Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Arthur is nine summers old when he meets Prince Merlin for the first time.

His father had already warned him to be careful, not to let his guard down, to always stay where knights could see them.

When Arthur asked why, his father’s expression had grown stone-faced and pinched, his fingers digging too harshly into Arthur’s shoulder. “Their kingdom allows magic. Their whole family is magic. We don’t know what he will do to you.”

“But won’t you stop them?” Arthur had asked, his brow furrowing. If he had learnt one thing through hours of tutoring and his father’s endless lectures, it was that magic is never to be tolerated.

“Sometimes,” his father said, voice dangerously low, “you have to give an inch to gain a mile. Remember that. Sorcerers are insidious; you cannot always fight them with honour.”

It went against everything Arthur had been trained in as a squire, but the anger in his father’s eyes told him that further questions would not be tolerated.

When faced now with a gangly boy who is almost a head shorter than him, with large ears and simple clothes, Arthur is rather certain that his father was worrying over nothing.

“Prince Merlin,” he says, lifting his chin like Morgana likes to do when faced with children from nobility she doesn’t like. “Welcome to Camelot.”

He expects a bow of the head or an offered hand. What he gets is a grin, the boy across from him shuffling his feet. “Prince Arthur. I’ve heard much about you.”

“Only good things, I hope.”

“Not really, no.”

Arthur stares.

“I’m Merlin, although I suppose you know that already. So, what are we doing while our fathers talk?”

“What do you mean, not necessarily?” Arthur asks, still reeling from the careless manner with which Merlin had flung the words at him. No one but his father and Morgana ever dared to say anything bad about Arthur, and Merlin may be a prince, but he’s—well.

King Balinor seized the throne of Escetir only a few years ago. He is sheltering sorcerers, and their knights aren’t even nobility. Arthur feels like Merlin should offer him more respect than this.

Merlin merely shrugs, though. “My father said not to tell you about that.”

“You just did.”

“Yes, but not why.”

“That’s—”

“Are we going to do something or just stand around here the whole time?” Merlin interrupts, glancing around the courtyard where people are still watching them.

Several knights of Camelot in their red, billowing cloaks are keeping an eye on them, as are some of the men King Balinor brought. Their garments are simpler, the colours held in mute tones of dark blue and grey, which makes the emblem of a bursting silver star on their shoulders stand out. 

Their armour and weapons look as fine as those of Camelot’s knights, though. Arthur knows his father would have never agreed to meet with their neighbouring, magic-practicing kingdom like this if they weren’t to be taken seriously.

“Of course,” he forces out, the smile he plasters onto his face almost painful. “Come, I can show you the castle and the grounds.”

“Show me the grounds. I already know what a castle looks like.”

“Camelot is one of the greatest citadels in Albion!”

Glancing up at the looming towers and parapets, Merlin hums before turning back to Arthur. “I’m sure it’s great, but I much prefer being outside.”

Arthur decides then and there that he does not, nor will he ever, like Prince Merlin much.

“As you wish. Let’s start with the training grounds.”

Thankfully, Merlin doesn’t voice any further protests, and they make their way through the courtyard, four knights—two in red and gold, two in blue and grey—falling into step behind them.

Arthur resents the idea that King Balinor might trust him as little as his father trusts Merlin; after all, he’s not a sorcerer.

His father did ask him to treat the prince with the same courtesy he would extend to any other royal though, and so Arthur swallows his indignation.

Instead, he says when they reach the practice field where several knights are going through drills, “Would you like to spar?”

It’s only the offer of a friendly match, after all. Nothing he wouldn’t suggest to other guests.

Merlin turns to look at him, mischief dancing in his eyes. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Afraid you’ll lose?”

“Not really, no.”

“Are you training to become a knight?”

“Oh, no, absolutely not.”

Arthur scoffs, his dislike growing by the second. “You’d absolutely lose. I bet you don’t even know how to hold a sword.”

The next thing he knows, he’s lying face-down in a puddle of mud, his legs still tingling from something he can’t quite place.

Pushing himself up, he hears a few knights laughing in the distance, and mortified heat crawls across his face.

Merlin’s grinning down at him though, his arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t need a sword, Prince Arthur.”

“What—you—” Arthur splutters, and he can’t tell whether it’s rage or fear coursing through him once it clicks what Merlin just did. “Are you mad? They’d have your head if they realised what you did!”

Merlin remains unconcerned, his eyes taking in Arthur’s dirty clothes. “They wouldn’t; my father would have their heads long before they touched me.”

Arthur decides that it’s rage. Nothing but hot, undiluted rage, and he doesn’t care about the possible repercussions as he tackles Merlin to the ground, his fingers clenching into any available surface he can find.

After the knights separated them, they’re returned to the castle with torn clothes, faces streaked with dirt, and still shooting glares at each other behind the knights’ backs.

Some of Arthur’s anger has abated, but he still can’t wait to be rid of Merlin again, to forget all about the ease with which Merlin fought him.

Any and all thoughts about the nuisance that is Escetir’s prince vanish when they enter the throne room, and he sees his father’s face.

Uther is pale, and underneath the familiar rage and disdain is something Arthur has rarely ever seen on his father.

In fact, he can remember only one time when his father had looked like this—about one year ago, when the Great Dragon escaped from beneath the castle.

His father looks scared. He looks terrified, whereas King Balinor stares at Uther with nothing but self-satisfied coldness.

It’s King Balinor, too, who notices their arrival first. As he takes in their appearance, Arthur has to force himself not to cower, but the King barely pays him any mind. His lips twitch faintly when he meets his son’s eyes, and he seems to have a whole silent conversation with one of his knights before he turns back to Uther.

“I think we’re done here, then. Remember the terms, Uther. Do not try to cross me—I’ve long since stopped considering this a joking matter.”

Seconds later, they’re gone in a flurry of movement, and Arthur is left alone with his father.

He knows from experience that it’s best to leave his father alone when he’s in such a mood. Curiosity is burning hot beneath his skin though, and he has more than exerted his restraint for the day.

“What happened?” he asks, and he expects a sharp remark at least, anger at worst, but neither comes forth.

His father looks at him with an indecipherable expression before he shakes his head. “Nothing to concern yourself with. Go and clean up, and request dinner in your chambers tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

No matter how often, and in how many different ways Arthur tries to get an answer out of his father over the following weeks, he never receives one.

He learns only many years later that this was the night the purge ended.

While it took several years for Arthur to learn the end date of the purge, it takes well over a decade until he learns the how, until he gets to understand why his father has always ignored the kingdom in the east that doesn’t outlaw magic.

“What do you mean, King Balinor was responsible for freeing the Great Dragon? That’s a direct attack on—”

“Sire,” Gaius interrupts, and he sounds tired, his fingers drumming restlessly against the table in the council room.

Arthur wants to snap at him, wants to tell him that he has every right to be furious, to demand an explanation for why his father had not only let this pass but invited the man to treaty talks. Morgana’s hand on his arm stops him though, and he forces himself to breathe.

“Explain,” he finally says, curling his hand around the armrest of the throne he should not be sitting on.

Not yet. Not like this.

“As you know, King Balinor rose to power in Escetir a few years after the purge started. He did so mostly, it is said, to rally magic-users and oppose your father’s… aim to drive magic from the land.”

That much, Arthur knows. His father certainly didn’t like to talk about it, even less so because it had been successful—something Arthur still does not understand—but there was the occasional night where Uther had a few drinks too many and cursed the man’s name to hell and back.

“It led to a stalemate between Escetir and Camelot. Camelot has the greater army in terms of men and training, but Escetir’s army is partly made up of sorcerers, most of them with a personal grudge against Uther. It’s hard to say who would’ve prevailed in a direct confrontation, but fortunately, neither your father nor King Balinor tried to find out.”

“That still doesn’t explain the dragon, or why my father eventually did cave, or—”

“Well, sire, if you let me talk, I might be able to tell you.”

Arthur grits his teeth and reminds himself that this isn’t Gaius’ fault. “I’m sorry. Please go on.”

“Now, this is only my guess, but I assume that King Balinor knew a stalemate wouldn’t last forever. Your father was still pursuing magic users everywhere else, patrolling the borders to Escetir, and rallying other kingdoms. I don’t know if you’re aware, but King Balinor is a Dragonlord, so…”

“So he freed the Great Dragon to have an advantage that no number of knights could meet,” Morgana finishes. Arthur wants to be annoyed at the note of admiration in her voice, but he doesn’t have the energy left to be irked with her, too.

“But my father eradicated the other dragons. Our knights could have—”

“No, Arthur,” Gaius says, and his smile is pained. “Your father tricked a great many sorcerers, among them Dragonlords. He promised them their own freedom or threatened their families, and once they fulfilled his demands, he betrayed them. It would never have worked a second time. A normal blade does nothing against a dragon; twenty blades could not slay a single one.”

Sorcerers are insidious; you cannot always fight them with honour, Uther had said, all those years ago. The memory leaves a putrid taste on Arthur’s tongue.

“Why did Escetir not attack, then? They could’ve wiped out the entire kingdom within days if their army and the dragon are as powerful as you say.”

“My guess is as good as yours, sire, but I would assume that Balinor must’ve known that an unstable Camelot without a king wouldn’t serve him in the long run, especially considering the allies your father made. He would’ve had much more interest in forcing Uther to cease his provocations and end the purge, at least outside of Camelot’s borders.”

“And most sorcerers would’ve fled to Escetir anyway, at that point,” Morgana says, nodding as if she’s seeing what Gaius is getting at.

Arthur can’t say he relates. “Be that as it may, why would my father agree? If King Balinor knew this, my father must have, too.”

“He did, yes,” Gaius says, but he’s not meeting Arthur’s eyes, shifting in his chair. “He would’ve wanted to pretend for a while, though, to keep the threat of war at bay and have time to gather his forces first, to come up with a strategy.”

“Of course, but why would he—”

“A peace treaty is not all King Balinor demanded, Arthur. He knew better than that.”

The words feel like a slap, yet another confirmation of how his father had treated his opponents. Sorcerers or not, it does not sit right with him.

“Go on then, Gaius. It can’t get much worse.”

The sound Gaius makes in response is somewhere between a scoff and a desolate laugh. It does nothing to ease Arthur’s nerves.

“King Balinor demanded a guarantee, a vow that both tradition and courtly courtesy would forbid your father from breaking. Not without the risk of losing his allies and the support of his nobles both, no matter how little they liked the treaty themselves.”

“Gaius, please. Speak plainly.”

Gaius sighs, his head bowing before he meets Arthur’s eyes again. “King Balinor demanded a contract of marriage between his son and you. As you know, to break a treaty with a kingdom you are joined with in such a way is—”

“One of the greatest acts of dishonour one can bring upon their kingdom,” Arthur finishes numbly, and his fingers are aching where they’re clenched around the armrest, his heart hammering against his ribcage. “Don’t tell me this means what I fear it means.”

“I’m afraid it does. Your father never intended to go through with it, of course. He thought he could sign the contract and then break it eventually.”

It would have still been dishonourable, but at least not unheard of, as long as a good reason was given. The immense differences between Camelot and Escetir might’ve sufficed.

“But?” Arthur asks because if Gaius’ expression wasn’t already telling him that there was more to it, the fact that his father had never told him certainly does.

“But King Balinor expected that, too. He made the contract a magically binding one—if your father broke it, it would harm you. No one could say how much.”

“So he deceived my father. That nullifies any contract.”

“Sire—”

“No. I’m not going to marry some sorcerer prince whose father lured mine into a trap, just to—”

“Arthur,” Morgana snaps, her voice sharp and void of the patience she’s shown him ever since Uther’s death. “King Balinor did not deceive Uther. Uther entered into the contract already with the intention to break it. King Balinor merely anticipated this and took steps to secure his position. It’s nothing less than Uther would’ve done himself.”

“That’s different,” he snarls, glaring at her with all the anger he refused to let out on Gaius. “Magic is outlawed, and—”

“Not in Escetir, it is not. To demand they adhere to our laws when those laws threaten their very existence is entitled at best, malicious if we’re being honest. I understand that you do not want to marry some prince you don’t know, but none of this would’ve happened if Uther didn’t hunt their kind like animals.”

There’s still protest burning on the tip of his tongue, still fury seething beneath his skin, but underneath all that—underneath all that, he knows that she’s right.

He closes his eyes and breathes, counting to twenty and down again, until he’s sure that he has a hold on his temper.

“Okay,” he finally says, offering her a small nod before focusing back on Gaius. “So, that contract is still in effect. What do we do?”

“I don’t know, sire,” Gaius says, spreading his hands out on the table. “I don’t know what kind of magic the late king used, and what Escetir’s stance is on the issue. But there are more pressing matters to address right now. The kingdom is unstable with Uther’s sudden death, and the period of mourning certainly allows you time to postpone any actions regarding the contract.”

It has been a week, but any mention of his father’s death still threatens to unsettle the ground beneath him.

A nasty, dark part of him that he doesn’t like to acknowledge wishes he could blame magic for it; right now, he would like a few more reasons to resent it.

“Alright,” he says, pressing a finger to the bridge of his nose where a headache is blooming. “Tell the council to meet me tomorrow morning. I assume they are aware of this?”

“Yes, sire.”

And no one ever thought to tell him. Then again, his father clearly had no intention to do so either, and Arthur doesn’t even know what Uther’s plan had been. He doubts there had been more to it than self-assured arrogance. If there had been more to it, this contract would no longer exist.

“Thank you for your honesty,” he says, inclining his head towards Gaius. “You are dismissed.”

The council does, indeed, know about the contract, but that’s also about as much as they are able to tell Arthur. No one knows what his father’s plans had been, and Arthur’s suspicion that there hadn’t been one in the first place turns more and more into certainty.

He tells Geoffrey to do his best to find the contract and decides to heed Gaius’ advice.

Uther’s death had been sudden, an ambush while he was on a ride with one of the older nobles. He just about made it back to Camelot, confirming, at least, that Lord Hadrian, who he had been out with, was not to blame, but Gaius could do nothing more for him.

He died two days later, leaving Arthur, named Crown Prince less than a year ago, to rule the kingdom.

Arthur’s aware of the whispers, the doubt and the uncertainty darting through the corridors of the castle. No one’s sure whether he’s ready, and Arthur can hardly blame them. He’s not sure whether he’s ready himself.

Supposed arranged marriage or not, there are more important things to take care of right now. He pushes the niggling voice at the back of his mind away, focusing on council sessions and training, on meetings with an endless stream of nobles and advisors, all the while trying to ward off Morgana’s incessant worry which, as always, she attempts to mask as mocking.

The period of mourning lasts three months. It’s not enough.

Arthur still doesn’t know how he’s supposed to move on, how he’s supposed to rule a whole kingdom; one that, with each passing day, seems to be slipping further from his grasp.

Sure, his knights are loyal, and the majority of the council supports him as much as men with their own agenda ever do. He has Morgana and Gaius and Leon, and his father had prepared him for this for as long as Arthur can remember, but—but.

