turned toward the gates. The delegation had arrived. Even Arthur looked interested and when he caught Merlin noticing, he immediately adopted the expression of a man who had never been interested in anything in his entire life. Merlin resisted the urge to grin.
The gates opened slowly. A procession entered Camelot beneath the watchful eyes of half the castle. Soldiers came first, forming a protective escort around several attendants dressed in silver-trimmed livery, and behind them rolled a reinforced wagon draped in layers of pale silk that shimmered in the afternoon sunlight.
The mood changed almost immediately. Curiosity spread through the courtyard; servants abandoned tasks, guards looked over their shoulders, and even stable hands emerged from nearby buildings to watch.
The wagon crossed the courtyard and stopped before the castle steps, where several attendants approached and began removing the outer coverings one by one. Silence settled. Merlin felt the magic before he saw its source: ancient, powerful, old enough to make the hairs rise on the back of his neck. When the final cloth slipped away, a collective breath passed through the crowd.
The Crystal Flower rested within a basin of white stone, less like a flower than something dreamt into existence by magic itself. Its crystal petals curved around a luminous center that glowed softly beneath the afternoon light, while silver radiance shimmered through the transparent stem, moving slowly like captured starlight. Beautiful was not quite the right word; this felt older, stranger, the sort of object that belonged in legends.
Beside him, Arthur stared openly, but the moment Merlin smiled and Arthur caught him looking, his expression turned defensive.
“I was not impressed.”
“You were.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You absolutely were.”
Arthur opened his mouth, paused, then chose retreat. Merlin considered that a victory, though victories involving Arthur were rarely permanent and, judging by the Crystal Flower, neither was peace. By sunset, the artifact would be displayed before the entire court and everyone in Camelot would discover exactly what it revealed. Merlin had a feeling none of them were going to enjoy it.
The great hall began filling long before the ceremony. By the time Merlin arrived carrying a stack of freshly polished goblets, every noble in Camelot appeared determined to occupy exactly the same section of the floor. Silk and velvet crowded the aisles between tables, advisors clustered together in murmuring groups, and servants threaded carefully through the chaos carrying trays, candles, and enough wine to sustain several diplomatic incidents.
At the far end of the hall, the Crystal Flower rested upon a raised pedestal draped in a white cloth. Even from a distance it drew the eye; people kept looking at it, looking away, then looking back again, as though they expected it to do something simply because they watched. Merlin understood the feeling. The artifact carried a quiet weight, the sense of some old purpose held beneath the surface.
He did not trust objects that seemed wiser than people. Experience suggested they rarely improved situations.
“Merlin.”
He turned. Arthur stood several paces away holding a scroll and Merlin’s heart lifted before common sense could catch it. It was ridiculous. He had known Arthur for years, through arguments, insults, and enough near-death experiences that his heart should have learned restraint by now. Apparently, it had not.
“What have you broken?” Arthur asked.
Merlin frowned. “Nothing.”
Arthur looked skeptical.
“Nothing recently.”
“Merlin.”
“Nothing important.”
Arthur closed his eyes briefly, his expression carrying all the exhausted patience of a man who had accepted certain unfortunate truths about the universe. One of those truths was Merlin.
“Father wants everyone assembled before sunset,” Arthur said. “Which means I need the hall prepared before sunset. Which means I need servants who are capable of following simple instructions.”
Merlin looked around. “There seem to be plenty of those.”
“Good. Find one.”
Merlin laughed and Arthur looked offended. The familiar rhythm settled between them again, easy as breathing. Sometimes, Merlin thought that was the worst part: not the longing or the hopelessness, but the ease, the way Arthur fit into every day of his life so naturally that Merlin could no longer remember what things had felt like before. A dangerous thought. He abandoned it immediately.
Fortunately, Arthur was distracted by the arrival of another knight. Unfortunately, that knight was Gwaine.
Gwaine entered the hall with the confidence of a man who believed rules existed primarily to provide suggestions. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, his tunic looked suspiciously untucked, and somehow he still managed to appear entirely pleased with himself. Merlin suspected it was a gift from fate. A deeply irritating gift.
“Arthur.”
“Gwaine.”
“Still terrifyingly blond.”
Arthur stared at him. Gwaine smiled in a way that somehow worsened the situation and Merlin watched Arthur’s patience begin its usual rapid decline.
