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Chapter Text

Before the sun had even broken the clouds on the morning of Arthur’s sixteenth birthday, the Prince found himself roughly dragged down the halls by his wrist. The castle was still wrapped in the hush of dawn, torches flickering dimly against cold stone walls, the faint crackle of their flames the only sound aside from the hurried footfalls of father and son. Arthur barely had time to register what was happening before his father’s grip tightened, forcing him to stumble forward.

He had awoken to the sharp sound of his chamber doors flying open, the imposing figure of Uther standing at the threshold. His father had been in a seemingly good mood, but the moment his sharp gaze fell on Arthur, the warmth vanished. A scoff, a deep frown, and then without a word, Uther had seized his wrist and hauled him from the bed. Arthur, still bleary-eyed and disoriented, had barely managed to throw on a tunic before being tugged through the corridors, his questions ignored.

A well-known fact in Camelot was that at age sixteen, exactly when you were born, your soulmate’s favorite word, or their name if they did not have one, became inked onto your wrist. Every noble, every peasant, every child knew this was the way of things. The mark was a promise, a certainty—one’s fate decided by forces beyond their control.

Arthur had nothing.

He had spent no time considering what his word might be. He assumed it would be something graceful, poetic even, spoken by a princess he was fated to marry—someone educated and demure, as befitted the future queen of Camelot. It wasn’t something he had obsessed over. There was no point dwelling on something inevitable.

But now, as the door to the physician’s chambers was slammed open under Uther’s forceful knock, Arthur felt an uneasy weight settle in his stomach.

Inside, Gaius startled, nearly knocking over a stack of parchment. Beside him, a boyish-looking man—a blur of messy black curls and quick limbs—immediately ducked out of sight at the king’s arrival. Arthur barely registered him before Uther strode forward, his presence commanding the room.

“Goodness me, sire, my door!” Gaius exclaimed, pressing a hand to his chest. He recovered quickly, bowing slightly despite the blatant intrusion. Arthur admired the man’s composure; Gaius had long mastered the art of handling Uther’s temper.

“It is no matter. Arthur is broken.”

Arthur barely had a moment to react before he was shoved forward, stumbling slightly before catching himself. He blinked at his father, confusion knitting his brows.

“Father! What is this nonsense—”

Gaius silenced him with a single raised eyebrow. Arthur, as much as a prince ought not to pout, knew his expression was verging on petulant. He crossed his arms, scowling as he glanced at the old physician, who seemed entirely unruffled by the declaration.

“What appears to be the matter, sire?” Gaius asked, his tone civil as always. Arthur couldn’t help but feel as though he had been scolded, despite the fact that the question was not even directed at him.

“He doesn’t have a word.”

The simple statement carried a weight far heavier than Arthur had anticipated. His father’s tone was sharp, as if Arthur himself had committed some great failing. As if this, somehow, was his fault. Uther turned away, his posture rigid, his hand clenched at his side as though the sight of Arthur’s bare wrist was an insult, an injury.

A deep, burning line seared itself into Arthur’s chest. He swallowed against it, his jaw tightening as he finally looked down at his wrist.

Smooth. Pale. Empty.

“Oh,” Arthur breathed. The word felt insignificant in the heavy silence that followed.

“Oh, indeed,” Gaius muttered.

The three of them stood in the dim morning light, the air thick with something unspoken. Arthur felt the weight of his father’s expectations pressing down on him, heavier than any armor he had ever worn. His father had dragged him here expecting an answer—expecting Gaius to fix what had somehow gone wrong.

But Arthur was not broken. He was simply—

Alone.

Chapter Text

Merlin had been mute since the first time he was told his babbling was irritating at one year old, if not earlier.

Back in Ealdor, although his life with his mother was filled with warmth, the village was not as kind. Everyone knew of Merlin’s ‘gifts,’ and from a young age, he learned that not everyone wished to see them. There was Will and his mother—his only true companions—but beyond them, he had nobody.

He spent his days, which turned into weeks, cross-legged on the sandy floor, dust tangled in his unruly hair, a book spread across his lap. His eyes devoured the words at inhuman speeds, page after page, his mind a hungry thing seeking knowledge. His mother, as occupied as she was with keeping a young boy alive, had little time to worry about his quiet nature. If Merlin rarely left their home, she did not press him. It was easier that way.

But necessity had a way of forcing change, and it did so in the bitter winter of his fifth birthday.

The cold had been sharper that year, the frost creeping in through the cracks in their small home, their stores of food dwindling too quickly. Summer and spring had fed them well, but winter brought nothing but hunger and hardship. Merlin, ever determined to help, had made up his mind. He would trade. He would provide.

Bundling himself in the thickest layers he owned, he braved the village square, where small stalls stood, shivering against the wind. His basket of herbs sat high on his bony arm as he approached a woman behind one of the stalls, her face kind but guarded.

‘I have some herbs for you, ma’am, if I could have some bread!’ he scrawled onto a scrap of parchment, his fingers stiff with cold. His wide blue eyes flickered to the grainy loaf in her hands. His stomach ached; shrubs and bark could only sustain him for so long.

“Two bundles of your mother’s herbs, and this loaf is all yours,” the woman said, offering a thin smile. It felt forced, but Merlin didn’t question it. He merely nodded, paid her price, and clutched the bread like a treasure. Two apples followed, a stroke of luck before the snow began to bite too harshly at his skin, numbing his fingers and dusting his dark hair with frost.

He was nearly home when it happened.

A sudden, rough yank on his neckscarf sent his frail body lurching backward, feet scrabbling for purchase.

“Awww. See what this one’s got,” a gruff voice muttered, warm breath curling against his frozen skin. Panic surged in his chest. His hands clutched desperately at his scarf, his legs kicking, trying to find the ground that had been stolen from beneath him.

A whimper escaped him—an involuntary, fragile sound.

“Oh, shut up. Your voice is annoying anyway.”

A finger trailed over his sharp cheekbone, a mockery of affection, a threat in disguise. The darkness at the edges of his vision thickened, swallowing him whole.

And then it happened.

The world snapped.

Magic surged from him like a storm breaking free of its cage. One moment he was weightless, choking, and the next—the men flew backward, tossed like dolls. Merlin crashed to the ground, pain flaring in his ankle with a sickening crack. He gasped, not for air, but at the sensation—cold, fire, agony—all at once.

He did not cry out.

Tears stung his cheeks, half-frozen, but he refused to sob. He pushed himself to his feet, scooped up his stolen bread and apples, and limped away on his broken ankle. The snow swallowed his footsteps, the village square returning to stillness as though nothing had happened.

His mother was frantic when he returned. The moment she saw him—pale, trembling, limping—she thrust cup after cup of nettle tea into his hands. By the second, his shaking had steadied enough to let him scrawl the truth to her. When he finished, she was silent.

Livid.

Warlock or not, Merlin feared the fire in his mother’s eyes. He ducked his head, retreating into himself, his fingers curling around his mug.

‘Am I a freak?’ he rasped, not aloud, but in her mind. His magic wove the words between them, raw and hesitant, as if afraid of the answer.

His hands moved before he realized it, fingers tracing idle patterns into the sand, coaxing tiny figures to life. A horse, a bird, a knight—small, delicate things that danced beneath his touch.

His mother said nothing at first. She simply turned back to her apples, slicing them with a careful hand. The silence stretched between them, taut as a thread.

And then, at last, she whispered, “No.”

Chapter Text

The second time Merlin was attacked, it was summer. He had finally felt brave enough to venture out into the forest, where he could move freely and breathe without feeling the weight of the village’s judgment. Warm winds ruffled his dark hair as he limped along the uneven path, fingers brushing against leaves, humming softly to himself. His destination was nowhere in particular—just anywhere that was away.

He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until it was too late. A force slammed him into the nearest tree, his yelp cut off as the air rushed from his lungs.

"Hi, me again. I was wondering if you ever shut up."

The voice was a low, guttural growl, and for a fleeting moment, Merlin thought he had encountered his first magical creature. But the illusion shattered when a human hand gripped his tunic, yanking it down and pressing hard against the bruises that had never fully faded from winter’s cruelty.

"I see you bruise nicely, freak. At least you’re good for something. But I couldn’t help but notice you were being annoyingly loud again."

The man’s breath stank of ale, his voice dripping with cruel amusement as his bearded face loomed close. Merlin barely processed what was happening before his shaking hands rose instinctively in front of him, and the reaction was immediate—the man stumbled back, dropping him as if burned. His fear twisted into something uglier, something dangerous.

Merlin lay gasping on the ground, watching the realization dawn in the man’s expression. Fear. He was a freak to be feared.

"Ah, ah, ah, none of your games, boy." The man smirked, composing himself quickly. "You’re from the village, aren’t you? Ah! No words, just nodding. Thank you."

Harsh laughter rang out, bouncing off the trees. The silence that followed was suffocating—there were no other voices, no footsteps, no sounds of an approaching rescue. He was alone. Again.

"And you appear to have magic! Something that is wonderfully outlawed where I’m from." The man crouched, tilting his head. "Say... What if I just took you with me? Do you think mummy would miss you?"

Merlin’s fear crystallized into something sharper. Gold flickered in his eyes. A silent spell. A flash of light. The man was gone.

That night, Merlin fell asleep in his mother’s arms, but when dawn arrived, he woke screaming. He curled in on himself, covered his ears, and understood—his voice only ever brought trouble.

--- 

Gaius paced in front of his young ward, who sat hunched at the table, eyes distant and locked somewhere unreachable. The physician had seen that look before, seen the ghostly way Merlin’s mind drifted when the past dug its claws into him. He wished more than anything that he could pull him back.

Across the chamber, Uther stood, arms crossed, his presence as oppressive as ever. Arthur sat stiffly on a bench, staring down at his wrist as though willing the words to appear. But the skin remained bare. Empty.

Gaius needed Merlin’s insight, but he knew better than to ask aloud. The boy rarely spoke when others were around, and he had worked hard to be one of the few Merlin trusted with his thoughts. He wouldn’t break that trust now.

"Sire, if I could be given some time, I am sure I could determine a cause for the Prince’s condition." Gaius kept his head bowed.

Uther said nothing, merely glaring at Arthur until the numb prince pushed himself to his feet and trailed after his father, shoulders slumped. The sight made Gaius’ chest tighten with something bitter, something dangerously close to resentment.

‘Gaius, why wouldn’t he have words?’ Merlin’s voice drifted into the old man’s mind, hesitant but seeking. Gaius exhaled slowly and settled onto the bench beside him.

"Perhaps his soulmate doesn’t speak on purpose," he murmured. "In the hopes the Prince will recognize them when they do."

Merlin nodded, standing abruptly and pulling down a heavy tome from the shelf. The old book landed on the table with a dull thud. Gaius watched as the boy flipped through the pages, temporarily distracted—but the physician knew it wouldn’t last.

‘How’s your eyesight, old man? Up for some reading?’