The neighbouring kingdoms are certainly watching his every move. Border skirmishes have increased, and while there has been no news—or trouble—from Escetir, Arthur does not trust the calm.

If kingdoms like Gwynned that have been allied to Camelot for years can make attempts to take advantage of the situation, there’s no way to tell what a kingdom with every reason to loathe Camelot might do. Marriage contract or not.

Hell, Arthur doesn’t even know if breaking such a contract would be as frowned upon in Escetir as it is in Camelot, and beneath the grief and the hectic days and his struggle to keep everything together, the worry clings to him like a second skin.

Geoffrey does eventually request an audience with him, and Arthur knows what this is going to be about before he allows Leon to send him in.

“Your Majesty.”

“Geoffrey, please sit. I assume this is about the contract?”

“It is, my Lord. It was sealed away with documents of the purge. I apologise for how long it took me to find it.”

Arthur makes a mental note to request those documents once he has dealt with this. And he will deal with this: he refuses to believe that there’s no way out of it.

“No need to apologise. So, what does it say?”

Geoffrey shifts in his chair, his fingers restless on the piece of parchment he’s holding. “To sum it up, my Lord, most of it is written like any other contract of this nature. To foster peace and prosperity, both kingdoms agree to join in union, to respect each other’s territories and values, and to honour the promises made.”

“But?” Arthur asks because if it were that simple, this contract would no longer exist. If it were that simple, Geoffrey would not be glancing at him as men tended to look at his father when they were about to deliver unwelcome news.

The idea that his people might fear him has discomfort crawling down Arthur’s spine, but it’s yet another thing he will have to deal with later.

“There are certain stipulations. For one, as both you and the prince of Escetir are expected to rule and, proceeding with the assumption that there are no other heirs in either line to take the place, neither of you would be required to give up your kingdom.”

Arthur frowns, and it takes him a moment to parse what Geoffrey isn’t saying.

Marriage between men isn’t unheard of, although it’s less common among royalty, for exactly this reason. There are a few documented cases throughout Albion’s history, though, and it usually means—

“Camelot and Escetir are supposed to be joined as one kingdom?”

It sounds ludicrous, even to his own ears. For all the so-called peace between their kingdoms, it has always been more of a stalemate than anything else. Even when he was lacking half the facts, Arthur had known that. Everyone knows that. Escetir is no friend of Camelot, and it had never been a secret what Uther Pendragon thought of the kingdom stretching all along his eastern borders.

Or what said kingdom thought of Camelot.

“That would be a political nightmare,” he says because it’s true. Even his personal feelings aside, even ignoring the vastly different customs and values of both kingdoms, a joining of two of the largest kingdoms of Albion would send the other kingdoms into a frenzy. It would disrupt the careful balance that Albion’s kingdoms had held for centuries.

“Well,” Geoffrey says, and there’s an almost shrewd gleam in his eyes as he scrutinises Arthur carefully. “Once, many years ago, Albion contained only five kingdoms, my Lord. Not too long ago—in the grand scheme of things—there was no border between what we call Camelot and Escetir today.”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, wondering for the umpteenth time what his father had been thinking. About entering a contract such as this one, about leaving no instructions for how to handle it, and on the advisors he surrounded himself with.

“With all due respect, Geoffrey, I’m currently more concerned with keeping the kingdom I already have stable, than I am with conquering Albion. Special stipulations aside, is there anything within this contract about annulling it?”

“There is—”

“Oh, thank the goddess.”

“But,” Geoffrey goes on, offering him a small, apologetic smile, “it requires the agreement of both ruling monarchs, as well as demands to ensure peaceful relations and autonomy of both kingdoms.”

“As I said, I have no aspirations to conquer kingdoms anytime soon,” Arthur mutters, gesturing for Geoffrey to hand the parchment over. “The agreement of both kingdoms, you said?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

Scanning the document, Arthur doesn’t read anything of importance that Geoffrey hasn’t already told him. At the bottom of the page, he finds his father’s familiar signature, as well as one he has never seen before.

King Balinor’s handwriting is elegant with a hint of a scrawl, and not for the first time, Arthur wonders what kind of man he had been.

“Well,” he says, pushing the thoughts aside. “Considering that King Balinor died two years ago, and Prince Merlin is not yet of age to assume his position as crown prince and thus as king, it would be on Queen Hunith to decide. Considering that Prince Merlin is probably as eager to marry me as I am to marry him, there might be hope.”

The tentative, warm flicker of said hope extinguishes instantly at the expression he finds on Geoffrey’s face when he looks up again.

“Be that as it may your Majesty, you have to consider it from their position. While Escetir has remained stable even after the passing of their king, and Queen Hunith is rumoured to be fair if strict, they will not be inclined to trust Camelot. Much less so because they don’t know what to expect from you. This contract is a safeguard that they will be wary to give up.”

“And if I break it without their agreement?” Arthur asks, his patience reaching the end of its tether as the intractability of the situation unfolds before him.

“You would have to consult with Gaius for the details, but as far as I am aware, the magic King Balinor imbued the oath with is still in place. If you break the contract on your own, it will harm you, and Camelot could be left without a king.”

For the briefest of moments, Arthur considers taking the risk. He never asked for any of this; not for a crown, not for a legacy so heavy that he can feel his spine crack beneath it on the best of days. Not to have the last remains of his life, those he assumed might belong to him alone, be signed away in a bargain between kings who gambled higher than they were willing to pay.

He has no idea what King Balinor’s plan had been when setting up this scheme, but he doesn’t believe for a second that he ever planned to marry his child off to the butcher king’s son.

Arthur’s softest spot, maybe behind his father and Morgana, has always been Camelot though. As little as he wants to so much as consider the possibility, he cannot put his own wishes above the needs of his people.

“So what do I do?” Arthur asks, and he loathes how his voice wavers across the words, how his mind is already running through the reasons for why, from a political perspective, this could be to Camelot’s advantage.

“I’m afraid,” Geoffrey says, and to his credit, he really does look sorry, “that you will have to reach out to Queen Hunith.”

Some distant, irrational, stupidly optimistic part of Arthur had hoped that someone—anyone—might disagree, but no such luck.

The council isn’t exactly enthusiastic about the idea, but there are already whispers of how it could serve Camelot in the long run. They come from the same fraction that was never as convinced of his father’s stance on magic as they made Uther believe, Gaius amongst them.

Arthur may not know what to think of magic, but he’s not stupid. He went head-to-head with his father often enough over the lack of trials and utter irrationality at the slightest whisper of magic, the few times sorcerers were caught in Camelot after the purge ended.

Right now, he wishes he had been less lenient with them if only to spare himself this whole ordeal. If everyone in Camelot hated magic as much as his father wanted them to, there wouldn’t even be a question about reaching out to Escetir

“You can’t put it off much longer,” Morgana admonishes him one evening, about two weeks after his talk with Geoffrey. “The official mourning period has been over for almost two months; if you don’t reach out soon, it will send the wrong signal.”

“What, that I don’t want to marry the prince of Escetir?”

“Arthur—”

“I know,” he snaps, pressing his lips into a thin line as soon as he does. “I’m sorry, I know. It’s just—as long as I don’t write that missive, I can at least pretend that it’s not real. That my father didn’t actually leave me as good as engaged to a man he would’ve just as soon burnt at the stake if it were anyone else.”

Morgana sighs, her disinterested mask cracking as she pushes the pitcher of wine closer to him. “You know how he was. I’m certain he was convinced that he had time to get you out of it—he would’ve rather died than see you married to the prince of Escetir.”

“Yes,” Arthur says, draining his goblet before meeting her eyes. “However, not because of his overabundance of care for me, but because he would’ve rather died than having a sorcerer in his family.”

Morgana’s lack of protest is more than answer enough, and Arthur orders another pitcher of wine when she leaves for her own chambers.

Arthur swears he will send the missive to Escetir, but there’s still one other thing he has to do first.

“Your Majesty, I didn’t expect to see you here. Can I do something for you?”

“Hello, Geoffrey. Yes please—I want all records on the purge that we have, no matter the level of confidentiality.”

“Sire—”

“I’m the king; if anyone has the right of access, it would be me.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

It takes another two months of letters between him and Queen Hunith until things begin to take shape.

She states from the start that it will not be her who agrees or disagrees to break the contract, but that the decision will be Prince Merlin’s alone.

Arthur isn’t foolish enough to believe that’s all there is to it. Escetir’s political future hangs as much in the balance as Camelot’s does, neither side trusting the other enough to take any chances. This is about more than the short-term whims of her son, no matter that she only acts as regent for him until he turns twenty-one summers in a little less than a year.

Early October is blanketing the land in hues of red and gold and orange when Prince Merlin’s entourage arrives in Camelot.

The decision in which kingdom to hold the meeting alone had taken several letters. Arthur’s own councillors and knights refused the mere idea of Arthur visiting Escetir. The chances that the king of the kingdom which is infamous for its stance on magic would come to harm were too high. Not to mention that he couldn’t leave Camelot for weeks at a time, especially not right now.

It’s not that Arthur disagrees, but a part of him, one that no one—not even Morgana—knows about, would have liked to see Escetir. To witness a kingdom where magic not only reigns freely but flourishes, and which for all of his father’s horror stories has not been plunged into ruin for over fifteen years now.

But it was obvious, too, that Escetir wasn’t particularly keen to welcome him either. Of course, Queen Hunith never states so outright, but Arthur has spent too many hours of his life on battle strategy not to read it between the lines.

Information on the inner workings of Escetir is sparse, especially within Camelot. To invite him into the centre of their power would have meant giving away a huge advantage.

It wasn’t any easier to arrange Prince Merlin’s visit to Camelot, of course. Not only must the queen have much of the same concerns about the safety of her son as Camelot has for Arthur, but a sorcerer’s existence in Camelot is also simply against the law.

Arthur had stopped the strict enacting of the laws against magic as soon as he ascended to the throne, but the ban is still in place. Too fragile the political vacuum within the kingdom, too uncertain his own beliefs, too lacking his knowledge to so much as consider touching his father’s legacy. 

It took long, careful negotiation with his council, the nobles, and Escetir to devise a comprehensive exemption clause for the prince and his delegation for the duration of their stay. One at least vaguely in accordance with Camelot’s laws, as well as solid enough for Escetir to trust in.

Arthur is keenly aware of the trust extended to him as Prince Merlin rides into the courtyard. He has no doubt that without the contract that is resting within the hidden drawer of his desk, together with the records Geoffrey had given him, this would not be happening at all.

The group is made up of five people in addition to their prince, and the smallness of it is something Arthur has not been able to wrap his head around since Queen Hunith informed him of it.

If it had been him going to Escetir, he would’ve struggled to convince the council to send less than at least two dozen men with him.

It is a bold statement of confidence, and he’s not sure whether he should admire or dread it.

The courtyard is deadly silent as the small group draws nearer except for the sound of hooves against cobblestone which seems disproportionately loud as people from the lower town, knights, and nobles alike watch—all of Camelot, collectively holding their breath.

Arthur has to scan the group twice before he recognises the prince; somehow, he still expected a gangly boy with a bright smile and mischief dancing in his eyes.

What he’s met with is not an entirely changed person, but—but.

“Prince Merlin,” Arthur greets him once they’ve dismounted, inclining his head at the elbow Morgana sinks between his ribs. “We’re honoured to welcome you to Camelot.”

Sharp, blue eyes consider him from beneath a black fringe, and at least his hair is still the same; messy and curling around his ears, which are still a little too large.

It suits him though, as do the familiar colours of blue and grey, a cloak slung around his shoulders that bears the emblem of a bursting silver star.

“King Arthur, it has been a while. We are grateful for the welcome,” Prince Merlin says, and he holds Arthur’s eyes briefly before taking in the rest of the welcoming guard.

They have kept the number of knights present low on purpose, wary to avoid the impression of mistrust. Against the five people standing behind Prince Merlin, the knights assembled on the steps leading up to the castle still seem overbearing.

The moment hangs in tense silence, and Arthur desperately tries to remember the etiquette for this. He can’t recall getting taught how to properly welcome the person his father decided to marry him off to in a miscalculated gamble, years ago.

Considering the circumstances, his father really should’ve remembered to advise his tutors to that effect.

Two things happen at once, then, effectively breaking the sombre anticipation.

From behind Morgana, the familiar voice of Guinevere exclaims, “Elyan?” and she’s storming down the steps a second later, right at one of the men standing behind the prince.

Simultaneously, a loud chirp sounds from where the horses are still waiting, and a small, white creature, for lack of a better word, takes clumsy flight, right at Prince Merlin.

“Watch out!” Arthur shouts, his hand already dropping to the hilt of his sword, and he can hear the sound of his knights doing the same behind him.

“If you touch her, there will be no marriage for the simple fact that you will be dead, Arthur Pendragon.”

Chapter Text

Once the chaos that followed Prince Merlin’s threat—bristling councillors, tense knights on both sides, and restless spectators—has calmed down again, both interruptions are explained easily enough.

Arthur would have thought finding out that Guinevere’s brother, who left Camelot years ago, is one of Prince Merlin’s most trusted knights would be the greater shock.

It rather pales in comparison to the dragon, now resting comfortably on Merlin’s shoulder as they’re sitting at the welcoming feast.

“She’s only a few months old. At that age, you can’t leave them alone for long. Only a Dragonlord can control them, and as I am the last of those…” Merlin had said, raising a brow.

The pang of guilt resonating through Arthur’s chest was so unexpected, he clicked his mouth shut.

“I thought my mother warned you ahead of time?” Merlin asks now, seated beside Arthur at the high table and catching his repeated glances whenever Merlin feeds it scraps from his plate.

“I think I would’ve remembered if she mentioned a dragon,” Arthur says, the words coming out more dryly than he meant them to.

Seriously, though. He would’ve remembered a dragon, and not just because until an hour ago, he assumed there was only one of them left. He is avoiding any and all thoughts on how much wreckage two could cause if he messes this up.

“Well, she’s too young to do any harm, anyway.”

“She?”

“Yes, King Arthur. Her name is Aithusa,” Merlin says, and while his tone is still perfectly pleasant, his eyes hold an unmistakable challenge.

Arthur may still be wrong-footed, but distantly familiar irritation prickles across his skin, the gleam in Prince Merlin’s eyes too reminiscent of a time years in the past.

“I apologise,” he says, taking a sip of his wine. “I wasn’t aware Escetir had a custom of naming their pets.”

Prince Merlin stabs his fork into a piece of meat with a little more force than necessary before smiling at Arthur, all edges. “Of course. I wouldn’t name what I aim to wipe out either. Makes it too personal, doesn’t it?”

Any smart comeback Arthur might have had gets stuck in his throat. He is saved from answering when one of Prince Merlin’s advisors, a woman with sharp eyes and grey streaking through her hair, touches Prince Merlin’s arms.

The delegation has been introduced earlier. It consists of two advisors, the woman named Finna and a man named Iseldir, and Arthur would bet his sword arm that both of them possess magic. Queen Hunith didn’t specify who she would send along with her son, but the agreement they’d drawn up allowed her leeway in that regard.