“Are you here for a reason?” Arthur asked.
“Friendship.”
“Leave.”
“That’s hurtful.”
“Right now.”
Gwaine laughed and Merlin could not help smiling. Arthur noticed, which for some reason seemed to annoy him further.
Before anyone could continue, another familiar figure entered the hall: Lancelot. Merlin had not seen him arrive, though few people ever noticed Lancelot arriving; the knight moved through the world with a quiet certainty that rarely drew attention to itself. He greeted several servants by name as he crossed the room, then stopped near one of the side tables.
Almost immediately, Gwen appeared from another doorway carrying several sheets of parchment. Their eyes met and the change was subtle enough that Merlin nearly missed it: Lancelot straightened slightly and Gwen smiled. Then Gwen crossed the room. Arthur, occupied by Gwaine’s existence, failed to notice entirely, but Merlin did. Something flickered briefly between Gwen and Lancelot, not awkwardness or surprise, but recognition. The sort that lingered.
Interesting. Very interesting. Before Merlin could examine the thought further, Morgana appeared beside him.
“I know that expression.”
Merlin jumped. “How do you do that?”
“Practice.”
Morgana followed his gaze toward Gwen and Lancelot. A small smile appeared.
“Ah.”
“You saw that too?”
“I have eyes, Merlin.”
“Helpful.”
“I try.”
Merlin glanced toward Arthur. The prince remained trapped in conversation with Gwaine and looked increasingly eager to solve the problem with a sword. Morgana followed his gaze, her expression shifting from thoughtful to amused to even more amused and Merlin recognized danger.
“Morgana.”
“Hm?”
“What are you thinking?”
“Nothing.”
That answer was considerably more alarming than honesty would have been. The castle horns sounded again and conversations throughout the hall gradually faded as the king arrived. Uther entered first, surrounded by advisors and members of the court, while nobles moved toward their assigned positions and servants hurried to clear pathways. Within minutes, the hall transformed from organized chaos into formal ceremony. Almost. Gwaine still looked like Gwaine.
Merlin slipped toward the edge of the gathering as the crowd assembled around the central dais. The Crystal Flower gleamed beneath candlelight, its silver radiance brighter indoors, more intimate. The petals reflected hundreds of tiny points of gold from the surrounding torches. Beautiful, ancient, and waiting. Uther stopped before the assembled court and silence followed.
“My lords and ladies,” he began. “Today Camelot receives a relic of extraordinary significance.”
Merlin immediately stopped listening, not because Uther’s speech lacked importance, but because Uther’s speeches possessed a remarkable ability to continue indefinitely. Instead, he studied the crowd. Arthur stood near the dais, Gwen nearby, the space between them perfectly appropriate: future king, future queen.
The sight pressed the familiar ache beneath Merlin’s ribs, the one he had spent years learning to ignore. He was becoming quite skilled at it, or at least he told himself so, though the truth was less merciful. Every mention of Arthur marrying someday still felt like someone pressing a bruise: familiar, manageable, painful anyway. Arthur turned slightly and their eyes met across the hall. Merlin looked away first. Coward. The thought arrived immediately, unwelcome and accurate. He focused on Uther’s speech instead.
“...a symbol of truth...”
“...ancient magic...”
“...the bonds that shape our futures...”
Merlin had a very bad feeling about all of this. Magical artifacts rarely cared whether people wanted the truth; they simply revealed it and the consequences belonged to everyone else. Merlin had always thought the consequences were the dull part. The interesting part was watching people convince themselves the truth meant something else entirely. That was how kingdoms functioned: kings called it diplomacy, courtiers called it interpretation, and Gaius usually called it foolishness.
Merlin tended to agree with Gaius. Uther finally reached the end of his speech to a polite wave of applause. Several nobles looked relieved and one elderly lord near the back appeared to have fallen asleep halfway through and was only now realizing everyone else had started clapping. Arthur’s expression suggested he sympathized.
“Today,” Uther continued, raising one hand toward the Crystal Flower, “Camelot is honored not only to receive this relic, but to witness its gift.”
A murmur swept through the hall. Merlin already disliked where this was heading.
“The flower blooms only in the presence of true love.”
The murmur grew louder. Several ladies exchanged excited glances, two older advisors immediately began whispering, and somewhere near the back of the room a goblet was dropped. Arthur closed his eyes and Merlin knew that expression: he had realized exactly where this was going.