The teasing lilt in Merlin’s voice was a relief, however brief. Gaius let out a soft chuckle and allowed the tome to be pushed toward him, indulging in the fleeting moment of normalcy. He only wished the boy felt safe enough to laugh out loud.

Chapter Text

This was not how Prince Arthur intended to spend his birthday.

He had thought, perhaps naively, that after presenting his father with the word on his wrist and indulging in a quiet breakfast together, he would be free to spend the rest of the day hunting. A day out in the open, away from the suffocating halls of the castle, where the weight of expectation did not press so heavily upon his shoulders.

But here he was instead, sitting on the edge of his bed, with a tight knot of frustration and uncertainty in his chest. Arthur Pendragon did not cry—everyone knew that—but today, he was dangerously close.

His soulmate had not spoken.

The ink on his wrist remained as invisible as the wind, unmarked by the word that should have appeared when his destined match uttered their first words to him. But they were alive—he knew that much. He could feel them, an unspoken warmth curled deep in his chest, a subconscious tether connecting him to a person he was supposed to love. And yet, silence.

His fingers clenched into his sheets, eyes burning as he scowled at the draperies above his bed, willing them to yield answers they did not possess. Had something happened to them? Were they unable to speak? Did they not want to? The thoughts swirled like storm clouds, dark and unrelenting.

With an irritated huff, he threw himself to his feet. He couldn’t stay in here, brooding like a caged animal. Ignoring the shouts of his guards, Arthur stormed out of his chambers, seeking fresh air and the distraction of the bustling city beyond the castle walls.

---

Merlin flopped onto his bed with a heavy sigh, feeling like the biggest fool in all of Camelot. He rolled up his sleeve and glared at the ink scrawled across his wrist, each carefully scripted letter curling across his pale skin in elegant red lines. It mocked him.

The moment Uther had begun yelling about his son being "broken," something inside Merlin had fractured. Pain—not his own—had poured into his heart like an open wound, raw and confused and so familiar. He knew immediately what it meant. He knew what it had to mean.

Arthur Pendragon was his soulmate.

It was impossible. Unthinkable. A servant and a prince, bound by fate? He could not entertain the thought—not in a kingdom like this, where magic was punishable by death, where the class divide was a chasm too wide to cross. Yet no amount of denial could erase the unmistakable certainty that had settled in his bones.

With a frustrated growl, Merlin snatched up a cloth and scrubbed furiously at the ink, until his skin was raw and red. The words remained, steadfast as his fate, and his stomach churned with dread. I hate this stupid soulmate nonsense.

Tugging his sleeves back down, he grabbed his jacket and slipped out the door, intent on spending the day in the forest, away from prying eyes and suffocating truths.

---

Arthur cradled his wrist, rubbing absentmindedly at the skin as a deep irritation settled under his ribs. It was as if something was burning beneath his skin—an itch he couldn’t quite scratch, a sensation that refused to abate no matter how he flexed his fingers. He scowled. Whoever my soulmate is, they use far too much perfume.

Hoping to distract himself, he made his way to the town square. His servant, Morris, would be there, enjoying his single day off. Arthur decided the man would be a suitable target for his frustrations—nothing like a bit of knife throwing to ease the tension in his shoulders.

Morris had endured Arthur’s temper for hours, dutifully dodging the thrown daggers with increasing unease. But as Arthur prepared to launch his final knife, something unexpected happened.

A boy—no, a peasant —stepped into the path of the blade and caught it effortlessly.

The world seemed to freeze.

Morris was cowering on the ground, his wooden shield rolling away, but all eyes were locked on the newcomer. A wiry, dark-haired youth stood in the center of the square, cradling the blade in his bleeding palm, his expression unreadable.

Arthur’s temper flared.

“Do I know you?” he demanded, stepping forward, irritation flaring at the audacity of this boy to interrupt his game.

The peasant only shook his head, meeting Arthur’s gaze with a look that was far too calm, too knowing. It set his nerves on edge.

“I’m the King’s son. Arthur. And if you don’t get out of here right now, you’ll be my next target.”

Still, the boy said nothing. His silence felt deliberate, pointed. It made Arthur’s blood boil. His hand raised of its own accord, a reflexive challenge—but before he could so much as touch the peasant, the boy flinched. His entire body tensed, eyes going wide with what Arthur could only describe as terror .

For a fleeting second, Arthur swore he felt the fear through his bond, as if it had bled across whatever invisible thread tied them together. And then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. The boy spun on his heel and fled, disappearing into the crowd before Arthur could stop him.

Scowling, he turned to Morris.

“You’re dismissed.”

“I quit.”

Arthur blinked.

Morris stood stiffly, trembling slightly, but his chin was lifted with something like defiance.

“You can’t quit,” Arthur said flatly. “You’re my servant.”

“Not anymore.” With that, Morris turned and walked away, his shoulders rigid.

Arthur did not stop him. For the first time in years, he simply watched, an unfamiliar weight settling in his chest.

Hours later, Arthur sat through yet another dreary council meeting, only half-listening to the droning voices around him. His wrist still throbbed faintly beneath his sleeve, a constant reminder of the unanswered question gnawing at his mind. Who are you? Why won’t you speak?

The moment their honored guest arrived, he felt her gaze fixate immediately on his wrist. It made his skin crawl. The discomfort only grew when his father announced a feast in her honor.

Arthur excused himself early, retreating to his chambers to prepare. Dressing alone proved more difficult than anticipated, and in a fit of frustration, he threw his cape across the room just as his father strode through the doorway.

For a moment, they merely stared at one another. Then Uther scoffed, his expression settling into its usual mask of disapproval.

Arthur sighed, shoulders sagging. There was no use fighting it. He fastened his cloak, straightened his tunic, and followed his father out, resigning himself to another long night of false smiles and stifled truths.

Chapter Text

Merlin couldn’t quite place why he despised the woman, but the feeling coiled in his gut like a snake, tense and alert. She was outwardly pleasant—her smile was practiced, her words measured—but something about her made his very skin itch. Every time she spoke, it was as if her voice carried an echo that wasn’t her own, something discordant, something fundamentally wrong. The sensation was subtle, barely noticeable beneath the din of the feast, yet it grew stronger the longer he remained in her presence.

Luckily, she had lost interest in him after realizing that no amount of cajoling would make him speak. She moved on to more talkative prey, her interest fixating, as it had all evening, on people’s wrists. Merlin should have thought harder about that, should have questioned her fascination sooner, but his discomfort distracted him—until she began to sing.

Her voice started smooth, enchanting, weaving through the hall like a delicate silk thread. It was meant to lull, to soften, to disarm. But as Merlin listened, his mind grew hazy, a fog settling over his thoughts. His limbs felt heavy. He blinked slowly, sluggishly, a deep drowsiness taking root in his bones. The unease in his gut sharpened into something tangible, something undeniable. His entire body tensed, a cold shock washing through him. Then, suddenly, it hit him.

She was a sorceress.

And not the kind who meant well.

The song twisted, morphing into something sinister. Her voice dripped with magic now, raw and ancient, dark gold flashing in her eyes like a brewing storm. Instinct took over—Merlin’s own eyes burned in response, his magic flaring before he even knew what he was doing. The great chandelier above the hall groaned, metal bending and warping before crashing down with a deafening roar. The impact sent dust and splinters flying, the sorceress disappearing beneath its weight.

For one brief moment, he believed the danger had passed. He exhaled, his hands shaking. Then the air split with a scream—a sound not of pain, but fury.

The chandelier shifted violently as an arm emerged, trembling with effort, fingers splayed and claw-like. The sorceress was still alive. Worse, she was still casting.

Merlin barely had time to react before he saw it—a glint of silver slicing through the candlelight, a dagger hurled with deadly precision. He followed its path with horrifying clarity, saw exactly where it was aimed. The Prince.

He moved without thinking. One desperate lunge, a sharp impact, and then he was rolling hard against the cold stone floor. A split second later, metal met wood, the dagger embedding itself into the back of Arthur’s throne instead of his heart.

The world spun as Merlin hit the ground, his breath knocked clean from his lungs. Pain bloomed across his back where he’d landed badly, but none of it mattered—not when he turned to see Arthur being pulled to his feet while Merlin was left gasping on the floor. He didn’t even notice the king speaking until an irritated “Father!” rang sharply in his ear, pulling him back to reality.

His mind was reeling from the chaotic jumble of emotions that had flooded through the bond. Fear, confusion, something sharp and raw that he refused to name. He barely registered the murmuring voices around him, the rustle of nobles and knights filtering out of the hall, leaving him standing there, dazed and unseen, like a ghost in his own skin. Shuddering, he hugged his arms around himself, grateful that no one had noticed the flash of gold in his eyes as he numbly stared down at his wrist.

---

Gaius filled him in later that night, but left early the next morning for his rounds, leaving Merlin alone to prepare for what was, apparently, his first day as Arthur’s personal manservant.

The panic set in quickly.

He’d overslept. And in his desperate rush to get ready, everything had gone horribly wrong. His tunic was wrinkled, his neckerchief didn’t match, and his hair—he didn’t even want to think about it. His boots were on the verge of being on the wrong feet, and the breakfast he was supposed to be serving was already cold. Sprinting through the castle, nearly tripping twice, he reached Arthur’s chambers in record time, just as the prince was beginning to stir.

Bursting in, he threw open the door with excessive force, practically launched the plate onto the table, and successfully spilled water down the front of his tunic all within the span of thirty seconds. And yet, despite all this, Arthur remained dead to the world, his face buried in his pillows, his hair a golden mess.

Merlin frowned. He had expected at least some reaction.

He hesitated for a beat, debating whether to let the prince sleep. After all, he looked exhausted. But then he remembered the absolute mountain of chores Arthur had likely left for him, and his hesitation vanished. A slow grin spread across his face as he stepped back toward the window, took a breath, and yanked the curtains wide open.

The reaction was instant.

Arthur let out an ungraceful, almost comical yelp before flailing and tumbling off the bed, landing in a heap of tangled blankets on the floor. Merlin barely managed to stifle his laughter, coughing into his hand to cover up the sound as he watched the prince wrestle against his bedding.

Arthur, thoroughly unimpressed, leveled a glare at him. “Something funny?”

Merlin quickly shook his head, schooling his features into an innocent expression as he gestured vaguely toward the table. The movement was too rushed, and he nearly tripped over his own feet, catching himself at the last second by grabbing onto the curtains. Arthur’s scowl deepened, unimpressed.

“There’s a list of chores on the table,” Arthur said lazily, still sprawled half on the floor. “But I’ll also need you to add polishing my armor, mucking out the horses, and cleaning my floor. I don’t like how dirty this place is.”

Merlin felt the flicker of smug satisfaction through the bond and scowled, already regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment. He opened his mouth to retort—something witty, something biting—only to remember, too late, that he couldn’t. His frustration turned into an exaggerated eye-roll and an overly dramatic bow, complete with a flourish of his arms. When he was sure Arthur wasn’t looking, he stuck his tongue out for good measure.