The three other men are all knights, although Arthur wouldn’t rule out the possibility that they, too, might have magic. They are younger though, and he can already see them mingling tentatively with his own knights.

Elyan, Guinevere’s brother, is sitting with her, while the second knight—Gwaine, if Arthur remembers correctly—keeps shooting them glances that do nothing to conceal his worry.

The third knight, Lancelot, is deep in conversation with Leon. None of them can hold Arthur’s attention long enough to keep him from wondering what the prince and his advisor beside him are whispering about.

Over the noise in the hall, Arthur can’t understand what they’re saying.

The dragon keeps watching him though, a curious tilt to its—her—head. Arthur can only hope that the disastrous start isn’t an omen for how the rest of this visit will go.

“I will not agree to break the contract right now.”

Arthur stares at Prince Merlin across the richly bedecked breakfast table, rendered speechless yet again.

It doesn’t matter that he suspected this, that everyone told him it wouldn’t be easy—that it was clear from the agreement that Prince Merlin would stay in Camelot for two months. Arthur’s still reeling from the careless way the words are flung at him, and it’s why the answer slipping off his tongue is, “Whyever the hell not?”

Prince Merlin leans forward in his chair, pinning Arthur with bright, blue eyes that are just short of burning with disdain. “Oh, believe me, I want nothing less than to marry you. If this was about me alone, I’d rather get locked into a cave with a horde of Wilddeoren in an endless cycle of resurrection and carnage, or—”

“I get the picture, thank you.”

“But right now, this contract is my only assurance—as it has been for my father—that you won’t stab me in the back the moment I turn around. It’s my only assurance that you won’t start hunting my people like your bloodline has proven itself willing to do. I would do just about anything for that.”

Beneath the sting of insult, beneath the sinking dread and the tangible weight of Uther’s legacy, there’s a spark of admiration and understanding.

“I wouldn’t,” he says quietly, holding Prince Merlin’s eyes. “I’m not my father.”

Prince Merlin merely shrugs, popping a grape into his mouth as he leans back in his chair. “Maybe you’re not. Maybe I’ll come to see over my time here that you’re actually a paragon of virtue, and I’ve been wrong to judge you. As things stand though, your kingdom still bans magic if it doesn’t suit your needs, and your father has deceived mine one too many times for me to extend you any trust.”

Arthur bristles, his hands clenching until his mother’s ring buries into his skin. “I can admit that my father wasn’t always a good man, but if we’re staying with the facts, he never deceived your father. If I remember correctly, it was your father who tricked mine with a magical oath.”

“Oh, you really don’t know, do you?” Prince Merlin asks, his gaze cutting and unimpressed. “Why, pray tell, do you think he considered it necessary in the first place?”

“He was a sorcerer in Camelot, of course—”

“Oh, he was. He was one of the crown’s most trusted advisors before the purge started.”

Dread rushes through Arthur, and he can do nothing but stare as Prince Merlin abandons his careless posture once more, his eyes piercing as he holds Arthur’s gaze.

“Do you know, King Arthur, who the Dragonlord was that chained Kilgharrah beneath your castle? Do you know how your father went behind my father’s back, making alliances with other Dragonlords and sorcerers, eradicating the dragons, one by one? Do you know how, when only my father and Kilgharrah were left, he extended an offer of a truce, if only they came to Camelot to talk to him?”

“He wouldn’t—”

“My father came, believing that there must be some humanity left in your father, some regard for the friendship they’d once shared. He trusted Uther Pendragon so much, he chained Kilgharrah beneath the castle as a supposed precaution. After all, he had seen your father capable of, he still believed that Uther would not betray him.”

Each and every one of Merlin’s words is deliberately sharp, carving through Arthur’s chest.

“Of course, your father turned on mine anyway. If not for a friend who helped him, my father would’ve burned. He escaped and fled to Ealdor, a small village in Escetir where he met my mother. But that still wasn’t enough for Uther—he sent his men across Escetir’s borders, and my father had to run yet again. He didn’t even know that my mother was pregnant; if not for other people intervening, he never would’ve known. So do tell me again, Arthur Pendragon, how you want me to trust the thrice-damned words of anyone from this rotten family.”

Arthur could accuse him of lying, could disregard everything Prince Merlin just told him and close his eyes to the legacy wrapped firmly around his shoulders. He has read the documents though, the records of the purge that Geoffrey had given him weeks ago. This particular story might not have been mentioned, but he read about the mass graves and the drowned children, about the raids and the astronomical monetary rewards offered to anyone who would come forth with information.

He read the documents, and the fury and grief on Prince Merlin’s face are so raw, Arthur doesn’t think such emotions could be faked.

The part of him that is his father’s son wants to ignore all of it, wants to tell himself, again and again, that there must have been a reason. The part of him that people liked to call his mother’s son, one that has always felt unease at Uther’s violence against those with magic, cannot come up with a single reason that would warrant a treatment such as this.

His mother died of magic. There were more than enough sorcerers who meant them harm over the years. But there is also a kingdom in the east where magic is practised freely, and that has yet held its peace for longer than Camelot can claim. There’s a man sitting across from him who would have every reason to kill him right where he stands and doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, his voice coming out rough. “I’m sorry for what my father did to yours, and to your people. I know this must mean little to you, and that you probably won’t consider it genuine, but I’m sorry all the same.”

Prince Merlin stares at him through narrowed eyes, the seconds ticking by, but Arthur refuses to look away. He meant what he said, even as the words almost feel like a betrayal, like a sacrilege to his father’s memory.

The words hurt, and they may not change anything, but Arthur remembers a bright-eyed young boy who pushed him into the mud, remembers the mischief dancing in his eyes. He sees the man across from him, levity and mirth impossible to find beneath layers upon layers of distrust and anger.

If not for them, who is supposed to end this cycle of betrayal and grief?

“You’re right, your words don’t change anything,” Prince Merlin says, but the muscles of his face relax ever so slightly, and his voice has softened. “But I appreciate them anyway. I’m not sure whether I believe that you mean them, but I do know that your father would’ve never spoken them, not even in the attempt of a lie.”

There’s still an urge to snap back, to defend himself and his father and his kingdom, but Arthur swallows it down. He inclines his head instead, and silence blankets the room, twisting and thickening with each passing moment.

“You are aware,” Arthur eventually starts, reluctant to return to the topic, “that if we don’t break the contract, it will be expected of us to start courting sooner rather than later?”

A grimace flashes across Prince Merlin’s face, and it’s the first time since he arrived that something other than disdain or anger reveals itself on him.

It is rather insulting that it’s this, of all things, that does it, but for now, Arthur will take it.

“I said that I wouldn’t break the contract yet. I didn’t rule it out entirely, assuming you do not actually intend to harm my kingdom and my people, and can convince me of it, too.”

“You do know that you’re not the only one with that concern, right? Camelot does not know either if annulling the contract won’t prompt an attack. We might have the stronger army as far as knights are concerned, but you have magic and not one, but two dragons on your side. This is as much a political matter to me as it is to you,” Arthur says, his temper finally rearing its head. “I’m not any more inclined to marry you than—how did you put it? Fight a horde of Wilddeoren with my bare hands.”

Prince Merlin’s lips quirk up at the corners, but the shadow of a smile is gone as soon as it appeared. “The mighty Camelot, afraid of magic’s retribution, after all.”

“As much as Escetir is apparently afraid of said mighty Camelot,” Arthur grits out, and then he takes a deep breath. “The point is, this is a difficult situation—”

“I’m aware—”

“And my father’s propaganda has left its mark on this kingdom. I’ll be honest with you—I’m not saying that I don’t agree with him, for the simple matter of fact that all I’ve ever known of magic is when it tried to harm me and my people. My father was wrong about many things, and I don’t know what to think about the rest, but I don’t trust you. You’re going to be here for the foreseeable future though, and if we’re seen to be constantly at each other’s throats, no contract in the world will prevent us from making it worse for either of our people.”

“You’ve never seen magic for… solely for the joy of it?”

The question is so unexpected after what Arthur just said, he can do little more than shake his head. He watches as Prince Merlin’s blank expression splinters into one of disbelief and, maybe, a hint of wistfulness.

“Do you want to?”

Arthur’s very first instinct is to say no, to deny any curiosity he may have, and to consider the mere idea an insult. It is his father speaking; he knows that much, at least.

So, after a moment of hesitation during which Prince Merlin never looks away from him, he gives a small nod. “Please.”

Prince Merlin’s answering grin is bright and void of any vindictive pleasure. It reminds Arthur of the boy he’d met over a decade ago. He didn’t like him then, and he still doesn’t like him now, but for some reason, he thinks that he’d like to see that smile more often. To be the cause of it.

It vanishes way too quickly, replaced by a frown that bears the far more familiar suspicion, and Prince Merlin bites out, “This is not a trap, is it?”

“You’re here with a ten-page contract of legal immunity, remember?”

“Ah, yes, the hypocrisy,” Prince Merlin says, nodding his head once. He doesn’t seem to expect an answer, and Arthur grits his teeth to keep himself from giving one.

It helps that Prince Merlin distracts him by raising his hand in front of him, palm up. He tilts his head, holding Arthur’s gaze as he speaks words in a language Arthur doesn’t understand. It curls around his insides like something that’s supposed to be a part of him, familiar and well-worn.

A small light appears in the palm of Prince Merlin’s hand, growing as it swirls and twists around itself. It shines golden, its hues stretching across the table and through the room until it’s hovering above them, illuminating the corners that the grey October morning has left drenched in shadows.

Arthur catches the last remains of the very same gold fading from Prince Merlin’s eyes, and he swallows.

“Is that—?”

“Some call it a small sun, but technically, it’s not.”

It feels like one; its warmth is palpable against Arthur’s skin, and he can almost smell the scent of late summer in the forest, the sweetness and richness of an incoming harvest.

It colours Merlin golden too, his black hair gleaming in the light and his eyes so, so blue.

“It’s beautiful,” Arthur says, his voice quiet, and the smile he gets in return is small but soft around the edges. It’s almost better than the bright grin he could never forget, through all those years.

“There’s a tournament in your honour today,” Arthur tells Merlin the next morning.

They didn’t spend more time with each other yesterday. After the display, Merlin had excused himself rather quickly, and Arthur had been glad for the respite.

He sees Merlin’s knights on the practice field later that day, tentatively sparring with his own knights.

They are good, all three of them. Sir Lancelot has the skills of someone who spent half his life with one hand on a blade, whereas Sir Gwaine has a fighting style so unique, Arthur knows sparring with him would offer him a serious challenge.

Sir Elyan is somewhat a combination of both. Arthur recalls that his and Guinevere’s father is a blacksmith in the lower town, and it shows in the way the sword seems like an extension of Sir Elyan’s body.

They would give his own knights a run for their money, and Arthur is excited for the prospect of perhaps facing at least one of them himself.

“Are we allowed to participate?” Merlin asks, pulling him out of his thoughts as they walk through the courtyard.

Stares and whispers are following them, but Arthur does his best to ignore them.

“Of course, Leon is already drawing up the schedule for your knights—”

“Oh, no, you misunderstand me,” Merlin cuts in, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. “What I meant is, will I be allowed to participate? After all, you’re taking part too, and if my memory isn’t deceiving me, I still owe you a sparring match.”

Arthur glances at him out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge Merlin’s intent.

Coming up blank, he turns to look at Merlin. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I thought you weren’t a knight?”

Merlin hums, tipping his head back as the sun breaks through the low-hanging clouds. “I can fight with a sword if that helps?”

“You can?”

“I do know my way around a weapon, yes. The deciding factor is to face you with a sword that is wielded by me, right?”

Arthur feels like he’s missing something important, but he can’t for the life of him figure it out.

“Yes,” he finally says, drawing the sound out, careful.

“Well then, I’ll participate,” Merlin exclaims, clapping his hands together. He throws a grin at Arthur before spotting his knights across the courtyard. “I’ll see you later.”

Arthur watches him go, watches as he talks animatedly with Sir Lancelot who looks more and more exasperated.

The other two clap Merlin on the back though, laughing. Arthur only returns to the castle once all four of them are out of sight, a strange mixture of anticipation and dread churning in his stomach.

“I didn’t know Prince Merlin was participating,” Morgana says as she takes the place beside him in the royal box.

It’s just low enough that Merlin, to Arthur’s left, won’t hear her, and he leans a little closer. “He asked to have the opening match against me; I could hardly say no, could I?”

“Is he going to fight with magic?”

“He said he’d participate with a sword; anything else would be against the rules.”

“Oh no, it’s not. It’s against the law, but there’s no mention of it in the tournament rules. Seeing that he is exempt from the laws on magic, for the duration of his stay—well. I, for one, am rather excited to see how this will go.”

Arthur inhales, holds the breath, and exhales again. Morgana does have a point, loath as he is to admit it, but he wants to believe that Merlin wouldn’t be that stupid.

Glancing over at him where he’s quietly talking to Finna, Arthur wishes he was surer of that.

Merlin is already waiting for him when Arthur enters his tent, and Arthur throws his helmet and his sword on the table with enough force to send them skittering across the wooden surface. He can still hear the crowd roaring outside. 

Rounding on him, Arthur hisses, “Have you completely lost your mind?”

“I fought you with a sword, didn’t I?”

“An enchanted one. You didn’t even move! Not only did you risk causing a panic, but that’s also cheating.”

Merlin’s amused expression slips off his face, and he crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s not; there are no rules against it, and in fact, I would argue that it’s much harder. It lacks the advantage of body weight to move your opponent, it requires precision of magic you wouldn’t understand even if you spent your life on it, and most of the people seemed to find it rather exciting.”

“I—you—you can’t just—”

“Oh come on, you’re just mad you lost.”

The picture of Merlin standing over him, the tip of his blade resting on Arthur’s throat, is still burning behind Arthur’s eyelids.

“Well, you wouldn’t have won in the first place if you fought fairly,” he spits out, his whole body trembling both with anger and the cool autumn draft creeping beneath his sweat-soaked clothes.

“Oh, believe me, if I had fought you seriously, you wouldn’t have lasted three seconds,” Merlin counters, that obnoxious smirk back on his face. “I distinctly remember that I already won against you when I was a mere seven summers old.”

Arthur growls, the sound ripping out from deep within his throat, and he lunges at Merlin before he knows what he’s doing. It’s worryingly reminiscent of the encounter Merlin had just mentioned.

This time, Arthur doesn’t get so much as a hand on him. He’s pinned against one of the tent poles before he knows how he got there, Merlin’s face inches away from his own. They’re close enough for Arthur to make out the flecks of gold and grey in the blue of Merlin’s eyes, the scattered freckles across the bridge of his nose.

Merlin is not touching him, but his magic is an unbearable force holding Arthur where he is, and Arthur’s breath comes faster with something that is far less panic than it should be.