“Therefore,” Uther said, sounding entirely too pleased with himself, “it is only fitting that Camelot’s future be blessed beneath its light.”
Arthur opened his eyes again, slowly and carefully, like a man preparing for impact. The hall watched with collective anticipation and Merlin’s stomach sank. Of course Uther would do this publicly; nothing said royal family quite like embarrassment with witnesses.
“My son.”
Arthur visibly considered pretending he had not heard. Unfortunately, there were several hundred witnesses.
“Father.”
“Come forward.”
Arthur obeyed and the hall reacted. Everyone knew, or thought they did: future king, future queen, marriage, heirs, destiny neatly arranged like furniture in a room no one had asked Arthur to enter. Merlin looked away, which helped exactly as much as expected. Not at all. Across the hall, Gwen had gone very still, catching his attention. She was not blushing or smiling; she looked surprised, almost uneasy. Interesting. Very interesting. Morgana noticed too, studying Gwen with narrowed eyes before Uther spoke again.
“Lady Guinevere.”
The hall erupted into whispers. Arthur looked as though someone had personally cursed him. Gwen stepped forward with her usual grace and calm, though Merlin thought he detected the slightest tension in her shoulders. Perhaps she simply disliked being the center of attention, which was entirely reasonable; Merlin disliked it on her behalf.
The crowd parted as Arthur and Gwen approached the pedestal, the Crystal Flower shimmering softly between them. Hundreds of eyes followed and Merlin became aware of how quiet the hall had grown. Even the musicians had stopped playing. The silence felt expectant as Arthur stood beside Gwen without touching or quite looking at her.
The distance between them was perfectly respectable, perfectly appropriate, perfectly royal and Merlin hated it because it made sense. Because everyone looking at them could already see the future: a king, a queen, Camelot thriving for generations. The story practically wrote itself.
Beside him, Gwaine shifted his weight.
“Well,” he murmured.
Merlin glanced sideways. “What?”
“Everyone looks nervous.”
“That’s because they’re about to witness destiny.”
Gwaine made a face. “That sounds dreadful.”
Merlin smiled despite himself. At the front of the hall, Uther raised his hand.
“The Crystal Flower reveals only what already exists. Let the truth guide us.”
The hall held its breath. Nothing happened. Merlin blinked. The flower remained exactly as it had been, silver, glowing, motionless, while several seconds passed and the silence became awkward. Arthur looked at the flower; the flower looked back or seemed to. Still nothing happened. One noble coughed, someone shifted a chair, and Arthur’s eyebrows rose.
“Oh, good.”
Merlin knew that tone. Arthur smelled opportunity.
“Perhaps it’s broken.”
Uther frowned. “It is not broken.”
“It appears broken.”
“It is ancient magic.”
Arthur gestured toward the entirely inactive artifact. “Ancient magic appears to be having difficulties.”
Merlin bit the inside of his cheek. Several knights suddenly found the floor fascinating and even Leon looked suspiciously close to smiling. The flower remained unmoved by royal criticism. Nothing happened, nothing at all, and the awkwardness deepened. Merlin almost felt sorry for Uther. Almost.
Then movement caught his eye.
Gwaine.
Somewhere during the ceremony, the knight had settled at Merlin’s side. Their shoulders nearly touched. Merlin ignored him, mostly because he had known Gwaine long enough to recognize that expression.
At nearly the same moment, another figure moved. Lancelot stepped nearer to Gwen, quietly and unobtrusively, not enough to draw attention but just enough to matter. The instant it happened, the Crystal Flower exploded. Light flooded the hall. Several people screamed.
Merlin flung an arm over his eyes. Silver and gold radiance burst outward from the pedestal, bright enough to flood every corner of the chamber. Crystal petals unfolded with a ringing sound like distant bells and magic surged through the air, warm, brilliant, overwhelming. The hall gasped. The flower blazed brighter and brighter until someone dropped another goblet and Merlin heard it shatter.
The magic felt strange: not chaotic or violent, but joyful. That was the only word for it. The flower was not simply reacting; it was celebrating. A pulse of silver light swept across the hall, then another, then a third, and the crystal petals opened completely. Merlin lowered his arm. The sight stole his breath.