“I saw that,” Arthur said dryly, not even bothering to turn around. With annoyingly perfect aim, he tossed a goblet over his shoulder, smacking Merlin square in the shoulder with more force than necessary.

Merlin groaned, rubbing the sore spot and glaring daggers at the back of Arthur’s head.

This was going to be a nightmare.

Chapter Text

Arthur realized quickly that his new manservant was an enigma—one wrapped in insolence, wrapped in incompetence, wrapped in what could only be described as outright defiance.

He had assumed, at first, that Merlin was simply unfamiliar with his duties. The boy seemed to have no knowledge of how to properly serve a prince, making mistake after mistake with an almost admirable consistency. Arthur could forgive that, at least for a while. Training a new servant was tedious but expected. What he could not abide, however, was the sheer lack of respect.

Merlin did not bow and scrape like the others. He did not cower under Arthur’s gaze or rush to correct his mistakes with the proper level of embarrassment. Instead, he met Arthur’s complaints with a glint in his eye, a smirk on his lips, and—more often than not—a retaliatory act of rebellion. It was never outright disobedience, nothing serious enough to warrant actual punishment, but Arthur was convinced that Merlin deliberately dropped things just to be irritating.

And yet, for all his reckless arrogance, there were moments when Merlin would shrink in on himself, curling his shoulders inward like he was trying to disappear. It was a stark contrast to his usual brazenness, and Arthur found it unsettling.

It wasn’t fear—not exactly. If Merlin were afraid of him, he wouldn’t provoke him so freely. It was something else, something Arthur couldn't quite name, and it gnawed at him with quiet persistence.

The silence was equally confusing.

Arthur had been skeptical when Gaius first told him about Merlin’s condition. A mute servant was hardly practical, and Arthur had been certain that, at some point, the boy would break the act and reveal it as some elaborate ploy. But the longer he observed him, the more he realized that Merlin’s silence was not one of deception but habit. He had seen glimpses—hints of sound escaping before being hastily smothered. A moment where Merlin had nearly started humming before abruptly cutting himself off, his expression unreadable.

And then there had been that moment in the armory.

Arthur had passed by to ensure Merlin was actually doing his work, but before he could open the door, he had paused. He could have sworn he heard muffled sobbing—short, sharp breaths as if someone were trying to suppress the sound. But before he could investigate further, Leon had spotted him and chosen that precise moment to deliver his daily report.

By the time Arthur had entered, Merlin had been standing there, polishing a breastplate as if nothing had happened, his eyes dry but his expression carefully neutral. Arthur had said nothing. He wasn't even sure why he hesitated.

Later that night, as he sank into his bath, Arthur let his thoughts drift back to the strange servant who occupied far more of his mind than he had any right to.

For all of Merlin’s many faults, the boy had an undeniable talent for making the perfect baths. Arthur wasn’t sure what mixture of herbs and oils he used, but the water was always the perfect temperature, soothing in a way that lingered long after he stepped out. Not that he would ever admit as much aloud—least of all to his father.

Uther had taken an immediate and almost irrational dislike to Merlin, though Arthur couldn’t quite understand why. The boy had even bowed to him, so what more did his father want? Arthur had long since stopped trying to seek Uther’s approval, but something about the king’s attitude toward Merlin rankled him.

The question that plagued him most, however, was why Merlin was here at all.

Arthur had never seen him around before his appointment, which meant he must have come from the lower town. And yet, for someone raised outside the castle walls, he seemed wholly unfamiliar with the customs of a royal court. It was as if he had grown up in an entirely different world. Perhaps one of the villages nearby?

Why, then, had he come to Camelot? What had driven him to leave whatever life he had behind?

Arthur huffed, sinking lower into the bath as he scowled at the ceiling. It was frustrating—how this servant, this ridiculous, infuriating boy, had managed to worm his way into his thoughts so thoroughly. There was something different about Merlin, something just beyond his reach, and it gnawed at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

He needed to figure it out. And soon.

Chapter Text

Merlin had always known his magic would get him into trouble, but he never thought it would lead him to the Prince of Camelot—much less as his soulmate. The weight of the secret pressed down on him, almost as heavily as Uther’s disdain. 

 Arthur’s frustration over his blank wrist only grew as days passed. He found himself gravitating towards Merlin, even when the servant wasn’t required. The mysterious boy intrigued him, and despite his own gruffness, Arthur felt oddly protective of him. 

One day, while sparring in the courtyard, Arthur noticed Merlin watching from the shadows, his blue eyes fixed intently on the Prince. Determined to get a reaction, Arthur called out, “You, there! Come spar with me!” 

Merlin’s eyes widened, and he shook his head fervently. But Arthur was insistent, tossing him a wooden sword. 

Merlin’s grip was awkward, and his swings wild, but there was a fierce determination in his eyes. The clash of swords echoed through the courtyard, drawing the attention of passing knights. Laughter erupted as Merlin stumbled and fell, but Arthur didn’t join in. Instead, he extended a hand to the fallen servant. 

“Not bad,” Arthur admitted with a hint of a smile. “Perhaps you’re not entirely useless.” 

Merlin stared at the outstretched hand before accepting it, a soft blush colouring his cheeks. In that moment, as their hands touched, a strange warmth blossomed in Arthur’s chest. It wasn’t the fierce heat of battle, but something gentler, more persistent—a connection. 

 The training continued over the following weeks. Arthur found himself seeking Merlin’s company, drawn to the quiet servant in ways he couldn’t explain. Merlin, for his part, grew more comfortable around the Prince, the corners of his mouth often twitching into suppressed smiles. 

⋆｡°✩

The days that followed the sparring session in the courtyard were oddly quiet, though not in a bad way. There was something different in the air—something unspoken that neither Arthur nor Merlin could quite place. But as the sun dipped low each evening, casting the courtyard in warm, golden light, their training continued, and a subtle shift began to take hold. 

Arthur found himself seeking Merlin out more often than he had before, not because he needed help with tasks, but because he wanted to be near him. He couldn’t explain it. The servant was quiet, reserved, and often seemed to withdraw into himself, but there was a strange magnetism about him—something that drew Arthur’s attention in a way he couldn’t ignore. 

It wasn’t just that Merlin had been there, his blue eyes locked on Arthur’s with an intensity that neither of them had fully understood at the time. No, it was more than that. Arthur was beginning to notice the way Merlin’s brow furrowed when he concentrated, or the way his lips quirked when he wasn’t sure whether to smile or scowl. There was an unspoken understanding in the air, something familiar yet foreign. Something that made Arthur’s chest tighten in a way he couldn’t quite put into words. 

Merlin, too, had noticed the change. At first, he couldn’t understand why Arthur seemed to seek him out so often. They had always had a sort of uneasy camaraderie—Arthur, the Prince with his fiery temper and sharp tongue, and Merlin, the awkward, sometimes clumsy servant who could never seem to get anything quite right. 

But the way Arthur would glance at him now, the small smiles that would tug at his lips when their eyes met, made something inside Merlin stir. It was unsettling, this quiet pull toward the Prince. He had always been careful to keep his distance, knowing the dangerous games that fate played, knowing the consequences if anyone discovered his secret. But now, as the days turned into weeks, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to this connection between them. 

⋆｡°✩

One afternoon, after a particularly gruelling training session, Arthur sat on the edge of the courtyard, wiping the sweat from his brow. His muscles ached in the most satisfying way, but his thoughts weren’t on the sparring. Instead, they were on Merlin, who was standing off to the side, as always, watching quietly. 

“You’ve been standing there for a while,” Arthur called, though his tone wasn’t teasing, only curious. “Care to join me?” 

Merlin stiffened slightly, but instead of retreating as he might have done in the past, he slowly made his way over to where Arthur sat. He lowered himself onto the stone beside him, carefully not touching the Prince. 

Arthur glanced at Merlin, waiting for some sort of answer, but Merlin only shrugged and gave a slight tilt of his head, a small gesture that Arthur understood meant he was listening but not speaking. 

“You always seem so focused,” Arthur mused aloud. “It’s like you’re paying attention to everything, even when you're not involved.” 

Merlin’s lips curved upward slightly, an almost imperceptible smile that Arthur would’ve missed if he wasn’t watching closely. His eyes were warm with understanding, and he met Arthur’s gaze as though to reassure him. 

Arthur frowned, sensing that Merlin’s silence wasn’t discomfort but something deeper—perhaps a hint of something they both didn’t quite understand. He wanted to press further, but instead, he simply fell silent, his thoughts drifting in the quiet between them. 

After a long moment, Arthur let out a small laugh. “I think you're the only one who actually pays attention to my training. Most of the knights just laugh at me.” 

Merlin’s lips twitched again, a fleeting, almost shy grin. He didn’t need words to express his amusement, and the smile alone was enough to make Arthur feel lighter, like the world had suddenly brightened. 

Arthur leaned back against the stone wall, letting out a sigh. “You know, I wonder sometimes… what it is about you. You’re always watching, always there, but never saying anything.” 

Merlin’s smile faded just a little, and he looked down for a moment. Then, without a word, he reached into his tunic and pulled out a small piece of parchment, quickly scribbling something down with a small pocket quill. He handed it to Arthur without a second thought. 

Arthur took the note, eyes flicking over the words in confusion before he read aloud, “ I have nothing to say unless I think it’s worth saying. ” 

Arthur raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He could feel the weight of Merlin’s unspoken thoughts in those words, and a strange sense of understanding washed over him. He didn’t need Merlin to speak for them to communicate. They were learning how to understand each other without needing to say a word. 

“Fair enough,” Arthur muttered with a grin, folding the note and tucking it into his pocket. “But you should know I don’t mind the silence. There’s something... peaceful about it.” 

Merlin didn’t respond, but the small glint of something—perhaps relief, perhaps something else—flashed in his eyes. His hand twitched at his side, almost like he was about to reach out, but he stopped himself, instead pulling his fingers into a fist and resting it gently on his knee. 

Arthur didn’t push. Instead, he just leaned back, settling into the quiet company of the servant beside him. The world around them might have been bustling, but in this moment, it was just the two of them, communicating in ways that words couldn’t capture. 

⋆｡°✩

The bond between them continued to grow in this unspoken way—Arthur relying on the subtle cues Merlin gave, the soft expressions, the written words, the small gestures. It was different from what Arthur had expected, but it was real, and somehow, that made it feel more profound. 

Arthur prided himself on being observant. It was a skill drilled into him by years of combat training, a necessity for a prince who would one day rule. He noticed the way knights adjusted their stances before an attack, how courtiers flinched when they lied, the way his father’s expression darkened ever so slightly before he was about to issue an order that would ruin someone’s life. 

So it made no sense—none at all—that it had taken him this long to notice Merlin’s silence. 

At first, it had been easy to overlook. The boy was just another servant, one of many, and Arthur had assumed he was either too nervous to speak or simply one of those quiet types who preferred to blend into the background. But Merlin was not the type to blend in. 

For all his silence, he had a presence. 