“You couldn’t push me around thirteen years ago, and I’d advise you even less to try it now,” Merlin says, his voice so low it’s almost a growl. “You might be a great swordman, but I wouldn’t need to lift so much as a finger to kill you before you can even reach for your sword. I could—”

“Everything alright here?” a voice sounds, and the pressure on Arthur, as well as Merlin’s proximity, disappear so quickly that Arthur almost loses his footing.

His throat is dry, and he stares mutely at Morgana and Gwen standing in the entrance to the tent.

“Of course,” Merlin says, offering them both a bright smile. “I was just congratulating Arthur on a well-fought fight.”

Arthur wants to protest, wants to ask them if they can’t see that it’s about the last thing Merlin was doing, but they both pay him little attention. They’re smiling back at Merlin instead, and Arthur wants to be annoyed, but it at least allows him some time to get his bearings back.

“Likewise,” he finally forces out, and the glance Merlin bestows on him tells him that Merlin, too, did hear the hoarseness of his voice.

Once they’re gone, Arthur hurls a goblet across the tent, his heart still pounding in his chest.

If he tells himself often enough that it’s nothing but anger coursing through him, he might believe it eventually.

Arthur avoids Merlin for the rest of the day, and the following one, too. He still sees him across the castle and its grounds, but Merlin doesn’t seem to notice him, always entirely immersed in who he’s talking to or what he’s doing.

More than once, Morgana and Gwen are with him, and Arthur has to tamp down the insistent question of why Merlin seems to get on splendidly with everyone in Camelot but him.

The answer is obvious, of course, and it’s not like Arthur can blame him, really. Somehow, it still stings.

Arthur is walking back from the training field when he sees Merlin talking to a child underneath one of the arches at the side of the courtyard.

The square is almost deserted, dusk’s shadows lengthening over the cobblestone. Arthur has been going through drills with Sir Pellinor, who had taken his defeat against Sir Elyan a bit too much to heart, until now.

Arthur can relate, but now he’s exhausted and wants nothing more than a bath, dinner, and to fall asleep, to forget all about the effect Escetir’s delegation is already having on his court and people alike. Merlin’s use of magic is still talked about at every corner.

The desire for some peace and quiet is what Arthur blames it on when, at the sight of Merlin, his first instinct is to duck into the shadow of a pillar, keeping himself still. It’s a miracle neither Merlin nor the young girl he’s kneeling in front of noticed him yet; they’re just close enough that Arthur can make out the words.

The girl is crying, small hiccups interrupting her words, and she’s holding her elbow as if it’s causing her pain.

“—and if I come home with—with my clothes torn, she’ll be mad. She always says I’m not supposed to play so roughly.”

Merlin is nodding along, his expression serious. “That’s a bit of a stupid rule if you ask me.”

“It is! I can climb the trees just as high as the boys, and I wouldn’t have fallen if Kay hadn’t pushed me!”

“Well, that was mean of Kay, I’d say. And now you can’t go home because you’re scared that your mother will be angry?”

The little girl nods, rubbing a hand across her eyes. Arthur doesn’t know why he keeps hiding, but something keeps him rooted to the spot, his eyes straining as he tries to read the expression on Merlin’s face.

“My mother also always scolded me for ripping my clothes.”

“She did? But you’re a prince! A magic prince!”

“Right? I told her that too, but she still said that I should be more careful.”

The girl nods as if that makes all the sense in the world. Maybe it does—it’s not like Arthur would know.

“You know what I did though?”

“What?”

“I learnt a spell to mend my clothes. Well, and I tried to learn one to heal any scrapes and bruises too, but I never really got the hang of doing that on myself. My father used to do it for me sometimes, though.”

“I don’t think I can do that,” the girl says, displeasure ringing through her voice. “We don’t have magic in Camelot, and I don’t think my mother would like that either.”

The following pause draws for just a beat too long. “Hm yes, I’ve noticed. Tell me, Ella, do you think you can keep a secret?”

The girl—Ella, apparently, and there’s a spark of warmth within Arthur’s chest that he refuses to examine too closely—enthusiastically nods her head, sending her blonde curls flying. “I’m great at keeping secrets!”

“I suppose you have to be, hiding all that climbing you do, huh?”

“I’ll become a knight one day,” Ella says, her chest puffing out. “I just have to practice loads and loads.”

“Well, then let’s make sure your mother can’t keep you from your plans. If you want to, I can heal your elbow and mend your cloak for—you know, with the same spell that I used to hide my own from my mother. It would be with magic, of course, so it would have to stay our secret.”

“But you used magic in the tournament yesterday. I saw you.”

“Yes, it’s a little complicated,” Merlin says around a sigh that’s clearly not meant for Ella. “But see, I don’t want your mother to get mad at me either, for helping you hide this, right?”

Arthur’s gut clenches as it occurs to him what the actual reason for Merlin’s wariness must be. It’s one thing for the people to see Merlin use magic in the presence of Camelot’s knights. It’s another altogether if a child told people that Merlin used magic on her, with no one else around.

It’s saying a lot that Merlin offers anyway, considering that children around that age aren’t the most reliable secret keepers.

“Okay,” Ella says with a shrug, readily holding her arm out towards Merlin. “I promise I won’t tell. Will it take long? It’s just—I’m really hungry.”

Merlin snorts, and Arthur has to bite down on a huff of laughter.

“Not at all. It might tingle a bit, okay? Don’t get scared.”

“I’m not scared of you.”

“Good,” Merlin says, more fondness bleeding into his voice impossibly. His eyes flash golden, the colour distinct in the dim light, and he carefully pats Ella’s arm. “See? All good again.”

Ella stares between her arm and Merlin in wonder before she squeals, throwing her arms around Merlin’s neck. She pulls back just as quickly. “Oh, I’m—I’m sorry, your Highness. I forgot you’re—”

“Don’t worry about it. Come on, let’s get you home. I’m sure your mother must wonder where you are.”

Arthur stays where he is, watching the two of them walk off as Ella regales Merlin with yet another story. Arthur only heads for the castle when he can no longer see them.

Later that night, when Arthur finally slips into sleep, he knows two things: one, most of his anger at Merlin has been left somewhere in the cracks of cobblestone in the courtyard, extinguished by a little girl named Ella and her refusal to let anyone tell her what she could or couldn’t do.

Two, for all of their differences, Merlin will make a good king, one day.

“Do you have a moment?”

Arthur looks up from the reports on his desk, surprised to find Merlin standing just inside his chambers.

“Don’t you knock?”

“Not usually, no.”

Sighing, Arthur gestures towards the chair across from him and puts his quill and parchment away. “Come on then, I suppose waiting wouldn’t be one of your strengths either.” 

Merlin doesn’t throw a ready retort at him, and when he sits down, his back is stiff, his fingers fiddling with a leather bracelet on his wrist.

“So?” Arthur prompts because, unfortunately, he can’t exactly claim patience as one of his virtues either.

“I’m—I didn’t mean to show you up, at the tournament,” Merlin says, a grimace flashing across his face as if the words pain him.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Yes, well, showing a kingdom that hates you that you can beat their king is rather tempting, and I’m not sorry that I did it. Just, you know—that you were the target of it, I suppose?”

“I don’t hate you,” Arthur says before he can stop the words. Merlin looks as surprised as Arthur feels, but he finds that he means it.

“You don’t?”

“I mean, I don’t exactly like you either, and you’re irritating and clearly an idiot, and—”

“I get it, thanks.”

“But I don’t hate you, and I especially don’t dislike you because of the magic.”

Merlin watches him closely, a hint of curiosity shining in his eyes. “I expected you to. How does the son of Uther Pendragon not hate sorcerers? I’ve been trying to make sense of it ever since you claimed that you’re not your father.”

“It’s… complicated,” Arthur says, turning his mother’s ring absently. “It was just always—on the one side were the things he claimed to be true. On the other side—quite literally—was a kingdom where magic was legal; that was, as far as the few reports went, more peaceful than Camelot. Of course, there’s the occasional magical attack here, but often it’s creatures, or sorcerers seeking retribution for what my father has done to them or their families. And I’d still much rather they didn’t, but I suppose to a degree, I understand.”

He doesn’t mention the documents in the drawer of his desk; he doesn’t think he can talk about this. Not with Merlin, and not right now.

“That… makes a surprising amount of sense,” Merlin says, a faint frown etched between his brows. “Why then—and don’t get me wrong, this is less an accusation than genuine interest—haven’t you lifted the ban yet?”

“It’s one thing to think that it might not be the evil my father made it out to be. It’s another to allow it back into my kingdom. I’ve not even been king for a year, and I also don’t know much about magic.”

The kingdom also isn’t at its most stable right now, Arthur doesn’t say. This is still Escetir’s prince across from him, easy as it is to forget.

Merlin hums, his fingers tapping an aimless rhythm against the armrest of his chair. After a few moments, he flashes Arthur a small grin. “Does that mean I’m forgiven for defeating you?”

Arthur snorts, the solemnity in the room lifting. “You really are something else, aren’t you?”

“Is that a yes? It’s just that Finna and Iseldir will keep sending me here to sort it out—their words—and you may not know them, but they can be annoyingly persistent.”

Tilting his head, Arthur pretends to think about it. “How about this—I say yes, and in exchange, you show me something else.”

“Of my magic? Are you serious?”

“Obviously, Merlin, do keep up. What better way to learn more about it than by making use of the sorcerer I have right here?”

“Obviously,” Merlin echoes, eyes narrowed at Arthur. “Well then, your Majesty.”

Arthur’s lips twitch, but the humour melts away as Merlin’s eyes turn golden, something treacherously warm spreading through Arthur that he swiftly ignores.

At first, nothing seems to happen. Arthur would have teased him if Merlin didn’t look entirely unconcerned. His fingers are splayed wide in front of him, and he watches the floor of Arthur’s chambers.

When Arthur follows his line of sight, he finds a thin sheet of soil covering the rough stone. As he keeps looking, small specks of green appear, twisting and rising slowly.

They keep growing, frail stems thickening. Arthur knows he’s gaping, but he can’t help it.

Within minutes, Merlin is creating a garden in his chambers. Not only a garden—a perfect replica of the royal gardens.

His mother’s garden.

The lump in his throat grows in accord with the bright flowers around him, irises and lilies, thyme and ivy, cornflowers and hyacinths and roses, all the flowers his mother had loved most. He would almost call it a cruel trick, something aimed to twist beneath his skin, if it wasn’t for the expression on Merlin’s face.

It’s gentle, his eyes shining even as the gold fades from them. A small smile is quirking up the corners of his mouth, and when he finally meets Arthur’s gaze again, he looks almost expectant.

“What about this, as far as displays of harmless magic go, then?”

The chambers are filled with the scent of spring, of flowers and sunshine. The air seems to hum with insects that aren’t there, and Arthur reaches down, trailing his fingertips across the soft petals of an iris.

He swallows. “It’s beautiful.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Merlin says, his voice low, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Arthur. “I saw you in the gardens, after the tournament. I didn’t mean to, just…”

“Just?”

Merlin shrugs. “Finna and Iseldir warned me, but I still wasn’t quite ready for the commotion my little display would cause. I thought, how much worse could it be than being a known sorcerer in the kingdom that loathes us already?”

The huff of laughter slips off Arthur’s tongue unbidden, and he shakes his head. “What did you expect? These people haven’t seen magic ever, or at least not in about twenty years. Or if they did, it brought destruction upon their homes. Frankly, I’m still amazed that the whole situation didn’t spiral out of control, considering you could’ve very easily killed me.”

“They trust you,” Merlin says, and it sounds nonchalant, except for how he looks away from Arthur. “Either way, the attention and the questions got a bit much, so I wandered off. I thought there would be no one in the gardens. I didn’t want to disturb you when I saw you, so I left. You seemed… calmer, though.”

“So you thought turning my chambers into a garden was the next logical step?”

“Was I wrong, though?” Merlin challenges, unperturbed at Arthur’s sarcasm. “You do seem fond of the garden.”

“It belonged to my mother,” Arthur admits before he can stop himself, and now it’s his turn to avoid Merlin’s eyes. “It’s the only memory of her that he didn’t destroy or lock away. It’s kept as close to how she designed it as possible.”

“I—,” Merlin starts, staring down at the flowers around him with a frown. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” Arthur cuts in when Merlin raises his hand as if to vanish what he created. And gods, he really did just create all of this, out of nothing, life brimming all around them. “No, don’t. Please leave it. I know you didn’t do it with that intention in mind.”

“You do?”

“I don’t know you well—actually, I don’t know you at all. But I have a feeling that you’re not unnecessarily cruel if you can help it.”

A girl named Ella comes to mind, although Arthur isn’t planning on telling Merlin about that.

“Alright,” Merlin says, lowering his hand. “I will have to vanish it eventually, though. I mean, not only would it probably be difficult to explain the sudden garden in your chambers, but it’ll also keep pulling magic from me to maintain itself.”

Arthur looks up sharply at that, searching Merlin’s face for a sign of strain. He doesn’t find any, but it still occurs to him how difficult this must be, little that he knows about magic.

“You can create all of this, just out of nothing. I can’t imagine what you can do to your harvests, back in Escetir, with all those sorcerers at your disposal.”

For some reason, Merlin’s lips curl in amusement. “It’s not really the easiest bit of magic, to be honest.”

“You did say you were good at magic,” Arthur says grudgingly. The compliment doesn’t come easily, but it would be petty to not admit it. “Your father must’ve started teaching you early.”

It would make sense; Uther certainly had wasted no time to put a sword into Arthur’s hands as soon as he could hold it. A small, wooden one first, but always with a certain twist of distaste to his mouth, making it clear that Arthur would do well to outgrow it sooner rather than later.

“In a way.”

“What do you mean, in a way?”

Merlin sighs, tilting his head. “I wasn’t taught magic, I was born with it. My father—and many others—taught me how to hone and use it, how to control it, but I’ve always had magic.”

That’s impossible, Arthur wants to say. Wants to accuse Merlin of lying, of making this up to—to paint his father’s actions in an even worse light, maybe, or to feed him disinformation about how magic works.

It would do Merlin little good though, the strategic part of Arthur’s mind disperses this as soon as the ideas appear. It might benefit Merlin to make Uther appear in a worse light, but really, if he considered Arthur convinced of Uther’s opinion, this wouldn’t get him far. If he didn’t, it would be a claim all too easily disproved in the long run.

“I didn’t know…”

“It’s rare,” Merlin says, lifting a shoulder into a shrug even as his lips tighten. “It’s not unheard of but—anyway. Does that satisfy your curiosity for now?”

It’s an abrupt end to whatever the hell is going on here, the sudden shift in mood jarring. Arthur has no idea what just happened, but something tells him that it would do more harm than good to push.

“Yes,” he says quietly, plucking one of the flowers from the ground and twirling it between his fingers. “Thank you.”

Merlin’s eyes soften briefly before he seems to shake himself. Without a word, the plants and the soil disappear, leaving not a speck of dirt behind.

Less than a minute later, Merlin is gone from his chambers too, leaving Arthur behind with his thoughts, a heavy heart, and a single iris lying on his desk.

Chapter Text

“So, how is it going with your very own Prince Charming?”