The flower had transformed. Light flowed through every petal, tiny stars shimmered within the crystal bloom, and the entire pedestal seemed wrapped in moonlight. Around him, the court stared, spellbound. Then the light changed. Merlin frowned. The radiance divided, not physically, more like emotionally.
One current flowed toward the front of the hall, warm, gentle, tender, toward Gwen and Lancelot. The second felt different: stronger, brighter, fierce enough to make Merlin follow it instinctively. His gaze landed on Arthur, then continued past him and stopped on himself.
For a moment confusion flickered through Merlin. The light faded before he could make sense of it.
The hall emerged from stunned silence. Whispers spread through the crowd, growing into conversations and then complete chaos as everyone began talking at once.
“A remarkable sign—”
“Did you see—”
“Incredible—”
“The prince and Lady Guinevere—”
“Extraordinary—”
Merlin barely heard them. His attention had fixed elsewhere: on Arthur. The prince was not looking at Gwen; Merlin realized that first, then realized where Arthur actually was looking. Gwaine. Specifically, Gwaine’s arm. At some point during the explosion of magical light, Gwaine had placed one hand on Merlin’s shoulder to steady himself and Arthur was staring at it. His jaw tightened. Merlin frowned. That was odd.
Across the room, Lancelot looked stricken. Not unhappy, not exactly, but far more complicated, the sort of expression a man wore when his greatest wish had just come true and become impossible at the same time. Gwen was staring at him. Not Arthur. Lancelot. Merlin blinked. Morgana noticed too, her eyes moving from Gwen to Lancelot, then to Arthur, Merlin, and Gwaine, until a look of profound interest began sharpening on her face.
Merlin knew that expression. It meant she thought something entertaining was happening, which rarely promised anything reassuring. Beside him, Gwaine finally followed Arthur’s gaze. His eyes widened, narrowed, then widened again as a grin began spreading across his face. Oh no. Merlin knew that grin and it never led anywhere safe. Arthur noticed it too, his expression darkening as Gwaine’s grin widened. The situation somehow became worse.
Uther stepped forward.
“The flower has spoken.”
The court instantly quieted. Mostly. Several nobles continued whispering. Uther ignored them.
“The blessing is clear.”
The blessing. Of course. The hall practically vibrated with certainty. Everyone had seen Arthur and Gwen standing before the flower as it erupted into light; the conclusion seemed obvious and Merlin felt his stomach twist. Of course it had been them. Who else could it have been? Arthur and Gwen: future king, future queen, the story everyone expected, the story destiny had apparently approved.
He should have been prepared. He wasn’t. The realization hurt more than it had any right to because some foolish part of him had continued hoping, not for a miracle, Merlin wasn’t that ridiculous, but for time. Just more time before everything became real: before Arthur married, before Camelot moved forward, before Merlin had to spend the rest of his life pretending his heart was not involved.
Around him, the celebration continued: nobles smiled, advisors congratulated each other, and several ladies were openly crying, which Merlin thought seemed excessive. Then again, they were not the ones standing in the middle of their own personal disaster. Arthur looked bewildered and Merlin interpreted that as embarrassment. Reasonable. Arthur hated public attention, especially romantic public attention; the poor man was probably already planning his escape route.
The ceremony continued for several minutes more, though Merlin remembered very little of it. His thoughts felt strangely distant, the hall blurred around the edges, and when people finally began dispersing, he slipped toward the nearest exit. A hand caught his sleeve and Merlin looked up to find Gwen watching him with concern.
“Are you alright?”
Merlin shaped his mouth into a smile. “Of course.”
She looked unconvinced. Regrettably, Gwen was difficult to fool, but before she could ask another question, Arthur’s voice carried across the hall.
“Merlin.”
Merlin closed his eyes briefly. Of course. Arthur stood near the dais, waiting, and Merlin wondered if there would ever come a day when hearing his name in Arthur’s voice failed to affect him. Probably not. Sadly.
“Coming.”
Arthur looked impatient, which was one of his defining features. Merlin crossed the hall toward him while nobles continued discussing destiny in increasingly enthusiastic tones. When he arrived, Arthur immediately started walking, offering no explanation or greeting, merely the assumption that Merlin would follow. Merlin followed. Some habits were impossible to break.
Neither spoke until they reached a quieter corridor, where Arthur stopped abruptly.