It wasn’t in what he said—because, of course, he said nothing . It was in his expressions, in the way his eyebrows shot up whenever Arthur made some particularly arrogant comment, the way his lips twitched like he wanted to say something cutting but refused to let it slip. 

Arthur first took real notice a few days after Merlin had started working for him. He’d been testing the servant’s patience, as he did with all new ones, seeing how much they would tolerate before they snapped or quit. He had been expecting complaints, or at least grumbling, but Merlin simply huffed, set his jaw, and continued on with his work, communicating mostly in annoyed glances and the occasional scribbled note when necessary. 

That was odd . 

The first time Arthur truly heard Merlin’s voice—if it could be called that—was when the servant handed him a note scrawled in barely legible writing: 

"Your armour is polished. Might not be able to say the same for your attitude."  

Arthur had stared at the parchment for a long moment before looking up at Merlin, who had the audacity to smirk at him, the corners of his lips twitching in amusement. The sheer nerve of this scrawny servant, insulting the Crown Prince of Camelot in writing , had almost made Arthur throw something at him. But instead, he’d let out a startled bark of laughter, shaking his head. 

“You know, you’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” Arthur had muttered, crumpling the parchment and tossing it aside. Merlin had merely inclined his head, something gleaming in his blue eyes—something knowing. 

That was the moment Arthur realized Merlin wasn’t just quiet. He was choosing not to speak. 

Once the thought occurred to him, he couldn’t shake it. 

He started noticing things—small things, details that built up in his mind like puzzle pieces he didn’t know how to fit together. 

Merlin never reacted the way most people did. If Arthur insulted him, he would roll his eyes but never defend himself. If Arthur praised him—on the rare occasion it was deserved—Merlin would freeze for half a second before ducking his head and busying himself with work. 

And then there was the way he avoided speaking situations entirely. 

Arthur had tested this theory one afternoon by deliberately asking Merlin long, open-ended questions. 

“So, where did you say you were from?” 

Merlin had paused, his grip on Arthur’s chainmail tightening slightly as he folded it. 

Arthur had expected some sort of response—a vague answer at least. Instead, Merlin had simply reached for a scrap of parchment and scratched out a single word. 

"Ealdor."  

A single word. No elaboration. No details. 

Arthur had frowned. “Is that all?” 

Merlin had shrugged, as if to say what else do you need?  

The whole thing made no sense . He had met quiet men before—knights who were trained to hold their tongues, scholars who preferred books to conversation. But Merlin wasn’t shy. He was expressive in every other way—his hands gesturing when he was frustrated, his face betraying every emotion he tried to suppress. 

And yet, when it came to speech, he locked it away. 

Then there was the way Merlin communicated. He had an uncanny ability to understand Arthur’s moods—almost like he could sense when the prince was in a foul temper before a word was even spoken. 

One evening, after an argument with his father, Arthur had stormed back to his chambers, fuming. He hadn’t said a word to Merlin, but the servant had taken one look at him, disappeared for several minutes, and returned with a warm bath already drawn - chamomile and rosemary mixed into the water, the scent soothing his nerves before he even stepped in. 

Arthur had frowned at him. “How did you—” He cut himself off. 

Merlin had merely raised an eyebrow, tilted his head slightly, and then gestured at the bath like it was obvious . 

Arthur sank into the water, watching him closely. 

He was beginning to think Merlin wasn’t just choosing not to speak. 

He was hiding something. 

And the more Arthur thought about it, the more he realized something even stranger . 

When he was around Merlin for too long—when they spent hours in the same room, training or working—Arthur would start to feel things that didn’t belong to him. It was subtle, but it was there . 

A headache when Merlin rubbed his temple. A tightness in his chest when Merlin flinched at Uther’s sharp tone. A strange warmth in his wrist when Merlin’s fingers brushed against his own by accident. 

It made no sense. 

It was almost like— 

Arthur shook his head sharply, cutting the thought off before it could form. No. That was ridiculous. There was no logical explanation for it. 

Still, the feeling persisted , creeping into his awareness more and more each day. 

And the worst part? 

Arthur was beginning to realize that Merlin wasn’t the only one keeping secrets. 

Because the more time they spent together, the more Arthur felt something stir in his chest—something unspoken, something known yet unknown . 

Something that told him Merlin was important . 

That he always had been. 

That he always would be. 

Even if Arthur didn’t understand why yet.

Chapter Text

Merlin had spent his entire life learning how to hide.  

From the moment he was old enough to understand that his magic made him different—dangerous—he had learned the delicate art of slipping between the cracks, of making himself small, of keeping secrets even from those he trusted most.  

But hiding from Arthur was different.  

Because Arthur was observant.  

Too observant.  

And Merlin could feel the walls he had so carefully built beginning to crack.  

It had started with little things—Arthur watching him too closely when he handed him notes, the way his eyes would narrow every time Merlin avoided speaking, the small frown that tugged at his lips whenever Merlin deflected a question with a shrug.  

At first, it had been easy enough to ignore. Arthur wasn’t exactly known for his patience, and Merlin had assumed the prince would get bored and move on, just as he did with everything else that didn’t immediately demand his attention.  

But Arthur hadn’t let it go.  

He had studied him, picking up on things Merlin hadn’t even realised were noticeable. And now, every time Arthur’s gaze lingered just a little too long, every time he asked another question Merlin couldn’t answer, Merlin felt himself slipping closer and closer to being found out .  

He couldn’t let that happen.  

So he doubled down.  

He avoided Arthur’s gaze as much as possible, focused on his chores with single-minded determination, and made himself small in a way he hadn’t had to since leaving Ealdor. He kept his sleeves pulled over his wrists, careful never to let Arthur catch even a glimpse of the words written there.  

The word that bound them together.  

The word he could never let Arthur see .  

He had been dreading this since the moment he had woken up to find it inked onto his skin. That morning, when he had stared down at the carefully scripted letters, something inside him had shattered.  

Because of course it had to be Arthur.  

It couldn’t be some kind-hearted villager, someone who wouldn’t look at him like a threat if they ever learned the truth. It had to be the prince of Camelot. The son of a man who had sworn to eradicate Merlin’s kind from the world.  

The irony was almost laughable.  

The universe had bound him to the one person he could never have.  

And so he had done the only thing he could do—he had hidden it.  

He had scrubbed at the ink until his skin burned, covered it with cloth and bandages, buried it beneath layers of silence and feigned indifference. He had convinced himself that if he never acknowledged it, never spoke of it, then maybe it wouldn’t matter.   Maybe Arthur would never have to know.  

But fate had a cruel sense of humour.  

Because even without the words, even without knowing , Arthur had started to feel it .  

Merlin could tell by the way Arthur’s fingers would sometimes drift to his own wrist, pressing against bare skin as if expecting something to be there. By the way he would glance at Merlin in quiet moments, eyes searching for something he didn’t yet understand.  

And the worst part?  

Merlin could feel it too.  

It was subtle, a pull in his chest that grew stronger every time he was near Arthur, a warmth that lingered whenever their hands brushed by accident. It was a connection that existed beyond words, beyond logic—something ancient, something undeniable.  

And Merlin hated it.   Because it would ruin them both.  

Because no matter how much he wanted —  

No.  

He couldn’t think like that.  

Wanting was dangerous. Wanting led to mistakes.   So, he pushed it down, buried it deep, locked it away with all the other things he could never have.   He kept his head down. He did his work. He avoided Arthur’s eyes.  

And still, despite everything, Arthur kept looking at him .  

Like he was waiting for Merlin to say something.  

Like he already knew .  

And Merlin didn’t know how much longer he could keep pretending.  

- ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Merlin had a bad feeling.  

It wasn’t magic—not exactly. It was more like an itch under his skin, a twisting in his gut that warned him something was about to go wrong .  

He ignored it.  

He had to.  

Bad feelings had followed him his whole life. A boy who hid as much as he did, who carried secrets in the marrow of his bones, learned to live with unease. He learned to move through the world as if he were one step ahead of disaster, because more often than not, he was.  

Still, as he followed Arthur through the training field, watching the prince joke with the knights, the feeling lingered .  

Arthur, of course, noticed.  

“You look constipated,” he commented, adjusting the grip on his sword. “More than usual, I mean.”  

Merlin rolled his eyes but said nothing. He shifted uncomfortably as he stood at the edge of the sparring ring, hands buried deep in his sleeves to keep from fidgeting.  

“Come on, then,” Arthur continued, grinning. “If you’re going to sulk like that, you may as well be useful. Pick up a sword.”  

Merlin stiffened. Oh no. Not again.  

He shook his head quickly.  

Arthur’s grin only widened. “Oh, come on. You’re around knights all day, you must have learned something .”  

Merlin shook his head again, more firmly this time. But Arthur was relentless, already reaching for a practice sword and tossing it toward him.  

Merlin caught it—pure reflex. He hadn’t meant to, but the moment his fingers closed around the hilt, something flared between them.  

Arthur frowned.  

Merlin swallowed hard. His wrist burned , the words hidden beneath his sleeve prickling against his skin like they had been re-inked in fire.  

He dropped the sword immediately.  

Arthur tilted his head. “You’re a terrible servant, you know that?”  

Merlin forced a smirk, bent down, and picked up the sword again, this time gripping it like it might explode. Arthur didn’t press further, but there was something assessing in his gaze, something thoughtful.  

Then, before Merlin could react, Arthur swung at him.  

He barely had time to react. He stumbled back, lifting his sword instinctively to block the blow, but his grip was too loose, his stance too awkward, and the impact nearly sent him sprawling.  

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You really don’t know what you’re doing. Even now.”  

Merlin glared at him.  

Arthur only sighed, adjusting his grip. His face did a complicated thing, which Merlin has come to learn means he's feeling an emotion - a soft one, at that. “Alright. I’ll go easy on you.”  

Easy, as it turned out, meant Arthur’s version of easy, which was still absolutely brutal . The prince didn’t hit him hard, but he was relentless, prodding and teasing, forcing Merlin to stumble around the ring like an idiot in front of an audience of laughing knights.  

Merlin grit his teeth, trying his best to keep up, but the bad feeling in his gut only worsened.  

He turned just in time to see it .  

A flicker of motion from the treeline beyond the sparring ring. The glint of metal catching the afternoon sun. A shadow shifting where no shadow should be.  

Merlin’s heart slammed against his ribs.  

Crossbow.  

He didn’t think.  

He didn’t hesitate .  

Time seemed to slow as Merlin moved , instincts honed from a lifetime of hiding shoving him forward before his mind could catch up. He barely registered the gasp of the knights as he slammed into Arthur, knocking him to the ground just as the bolt whistled past them, embedding itself in the post where Arthur’s head had been.  

The field erupted into chaos.  

Knights drew their weapons. Guards shouted orders. Figures scattered through the trees, disappearing before they could be caught.  

Merlin didn’t care.  

Because the moment his body collided with Arthur’s, the moment his fingers grabbed Arthur’s arm, his wrist burned .  

No.  

No, no, no—  

Merlin shoved himself away, scrambling backward, his breath coming too fast. His vision swam, the world tilting sideways as his fingers dug into his sleeve, pressing over the words he knew had just flared to life.  