Arthur groans, barely tamping down the urge to throw a napkin at Morgana. “Considering how often I see you two around each other, I would assume you know that better than I do.”

Morgana’s face pinches ever so slightly, but before Arthur can wonder what he said, her smirk slips back into place. “Merlin’s lovely, actually. You would know that if you cared to get to know him.”

“Yes, well, it’s not like the kingdom runs itself while I’m off gallivanting through the lower town, does it?”

“Oh, come off it, Arthur, you’ve barely spent any time together. And when you did, it was so clearly contentious, there are already the first whispers about how the alliance will fail.”

Arthur’s gut clenches. If people start believing that, then they will assume that Camelot and Escetir will go to war. It could be the deciding spark to kindle the potential unrest that has been simmering since Uther’s sudden death, and there is no way to tell how either Queen Hunith or Merlin would react to such rumours.

“What did you hear?”

The smugness on Morgana’s face fades, belying that she, too, knows how serious this could be. “It’s only a few scattered whispers at this point, but what happened during the tournament, paired with the way you stormed off afterwards and how the two of you haven’t been seen together ever since—well, it’s causing people to talk.”

“And?”

“That, and how you haven’t started courting yet.”

“It’s only been a few days! Not even a week.”

“I know. I know, Arthur, and I also know that you don’t want to do this and, frankly, I understand that better than you might expect.”

Wincing, Arthur lowers his eyes. It is an open secret that Uther had been planning to marry Morgana off to the most strategic match he could find. The sole reason his attempts had failed again and again is that Morgana perfected the art of sabotaging them with a mixture of cold disinterest and subtle threats to the various intendeds.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, waving him off. “As much as I do think Merlin is a decent person, I don’t actually want this for you, either.”

“But it’s complicated.”

“It is complicated,” she agrees, her smile crooked. “Have you two talked about it at all?”

“He hasn’t told you?”

“He can be rather evasive if he wants to be.”

Thinking back on the few conversations he has had with Merlin, Arthur’s not sure if evasive is the word he would use to describe Merlin.

“We did; he said that he won’t agree to break the contract as long as he doesn’t trust me to not attack Escetir, so I told him that we’ll have to start courting.”

“And then you didn’t.”

“It was before—well, before the tournament.” And everything that came after, Arthur doesn’t say. Morgana might be his closest friend, but she does not need to know everything.

“You should talk about it again,” she says, her expression almost sympathetic. “Maybe he’ll be more willing to nullify the contract now?”

Arthur grimaces and shakes his head. “I doubt it; he made it pretty clear that he doesn’t trust me not to trick him as Uther did with King Balinor.”

“Like Uther—what?” Morgana exclaims, a mixture of dread and resignation colouring her voice.

“It’s a long story,” Arthur says with a sigh. “Apparently, before the purge, King Balinor was a sorcerer in Camelot’s court. Merlin should tell you the rest himself, but you can probably guess how well that went after my mother’s death.”

Morgana’s lips purse, something hard forming between her brows as she stares down at the table. “Will he ever stop haunting this damned kingdom?”

The words are sharp, and Arthur startles at the depth of coldness ringing through them. “It won’t always be like this.”

“Won’t it?” she asks, meeting his eyes, a challenge and a dare burning back at him. “Will he not always have a hard hand on your shoulder, a cold voice in your ear, at least when it comes to decisions regarding the kingdom?”

The scathing defence is already curdling in his mouth, leaving an acrid taste on Arthur’s tongue, but he swallows the words down, like ash scraping against his throat. He chokes them back down and looks at Morgana, catalogues the tightness around her mouth, the poorly hidden anger in her eyes, and he doesn’t snap at her.

He doesn’t snap, and maybe he doesn’t understand just what it is that she is so ready to fight him over, but it must be important. She may be rash and unyielding at times, but she has always picked her battles wisely. What he does know, in those seconds where they’re balancing on a knife’s edge, is that if he has to choose between his father and her—

If he has to choose, it has never been a choice at all.

“No,” he finally says. “At least I’m trying not to repeat his mistakes.”

They stay right there, hanging on a balance that Arthur doesn’t know the tipping point of, until the anger on her face finally breaks.

“Alright,” she says, her shoulders loosening. “Alright. You’ve always been a better man than your father.”

Arthur isn’t sure he deserves that quite yet. He isn’t sure what the secrets are that Morgana wears like a cloak wrapped around her shoulders. The only thing he is sure about is that he won’t let his father come between them, too.

After getting out of Morgana that Merlin is an early riser, Arthur orders his servant to wake him at sunrise the next day. Once he’s dressed, he sends George off to bring breakfast to Merlin’s chambers and makes his way down the few corridors that separate their rooms.

It’s as close to the royal living quarters as any visitor ever gets placed. His father is probably rolling in his grave, but from what little Arthur has seen of Merlin’s magic, he could’ve put Merlin in the highest room of the North Tower, and it wouldn’t stop him from accessing Arthur’s chambers if he wanted to.

Arthur is growing more and more certain that banning any mention of magic, including knowledge on how to protect against it, is counterproductive even—or especially—if one holds his father’s beliefs.

Merlin opens the door on the second knock, blinking at Arthur as if he is the last person Merlin expected to see.

Which is probably fair—Arthur really hasn’t made the most effort to search Merlin out on his own.

It is also still early, and Merlin is wearing only loose breeches and a blue linen tunic. His hair is a mess, sleep-rumpled and standing up in every direction, and he looks softer somehow, less closed off than Arthur has come to expect.

“I thought we could have breakfast together?” Arthur asks when he finally finds his voice. Something about this whole situation, about Merlin, just puts him on edge—an irritating itch beneath his skin, flaring up whenever he is around Merlin.

“I’m… sure,” Merlin says, stepping aside and pulling the door open. “Come in.”

Arthur knows the chambers, of course, but he still takes a long look around if only to have a second to get a grip on himself. The idea flies right out of the window when he finds Lancelot sitting at the dining table that stands at the right-hand side of the room, Aithusa curled up in his lap.

“I apologise,” Arthur says, and even he can hear that it comes out stiff and overly formal. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting anything,” Merlin says, sitting back down and pulling his bare feet up. “We were just talking about what to do with the day.”

Lancelot doesn’t say anything, but he pushes one of the free chairs out with a gentle kick, looking expectantly at Arthur.

None of his own knights would ever have the audacity, but somehow, Lancelot manages not to make it look disrespectful.

Arthur hesitates, but if nothing else, it would make things even weirder if he left now. Still, something uncomfortable is lingering at the back of his neck, something he can’t quite put his finger on.

“About that,” he finally says, after the silence has stretched for a little too long. He didn’t expect having to do this with anyone but Merlin present, and that prospect alone had almost tempted him to send a servant in his stead.

It would have been the pinnacle of disrespect, though. Unfortunately, Merlin doesn’t seem to consider sending Lancelot away, nor does Lancelot make a move to leave. He is still scratching Aithusa’s head, as she exhales the occasional puff of smoke, and the two of them look annoyingly at ease.

“About that?” Merlin prompts, raising a brow at Arthur, and there is poorly concealed amusement shining in his eyes.

Gritting his teeth, Arthur presses his thumb against his mother’s ring and forces himself to focus. He hasn’t been raised at court for all his life to blunder his way through this so badly.

“Morgana made me aware that there are already the first rumours starting about how we—don’t get along, let’s go with that. People fear that the alliance is going to fail.”

Merlin straightens in his chair, and any humour flees from his face. “If the people think we’ll go to war—”

“It would be a disaster,” Lancelot finishes, a deep crease forming between his brows. Aithusa chirps in displeasure at the sudden lack of attention, and Lancelot puts a calming hand on her back. “Why, though? We’ve been here for less than a week.”

“I know, I pointed that out as well,” Arthur mutters, and if a hint of petulance sneaks into his voice, he likes to believe that he can see the same mirrored on Merlin’s face. “It’s already a delicate situation though, and apparently we’ve been…”

“Rather hostile to each other?” Lancelot says when Arthur doesn’t go on, and Arthur takes back what he thought just moments ago. Having Lancelot here is clearly a blessing he could not be more thankful for.

“We ate together. More than once,” Merlin says, his brows furrowed. He’s tapping an aimless rhythm on the table, his long fingers restless, and Aithusa abandons her spot in Lancelot’s lap to make her way clumsily over to Merlin.

How she will grow into a creature capable of tearing Arthur’s home apart, he can’t quite wrap his head around.

“But we’ve not been seen together much. No one knows that we did actually talk to each other, outside of the welcome feast and the time you defeated me in a tournament that I haven’t lost in years.”

Merlin winces, but his lips also twitch ever so slightly. It sends another flash of irritation through Arthur, but for some reason, he can still feel the urge to smile back at Merlin pulling at his mouth.

“So, what you’re saying without wanting to say it is, the people want to see that we’ve started courting, or that we’re going to draw up a solid peace treaty and nullify the contract,” Merlin says.

Sighing, Arthur rubs a hand across his face. “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. And assuming you haven’t changed your mind—”

“I haven’t. It’s not that easy.”

“I know. It’s not as if I trust you either.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“So,” Lancelot says, ending the staring contest between them. “What are the courting customs of Camelot, then?”

The glare Merlin directs at whom Arthur is coming to think of as Merlin’s first knight would have made lesser men cower. Lancelot merely smiles, his brows raising up as if daring Merlin to say something.

“Nothing too outlandish, really,” Arthur says. “Small gifts, outings, shows of trust regarding the respective kingdoms. It would be a bit more deliberate if Merlin were a woman, but with the present situation, it’s mostly about making it look like we’re getting to know each other.”

“Appeasing public opinion,” Merlin says, and there’s no bite to his words, just a hint of resignation.

“Mostly, yes. But, well…”

“Well, what?”

Arthur bites his tongue, but he feels restless, his blood humming beneath his skin. He can’t keep the words down, can’t swallow them back, much as he tries. “Well, if we can’t agree to break the contract, we will have to marry eventually. There’s only so long we can convince people that we’re in the courting stage.”

Merlin groans, and it would be insulting if Arthur didn’t understand the sentiment. He would much rather not think about it either, but it’s what his mind hasn’t shut up about ever since he talked to Morgana yesterday.

It’s all well and good to spend a few weeks around Merlin, for Arthur to pretend that he likes him. Truth be told, he doesn’t even think it’ll need that much pretending; he has had to entertain far worse nobles over his time as a prince, and he will probably have to deal with far worse royals than Merlin throughout his kingship.

Merlin is irritating, a constant itch that hasn’t left ever since Arthur found out about the contract, and that has only grown in insistence since Merlin arrived.

He clearly dislikes Arthur, and he can be infuriating at the best of times, but he also seems kind whenever he’s not speaking to Arthur. He somehow earned Morgana’s tentative approval, he has knights who must be loyal to him for a reason, and if Arthur is honest with himself, Merlin also has more than enough reasons to dislike him in the first place.

None of this means that Arthur wants to marry him, though.

“Well, then let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Merlin says, the grin on his face so false, it frankly hurts to look at.

“Yes, yes, hordes of Wilddeoren,” Arthur mutters, struggling not to roll his eyes.  

“What?” Lancelot asks, glancing between them, and Arthur smirks at the glare Merlin directs at him.

The thing is, Arthur always believed, rather naively so, that his marriage might be the one thing in his life that he might have a say in. He has heard the stories of his mother, the rare times his father had talked about her—about how much he had loved her.

Many years ago, when Arthur had been much younger, he spent hours at night trying to imagine it, trying to picture his father as happy and warm, trying to come up with reasons for what had happened to turn his father into the man Arthur knew.

He came to understand as he grew up.

When he turned eighteen summers old, his father had told him casually over dinner that kings weren’t meant for love. Arthur had asked—chest too tight and hands clenched and so, so reckless—if that meant Uther hadn’t loved his mother.

Instead of the expected anger, Uther’s face had grown drawn, older, and his voice had been quiet when he said, “I did. I did, and look where it left me.”

Arthur understood a lot about his father that night. He still thought it wouldn’t have to be like that, for him.

In retrospect, with Merlin sitting only a few feet away and both of them considering their looming future, the conversation with his father gains a whole other meaning.

“Okay,” Merlin says, running a hand through his hair. It only makes it messier. “Okay, let’s not focus on potential marriage just yet. Where do we start, for now?”

Arthur forces himself to focus. “We should probably be seen together; going hunting, or on a picnic, you should attend court—,”

“You’d want me at one of your council meetings?”

“Not really, no. It’s tradition though, and as long as you only attend open court—,”

“You hold open court?”

Arthur huffs at the continuous interruptions, raising his brows. “Yes, Merlin. Even my father did that.”

Little good that it did, Arthur doesn’t say. Merlin is probably going to hear it from somewhere sooner or later, but at least it won’t sound like Arthur is boasting then. “Either way, it’s not like we’re speaking of state secrets, there.”

“Alright.”

“If I may propose something?” Lancelot interjects, his shoulders straightening.

Arthur stares at Lancelot, the sudden deference almost jarring. Realising that he’s waiting for an answer, Arthur gestures for him to go ahead.

“It might also be a good idea if we attended training with you, at least occasionally. Not only Gwaine, Elyan and I, but Merlin, too.”

Glancing back at Merlin, Arthur frowns. “I thought you don’t fight with swords?”

“I don’t. Well, I know the basics, but I am no knight.”

“You can still train together,” Lancelot continues, stalling Arthur’s answer. “If you want to send a strong signal about the budding alliance between your kingdoms, seeing Albion’s best knight and its most powerful warlock train together should go—.”

“Lancelot.” Merlin hisses, his fingers curling around the edge of the table.

Arthur stares, his mind going curiously blank. “Albion’s most powerful warlock?”

“Uh,” Lancelot says, glancing back and forth between them. “I’m sorry, Merlin, I thought—”

“Never mind,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “I would’ve had to tell him eventually, or he would’ve found out from someone else.”

Silence descends over the room, thick and stifling, and Arthur tries to wrap his head around it, he really does, but he’s failing spectacularly.

He might not know much about magic, but he has heard tales, has read more documents on the purge than was good for his sanity, has traced the backhanded schemes his father had to come up with to drive out the Old Religion, its practitioners, and High Priestesses. If Merlin is more powerful than that, all of Camelot should be grateful for every day the castle still stands.

“I should probably—” Lancelot says, discomfort unmistakable in his voice.

“Yes, go tell Elyan and Gwaine—,” Merlin stops himself, looking at Arthur. “I assume we’re going to do something today, then?”

It takes far more effort to shake himself out of his stupor than he would’ve liked, and Arthur clears his throat. “We could go hunting?”

Merlin grimaces but inclines his head. “Yes, sure, why not. Do we need chaperones?”

The mere idea makes Arthur want to laugh. Even if it was required, the chances of him and Merlin getting anywhere close to being inappropriate are probably less than zero.

“No, not really,” he replies. “That lovely archaic custom is reserved for courting women.”

“Well, I guess there have to be some advantages,” Merlin mutters before looking back at Lancelot, exasperation washing across his face once more. “Can you go and tell Elyan and Gwaine?”