“What was that?”
Merlin blinked. “The ceremony?”
“Yes.”
“What about it?”
Arthur gestured vaguely. “The flower.”
Merlin considered. “A flower.”
Arthur stared at him. Merlin smiled innocently. Arthur did not appreciate it.
“Everyone’s acting as though my life has just been decided.”
Merlin’s smile faded slightly. There it was: the real problem. Fear. Arthur was not afraid of many things, but expectations were one of them.
“You don’t have to decide anything today,” Merlin said quietly.
Arthur looked at him and for a moment, the frustration eased.
“Don’t I?”
The question hung between them. Merlin had no answer because regrettably, they both knew the truth: princes rarely belonged entirely to themselves and someday Arthur would have responsibilities bigger than either of them. Merlin looked away first. That hurt too. Today everything seemed designed to hurt, which felt deeply unfair. After all, the flower had simply told the truth.
Dinner should have improved the situation.
Merlin spent the first half hour convincing himself it would. The ceremony was over, the court had stopped crowding around the Crystal Flower, and people had moved on to food, music, wine, and endless speculation. Given sufficient distraction, perhaps the day would settle into something manageable. Alas, Camelot contained people and they rarely made situations better.
The great hall glowed beneath hundreds of candles. Musicians played near the western wall and servants moved between crowded tables carrying platters of roasted meat, fresh bread, and enough wine to sustain poor decisions well into the night. Merlin sat with the knights at one of the lower tables. Normally, he enjoyed dinners; tonight he found himself staring into his goblet and thinking thoughts he would rather have left untouched.
Arthur and Gwen, the flower, destiny, marriage, the future: the words chased one another in circles. It was ridiculous. Merlin had known this was coming, not today perhaps, but someday. Arthur would marry, become king, and build the future everyone expected him to build. Merlin had always known that. Knowing something and watching it happen turned out to be very different experiences.
A potato landed on his plate. Merlin blinked, then looked up. Gwaine was stealing food from three different people simultaneously.
“Eat.”
“I am eating.”
“You’ve been staring at that cup for ten minutes.”
“It might do something interesting.”
“It contains wine.”
“You don’t know that.”
Gwaine looked suspicious. “That’s actually a fair point.”
Elyan laughed. Leon rubbed his forehead. Merlin appreciated that Leon had somehow become responsible for all of them despite never agreeing to the position. It happened naturally. Like weather. Or suffering.
“You’re all impossible,” Leon informed the table.
“Thank you,” Gwaine said.
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“It felt like one.”
Across the hall, Arthur sat at the high table beside Uther. Merlin tried not to look; his success lasted approximately four seconds. Arthur looked miserable, not devastated, merely embarrassed and cornered, while every noble within reach seemed determined to discuss the ceremony. One advisor leaned toward him, Arthur answered and another immediately took his place, then another and another. The prince looked ready to throw himself out of a window.
Merlin felt a brief, traitorous surge of affection. Poor Arthur. He hated this sort of attention. Always had. As though sensing the scrutiny, Arthur looked up and their eyes met. Merlin immediately looked away. Too late. Arthur had already seen him. Wonderful. Now he would spend the next hour wondering why.
Across from him, Gwaine noticed everything. The knight slowly lowered his cup, looked from Merlin to Arthur, then back again and a thoughtful expression appeared. Thoughtful expressions on Gwaine were significantly more dangerous than reckless ones. Merlin distrusted them on principle.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
That answer sounded familiar. Merlin narrowed his eyes.
“I know that tone.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Elyan looked interested, Leon looked tired, Percival continued eating, and the kingdom remained balanced. Several minutes passed. Merlin almost relaxed. Then Gwaine leaned sideways. Far sideways. Until one arm settled comfortably across the back of Merlin’s bench. Merlin frowned.
“What are you doing?”
“Sitting.”
“Strangely..”
“Creatively.”
Across the hall, something metallic crunched. The entire table looked up. Arthur was holding his goblet or rather, what remained of it; the silver cup had developed a very noticeable dent. Silence spread outward from the high table. Uther stared. Arthur stared back. For several seconds nobody spoke.
Finally, Uther said, “Did you just crush that?”
Arthur looked down. Apparently, he had.
“It slipped.”
“It folded.”
“It was poorly made.”