Arthur sat up, shaking his head, still dazed. “What the hell was that?”  

Merlin didn’t answer.  

He couldn’t.  

His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out everything else. He barely noticed the knights rushing to Arthur’s side, barely heard the reports of the would-be assassin already gone, barely felt Gaius tugging at his sleeve, trying to lead him away.  

All he could think about was the warmth still lingering on his skin.  

The way his wrist had burned the moment he touched Arthur.  

The way Arthur’s blank wrist—untouched, unmarked for sixteen years —had been pressed against Merlin’s own when they hit the ground.  

And the terrible, inevitable truth settling in his chest.  

Arthur’s soulmate mark wasn’t blank.  

It was waiting .  

And now, Merlin was almost certain, it had finally been written . It was just waiting for them to see.

Chapter Text

Arthur had always hated puzzles.  

He wasn’t patient enough for them—sitting still, staring at something that refused to make sense, searching for that one missing piece that would pull everything together. It was infuriating .  

But that was exactly what this felt like.  

A puzzle with missing pieces.  

And all of them pointed to Merlin .  

Arthur sat in his chambers, rolling up his sleeve for what had to be the tenth time that night, staring at his wrist like he expected something to appear if he looked hard enough .  

Nothing. Still blank. But it felt different now, in a way he couldn't explain. The warmth from earlier had faded, but there was still a presence —like something was lingering beneath his skin, just waiting to be seen.  

And the timing? Too perfect to ignore.  

It had happened the second Merlin touched him.  

Merlin, who had run from the training grounds like his life depended on it. Merlin, who had been acting strange since the day they met. Merlin, who never spoke , who always covered his wrist, who panicked every time Arthur got too close—  

Arthur exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.  

He had ignored it for too long.  

The way Merlin always knew things before they happened. The way he anticipated Arthur’s needs before Arthur himself did. The way Arthur felt things around him—his moods, his discomfort, his pain —like it was his own.  

He had chalked it up to coincidence, to instinct, to whatever nonsense made Merlin the way he was . But now?  

Now he wasn’t so sure.  

Arthur rolled his sleeve back down and pushed to his feet, pacing his chambers.  

He needed answers.  

And there was only one way to get them.  

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪𖤐

Merlin wasn’t in his quarters.  

Arthur had checked twice, standing outside the small room adjacent to Gaius’ chambers, listening for any sign of movement. Nothing.  

That was suspicious in itself—Merlin had nowhere else to go . He wasn’t like the knights or the nobles, who had connections across the city. He was a servant, fresh from some village on the outskirts of nowhere, with no friends except Gaius and a man his father had exiled.  

And yet, he was gone .  

Arthur’s fingers clenched at his sides.  

Fine. If Merlin thought he could run, he was about to learn just how wrong he was.  

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪𖤐

He found him in the lower town.  

It wasn’t difficult —for all that Merlin seemed to think himself good at sneaking around, Arthur had spent his entire life tracking actual threats. A panicked servant was hardly a challenge.  

Merlin was perched on the edge of the fountain in the town square, hood drawn over his head, arms wrapped around himself like he was trying to disappear.  

Arthur slowed his steps.  

The square was mostly empty this late at night, save for a few stragglers making their way home. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the cobblestones, and in the dim glow, Merlin looked small .  

Not the irritating, defiant servant Arthur had come to know. Just… small.  

Arthur clenched his jaw and strode forward.  

Merlin flinched before Arthur even spoke.  

That was another puzzle piece—one that made Arthur’s chest twist in a way he didn’t have a name for.  

“Thought you could hide from me?” Arthur’s voice was even, but there was an edge to it.  

Merlin didn’t respond.  

Arthur sighed, stepping closer, dropping onto the fountain’s edge beside him. He wasn’t angry , not really. Just… frustrated.  

He didn’t understand what was happening between them. And Arthur hated not understanding things.  

They sat in silence for a long moment.  

Then, finally—softly—Arthur said, “You ran.”  

Merlin tensed.  

Arthur turned his head, watching him. “Why?”  

Still nothing.  

Arthur exhaled, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He didn’t want to play games, but he didn’t see another option. If Merlin wouldn’t tell him, he would have to guess .  

And Arthur was very good at guessing.  

His gaze flickered to Merlin’s covered wrists.  

His stomach tightened.  

“…It was my soulmate mark, wasn’t it?” he asked.  

Merlin stilled .  

Arthur felt a jolt in his chest, his pulse kicking up. He hadn’t expected a reaction—not that strong of one, anyway.  

So. He was right.  

Arthur let out a quiet breath, steadying himself. “Merlin.”  

Nothing.  

Arthur’s fingers itched with the urge to pull at Merlin’s sleeve, to see what was written there, to know . But something in Merlin’s posture—the way he had curled in on himself, the way his hands were shaking —made him pause.  

Instead, Arthur reached out slowly, carefully, and tapped the back of Merlin’s sleeve-covered wrist.  

“…Is it my name?” he asked.  

Merlin let out a sharp, ragged breath, like he’d been holding it in for too long.  

Arthur’s chest tightened .  

“Merlin,” he repeated, softer this time. “Let me see.”  

Merlin finally turned toward him, his blue eyes wide, haunted .  

And Arthur knew.  

Before Merlin even moved, before he even made a decision, Arthur already knew .  

Merlin’s silence. His avoidance. His fear .  

It had never been about his voice.  

It had always been about Arthur .  

Arthur swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.  

Slowly, carefully, Merlin lifted his trembling hand.  

And rolled back his sleeve.  

Arthur’s breath caught.  

There, inked in deep crimson against pale skin, were the words that had been waiting for sixteen years to be spoken.  

Arthur.  

Just his name .  

Simple. Unmistakable.  

And completely, utterly impossible .  

Arthur’s pulse roared in his ears.  

He stared at the name—the truth—burning against Merlin’s wrist, and in that moment, everything clicked .  

The missing piece.  

The puzzle finally complete.  

Merlin. His servant. His friend.  

His soulmate .  

Arthur sucked in a breath, chest tightening with something too big to name.  

But before he could speak, before he could even process —  

Merlin yanked his sleeve back down, shot to his feet, and ran .  

Again.  

Arthur didn’t hesitate.  

He chased after him.  

Because now that he knew , there was no way in hell he was letting Merlin run away from him ever again.  

Chapter Text

Arthur caught up to Merlin within minutes.  

For all his quick escapes and annoyingly good timing, Merlin was not particularly fast. And Arthur was trained for this—hunting, tracking, catching people who thought they could slip away from him.  

It was almost insulting how quickly he closed the distance.  

He caught Merlin’s arm just as he ducked into one of the quieter alleyways off the main square, yanking him to a stop.  

“Enough,” Arthur snapped.  

Merlin flinched. 

It was barely visible, just the smallest jerk of his shoulders, but Arthur felt it—like a punch to the gut.  

He tightened his grip, not painfully, but firm enough that Merlin couldn’t just disappear again. His breath was ragged from the chase, his heart hammering too hard in his chest, but his mind was spinning with the weight of what he had just seen.  

Merlin was his soulmate.  

The words burned behind his eyes—his own name , inked onto Merlin’s skin, written in deep crimson lines that refused to fade. The sight of it had knocked the air from his lungs, had changed something inside him, and now Merlin was running .  

Arthur couldn’t accept that.  

“Explain,” he ordered, his voice sharp with too many emotions at once. “Now.”  

Merlin shook his head, breathless, his wide blue eyes flickering with something close to panic .  

Arthur clenched his jaw. “Merlin, I swear , if you—”  

He stopped.  

Because Merlin was trembling.  

Not just a little— a lot . His whole body was tight with tension, like he was waiting for a blow to land, like he was ready to bolt again the second Arthur let go.  

And that— that —was enough to make Arthur pause.  

He exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to unclench his fists. He was angry , yes—angry at being lied to, at being kept in the dark, at not knowing —but more than that, he was hurt .  

Because Merlin had known .  

Merlin had known this whole time.  

And instead of trusting Arthur, he had run .  

Arthur swallowed back the sharp words that wanted to spill out. Yelling wouldn’t help—not when Merlin was looking at him like a trapped animal.  

So instead, Arthur softened .  

He let go of Merlin’s arm, stepping back just enough to give him space.  

“Merlin,” he said, quieter this time. Not an order. Not a demand. Just… a name.  

Merlin’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his hands curling into fists at his sides.  

Arthur watched him carefully. “I need you to talk to me.”  

Merlin let out a strangled, breathy laugh, shaking his head as he rubbed a hand over his face.  

“ Arthur . That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Merlin rasped. “I can’t .”  

Arthur frowned, caught off guard by hearing Merlin’s voice at last. “What do you mean you can’t? You do talk.”  

Merlin hesitated.  

Then, slowly, deliberately, he rolled up his sleeve again.  

Arthur’s breath hitched.  

The letters stood out starkly against Merlin’s pale skin, his name curling in deep, unmistakable  Pendragon red. Arthur .  

Arthur stared, something tightening in his chest.  

Merlin let out a shuddering breath, gaze flickering up to meet his. “This—” He gestured at the name. “—is why I can’t .”  

Arthur’s mind reeled. “I don’t—”  

And then, it hit him.  

The soulmate bond. The way it worked.  

"At exactly sixteen, your soulmate’s name or favourite word will appear on your wrist as it is spoken."  

Arthur’s stomach dropped .  

Merlin had been silent his entire life.  

Which meant…  

Arthur let out a shaky breath. “Your first word—”  

Merlin’s jaw clenched.  

“You never spoke.” Arthur’s voice was barely above a whisper now, realization hitting him like a blow to the chest. “Because if you did… your name would’ve shown up on my wrist.”  

Merlin nodded tightly.  

Arthur exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. His emotions were a mess —anger, confusion, guilt .  

Guilt, because…  

Because Merlin hadn’t just been hiding .  

He had been protecting Arthur.  

Arthur rubbed his wrist absently, as if something might finally appear there, but it didn’t. He could feel it now, though—that same presence under his skin, like something was waiting .  

And it had been waiting for Merlin .  

Arthur swallowed. “Why?”  

Merlin blinked.  

Arthur stepped closer again, softer this time. “Why would you keep this from me?”  

Merlin let out a breathless, humorless laugh. “Are you serious ?” He gestured vaguely. “You—you, Arthur Pendragon, Prince of Camelot , son of Uther , whose hatred of magic is so strong he’d probably set fire to the air if he could—you want to know why I kept this from you?”  

Arthur tensed. “What does magic have to do with anything?”  

Merlin’s breath hitched.  

He had said too much.  

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Merlin.”  

Merlin took a step back.  

Arthur stepped forward . “Are you saying—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “You have magic.”  

Silence.  

The kind of silence that confirmed everything.  

Arthur let out a slow, controlled breath. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.  

Merlin’s silence. His avoidance. His fear .  

It had never just been about the bond. About Arthur.  

It had always been about who he was .  

