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Merlin, on principle, doesn't like hunting trips—something about the virile camaraderie and the heaps of dead animals just isn't quite to his preference. They get a lot more tolerable, though, without the company of the prince’s men.
When they're not around like today, Arthur acts, well, not softer, but warmer in ways. Less brash, less superior, less concerned with spewing orders at Merlin and making fun of him at every step. He taunts and he teases, but he does so with a smile, uneven teeth and all. He throws his head back when he laughs; he pretends he doesn't notice Merlin scaring birds away. And within himself, maybe, Merlin can concede some hunting trips aren't so bad.
Not that he’d let Arthur know.
"How many more rodents do you need to kill before we go home?"
Arthur doesn't turn to face him, but Merlin hears his grin. "I don't know Merlin, how many times have you complained since we left Camelot?"
"Not enough. My feet are killing me and we've been walking for hours. Can we not take a break?"
As though it were an order, Arthur stops right in his tracks. Merlin bumps into him full force, nearly dropping the hares he's carrying.
"Ow! I didn't mean-"
With one hand, Arthur motions for him to shut up, and points at something ahead. In the middle of the clearing, next to a single oak, stands a hart. A white hart.
When they camp out and talk of hunting trophies, Arthur's men sometimes tell tales of white harts living in these woods. These creatures, they say, are messengers from the afterlife. Killing one would make the most beautiful woman in Camelot fall madly in love with you. They're a bad omen. Their antlers bring fortune and good luck. Their ears are red, and their blood golden. They don't exist, yet they do, but can never be caught. They grant your heart's desire when they are. They lead knights to their destiny. They lure fools to their deaths. They're just deer.
"Sire," Merlin whispers, stomach churning with vague apprehension, "I don't think you should."
"Oh don't be sentimental, Merlin. This is no unicorn."
And in one swift movement, Arthur draws his crossbow and shoots his bolt straight into the stag's heart. A beat, a slow blink, and the animal falls to his flank in a thunk that ripples through the clearing. Merlin feels it to his core, an ominous rattle, and he winces.
"Did you see that shot?" Arthur exclaims with delighted pride as he runs to his kill.
Merlin follows with his sack of dead leverets and a sinking feeling that something's bound to go wrong, something akin to dead crops, thirst-chapped lips and poisoned goblets.
Oblivious to his worry, Arthur pulls out the bolt from the hart's chest, like a knife from butter. The blood comes gushing, golden as magic, onto the grass.
"What-" Arthur begins, but he never finishes that thought.
With a loud cracking noise, the single oak uproots itself and comes crashing down on them; Merlin only has a split second, and he takes it. The tree bends with ease, the way trees don't. The way Kings don't. The way anger and fear don't.
Before Merlin's eyes have gone back to blue, Arthur's sword is already on his throat.
"Arthur."
"Don't you move."
"Arthur."
"You have magic." That last word lands like a gob of spit.
Merlin stays silent and swallows hard; the needle-prick point of the blade stings his Adam's apple. On the other end of the sword, Arthur stares. The worst part is, he looks beautiful—the Once and Future King, blond hair scattered and gaze hardened. He's a wrathful god standing in this light. Merlin's heart is pounding so hard he can't hear, the whole world is a muffled mess: the tree, the sword, the spit, the hart, the metallic smell of blood. Nothing's real.
He knew this would happen too, he knew it would. He thought maybe he would just come out and say it one day, when it would feel right, when Arthur would have done something grand and heroic, like saving a child from the fire, or winning a tournament, or standing up to his father-
"Answer me."
The command snaps Merlin out of his trance, and the words come out disarranged, scraps from a speech he's prepared a thousand times:
"I do. I always did, before I met you Arthur, since I was born. But I swear I only use it for you, for Camelot, I'd-"
"You lied to me!" Arthur yells, all his stern composure vanished.
"It was for you, Arthur, only ever for you," Merlin pleads. "I swear it."
"And what's your word worth? For years, you've been lying." Arthur chokes out the words, mouth contorting around them like they hurt. "Lying to my face."
"Arthur, please."
"Stop calling my name!" Arthur orders, and Merlin's heart plummets. "Were you conspiring against me? Trying to gain my trust then betray me?"
The accusation pierces through Merlin like a spear to the gut. It's unfair, really. It's unfair that he's been sleeping in the lion's den for years, throwing himself in the line of danger, waiting and waiting for Arthur's destiny to be set in motion. That the last dragon alive has prophesied it impossible for him to betray Arthur. That none of that would make Arthur believe Merlin is loyal to him right now.
His eyes well up in frustration. "No! No, of course not."
"Why lie then?"
Under any other circumstances, Merlin would have rolled his eyes at the question. Why, oh why, did he not tell on himself, he'd mock. Well, there were a few reasons. Because Uther Pendragon was King. Because Arthur Pendragon was his son. Because Merlin was scared, of losing everything, of failing destiny, of dying, of the pyre. The binds and the smoke, the fire rising: no matter how hard he’s tried to avoid that spectacle, he's seen it before, he's heard the screams. He's dreamt about it and woken up in a cold sweat. He won't wake up this time.