Merlin buried his face in one hand. Leon closed his eyes. Elyan made a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter. Uther continued staring while Arthur maintained complete confidence in an explanation nobody believed. Eventually the king gave up, which was wise; arguing with Arthur when he reached this particular level of stubbornness rarely produced results. Conversation resumed. Mostly. Several people continued glancing toward the ruined goblet.
Arthur pretended not to see them. Gwaine looked fascinated.
“Interesting.”
Merlin groaned. “No.”
“Oh, definitely.”
“No-o.”
“What?”
“You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that means everyone around you is about to suffer.”
Gwaine smiled and Merlin immediately knew he was right. The smile alone should have been classified as a public threat.
A servant approached the knights’ table carrying another tray. Gwaine accepted two pastries, one for himself and one for Merlin. The gesture should have been entirely ordinary; the problem was that Arthur happened to look over at exactly that moment. Merlin watched the prince’s expression tighten, briefly, very briefly, then disappear.
Gwaine caught on a second later. Merlin actually saw it happen: confusion became recognition, then absolute delight. Oh no. Whatever conclusion Gwaine had reached, he clearly found it hilarious. The hall should probably have been evacuated. Gwaine leaned closer, not enough to seem strange. But unnecessary. Merlin frowned.
“Why are you smiling like that?”
“I’m having a wonderful evening.”
“I hate those words.”
“You should.”
Across the room, Arthur snapped his gaze away, looking personally offended by the concept of eyesight. Gwaine nearly laughed into his wine.
The knight spent the next several minutes conducting what Merlin would later realize was an investigation. At the time, it seemed random; in hindsight, it was deeply alarming.
“Merlin.”
“What?”
“Pass the bread.”
Merlin passed the bread. Arthur looked over. Gwaine accepted the bread. A few minutes later—
“Merlin.”
“What now?”
“The salt.”
Arthur looked over again. Then—
“Merlin.”
Merlin closed his eyes. “What.”
“Do you think I’m handsome?”
Gwaine pitched the question with just enough volume to cross the hall. Elyan inhaled wine, Leon nearly dropped a fork, Percival looked genuinely thoughtful, Arthur froze, and Merlin stared.
“What kind of question is that?”
“A serious one.”
“It absolutely isn’t.”
Gwaine looked wounded. “I value your opinion.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do sometimes...”
Arthur’s fork snapped. The sound echoed across the hall. Silence followed. Again. Leon looked toward the ceiling, possibly in search of divine intervention or a random hex. None arrived. Arthur examined the broken fork and the fork examined Arthur right back while Merlin could practically hear the prince inventing excuses.
Finally, Arthur stood. The movement drew attention from half the room. Wonderful. Exactly what he wanted. More attention.
“Sir Gwaine.”
The knight looked delighted. “Arthur.”
“Your sword work has become sloppy.”
The entire table froze. Gwaine blinked. Then blinked again.
“My sword work.”
“Yes.”
“It hasn’t.”
“It has.”
“It really hasn’t.”
Arthur folded his arms, the posture usually preceding either a royal decree or an argument. Often both.
“Training grounds. Dawn.”
A beat passed. Then Gwaine smiled. Slowly. Dangerously.
“Oh.”
Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Oh what?”
“Nothing.”
The smile widened. Merlin did not like where this was going and Arthur liked it even less. Unfortunately for him, that only seemed to encourage Gwaine.
“I’d be delighted.”
“You won’t be.”
“We’ll see.”
Arthur stared at him for a moment longer, then turned sharply. Crimson fabric swept behind him as he left the hall and the doors slammed. Silence held for a moment before Elyan lost the battle entirely. Laughter exploded out of him. He doubled over. Leon looked resigned. Percival looked confused.
“What happened?”
Nobody answered immediately, mostly because they were trying not to laugh. Gwaine watched the closed doors thoughtfully, then glanced toward Merlin, then back to the doors and the grin returned, bigger this time. Much bigger. Merlin’s sense of impending doom intensified.
“Morgana,” he said.
The lady in question sat farther up the hall with Gwen. Without looking over, she raised one finger.
“Yes?”
“Help.”
“I’m busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Watching.”
Merlin groaned. That was somehow even worse because Morgana enjoyed watching disasters, especially preventable ones. Especially Arthur-shaped ones.