Arthur swallowed hard, struggling to process everything.  

Merlin—the boy who had been by his side for months, who had become his closest companion, who had risked his life for him—wasn’t just his soulmate.  

He was magic .  

Arthur should have been furious. He should have reacted the way his father had drilled into him, with cold fury and blind hatred.  

But all he could think about was the way Merlin had flinched when he grabbed him. The way he had run , like he thought Arthur was about to hurt him.  

And that— that —made Arthur’s stomach turn.  

Because however angry he was, however shocked —he had never wanted Merlin to be afraid of him.  

Arthur took a steady breath, forcing himself to calm down.  

He could yell later. He could be angry later . Right now, Merlin was still looking at him like he was waiting to be condemned .  

Arthur sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Alright.”  

Merlin stiffened. “Alright?”  

Arthur lowered his hand, leveling him with a firm stare. “You’re going to tell me everything .”  

Merlin swallowed hard, shifting on his feet. “And if I don’t?”  

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Then I’ll just guess until I get it right.”  

Merlin let out a shaky, nervous laugh. “That’s not fair. You’re annoyingly good at that.”  

Arthur crossed his arms. “So, talk.”  

Merlin hesitated. His gaze flickered to Arthur’s wrist, still bare, then back to his face.  

Arthur held his breath.  

Then, finally—finally—Merlin sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly.  

“…Alright,” he murmured.  

Arthur exhaled .  

The truth was finally coming.  

And Arthur had no idea if he was ready for it.  

Chapter Text

Arthur led the way back to his chambers, his mind an absolute mess.  

Merlin followed behind him, silent as ever, though his footsteps were uneven—hesitant, like he was fighting the urge to turn and flee. Arthur didn’t push him. He had already caught Merlin once tonight. He wasn’t going to chase him again.  

Instead, he kept walking, gripping the door handle with more force than necessary when they arrived. He pushed it open, stepping aside so Merlin could enter first.  

Merlin hesitated on the threshold.  

Arthur gave him a flat look. “Not planning to run again , are you?”  

Merlin sighed, shaking his head. “…No.”  

He stepped inside.  

Arthur shut the door behind them, then turned to face him properly.  

Merlin still looked like he was ready to bolt, his shoulders tight with tension, his fingers twitching like they wanted to do something but didn’t know what. Arthur exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.  

“Sit,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the chairs near the fire.  

Merlin hesitated.  

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Merlin. You’re not on trial. Just— sit .”  

After a long pause, Merlin finally moved, lowering himself into the chair across from Arthur’s. He perched on the edge of the seat like he expected to be thrown out at any moment.  

Arthur studied him for a moment, then sighed and turned toward the table in the corner, where a flagon of wine sat, half-full from earlier. He grabbed a goblet and poured some out before sliding it across the table toward Merlin.  

Merlin blinked at it. “What—?”  

“Your voice,” Arthur said simply.  

Merlin frowned.  

Arthur leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “It’s rough,” he pointed out. “You haven’t used it properly in years, have you?”  

Merlin swallowed, glancing away. “…No.”  

Arthur’s chest tightened at that. He hadn’t really thought about it—not in those exact terms. He had known, of course, that Merlin didn’t speak. He had even guessed why. But the realization that Merlin had deliberately kept silent for so long —that he had denied himself something so fundamental , just to keep Arthur from knowing—  

Arthur exhaled slowly. “Drink.”  

Merlin hesitated a moment longer, then reached for the goblet. His fingers curled around the metal, and he brought it to his lips, taking a small sip. His throat worked as he swallowed, and when he lowered the cup again, he let out a quiet, relieved sigh.  

Arthur nodded, satisfied. “Better?”  

Merlin huffed softly, a ghost of a laugh. “…A little.”  

Arthur watched him carefully. The tension in Merlin’s shoulders hadn’t eased much, but there was something softer in his expression now. Less fear , more uncertainty .  

Good.  

That was progress.  

Arthur leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Alright,” he said, voice calm but firm. “Talk.”  

Merlin exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the goblet. His gaze flickered to Arthur’s, then away again.  

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Merlin.”  

A beat of silence.  

Then—  

“…When I was a baby,” Merlin started, voice quiet and rough , like every word was scraping its way out of his throat. “I talked all the time. Drove my mother mad.” He huffed softly, almost like he was laughing at himself. “She said I never stopped .”  

Arthur stayed quiet, letting him speak at his own pace.  

Merlin traced a finger around the rim of the goblet. “…But then people started noticing things. Not just my obsessive talking not always being in English—other things.” He hesitated, glancing at Arthur again before looking back at the wine. “I learned that sometimes, when I got too excited, strange things happened.”  

Arthur’s chest tightened. “Magic,” he guessed.  

Merlin flinched but nodded.  

Arthur exhaled slowly.  

He had expected that answer. It wasn’t as much of a shock as it should have been—he had already known , deep down. Still, hearing Merlin admit it aloud was… different.  

Merlin continued, still not looking at him. “When I was one, someone—” He swallowed. “Someone told me my voice was irritating .”  

Arthur frowned. “You were one .”  

Merlin gave him a tired, knowing look. “Didn’t matter.” He looked away again. “They told me to shut up or be shut up. ”  

Arthur’s fingers curled into fists. He didn’t know who had said that to Merlin—some careless villager, maybe—but the thought of anyone saying something like that to a child— to Merlin —made his stomach twist.  

Merlin took another slow sip of wine before continuing. “It didn’t really stop me. Not at first. I still talked. But then…” He hesitated.  

Arthur waited.  

Merlin inhaled shakily. “…Then someone hurt me for it.”  

Arthur’s entire body went rigid .  

Merlin’s fingers tightened around the goblet, knuckles white. “I—I had gone to trade herbs for food. I was starving. It was winter .” He licked his lips. “And I must have been humming or something—I don’t even remember . But some men grabbed me.”  

Arthur’s hands clenched against his knees.  

“They didn’t like my voice,” Merlin murmured. “Said I was annoying.” He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Said I was a freak .”  

Arthur’s heart pounded against his ribs.  

“They choked me,” Merlin continued, voice hollow. “Tried to scare me quiet with touches I didn’t ask for. It didn’t—” He let out another sharp breath. “Didn’t work . But my magic did.”  

Arthur stared at him, barely breathing.  

Merlin swallowed hard. “I threw them off. Didn’t mean to, but I did.” His fingers twitched around the goblet. “And after that… I knew . If I ever made another mistake, if I ever slipped up —” He inhaled shakily. “That would be it. People don’t like things they can’t understand .”  

Arthur swallowed thickly, his chest aching .  

He thought of Merlin, small and alone , terrified of what he was—of what the world would do to him. Of the way he had forced himself into silence because it was the only way to stay safe .  

Arthur suddenly felt sick.  

And furious.  

Not at Merlin—never at Merlin .  

But at every single person who had made him believe that silence was his only option.  

Merlin let out a breath, finally looking at Arthur properly.  

“You asked why I never spoke,” he said softly. “That’s why.”  

Arthur exhaled slowly. His throat was tight, his thoughts racing . He had come into this conversation expecting anger . Instead, all he felt was understanding .  

And guilt.  

Gods, so much guilt .  

Arthur had mocked him for his silence before. Had pushed him, taunted him, never once considering that there was real pain behind it.  

He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Merlin,” he started.  

Merlin shook his head. “There’s more,” he said. “And I’ll tell you. Just… not all at once.”  

Arthur nodded slowly. He could do that. He could wait . Because Merlin had trusted him enough to start . And that?  

That was enough for tonight.  

Chapter Text

Merlin’s throat ached.  

It wasn’t just from talking the night before—it was from years of disuse, from forcing himself into silence for so long that now, using his voice felt foreign, like it wasn’t really his .  

But he did it anyway.  

Because Arthur had listened .  

He hadn’t shouted. He hadn’t been angry—not in the way Merlin had feared. He had sat there, tense but calm , taking in every word Merlin gave him. And even though Merlin had only told him part of the truth, Arthur had accepted it without demanding more.  

That had been enough.  

More than enough.  

So when Merlin woke up the next morning, voice still rough and unfamiliar in his own ears, he decided—just for today—he would try to keep using it.  

At least around Arthur.  

He still wasn’t sure he trusted himself enough to do it all the time. But Arthur?  

Arthur had earned it.  

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

Arthur noticed immediately.  

Merlin was late, as always, but when he finally stumbled into the chambers, he grumbled something under his breath instead of just rolling his eyes or scribbling down an excuse like he usually did.  

Arthur blinked. “What?”  

Merlin paused, frowning like he hadn’t meant to speak. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, then—hesitant but determined—he tried again.  

“I said I’m late,” Merlin muttered, setting Arthur’s breakfast tray down on the table. “I know. You don’t have to say it.”  

Arthur just stared .  

Merlin shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “What?”  

Arthur shook his head slowly, watching him like he was trying to figure something out. “Nothing. Just—” He hesitated. “You spoke .”  

Merlin rolled his eyes, but his shoulders were tense . “…Yeah?”  

Arthur leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You never do that.”  

Merlin’s fingers curled slightly around the edge of the tray, but he didn’t look away. “I did last night.”  

“That was different.” Arthur studied him, frowning slightly. “You don’t have to, you know.”  

Merlin blinked. “What?”  

Arthur shrugged. “If it’s uncomfortable.” He gestured vaguely toward Merlin’s throat. “You sound like you swallowed sand.”  

Merlin huffed a soft laugh—rough but real .  

Arthur smirked. “I’m serious. You’re making it worse.”  

Merlin shook his head, rubbing at his throat absently. “Hurts a bit, yeah, but…” He hesitated, shifting his weight. “I want to.”  

Arthur’s smirk faded into something more thoughtful. “…Why?”  

Merlin exhaled, glancing away. “Because you listened,” he admitted quietly.  

Arthur went very still.  

Merlin swallowed hard, gripping the back of the chair in front of him. “I didn’t think you would. I thought—” He shook his head. “Didn’t matter what I thought, I guess. You listened anyway.”  

Arthur felt something tighten in his chest.  

Merlin had expected him to lash out. Expected him to be cruel, or angry, or something that never came. And now, because of that, because Arthur had done nothing but listen , Merlin was willing to try .  

Arthur cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “Well,” he muttered, grabbing a cup of water and shoving it toward Merlin. “You sound terrible. Drink something before you make it worse.”  

Merlin snorted but took the cup, sipping at it carefully.  

Arthur watched him, his expression unreadable.  

“…I’m glad,” Arthur admitted after a moment.  

Merlin raised an eyebrow. “That I sound terrible?”  

Arthur rolled his eyes. “That you trust me enough to talk.”  

Merlin stilled, fingers tightening slightly around the cup.  

Arthur felt it—the weight of the words between them, the truth settling into the space they had carved out last night.  

Slowly, Merlin exhaled.  

Then, after a beat—soft and hoarse but undeniably his —  

“…Me too.”  

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

Arthur wasn’t blind.  