With that thought, magic comes rushing through his veins, urging him to do something, anything. Merlin forces it down. No matter how great the power that pulses beneath his skin, something else, something stronger rules over him, always. And if Arthur demands it, he will let himself be tied to the pyre and go up in flames—he won't even put up a fight.
The weight of his own loyalty crushes Merlin with such force that he falls to his knees.
"Hey!" Arthur exclaims.
Merlin looks up, past the sword, into his eyes. He will be a great king, Merlin knows, a just king. Noble and merciful.
"Sire, please," he says, because if he has to beg, to that man, he will. "Not the pyre."
"The pyre?" Something flickers on Arthur's face.
Merlin closes his eyes and gathers all the courage he possesses. "Please, don't let it be the pyre."
Under any other circumstances, Arthur would have laughed at him by now, called him a girl and extended his hand.
"Stand up," he orders instead, voice alarmed. "What are you doing?"
Merlin doesn't stand. Arthur will be a great king—noble and merciful. One blow, and Merlin will lie down next to the white hart. One blow, just one blow, just a few more seconds to conjure up every memory that counts, every reason Merlin has to be grateful. His mom, Will, Gaius, Gwen, Lancelot, Freya, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur...
Strong hands haul Merlin up by his neckerchief. His eyes jolt open.
"What are you doing?" Arthur's face, a few centimetres away from Merlin's, is crazed and trembling. "Stop this. Stop."
A clunking sound. Between them, the sword lies on the grass, a snake of metal now trapped under Arthur's foot.
"You've been lying for years, and now, you beg me to- to kill you?" Arthur lets out a mirthless laugh. "How dare you?"
He clenches Merlin's collar even tighter, knuckles white with fury. "If you thought I'd have you dead, you could have fled. You could have fought. You could have- knocked me out with a tree, anything! You're a sorcerer, are you not?"
Merlin snaps. "I'm your manservant!"
Ignited by newfound anger, he grabs the neck of Arthur's chainmail so that they're both clutching each other by the collar, red with ire and delirious, like two drunks about to fist-fight in a tavern.
"Don't you understand? I'd pledge my entire life to you, and I have. And I do. And if you say I am to die for it, I will." He punches Arthur's chest with closed fists, still holding onto the mail. "I bend and break at your bloody will, you prat. I run your baths, I serve your food, I carry your hares. I save your life, then I go back to polishing your shields and the sword you held to my throat."
Merlin isn't sure what point he's trying to convey, but standing this close, he can feel Arthur's ragged breath brushing his upper lip. So, as he goes on about the extent of his devotion, he does the least reverential thing he could right now, and presses their mouths together.
It busts his lip open with how strong he knocks into it, and it only lasts a second before Arthur pushes him back, but it's the first that Merlin's felt anything close to good since the hart died.
"I love you," he says, because it's true and Arthur needs to know. "I love you, Arthur."
"Shut up," Arthur gasps, and Merlin thinks this is the first time he's seen him cry. Arthur must think about that too because he blinks the tears away forcefully. "You say you love a man you thought would kill you. You're a fool."
And maybe Merlin is a fool, because he lets that same man pull him in by his hair and smash their mouths together again.
It's not a good kiss by any measure—they knock together in a mess of teeth and spit, and Merlin's busted lip bleeds into it. It doesn't matter, though. His soul is ablaze, searing like a fever, like icy water, like Arthur's tongue, and Merlin can't believe he went from offering him his life to licking into his mouth, wet and wonderful; can't believe it's real. It feels like a dream, that mouth that tastes of metal and sun and salt, like something he's made up while breathing in Arthur's gambeson—but pressed flush together like this, there's no doubting Arthur's there, kissing him and gasping into it, like he's crying still.
So Merlin pulls away at last. "I'm sorry I thought you capable of killing me."
Arthur doesn't say anything; he grips Merlin's hair tighter, knocks their foreheads together.
"And I'm sorry," Merlin continues, a breath of words right against Arthur's face, "I lied to you for so long. I'll tell you everything, anything you ask about it. But there is only one thing you need to know: it's all for you, the magic and the rest."
Arthur lets go of him. The clearing, Merlin realises, is green and sunlit, and the oak sways with the wind like it's breathing. He bends to pick up the sword and hands it back to Arthur
"Sorcerer or not, I am destined to be your sorry manservant."
For a few seconds, Arthur stares silently at the blade, at the sun reflecting in it, a blinding silver glow. Then he sheathes it at his side.
"I'm sorry," he says with a frown, "that I killed that hart."
An incredulous bark of laughter escapes Merlin. His chest swells with glee and a worse, wilder thing, because Arthur is ridiculous and breathtaking, and Merlin will love him until he dies and well after that.
"I guess you, my lord, are destined to be a royal ass. Are you not going to apologise for holding me at sword point?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Merlin, you're the one who blatantly overreacted. Now help me carry the hart back to Camelot."
Arthur smiles, uneven teeth and all, and Merlin thinks he must be a fool, because he'd offer him his life again, if it came to it. Would not even hesitate.
Not that he’d let Arthur know.
"Can't we take a break first? My feet are still killing me, you know."