Across the room, Gwen had noticed something as well. Her gaze followed Arthur’s exit, then shifted toward Merlin and Gwaine and a small crease appeared between her brows. Thoughtful. But unlike Gwaine, Gwen’s curiosity tended to improve situations. Merlin hoped. Although, destiny had already demonstrated remarkably poor judgment today. And the night was still young.
The night should have ended there. Merlin would have preferred that. Arthur had stormed out, Gwaine had discovered something he clearly found amusing, and Morgana was watching events unfold like a woman with front-row seats to a comedy. None of that suggested improvement.
Merlin remained at the knights’ table for several minutes after Arthur’s departure, mostly because leaving immediately would attract attention. Regrettably, remaining seated also attracted attention. Specifically Gwaine’s. The knight was still smiling and Merlin had known many dangerous things during his life: sorcerers, monsters, dragons, ancient curses. None of them inspired quite the same dread as Gwaine smiling for no obvious reason.
“What?” Merlin demanded.
Gwaine lifted his cup. “What what?”
“That.”
“Very descriptive.”
“The face.”
“What face?”
“The one you’re making.”
“I’m smiling.”
“I know.”
“People do that.”
“Not like you.”
Elyan immediately abandoned any attempt to hide his amusement. Leon sighed into his wine. Percival looked back and forth between them.
“What face is he making?”
“The dangerous one,” Leon answered.
“Ah.”
Percival nodded solemnly. Apparently that explained everything. Merlin envied him. Life must be considerably easier when every mystery accepted simple answers.
At the high table, nobles were already beginning to leave. Conversation spread throughout the hall in shifting currents and every cluster of courtiers seemed to be discussing the Crystal Flower. Merlin caught fragments as servants passed.
“...clear sign...”
“...the future queen...”
“...beautiful ceremony...”
“...destiny...”
He hated that word. Destiny sounded wonderful when it belonged to somebody else; when it belonged to you, it mostly seemed to involve responsibility, sacrifice, and a deeply unreasonable number of life-threatening situations. Eventually he stood.
“I’m going.”
“To Arthur?” Gwaine asked.
Merlin frowned. “To bed.”
“Yours?”
Something about Gwaine’s tone suggested disappointment. That could not possibly be good. Merlin chose not to answer. Self-preservation occasionally required strategic ignorance.
Approximately three minutes later, the messenger caught him halfway across the courtyard.
“The prince requests your presence.” Thus, strategic ignorance became impossible.
Merlin stopped walking. The messenger waited. Merlin waited. The messenger, treacherously, continued waiting. Finally Merlin sighed.
“Of course he does.”
The messenger looked confused. Merlin waved him away.
“It’s not your fault.”
It never was. Arthur simply possessed an extraordinary talent for requiring Merlin’s presence at all hours. The fact that Merlin secretly enjoyed this arrangement remained deeply unhealthy for his heart.
The corridor leading toward Arthur’s chambers was quiet. Most of the castle had settled for the evening. Torches flickered against stone walls, distant voices echoed faintly through the halls, and Merlin found Arthur exactly as expected. Pacing. Arthur paced when angry, frustrated, or thinking; occasionally, he paced because he was already pacing and saw no reason to stop. The prince looked up immediately.
“There you are.”
Merlin folded his arms. “You summoned me.”
“I did.”
“You could have waited until morning.”
“You could have arrived faster.”
Merlin stared. Arthur stared back. Some traditions transcended reason. Finally, Merlin walked farther into the room.
“What do you want?”
Arthur stopped pacing. For a moment, he looked strangely uncertain; the expression vanished almost instantly, but Merlin already noticed.
“Everyone is behaving strangely.”
Merlin laughed. “That is your concern?”
“Yes.”
“Not the public ceremony?”
“No.”
“The magical artifact?”
“No.”
“The fact that half the court believes your wedding has been announced?”
Arthur pointed at him. “That.”
“There it is.”
Arthur groaned, the sound holding genuine suffering, and Merlin almost smiled. Almost. The ache from earlier had not entirely faded. Arthur dropped into a chair.
“I don’t understand why everyone keeps acting as though my life is over.”
“Your life is not over.”
“Tell them that.”
“Just did.” Merlin leaned against a nearby table.