Merlin clearly wanted to believe he was—that he could get away with the occasional slip, that Arthur wouldn’t notice the tiny signs creeping into their daily routine. Maybe a year ago, Arthur wouldn’t have. Maybe a year ago, he would have ignored them outright, dismissed them as tricks of the light, figments of his imagination.  

But now?  

Now, he was watching.  

And he saw .  

It was never obvious. Merlin was too careful for that.  

But Arthur wasn’t stupid.  

It was in the way a goblet wobbled just before Merlin reached for it, like it knew where his fingers would be. The way the fire in the hearth flared a little brighter when he sat too close, only to settle when he exhaled.  

Once, when Arthur fumbled a dagger, it should have hit the floor—but it didn’t. It stuttered in the air just long enough for Arthur to snatch it back. He had glanced at Merlin then, just in time to see his hands clench at his sides, his throat working like he was swallowing back a curse.  

Arthur hadn’t said anything.  

Not then.  

And not the next time, either.  

Because every time Merlin caught himself, Arthur could see it—the brief flicker of fear in his eyes, the way he would immediately shrink inward, shoulders tightening like he expected the worst.  

So Arthur didn’t push.  

Instead, he let it be.  

If Merlin saw the way Arthur was shifting—if he noticed the way Arthur stopped pretending not to see, the way he let things pass without comment—he didn’t acknowledge it. Maybe he didn’t trust it yet. Maybe he thought it was a trick, that Arthur was setting him up for a fall.  

Arthur hated that.  

Hated knowing just how deeply that fear had settled in Merlin’s bones.  

Hated knowing why .  

So he changed. Slowly, carefully—just enough that Merlin might start to notice.  

When Merlin hovered his hand over the fire one evening and it flared in response, Arthur didn’t tense. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move away.  

When Merlin caught a tray with reflexes just slightly too quick to be normal, Arthur didn’t question it. Just raised an eyebrow and muttered, “Show-off,” before returning to his drink.  

And when Merlin stumbled one afternoon, catching himself before he could hit the stone floor—but not with his hands—Arthur simply exhaled and held out a hand.  

Merlin hesitated before taking it.  

Arthur said nothing.  

Because he knew this wasn’t something he could demand. Merlin had already given him more than enough.  

Now, it was Arthur’s turn to prove he deserved the rest.  

And that?  

That would take time.  

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

Merlin noticed.  

He didn’t say anything—of course he didn’t—but Arthur could feel it. In the way Merlin watched him now, more careful than before, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.  

Arthur had stopped pretending not to see.  

And Merlin had definitely noticed.  

It was in the way his fingers hesitated before reaching for things. The way his shoulders tensed when Arthur’s eyes lingered too long. Like he was waiting for Arthur to react , to change , to snap .  

But Arthur didn’t.  

Instead, he let the moments pass—one after another—without comment.  

And eventually, Merlin started to relax.  

Not all at once, and not completely. But something in him shifted . His movements became a little less guarded, his silences a little less stiff.  

Arthur caught him humming once.  

It was quiet, barely there, but Arthur had never heard it before. A low, absent tune under his breath as he stacked books on the table, his focus somewhere else entirely.  

Arthur almost didn’t recognize it at first—this small, unguarded thing. But then Merlin must have realized, because the second his eyes flicked up and met Arthur’s, the sound cut off like a blade.  

His shoulders snapped straight. His throat worked around nothing.  

Arthur could see the moment he considered denying it, playing it off as nothing, as a mistake.  

So Arthur—very, very carefully—looked back down at his reports and said, as casually as he could manage:  

“Didn’t take you for a singer.”  

Merlin blinked. “What?”  

Arthur smirked faintly. “You were humming.”  

Merlin’s fingers curled around the book he was holding. He licked his lips, glancing away. “Was I?”  

Arthur hummed. “I don’t mind it.”  

Merlin’s brow furrowed, like he wasn’t sure what to do with that. “…Oh.”  

Arthur didn’t look up. He just kept reading.  

And after a long pause—hesitant but unmistakable—Merlin exhaled.  

And started humming again.  

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

That wasn’t the only thing.  

The more Arthur didn’t react, the more Merlin did .  

Little things, at first.  

The way he no longer snatched his hands back when something shifted unnaturally near him. The way his voice, though still rough, started to fill the quiet more often. The way his magic—small, fleeting things—began to settle around them like breathing air, like something natural .  

Arthur let it happen.  

Not pushing. Not prying.  

Just watching.  

Just learning .  

And then, one evening, he tested it.  

Nothing cruel, nothing that would startle him. Just a moment—casual, passing, something easy to ignore if Merlin needed to.  

They were in Arthur’s chambers, the fire burning low, the room quiet. Merlin was stacking Arthur’s armor onto its stand, looking utterly exhausted, his hands dragging.  

A gauntlet slipped.  

Arthur saw it. The way it slid too quickly down the pile, the way it was going to hit the stone floor—  

And then it stopped .  

Just for a moment, just for a fraction of a second, hovering barely an inch off the ground before it landed with a much softer thud than it should have.  

Merlin froze.  

Arthur didn’t.  

Instead, without lifting his gaze from his papers, he sighed and said, deliberately , “You’re getting sloppy.”  

Merlin’s breath hitched. “What?”  

Arthur flipped a page. “You never let things fall. So either you’re exhausted, or you’re doing it on purpose.” He finally looked up, raising an eyebrow. “If it’s the first, go to bed. If it’s the second, at least commit to the act.”  

Merlin stared at him.  

Arthur stared back.  

Slowly, slowly , something flickered in Merlin’s expression.  

Something uncertain . Something that looked suspiciously like—  

“…You knew,” Merlin murmured.  

Arthur didn’t blink. “I’m not an idiot.”  

Merlin swallowed. His fingers twitched. He still looked hesitant, still looked ready to bolt at any second, but—  

He hadn’t .  

He was still here .  

Arthur sat back in his chair, studying him carefully. “I’ve always known, I think,” he admitted. “Not the way I should have. Not the way that mattered. But I knew.”  

Merlin exhaled shakily.  

Arthur leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Careful. Steady. “I don’t want you to hide.”  

Merlin let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “That’s easy to say.”  

Arthur didn’t move. “I mean it.”  

Merlin hesitated. His hands curled into fists at his sides.  

Then, slowly— so slowly—he flicked his fingers.  

And the gauntlet lifted.  

Just a little. Just an inch or two. Just enough to hover in the air between them before settling back down onto the stand with the faintest clink .  

Arthur felt his chest tighten.  

Merlin swallowed. “There.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Now you really know.”  

Arthur breathed in.  

And out.  

Then, carefully, calmly—  

“Thank you.”  

Merlin blinked. “For what?”  

Arthur offered the smallest of smiles. “For trusting me.”  

Merlin exhaled. A shaky, uneven thing.  

Then, after a long, long pause—  

“…Yeah.”  

Arthur didn’t push. Didn’t pry.  

Didn’t need to.  

Because that?  

That was enough.  

Chapter Text

It had started with a careless touch.  

Arthur had known better—he should have known better. But he had been exhausted, just back from a hunt, and Merlin had been his usual insufferable self, rolling his eyes as he helped Arthur unbuckle his armor. Arthur had swatted at him, fingers brushing against Merlin’s wrist—  

And his world had shifted .  

It was always like that, when they touched. A brief, fleeting connection, something too deep and instinctive to be natural. A pulse of something more . It was subtle, easy to dismiss if you weren’t paying attention.  

Arthur had been careful. They had been careful.  

But someone had seen .  

And that someone had told Uther.  

⋆｡°✩

It wasn’t immediate. Uther had eyes and ears everywhere, but even he needed proof before he acted.  

And so the rumours had started. Small things at first.  

—“The prince has been acting strange around his servant.”  

—“Have you noticed how often they’re together?”  

—“Did you see how they looked at each other?”  

Enough to plant doubt. Enough to make Uther watch.  

Then came the real mistake.  

Arthur had gotten hurt. A bad fall, his shoulder twisted at an impossible angle. The pain had been unbearable, leaving him feverish and barely conscious. Merlin had stayed by his side through the worst of it, his hands careful but firm, whispering reassurances Arthur barely remembered.  

But what he did remember—what others had seen —was how the pain had eased when Merlin touched him. How the fever had faded faster than it should have.  

Gaius had covered for them, as he always did. But it hadn’t been enough .  

Not when the whispers turned to certainty.  

Not when Uther had seen it himself .  

⋆｡°✩

Arthur hadn’t known he was being watched.  

It was late—past midnight, the castle quiet. Merlin had been tending to his injuries, fingers deft as he wrapped fresh bandages around Arthur’s arm. It was a simple, mundane thing.  

But Arthur had reached for him.  

A touch, just for a moment. Fingertips against his cheek in a fond caress. Barely anything at all.  

And yet—  

Arthur had felt it. The connection. That deep, unbreakable thing between them, humming beneath his skin. And when he looked at Merlin, he knew Merlin had felt it too.  

Merlin responded with a gentle nudge of magic - not confident enough for real touch, barely even a second of gold flashing in his eyes.

They didn’t speak of it. They never spoke of it.  

But Uther had seen .  

Arthur hadn’t noticed him in the doorway. Hadn’t heard him step inside, hadn’t realized anything until the cold, sharp voice cut through the air—  

“What,” Uther had said, quiet and deadly, “is this?”  

Merlin had gone stiff, eyes wide with fear. Arthur had shot to his feet—too fast, his arm protesting—but it was already too late .  

Uther’s gaze burned into them, unreadable but furious .  

And in that moment, Arthur knew .  

There was no talking his way out of this.  

His father had seen too much.  

And there would be no mercy.  

⋆｡°✩  

Arthur should have seen it coming.  

Peace had never lasted long in Camelot. Not for him. Not for them .  

And now, as he knelt on the cold stone floor of the throne room, sword at his feet, wrists bound behind his back, he could feel it—slipping through his fingers, shattering beyond repair.  

Uther’s voice rang through the hall, cold as steel.  

“A soulbond ?”  

The word dripped with disgust.  

Arthur clenched his jaw. “Yes.”  

Uther’s fingers curled around the arms of his throne. “And you expect me to believe this?” His voice was deathly quiet, dangerous. “You expect me to believe that my own son— my heir —has been bound by magic? To him ?” His gaze flicked to Merlin, who was barely being held upright by the guards at his sides. “A sorcerer ?”  

Merlin didn’t look at him. Didn’t look at anyone.  

Arthur could see the blood dripping from his temple, staining the pale skin of his throat. He hadn’t spoken since they were dragged here. He had barely even protested his arrest, had done nothing to deserve the butt of a sword to the temple. 

drip. drip. drip. 

The only noise he had heard from Merlin in a while. 

Arthur hated that.  

He forced himself to meet his father’s eyes. “Yes,” he said again, steady as he could manage. “I expect you to believe it because it’s the truth .”  

Uther exhaled sharply through his nose, rising from his throne in one slow, measured movement. “You must be cursed .”  

Arthur flinched. Just a little. But he held firm. “No.”  