“Won’t your advisors wonder where you’ve gone off to as well?” Arthur asks because he would rather not have two sorcerers left with the belief that he kidnapped their prince.

“I can tell Iseldir myself,” Merlin says, tapping his temple. He must see Arthur’s confusion, though, because he shakes his head. “You really do know nothing about magic, don’t you?”

Arthur rolls his eyes, fighting the urge to cross his arms over his chest like a petulant child. “I think we’ve established that, yes.”

“I’m just going to—,” Lancelot starts, but he’s cut off again, by a knock on the door this time.

It’s George and another servant—Anna if Arthur remembers right—with breakfast, and it is only at the sight of food that Arthur remembers he hasn’t eaten yet.

“Do you want to stay for food?” Arthur asks Lancelot, who is hovering by the door.

“I’ll leave you two to it.”

It’s clear from Lancelot’s glance at the servants what he’s aiming for, and Arthur bites down a groan.

“See you later,” Merlin says, seemingly blissfully ignorant as he starts piling food onto his plate.

Arthur thanks George and Anna once they’re done, and they both bow before leaving the chambers without another word.

“You actually thank—”

“Are you—”

Merlin’s lips quirk up, and for the briefest of moments, he looks almost affectionate. “Go on then.”

Arthur would really rather not; he already regrets thinking of it in the first place. If they have to pretend that they’re courting, it would be better if he knew, though. “Are you and Lancelot—well, are you a thing?”

“Are you seriously asking me if I’m sleeping with my knight? I mean, don’t get me wrong, Lancelot is—”

“Alright, yeah, I get it. It’s not as if I care about what you do in your spare time, but if I hadn’t been here, and he’s in your chambers in the mornings, it might make the servants talk. Which, as you know, could be rather disastrous.”

“Mother help me, but you’re an absolute prat, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me? It’s—”

“No, Arthur, I’m not sleeping with my first knight, much to my dismay. Can we move on now?”

“You can’t talk to me like that.”

“I think you’ll find that I just did.”

They stare at each other, food forgotten, and somehow… somehow all of this is so very absurd, Arthur is helpless against the laughter bubbling up his throat.

It takes only two, three seconds until Merlin is cracking up too, and Arthur notes how his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs like this, the sound carefree and light.

It is a good look on him, not that Arthur would ever tell him that.

“This is ridiculous,” Merlin says once he has calmed down, but he is still grinning, and it’s altogether rather devastating.

Arthur sighs, taking a large gulp of wine to hide the sudden flush that wants to crawl across his cheeks for reasons he doesn’t quite understand. “It really is. Cheers to our fathers, I’m rather sure they never imagined this to be the outcome. Whatever they did imagine.”

Merlin sobers at that, but he does clink their goblets together before focusing back on his food.

None of this is great, but for the first time since Arthur found out about the marriage his father had arranged for him, he thinks that, at least, it could’ve been worse.

They ride out of the courtyard when the sun is just climbing to her highest peak, and the lower town is bustling with people.

Stares and whispers follow them, the occasional whistle rising up in between. Arthur carefully keeps a grin fixed on his face when he leans over the gap between their horses, murmuring, “Do you ever find it weird how people who don’t even know you are this invested in your life?”

Merlin snorts before glancing over at him. “Tremendously so. I do get that people want to be sure they will be ruled well, but…”

“Yeah,” Arthur agrees, and they don’t speak again until the lower town is thinning out around them, the forest swallowing them into blessed quietness.

It’s a beautiful day for early October, the trees adorned in orange and red, and the sky a crisp blue above them. The sun is spilling her last remains of warmth over them, small patches of light breaking through the thinning canopy of leaves, and Arthur’s shoulders relax gradually the longer they ride.

“So, just how set are you on hunting?”

Arthur almost startles at the sound of Merlin’s voice, and he glances over at him. “Why, not your strongest suit?”

“Just answer the question, and then I might show you.”

Arthur ponders pushing it, but the moment is too peaceful to risk breaking it.

“We don’t have to. The kitchens packed us enough food to last three days instead of one, and I don’t think anyone is going to question it if we return without a haul.”

“Good; show me the lands, then? Camelot is rumoured to be beautiful, after all.”

“I don’t think it’s that different to Escetir,” Arthur says, his mind jumping back to Geoffrey, to how easily he’d said, ‘Not too long ago, there was no border between what we call Camelot and Escetir today.’

“Show me anyway?”

Arthur is helpless against the smile stretching across his face, and he nudges Hengroen into a trot. “As you wish, your Highness.”

They ride mostly in silence for the following hour. Merlin seems to lose some of the tension in his shoulders too, and Arthur can almost convince himself that this is just like any other rare day he gets to spend outside of Camelot’s walls.

Eventually, they reach the spot that Arthur thought of at the moment Merlin asked him to show him Camelot.

The lake sprawls out in front of them, the still surface glistening in the sunlight, reflecting the myriad of colours surrounding it.

Merlin pulls his horse to a stop, taking it all in with a smile so small and content, Arthur has the strangest urge to preserve it, to make sure that Merlin will always look this at ease.

He pushes it away and dismounts. “I believe you promised me an explanation for why I’m foregoing hunting for you.”

Behind him, he can hear Merlin mutter something to himself, but he doesn’t protest. They get the saddlebags with the food and spread out a blanket on the shore, and it all feels horribly domestic, so much so that Arthur can sense the mood threatening to tip into awkwardness.

“Come on then, oh most powerful warlock of Albion,” he says once he’s stretched out on the blanket. The words come out as teasing in spite of how they still send a thrill of discomfort down his spine.

He is purposefully not thinking about it, and he watches Merlin where he is sitting cross-legged, toying with blades of grass.

“You’ll have to trust me for this, at least a little,” Merlin says, tilting his head at Arthur. There’s something both mischievous and doubtful lingering in his eyes, as if he doesn’t believe that Arthur will agree.

Arthur isn’t sure he should, but he wants to. He has never considered himself a coward, not someone to back down from a challenge, and so he sits up, grinning at Merlin with more bravado than he feels.

“That’s a rather bold demand, all things considered, but I guess I’ll have to trust that my knights will avenge me if you kill me.”

“As if I’d be that obvious,” Merlin shoots back, his brow arching up. “Give me your hand.”

“I—what?”

Merlin huffs as if he’s the long-suffering one of the two of them. “Alright, Sir Bravest Knight of Albion. Explanation first, then.”

“I thought I was merely good. Now it’s brave too, huh?”

“Will you just listen, you gigantic dollophead?”

“That’s not even a—”

“Arthur.”

“Alright, alright. Go on then.”

Merlin keeps looking at him as if waiting for Arthur to interrupt him again. Eventually, he seems to take Arthur’s compliance for what it is.

“Okay, so—I suppose you wouldn’t know this, but magic is everywhere in the world. It’s the fabric that everything is made of; nature, animals, humans. It’s all suffused with it, which is one of the reasons why your father’s attempts to eradicate it from the land were so disastrous and foolish. I mean, you know, genocide aside.”

There is no real bite to Merlin’s words, but Arthur can feel the weight of them all the same, wrapping around his shoulders and pressing down on his spine.

“That’s not the point though, not really. Not right now anyway,” Merlin says, tugging at a thread of his cloak that has become loose. “The point is, some sorcerers can feel it, in the world around them.”

“Some?”

“Mostly those who were born with it, and who know how to look for it. It can be learnt, of course, depending on how powerful people are, but it varies a lot.”

“So you can feel it,” Arthur concludes, something close to wonder rising behind his breastbone. “What does it feel like?”

Merlin meets his eyes then, the same, small smile on his face that he wore earlier. “I’ll show you if you let me.”

“You can do that?”

“Give me your hand.”

The hesitation lasts only for a fraction of a second; for some inexplicable reason, Arthur does trust Merlin not to harm him, even though he can’t explain why. Even though Leon would probably have a lot to say about recklessness and gut instincts, and Arthur’s tendency to believe in the good in people.

Merlin’s palm is warm against his, unexpected callouses rough beneath Arthur’s fingertips. He isn’t sure what he expected, except maybe that Merlin’s hands would be soft, that having magic at his disposal would prevent him from using his hands for anything that could harden them.

“Ready? It might be a bit disorientating at first, or so I’ve been told.”

Arthur has no idea if he is ready. He nods anyway.

“Keep your eyes open,” Merlin says, and then his own bleed golden, even as he keeps watching Arthur.

The skin where their hands are pressed together grows warmer, a tingling sensation that spreads up Arthur’s arm until it reaches his chest, settling, almost content. It seems to seep out of him from there, gossamer threads of warmth tethering him to their surroundings. He finally tears his gaze away from Merlin when the world around him begins to change.

The colours become more vibrant, and there is a faint buzzing sound in the air, a slow, steady rhythm underlying it. He does, eventually, recognise it; it’s a heartbeat.

Not one heartbeat. It’s dozens, hundreds of them, thrumming through the air, the earth beneath him. The sun feels warmer on his face, and the gentle breeze becomes a caress, sliding along his skin as if to welcome him home.

It is home; that’s what it feels like, warm and alive and joyful, as if happy to welcome him.

The mere notion should sound ludicrous, but Arthur can feel it, how it nestles into the spaces between his ribs and along his skin, as if the land itself is yearning to protect him.

It’s overwhelming and humbling, the cage of his ribs too small to contain the magnitude of reverence that’s burrowing into his flesh.

Arthur vows, there in one of his favourite spots in Camelot ever since he was a boy, with Merlin’s hand warm in his, that he will do anything, anything at all to serve this land until his last breath. To return if only a fraction of the love and life he can feel brimming all around him, alive, alive, alive.

He wouldn’t be able to tell how long it lasts, but when it fades it is still too soon.

His heartbeat is loud in his ears, and he feels almost bereft at the absence of it, an emptiness spreading through him that has always been there, must have been, that he never noticed.

Swallowing, he meets Merlin’s eyes, and somehow, he looks both expectant and utterly at peace.

“Are you—you feel all this? All the time?”

Merlin hums, tipping his head back. The sun falls across his face, golden, as if she, too, can see that he’s more. More than a prince, more than a warlock—something as large as the land itself.

“In a way? I’ve grown used to tuning it out, so it isn’t as overwhelming as I assume it must’ve been for you.”

Not knowing what to say, Arthur stares across the lake. He doesn’t know, if he was able to feel all this at a mere thought, whether he would ever be able to draw back from it, whether he would have the discipline to not let it consume him.

“Thank you,” Arthur says quietly, lacking the words to convey what he really wants to say.

They’re silent for a long time, and Arthur tries to untangle the knot of emotions and impressions. It felt as if every tree, every animal, every plant in the forest had been singing with life, as if he could feel Merlin down to the marrow of his bones.

If their roles were reversed, he’s not sure that he could’ve brought himself to offer Merlin the same.

“To answer your earlier question,” Merlin finally says, his eyes still closed, “that’s why I don’t like hunting. I can feel it when things die, and it’s—I know we need it. We live from the forest, as the forest lives from itself. But if I don’t need the food, I don’t like to take from it.”

The thought of cutting off even a fraction of the life Arthur had felt is inconceivable. He doubts that he will ever be able to hunt for fun again.

“Do you feel it? Anytime something dies?” Arthur asks, failing to keep the horror out of his voice. It would drive any man mad. It has to, hasn’t it, if the death of a single one of his knights already has guilt threatening to wrap around his throat to choke him.

To feel every death in your kingdom, every death in however far Merlin’s ability stretches, is a monstrous thought. Arthur doesn’t want to believe the gods would be so cruel as to burden a human with such a curse, but he’s not sure what he believes anymore.

He hasn’t been sure in a while but this—this, he thinks, is more than one man should be condemned to take.

“No,” Merlin says, but his face twists, his posture drawing taut. “Not every death.”

“But?”

Merlin turns to look at him, his eyes dark despite the bright day, something solemn and grave settling across his features.

“I don’t feel every death, not even when I focus, but I do feel—I feel when a place has borne torment. The Druids create shrines in places where great tragedy took place, and I can hear the restless souls, those who haven’t found peace. I feel the lingering death in the Perilous Lands if I focus on it, and Camelot? Camelot is so full of death and suffering, I can taste it whenever I walk through the courtyard.”

It would drive any man mad, and yet… and yet, Merlin is sitting across from him, blue eyes serious on Arthur’s face but devoid of hatred, devoid of all the thirst for revenge that should ooze from every pore of his body.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, and not once in his life has an apology felt this lacking, this insufficient. “I’m sorry for the past, and I wish I could change it. I wish—”

“That’s not why I showed you,” Merlin cuts in, his voice taking on an edge. “It’s not why I told you either. We can’t bear the sins of our fathers; we can only vow to do better.”

It sounds too easy, and Arthur wants to protest, wants to lay down vows and promises he doesn’t know he can keep. And he doesn’t know Merlin, not really. Not anywhere well enough to trust him, but he believes him all the same.

There is a story there, too, in the tight lines around Merlin’s mouth, the rigid lines of his shoulders, but Arthur doesn’t ask, and Merlin doesn’t say anything else.

The silence isn’t exactly comfortable, but then, it probably shouldn’t be. Maybe they’re not condemned to pay for their father’s sins, but they carry them all the same.

In the end, it’s as easy as this; Merlin shakes himself, the sombreness slipping off him like a shadow. He considers Arthur carefully before he says, “I’m rather sure this isn’t what anyone understands by courting. Come on, let’s eat.”

It takes Arthur a little longer. He doesn’t think he should fully move past this in the first place, but he also does not have the right to put his guilt at Merlin’s feet, to beg for absolution.

So he takes out the food and the wine and listens as Merlin regales him with a story about how Gwaine already got banned from three taverns in the lower town. He interjects occasionally, his chest feeling less tight with each passing moment.

Before they know it, the sun is dripping out of the sky, hues of orange and purple battling the lengthening shadows, and the air grows noticeably colder.

“We should head back,” Arthur finally says, despite his reluctance to break the bubble they’ve wrapped themselves in, to return to a castle of unforgiving stone and heavy golden crowns.

Merlin sighs, something wistful flashing across his face before he nods. “Let’s go.”

Arthur moves to pack up their bags. Before he can reach for the first goblet, Merlin’s eyes flash, and everything they brought packs itself up in a matter of seconds.

“Handy, that.”

“It has his advantages,” Merlin says, throwing Arthur a grin over his shoulders where he is walking towards the horses.

Once they’re back in the saddle, Arthur lets his mind drift. He has ridden this path often enough to know it like the back of his hand, and even if he didn’t, Hengroen would find the way back to Camelot just fine.

“Arthur.”

“Hm?”

“Arthur, look.”

The alertness in Merlin’s voice finally gets his attention, and he realises that Merlin has pulled his own horse to a stop a few feet ahead of him. He is watching their surroundings closely, and it finally dispels the last remains of Arthur’s absentmindedness.

There is a small grove in front of them that, at first glance, looks utterly unremarkable. There are signs of a struggle though, trampled grass and snapped branches, pieces of fabric fluttering on a few of them.