The room smelled faintly of parchment, leather, and candle wax. Arthur’s cloak hung over the back of another chair and reports lay scattered across the desk. Ordinary things. Comfortably familiar things. Merlin had spent so much time in these chambers that they sometimes felt more familiar than his own room. A dangerous thought. He ignored it.
Arthur rubbed one hand across his face, the gesture pure exhaustion, and for a moment, sympathy pushed past the hurt. Arthur really did hate this sort of thing: public scrutiny, expectations, people deciding his future for him.
“You don’t have to decide anything tonight,” Merlin repeated his earlier words.
Arthur looked at him and something softened briefly.
“Maybe.”
Merlin shrugged. “Definitely.”
Silence settled, not awkward, because they had long ago passed the point where silence felt uncomfortable. Arthur glanced toward the fire and Merlin watched him. The problem with loving Arthur, Merlin thought, was that Arthur remained painfully easy to love. Not because Arthur was perfect; he was spectacularly imperfect, stubborn, proud, infuriating, and capable of holding grudges against furniture. But beneath all that, he cared. About Camelot, about his people, about his friends, about things he pretended not to care about. Including Merlin. Especially Merlin, sometimes. The thought slipped in before he could stop it. Merlin looked away. Coward.
Across the room, Arthur frowned.
“What?”
“What?”
“You made a face.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
Merlin rolled his eyes. Arthur continued staring. Then, unexpectedly, he changed the subject.
“So.”
Merlin became suspicious at once. Arthur had that suspicious tone.
“So?”
Arthur hesitated. An extraordinarily rare event.
“So. You and Gwaine.”
Merlin blinked. There it was. Of course everything suddenly made sense: Arthur was worried about Gwen, the flower, the ceremony, the court and naturally, he had noticed Merlin spending time with Gwaine and thought Merlin might be creating complications. Merlin almost felt relieved. At least one mystery had an explanation.
“What about me and Gwaine?”
Arthur looked irritated. “You’re together constantly.”
“We’re friends.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened. He must be worried that gossip would reach Gwen. That had to be it. Poor Arthur. The entire kingdom had decided his future in a single afternoon. No wonder he was tense.
“We’re just friends,” Merlin repeated.
Arthur looked unconvinced for reasons Merlin could not understand.
“Right.”
“Arthur.”
“What?”
“We’re friends.”
Arthur stared. Then he looked away.
“Fine.”
The word sounded anything but fine. Merlin gave up. Sometimes, understanding Arthur required magic and even then success remained uncertain.
Eventually, he left. The conversation had solved nothing: Arthur remained frustrated, Merlin remained heartbroken, and both apparently considered this an acceptable outcome. The corridor outside was empty, quiet, and cool. Merlin walked slowly toward his room. The castle slept around him. Somewhere, a guard changed posts. Somewhere, a door closed. Somewhere far below, Camelot continued breathing beneath the stars.
By the time he reached his chamber, exhaustion had settled heavily across his shoulders. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor while the day replayed itself: the flower, the light, Arthur and Gwen standing before the pedestal, the court’s reaction, Arthur’s confusion, Gwen’s strange expression, Lancelot’s silence. None of it mattered. Not really. The flower had spoken. The future had spoken. Arthur deserved happiness. The thought hurt and remained true anyway.
Merlin lay back on the mattress and closed his eyes. Sleep refused to arrive.
Across the castle, another man lay awake as well. Arthur stared at the ceiling of his bedchamber and sleep seemed equally uninterested in him. Every time he closed his eyes, he remembered the ceremony: the flower, the light, Gwaine’s hand on Merlin’s shoulder, Gwaine laughing, sitting too close, stealing Merlin’s attention all evening. Irritation flared again, immediate, ridiculous, persistent. Arthur rolled onto his side. The feeling refused to leave. It made no sense. Merlin could spend time with whoever he wanted. Arthur did not care. Arthur absolutely did not care. The fact that Gwaine seemed incapable of keeping a reasonable distance from Merlin was irrelevant. Entirely.
Arthur stared into the darkness. Somewhere in the castle, a bell marked the hour. He was still awake when the sound faded. Across another corridor, Merlin remained awake too. Both men eventually drifted into restless sleep with entirely different misunderstandings folded under their ribs.
Unfortunately or not, but both misunderstandings were about to become much worse. Because dawn was approaching. And Arthur intended to spend it hitting Gwaine with a sword.