Uther descended the steps, each footstep echoing against the stone. “You must be bewitched .”  

Arthur swallowed, beginning to panic. “No.”  

Uther came to a stop in front of him. “Then explain it to me,” he said, voice low and cold. “Explain how my son—my blood —is bound to this .” His eyes flicked to Merlin like he was looking at filth.  

Something in Arthur snapped.  

He lifted his chin. “Because he’s mine .”  

The silence that followed was deafening.  

Uther’s expression barely flickered—but Arthur knew him well enough to see the shift in his eyes, the fury simmering beneath.  

“You are not his,” Uther said, his voice quieter now, more dangerous. “You are mine . You are the future of this kingdom . And I will not have you tainted by magic .”  

Arthur’s hands curled into fists behind his back. “Magic or not, he is my soulmate .”  

“ Your mistake .”  

Arthur’s breath caught.  

Uther’s gaze burned into him. “But it is a mistake I can fix .”  

Arthur stiffened.  

It took him half a second to understand what he meant. Half a second to realize that Uther hadn’t brought them here to talk .  

Merlin had known from the start. Arthur could see it in the way he had stopped struggling, in the way he had gone quiet. He had known .  

Because he had always known what Uther would do to people like him.  

Arthur’s blood ran cold.  

“No,” he said again, voice suddenly hoarse.  

Uther turned his gaze back to Merlin. “Kill him.”  

The words barely left his lips before Arthur moved .  

He surged forward, dragging the chains on his wrists, shoving against the knights restraining him. He barely made it a step before an armored hand slammed into his gut, forcing him back to his knees.  

“ No —”  

A sword was drawn.  

Arthur fought, kicked, desperation clawing up his throat—  

And then the room exploded.  

Not with sound, but with magic .  

It came all at once—raw, unforgiving , a wave of golden light so powerful it sent knights flying. The torches flared, the air trembled, and suddenly, the guards were no longer holding Merlin up—  

Because Merlin was standing . Breathing hard. Eyes burning gold. Arthur froze.  

Uther’s expression twisted into something furious . “You dare—”  

Merlin lifted his hand. And for the first time, he didn’t stop himself .  

The blast of magic sent Uther skidding back, slamming into his throne. The knights scrambled to recover, weapons raised, but Arthur could feel it— see it—  

Merlin wasn’t running this time. He was fighting . His breathing was ragged, his hands trembling, but he stood his ground . His gaze locked on Uther, on the men who had always been ready to kill him.  

And Arthur— Arthur —had never seen him look more like himself. A sorcerer.  

A king’s soulmate .  

Arthur wrenched against the chains again, heart pounding. “Merlin—”  

Merlin turned, eyes dark with something Arthur couldn’t name.  

Something raw.  

Something final.  

And suddenly— finally —Arthur understood .  

This wasn’t going to end in peace.  

This wasn’t going to end with careful words and slow confessions and trust .  

This was war.  

And Arthur had already chosen his side.  

Arthur had seen Merlin use magic before. Had seen him cast spells, had seen the flicker of golden light in his eyes. But this—this was different . This wasn’t a spell. This wasn’t control.  

This was reaction . Instinct.   

The air grew thick, electric. The torches lining the hall flickered, shadows dancing wildly across the stone walls. The very ground beneath them seemed to shift , like the castle itself was listening, waiting.  

Uther’s voice cut off. He felt it now, too. Arthur saw his father stiffen, saw the way his fingers twitched toward the hilt of his sword.  

“Merlin,” Arthur said quietly.  

Merlin’s eyes lifted to meet his, wide and frightened .  

Arthur took a slow step closer, ignoring the way Uther barked his name. “It’s alright.” His voice was low, steady. He reached out, hand hovering just above Merlin’s. “Just breathe.”  

Merlin swallowed hard. “I—I can’t—”  

The torches flared. The fire in the hearth roared , a sudden gust of heat billowing through the room. The walls groaned , like something deep within the stone was waking up.  

Uther’s face twisted in fury. “ Seize him! ”  

The guards hesitated. They could feel it, too—the power humming in the air, in the stone, in the very foundation of Camelot itself.  

Arthur moved without thinking. He stepped in front of Merlin, his stance shifting into one of defence. “ No one touches him. ”  

Uther’s eyes burned. “Arthur, step aside.”  

Arthur’s fingers curled into fists. “ No .”  

Uther’s face darkened with rage, but before he could speak—before anyone could react—there was a crack .  

A deep, resounding noise that split the air like thunder. The windows shattered inward, glass exploding across the floor. A gust of wind howled through the chamber, snuffing out every flame in the room at once.  

And then—  

Silence.  

For a moment, nothing moved. The air was thick, charged with something ancient and furious.  

And then, slowly, gold bled into Merlin’s eyes.  

Not the flickering glow of controlled magic. Not the careful restraint Arthur had seen before.  

This was something else .  

Something greater .  

Something that wasn’t just Merlin’s.  

Magic itself had answered.  

Arthur barely had time to react before the pressure in the room snapped like a breaking wave, and suddenly, everything was light .  

Uther stumbled back, shielding his face. The guards shouted, some dropping their weapons as a force they couldn’t see shoved them backward.  

And in the center of it all, Merlin stood, chest heaving, power radiating from his skin like fire.  

Arthur could only stare, unharmed amongst the unbridled chaos.  

He had always known Merlin was powerful. Had always felt it, even before he understood. But this—this was something else. Something beyond spells and whispered incantations.  

This was raw . This was unbound .  

This was the magic of the world itself, ancient and endless.  

Uther’s voice rose above the storm. “ Monster! ”  

Merlin flinched. The light flickered—just for a moment.  

And that was all Uther needed.  

He reached for his sword.  

Arthur moved before he could think.  

He drew his own blade from the side of the knight who had been closest to him and turned—not toward Merlin, but toward his father.  

The world seemed to still. Uther froze, eyes locked on the sword now pointed at him .  

Arthur’s grip was steady. His voice, when he spoke, was even.  

“If you want to kill him,” he said, “you’ll have to go through me.”  

Silence.  

Merlin’s breath hitched behind him.  

And for the first time in his life, Arthur saw something in his father’s eyes that was not rage or disappointment.  

It was fear.  

“You are no son of mine if you stand with him!”  

Uther pauses, as though he had not truly expected himself to say it.   

Merlin, clearly seeing that Uther would not be stunned for long, grabbed Arthur’s wrist in his hand in an electrifying touch before taking off down the hall, not wasting even a second for the guards to catch up to them. Arthur, for once, struggles to keep up with his manservant as they tear through the halls at breakneck speeds. Once they reach Artur’s chambers, the doors slam in a flurry of golden sparks, magic barricading them in just as the realisation sinks in for Arthur what he’s just done.   

Fuck .   

Chapter Text

The castle was too quiet.  

Arthur could feel it, an unnatural stillness pressing in around him as he paced his chambers, his mind a storm of too many thoughts and too little time. Uther’s voice still rang in his ears, thick with fury and betrayal. You are no son of mine if you stand with him.  

Arthur had expected his father’s rage—how could he not? Uther had spent his life stamping out magic, burning it from Camelot’s soil like it was a disease. But knowing and hearing were different things. Uther’s words had hit like a sword to the gut, leaving him breathless, the finality of them heavier than he was ready for.  

Across the room, Merlin stood tense near the door, his back rigid, eyes darting toward the window like he was calculating how far the drop would be. His breathing was uneven, and Arthur hated that—hated that Merlin, his Merlin, had spent so many years expecting the worst. And this time, he wasn’t wrong.  

“They’ll come soon,” Merlin said, his voice rough. “We have to go.”  

Arthur turned to him sharply. “I know that.”  

And he did. But the weight of it was suffocating. Leaving Camelot wasn’t just exile—it was abandoning the only life he’d ever known. His home. His knights. His people.  

His father.  

But there was no choice, not anymore. Uther had made it clear: surrender Merlin, break the bond, prove his loyalty—or be cast out. And Arthur had already made his decision the moment the ultimatum had left Uther’s lips.  

There was no Camelot for him without Merlin.  

A fist pounded against the chamber doors. Arthur tensed, his grip tightening around Excalibur’s hilt. He didn’t need to ask who it was—his father wouldn’t come himself. The guards would take him to the dungeons first. Make an example of him before his execution.  

“Arthur,” Merlin warned, his voice barely above a whisper.  

Arthur nodded once, crossing the room in three quick strides. He yanked open a wooden chest, pulling out a travel cloak and a small satchel of supplies. It wasn’t enough—not for what they would need—but there was no time. His fingers clenched around the familiar weight of his sword before sheathing it at his side.  

They wouldn’t have long.  

Merlin already had the window open, and Arthur could feel the sharp wind cutting through the stone walls. Below, the castle walls stretched down into the city, torches flickering along the pathways leading toward the gates. The stables weren’t far, but getting to them unseen would be another challenge entirely.  

Arthur hesitated. “You know this is treason.”  

Merlin gave him a dry look. “Not the first time.”  

Arthur huffed, something bitter curling in his chest. “No, but it’s the last.”  

The knocking at the door turned into heavy thuds as the guards tried to break through. The wooden frame splintered. Arthur didn’t waste another second. He grabbed Merlin by the wrist and pulled him toward the window ledge.  

“We climb down, head for the lower gates,” Arthur murmured. “Once we reach the woods, we move fast.”  

Merlin nodded, but Arthur could feel the tension in his fingers, the way his pulse hammered against his skin. Merlin wasn’t afraid of the climb—he was afraid of what came after. Arthur didn’t blame him.  

With a deep breath, Arthur swung over the ledge first, fingers gripping the rough stone as he found his footing. Below, the castle wall was slick with moisture, but there were enough handholds to make it possible. He glanced up just as Merlin followed, his movements quick and practiced—of course they were. Merlin had probably escaped this way more times than Arthur could count.  

The chamber doors crashed open just as they reached the lower ledge. Arthur didn’t wait to see who entered. He dropped the rest of the way down, landing in a crouch before straightening. Merlin landed beside him a second later, and they sprinted toward the shadows of the courtyard, breathless in a way that was both terrifying and freeing as they pushed their bodies impossibly faster.  

The castle was alive with movement now—guards shouting orders, footsteps pounding against the stone. Arthur could hear his father’s voice somewhere in the distance, furious and unrelenting, but he pushed it out of his mind. He couldn’t afford hesitation.  

Not now.  

They made it to the stables in minutes. Arthur threw open the gate to his mare’s pen while Merlin worked on untying a second horse. The noise around them was growing—someone had sounded the alarm. Arthur knew they had only seconds before the knights arrived.  

Merlin swung up onto his horse without a saddle, looking down at Arthur with something unreadable in his expression. Arthur didn’t let himself think about what they were leaving behind. About the people he might never see again. About the crown he might never wear.  

He met Merlin’s eyes and nodded. Then he pulled himself onto his mare - saddled, but only just - and kicked her into a gallop.  

They rode hard through the gates, the shouts behind them fading into the night.  

Arthur didn’t look back.