All of Arthur’s instincts flare, and he dismounts while unsheathing his sword.

“These seem recent,” he murmurs. “It must’ve been bandits. We can probably track them, there are footsteps leading northeast.”

Merlin hums, but he doesn’t seem to have heard much of what Arthur just said. “Come on, this way.”

“What, but—”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, turning in his saddle to look down at him. “This way. Trust me.”

And the goddess help him, but Arthur does. At least with this.

He’s not going to admit that if he can help it though, and he throws a glare at Merlin for good measure. “You better not be wrong.”

“I never am,” Merlin quips, throwing a smirk right back at him before he urges his horse into a trot, leaving Arthur to catch up with him.

The path they follow is narrow and shouldn’t be passable for the horses. Ahead of him, Merlin whispers what must be spells, and their horses neither stumble, nor make a sound.

Arthur isn’t thinking about it; there is only so much he can take in one day. Instead, he merely follows, sword held loosely by his side and eyes fixed on Merlin’s shoulders ahead of him.

The path widens after a few miles and Merlin slows, raising a hand until Arthur comes to a halt next to him. Merlin doesn’t speak, merely tilting his head into the direction to their left.

Faint wisps of smoke are filtering through the trees, and the distant glimmer of a campfire is visible if Arthur strains his eyes.

“Let’s leave the horses,” he murmurs, and they dismount in silence.

Before they are close enough to make out anything, Merlin stops him with a hand on his arm, leaning in close enough for his breath to brush across Arthur’s skin when he whispers, “If we have to fight, stay back-to-back with me. I know we’ve never done this, and you have no idea how I fight, but as long as we cover each other, it should be fine.”

Arthur swallows, inclining his head in agreement. If nothing else, he certainly knows that Merlin is powerful. He just hopes that Merlin knows how to fight, too.

The closer they get, the more obvious it becomes that this is not a bandit camp. There is only a low murmur of voices, and Arthur estimates that there can’t be more than five people, at most.

He’s rather sure that he can make out the voice of a child amongst them.

Merlin must be coming to the same conclusion because he drops his defensive stance, frowning at the last line of trees separating them from the camp.

Arthur sheaths his sword, and they exchange a glance before finally stepping into the clearing.

They’re met with the sight of a family, a woman, a man, and three children staring at them with wide eyes. The children are young, and all three of them scramble closer to their parents instantly.

Raising his hands, Arthur stays where he is, Merlin doing the same beside him.

“We don’t mean you harm,” Arthur says, keeping his voice low. “We saw signs of a struggle, not far from here. Are you alright?”

“Are you the King of Camelot?” the youngest child asks, a small boy with an unruly mop of brown hair, and dirt streaking across his cheeks. He’s peering at Arthur through narrowed eyes from where he’s leaning over his mother’s lap.

“Please, excuse him, my Lord—”

“There’s no need to apologise,” Arthur says, smiling at the child. “I am, and this is Prince Merlin of Escetir. We just wanted to make sure you’re fine.”

He catches Merlin looking at him out of the corner of his eye, but there are only so many things he can focus on at once.

“We’re—”

“We’re fine, my Lords,” the father speaks up, his eyes wary. “We’re just travelling through.”

“Did you come upon a larger group of people over the last hour or so?” Merlin asks before Arthur gets so much as a chance to speak, and Arthur frowns at the faint note of suspicion in Merlin’s voice.

It makes Arthur pause, his mind running over the situation anew. They are in the middle of Camelot, and it’s unlikely that the family came across the bandits—otherwise, Arthur doubts they would still be in possession of the bags lying at their feet.

Which means they must’ve come from either south or west.

“Where are you heading?”

“Gwynned, my Lord.”

West. There is a remaining chance that they took a less-travelled route, or that they got lucky. Arthur refuses to believe that there is anything more to it, that a family with three children could have any nefarious purpose in mind. Even from a logical perspective, it doesn’t make sense; they would’ve had little to no reason to expect coming across Camelot’s King and Escetir’s Prince.

Not to mention that Arthur is rather certain that between him and Merlin, they would be able to hold their own if it came down to it.

A gust of wind races through the clearing, the fire sputtering. The children press closer to their mother, unmistakably freezing in their threadbare clothes, and Arthur makes up his mind.

“You’re welcome to stay in the castle, for the night. It’s only another twenty minutes ride from here, and we certainly have enough room. The nights can be rough, this time of the year.”

Merlin makes a small noise in the back of his throat, but Arthur ignores him.

Both parents seem unsure of what to say, but the children look hopeful, staring between them and Arthur.

“My Lord—”

“I’m not sure—”

A branch cracks behind Arthur, too close and too loud to be caused by an animal. Arthur’s hand drops to his sword.

“Arthur,” Merlin murmurs, his eyes darting through the trees surrounding them. “I have a feeling that we’ve just walked into a trap.”

Looking back at the family, Arthur finds the parents’ faces streaked with guilt. He curses.

“Never thought you had it in you,” Merlin quips, moving to press his back against Arthur’s.

Neither of them is wearing chainmail beneath their cloaks. Merlin doesn’t even carry a sword, only a bow intended for hunting that is useless in such a close fight. As men start flooding into the clearing, uncaring of the children or packs in their way, Arthur thinks that if he were in this situation with anyone but Merlin, this may be the moment he loses hope.

“Well, then let’s see some of that magic of yours,” he throws back just as he blocks the first strike of a sword.

If Merlin says anything in return, Arthur doesn’t catch it, the sudden onslaught demanding all of his attention.

Merlin must be doing something though because repeatedly, men are thrown back whenever more than one tries to engage Arthur in a fight. The air is filled with shouts and screams, the ringing sound of steel hitting steel, and everything narrows down to drawn-out seconds, to the strain in his muscles, the heartbeat thundering in his ears, the smell of blood slowly permeating the chilly October evening.

Distantly, Arthur can hear children crying, and it’s becoming clearer with each man he fights that these aren’t bandits. These are mercenaries, their weapons and their armour of excellent quality, and their fighting precise and skilled.

Someone, somehow, had set them up. It doesn’t make sense, but for every man that Arthur cuts down, another three appear, and so he doesn’t have the wherewithal to contemplate it just yet.

“Arthur!”

The glistening blade stops mere inches from Arthur’s arm as if held by an invisible force, and he dances away from it instinctively. He twists his sword to disarm the man, who is still staring at his own weapon in horror, before running him through.

It separated Merlin and him from their positions, and their opponents take immediate advantage of it, pushing them farther apart.

Unlike Merlin, Arthur doesn’t have a magical shield, and he positions himself with his back to the treeline. It’s by no means a good defensive position, and with how outnumbered they still are, he is not going to withstand this for long.

It’s lucky that the majority of them are kept busy by Merlin, and Arthur tunes his doubts out. He parries and dodges and throws the occasional punch, focuses on not standing still for too long, and cuts down more men than he can count.

The number of their attackers does shrink eventually, and if he wasn’t already convinced of it, the fact that they keep attacking despite their losses would be confirmation enough that this is a targeted attack.

Dodging the swing of a mace, Arthur ducks and kicks the legs out from beneath the man, sinking his sword through his back. His muscles are straining, sweat running down his neck, and he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to keep this up.

A quick scan of the clearing tells him that there are still about ten men left, although at least six of them are busy attempting to break through Merlin’s shield while dodging his attacks.

Before Arthur can wonder what the hell Merlin is doing, a high-pitched cry sounds from behind him, penetrating the noise of battle. Dodging a blow aimed at his right, Arthur dances around his opponents until he can divert the little bit of attention he can spare to search for the source.

Only a few feet away, the family is cowering between the trees, the parents trying to shield their children with as much of their bodies as possible.

No one is paying them any mind, and Arthur has to block another attack coming from his right, even in the fraction of a second during which he finds three pairs of horrified, too young eyes staring back at him.

It ignites something hot and relentless in his stomach, bright enough that he fears it might burn him. It is not unlike the protectiveness he’d felt from the land around him, only hours ago.

This is his kingdom. This is the land he was born to protect, and he won’t let whoever sent these men use a family that looks like it can barely feed itself as a means to an end.

Dispatching yet another mercenary with a well-aimed blow to his head, Arthur inches closer to the family, careful to keep his back guarded. By now, the whole clearing stretches between him and Merlin, but Merlin can clearly hold his own.

Another man falls to a precise thrust of Arthur’s sword, despite the tremble permeating his muscles, despite his sword growing heavier with the strain of it all, but he needs to—

He needs to make sure, needs to vow to these children that they will be safe, that it will be alright.

He doesn’t see the root in the ground, and notices the flash of a blade the slightest moment too late. He still blocks it, his sword only just catching the thrust, but his balance is thrown off, his movements sloppy.

The next blow, he will not be able to parry. He knows this, knows that he can only hope to lessen its impact, and he grits his teeth, trying to steel himself for the pain of it.

The man across from him meets his eyes, green staring back at him from beneath the scarf that covers the rest of his face, and—

And the body goes taut, back bowing before it slumps. A dagger is sticking out from the man’s neck, a simple hilt, but it hits its mark with a precision that Arthur isn’t sure he himself would’ve achieved.

Looking up, he meets Merlin’s eyes across the battlefield. They’re burning gold while anger twists his features into something unrecognisable.

The ground begins to tremble beneath Arthur’s feet, and he stumbles again, until the rough bark of a tree is digging into his back. All he can do is hold on, staring as magic races across the ground between them.

Chapter Text

“Arthur?”

“You really never do knock, do you?”

Merlin shrugs, clearly taking it as an invitation to enter the chambers. Arthur is already in his nightclothes, sitting by the fire with a goblet of mulled wine.

He gestures for Merlin to sit down and fills a second goblet, handing it over wordlessly.

The fire is crackling in the hearth, spilling warmth into the otherwise cold room. In the dim light and with the grime of the fight washed off, Merlin doesn’t look like someone who could raze a whole clearing to the ground.

It’s rather deceptive. It’s rather curious, too, how the thought no longer scares Arthur as much.

“It was kind of you to let the family go,” Merlin eventually says, his voice low as his fingers trace the rim of his goblet. “What they did was an act of treason.”

Sighing, Arthur watches the fine-boned structure of Merlin’s profile, and the light catching in his still-damp hair.

“And how much choice do you think they were given?” he says wearily. “Not only were they clearly poor, but I also doubt that saying no would’ve got them anywhere but six feet under. Had I dragged them back to Camelot, the laws would’ve demanded I try them for high treason. It would’ve left three orphans and unmade none of what happened today.”

Merlin smiles, a small, private thing that doesn’t seem to be meant all that much for Arthur. “If you put it like that…”

Arthur huffs, draining his goblet and immediately filling it up again. Exhaustion is sitting deep within his bones, but his mind is still restless; he feels as if he has lived through a whole week in the last fifteen hours or so.

“You could’ve stopped it sooner, couldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Merlin admits, shrugging as if it isn’t of importance, as if it was a perfectly reasonable thing to draw the fight out until the last second.

“Then why didn’t you?”

Merlin turns then, meeting his eyes. “Frustrated men are more likely to talk than dead ones. Getting attacked by a large group of mercenaries, the first day we leave the castle with less than two hours of planning… well, it’s a rather large coincidence, don’t you think?”

It’s not that Arthur hasn’t thought of this yet, that he hasn’t mulled it over ever since they finally made their way back to the castle. The almost callous manner with which Merlin says it still leaves him speechless for a few, long moments.

“And what did you find out with your glorious method of risking our lives?” Arthur asks sardonically, raising his brows at Merlin.

“They were hired, but not on short notice, which means someone must’ve been watching the castle. They knew I would have magic, but not how powerful I am, so it must be someone unfamiliar with me or Escetir’s court. They were aiming to kill us both, so it’s unlikely the attack came from Camelot,” Merlin rattles off, a crease forming between his brows. “The remaining options are that someone wants Escetir and Camelot at war to destabilize both kingdoms, or hopes to take one or both thrones. Which would either mean it’s someone with an army large enough at their disposal to take Camelot or Escetir by force, or someone with a claim to one of the thrones, however distant.”

Arthur stares, his mind reeling. “That’s…”

“Not as helpful as I hoped it to be, yes.”

It might not tell them who, exactly, was behind the attack, and none of what Merlin deduced could be proved, but the relief that it was unlikely to be someone from either of their kingdoms is still strong.

“I didn’t mean to risk your life, by the way,” Merlin says, glancing at Arthur out of the corner of his eye.  

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Merlin huffs, his lips tilting up. “I had it under control.”

“I didn’t know you carried knives on you,” Arthur says, deciding to change the topic. “I thought weapons were beneath sorcerers.”

“Your sources really must be abysmal,” Merlin says, rolling his eyes. “A knife goes a long way, in many wildly different circumstances.”

“And what would those be?”

“Oh, you know. Cutting herbs or food, flashing it around to look all threatening. Saving kings from their untimely demise. The usual.”

The laughter spilling out of Arthur is unexpected, and something eases in his chest.

“Thank you,” he says, clinking his goblet against Merlin’s. “Without you, there might not have been a murder attempt in the first place, but I appreciate you saving my life all the same.”

Merlin snorts, his eyes bright in the dim light of the chambers. “Oh, I’m sure there are enough people out there who would love to see you dead without my involvement just fine. And vice versa.”

Arthur spends most of the following day in a council meeting, trying to reassure his advisors and knights that the attack wasn’t connected to Escetir, and not an attempt to make his death look like a casualty.

Unsurprisingly, they are hesitant to dismiss their suspicions. Arthur doesn’t really believe that Merlin is out for his blood, but even if he did… well, Merlin could probably make his murder look like a far more convincing accident.

Arthur can’t exactly tell his council this without worrying them even more. It takes hours of arguing to convince them that he does not need a battalion of knights every time he leaves the castle with Merlin.

They run over several possibilities of who could be behind the attack too, but they don’t get further than what Merlin had already laid out last night.

There could be a traitor at court who informed the mercenaries when he and Merlin decided to ride out yesterday, but they could have just as well been seen by someone on the lookout. Both Escetir and Camelot’s royal families have more or less distant relatives who could stake a claim to the throne if either of them died.

But there are also more than enough people with a grudge, kingdoms with a thirst for power, or nobles with their own agenda. Each of them would be eager to take the chance of sowing unrest between Escetir and Camelot.

Ultimately, all they can do is reinforce the patrols and keep an eye out.

Arthur leaves the council chamber in the late hours of the afternoon, starving and with frustration simmering beneath his skin.

After changing out of his formal wear, he pads the short distance to Merlin’s chambers.

Of course, when he knocks there is no answer, and he sighs to himself. Pulling out the note he wrote in advance, he is just about to open the door when someone behind him says, “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”

Whirling around, Arthur finds Gwaine standing a few steps away from him, leaning against the wall of the corridor.

“And why is that? This is still my castle.”

Gwaine’s grin is as disrespectful as it can possibly be, and he shrugs. “Sure, then, go ahead.”

Arthur is almost tempted to do so if only to prove a point. Self-preservation has never come easily to him, but he hasn’t spent the last few hours arguing over how to prevent his death to be stupid about it now.

“Just tell me, Sir Gwaine.”

“Well, if your Majesty insists. After what happened yesterday, Merlin thought it wise to ward his stuff a little stronger than previously. So depending on your reasons for sneaking around, you might end up incapacitated, or with fewer limbs than before.”

“I wasn’t—,” Arthur starts, then decides that he doesn’t have to explain himself. “Do you know where I can find him? Come to think of it, I should probably tell him to take the wards off, considering the servants—”

“They were informed. And Merlin is with the Lady Morgana in her chambers, as far as I know.”

Arthur clenches his jaw to keep any thoughts he has on that particular piece of information from showing on his face.

He must be doing a rather poor job because Gwaine rolls his eyes. “Don’t look like that, princess. Gwen is with them.”

Deciding that it is best for everyone involved if he doesn’t comment on that, Arthur turns on his heel and walks away, wondering if being insufferable is a requirement to achieve any kind of rank in Escetir.

The walk to Morgana’s chambers isn’t long, and he carefully swallows his annoyance before he knocks.

Voices waft through the thick wood of the door, but it still takes long moments until the door is pulled open, Guinevere staring back at him with wide eyes.

“My Lord! What are you doing—I mean, come in.”

Glancing around the chambers, he finds Morgana and Merlin sitting side by side at the table, both of them watching him closely.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all,” Morgana says, smiling sweetly. “We were just talking. With the pouring rain, there’s not much to do while you’re holed up with your old men, playing politics, is there?”

It doesn’t dispel the nagging feeling that he is missing something, but knowing Morgana, asking wouldn’t get him anywhere. He has an inkling that Merlin is just as annoyingly stubborn.

“Well, someone around here has to work,” he says instead, his voice coming out tenser than he intended. “Anyway, I was looking for you, Merlin, wondering if you wanted to have dinner with me.”

“Is that a question?” Merlin asks, his tone mild, but there’s amusement dancing in his eyes that only grates further against Arthur’s nerves.

“Obviously.”

“The council meeting went that well, huh?” Merlin asks, rising from his chair. “But sure, as long as you promise not to poison me in the process.”

“I just might, if your chambers don’t kill me before I get around to it.”

The soft snort from Guinevere beside him is a good reminder that they are not alone.

“Promises, promises,” Merlin says, but his eyes travel up and down Arthur’s body once. “You look perfectly healthy to me.”

“Yes. Thanks to Gwaine.”

“Who was there for exactly that reason, so I don’t see the problem. Dinner?”

Sighing, Arthur tamps down the fond humour that wants to rise up in him and gestures toward the door. “Come on, then. We’re eating in my chambers, though. I don’t trust yours to not turn me into the meal.”

Merlin grins, but he turns back to Morgana. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Of course. Enjoy your dinner,” she says, throwing a smirk at Arthur when Merlin turns his back to her.

Arthur does the mature thing and ignores her, following Merlin out into the corridor.

While the castle is on high alert, and Arthur sends out almost twice as many patrols as usual, there are no more attempts on their lives or even reports of unrest within the kingdom.

Arthur doesn’t let his guard down quite yet, but it is less at the forefront of his mind than it was during the first few days after the attack.

He and Merlin make sure to have at least one meal together each day and appear together around the castle and its grounds. Arthur is almost surprised at how much easier it becomes with each passing day.

They talk a lot about how they grew up, what they picture for their kingdoms in the future, and it’s nice—to have someone who understands the weight of it, the inescapability.

Merlin also tells him about magic, about dragons and the Old Religion. While they avoid the topic of their fathers, Arthur, in turn, tells him about his experiences as a knight, about the places he has been to and, a few times, about his mother. It’s easier, somehow, to speak with Merlin about her, as if his lack of connection to Camelot alone is enough to strip away Arthur’s usual caution when it comes to this topic.

Not all of it is serious though, and Arthur finds himself laughing more than he has in the months since Uther’s death. More often than not, Merlin brings Aithusa along too; for some reason, she eventually takes a liking to Arthur.

If someone had told him a year ago that he would walk through Camelot’s market with a small dragon perched on his shoulder, sharing honey cakes with the warlock said dragon belongs to, he would’ve sent them to Gaius. Now it happens so regularly, most people barely bat an eye at the sight.

As Lancelot suggested, the Escetirian knights and Merlin also start attending the occasional training session of Camelot’s knights.

During the first week, it ends mostly with Arthur on his back, glaring up at Merlin. He notices soon, though, that one of Merlin’s weaknesses is his defence when he doesn’t keep up a magical shield, and that magical counter attacks are harder to launch when an opponent gets too close.

Arthur presses a sword into his hands and needles him until Merlin agrees to practise defending himself with a weapon, too.

It is the only time Arthur has at least a small chance of defeating him, but he relishes each and every instance of it.

One evening, he and Merlin are walking back to the castle, sweaty and exhausted, when Merlin says, “Your knights are very loyal to you.”

Glancing over at him, Arthur raises his brows. “I would be worried if they weren’t.”

“No, I mean,” Merlin huffs, taking a drag from his water skin. Arthur watches as his throat moves before he tears his eyes away. “They’re happy that you are the king now. They served your father, but they would follow you to the death.”

Arthur doesn’t know how to answer that, how to deal with the pang in his chest and the pride wrapping around his shoulders. “I think it has a lot to do with how I went on every mission with them, fought every fight and tournament they fought. In a way, I was always more a knight than I was a prince, and it went a long way to earning their respect.”

Merlin hums, watching him out of the corner of his eye. “I think there’s more to it.”

Shrugging, Arthur fixes his eyes ahead and ignores the warm glow of Merlin’s words.

The one thing Merlin has avoided up until now was attending open court.

Apparently, Arthur isn’t the only one who has noticed because when Merlin does arrive, three weeks after they had the idea in the first place, it’s in the company of Finna, Iseldir, and Lancelot, who all look vaguely exasperated.

“I would’ve thought you were all about listening to the people?” Arthur murmurs when Merlin settles into the throne beside him. Arthur isn’t paying attention to the picture he makes, long legs stretched out in front of him, one wrist balanced on the armrest. “Don’t tell me you don’t care for the woes of your kingdom, Merlin.”

Despite himself, Merlin snorts. “Yes, Arthur, my kingdom. If I wanted to hear about petty grievances concerning cattle in two kingdoms, I would’ve married you by now.”

Arthur promptly chokes on nothing, and only the opening of the doors saves him from spluttering his way through an answer he doesn’t have.

The first hour passes with nothing of interest. In accordance with the season, there are several disputes over the harvest, a few queries for support in the outlying villages, and, in fact, two neighbours fighting about cattle.

If Merlin is bored, he hides it well. He stays quiet for the most part, but he does listen, taking in Arthur’s responses and thinking—well… whatever Merlin is thinking at any time of the day; Arthur still hasn’t figured that one out.

When there are only about five people left, a man steps forward. He is wearing the clothes of a peasant, wringing his hands as he stares up at them, but the set of his jaw is determined.

“My Lords,” he says, and he is the first to address both of them. “I’m from the village Bostra, on the outskirts of Isgaard.”

It is close to Escetir’s border, and Merlin’s posture changes. It’s nothing more than a small shift, but Arthur notices all the same.

“Go on,” Arthur says, a foreboding sense of dread settling in his gut.

“There have been attacks over the recent weeks. Not only in Bostra but other villages along the border. As far as we can tell, it’s focused on Camelot’s side, but of course, we can’t be sure.”

They can’t be. Even with the fragile peace between both kingdoms, even with Merlin here, the border between Camelot and Escetir is one of the most heavily guarded within all of Albion. It is a remnant of his father’s rule, something Merlin’s visit here might change, but for now, the numerous patrols and garrisons are still as much in use as they have been for the last fourteen years.

It makes it impossible for the people from villages on either side to interact, something that had stirred trouble in the first few years, if Uther was to be believed.

“What kinds of attacks?” Merlin asks, all of his attention now focused on the man across from them. “Do you mean a magical creature, or—”

“No,” the man cuts in, instantly ducking his head when he realises what he just did. “I apologise, my Lord, but no. It’s groups of men—they don’t wear the colours of a kingdom, but they raid the villages, killing seemingly at random, looting grain and slaughtering cattle as well as people who stand in their way.”

“We will send patrols, of course—”

“There’s more,” the man interrupts Arthur, his agitation clearly too great to adhere to court decorum.

Arthur couldn’t care less; the only thing he is angry about is that he hasn’t heard of this before when it has been going on for some time.

“As I said, they don’t wear colours of either kingdom, but there’s this.”

The room falls deadly silent as the man holds out his hand, revealing a badge in the palm of his hand.

It’s silver, catching the light of the torches along the walls, and its form is that of a bursting star.

The very same star that all of Merlin’s knights and advisors wear on their cloaks.

“It’s a conspiracy! Sending the prince here is just a distraction, and Escetir—”

“Lord Maylor!” Arthur snaps, his voice sharp as his mind runs a hundred miles per minute. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t insult our guest. In his presence, I might add.”

“But it’s obvious—”

“That does not come from anyone in Escetir,” Merlin says, and while his voice is controlled, it cuts easily across the rising voices all through the throne room. “Neither from any of Escetir’s knights nor sorcerers, for that matter.”

As much as Arthur wants to believe him, does believe him, it is still an incredibly bold claim in face of the evidence. He has no idea how to address it, but his doubt must be written all over his face because Merlin’s lips tilt up in a mirthless smile.

“I can prove it,” Merlin says, holding Arthur’s eyes.

The room seems to hold its breath as Arthur stares at Merlin, his heart beating heavily against his ribs. If Merlin is miscalculating, there is no way to tell how the people will react, how far it will throw them back to how things were under their fathers’ rule. The threat of unrest and, inevitably, war, seems thick within the room, spoiling the air until every breath feels heavy and suffocating.

If Merlin doesn’t prove it, though, if Arthur doesn’t allow him to try, it will put them back to square one, only for the outcome to be more or less the same.

“Go on then,” Arthur says, his voice low. He ignores the restless shifting of nobles and knights around him.

Merlin holds his eyes for a moment longer before he inclines his head, rising from the throne that Arthur once sat in.

“May I?” he asks the man, holding out his hand. Once he is handed the silver badge, he turns towards the court at large. “There is something only a few people know about the shoulder badge every knight, every person in service first of my father, and now of me as the prince, wears. While it is a bursting star in honour of its symbolism to magic, to a beacon of light in a world that would rather see us gone, my father was, first and foremost, always a Dragonlord before he was a king.”

Arthur watches as Merlin speaks, and he recognises the same grief in the lines of his face that Arthur is so intimately familiar with. There is something else too though, something he himself hasn’t felt in a while; pride, bright and defiant, shining in the black of Merlin’s eyes.

“We were always a kingdom of magic, and a kingdom of dragons—few of them as there are left. Now, in a twist of irony, the dragon was already Camelot’s crest. As you may suspect, my father wasn’t all too keen to be associated with Camelot, of all places, when he built his kingdom. No offence.”

He meets Arthur’s eyes briefly, something almost close to humour flashing across his face. Arthur is too frozen, too numb, to attempt returning it.

“But my father also refused to let Uther Pendragon have the symbol of his bloodline,” Merlin goes on, turning back to the court. “So, he came up with something different—the bursting, silver star—but if you’re a trusted ally of Escetir, you will know that there’s a simple spell to reveal the true crest of Escetir. It was the first spell he taught me.”

Merlin lifts his hand then, the silver badge lying within his palm. He takes in the room, glances back at Arthur, once, before he speaks in the old language, loud and clear, and his eyes turn golden.

A collective gasp travels through the room; no one in attendance is used to such displays of magic, however small.

Merlin doesn’t pay it any mind. He holds up the silver badge, still as blank and unsuspecting as it has been before.

“Nothing has changed,” Merlin says, as if he has just proven a point that no one but he is privy to. “If it were an Escetirian badge, it would display a dragon now.”

The silence stretches, people shifting and glancing at each other. Arthur holds himself still, weighing his options. He believes Merlin, for reasons he would rather not examine too closely, but that alone won’t hold up in the face of his court. It wouldn’t do either of them any good if he tried to intervene now.  

“That’s no proof,” Lord Maylor scoffs just then, as if on cue. “You could’ve said any kind of spell, and none of us would know.”

Merlin huffs, annoyance bleeding into his expression. “I’m afraid that is what happens when you leave a whole kingdom uneducated on the matters of magic. I—”

“Merlin,” Arthur cuts in, keeping his tone mild. It’s not that Merlin is wrong necessarily, loath as he is to admit it still, at times. It’s just that this isn’t going to lessen the suspicion already permeating the hall.

“Oh, for the—Lancelot, come here.”

Somewhere from the back of the room, Lancelot emerges from the throng of people, walking forward. He doesn’t pay attention to the countless pairs of eyes on him, bowing his head to Merlin once he reaches the dais.

Without Merlin having to ask, Lancelot unfastens the badge from his cloak, handing it to Merlin before stepping aside.

Merlin’s expression is all exasperation as he holds the second badge up. “Now, this one looks just the same, right? And I know, none of you know the first thing about magic, but I do hope you possess at least the intelligence to notice when I speak the same words.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, casting the same spell he spoke just moments ago. When he is finished, he holds up both badges.

Even though it’s small, the lines burning within the centre of Lancelot’s badge are impossible to miss, gold and blue twisting into each other where they form a dragon that is about to take flight.

The silence within the room takes on a different quality, low-simmering animosity shifting to helpless confusion.

“This isn’t a badge from Escetir. It’s from someone trying to look like they’re from Escetir. Which, in my humble opinion, means that someone is trying to sabotage both me and Arthur.”

”It could still be—”

“Lord Maylor, this is quite enough,” Arthur says, standing up. “I trust Prince Merlin and his people, and I will not have them insulted within my own kingdom. It has been proven that it is not an attack directed from Escetir. We will inquire about the origin, of course, but until then I will not tolerate any further insults. The court is dismissed.”

“It can’t have been anyone familiar with Escetir’s court,” Elyan says, frowning at Merlin.

Escetir’s delegation, Morgana, Leon, Gaius, and Arthur are sitting around the table in Arthur’s chambers, the silver badge lying in the centre of the table.

“Why not?” Leon asks, but more with curiosity than accusation.

“The spell to reveal the dragon is an open secret among the court,” Lancelot says, the concern plain on his face. “Someone with the power and money to hire mercenaries, to stake out Camelot, and to coordinate targeted attacks would know of it.”

“So, you’re saying it comes from within Camelot?” Gaius asks, his frown contemplative.

His conclusion is logical, but the mere idea still has aversion coursing through Arthur.

“It would make sense, wouldn’t it?” Merlin says, his head tilted. “There are still several nobles who served Uther, who would consider a union with Escetir a betrayal of all that Camelot stands for.”

“Yes, but why attempt to murder Camelot’s king, then?” Morgana asks. “When you two were attacked, they had no qualms about going after Arthur. If this was about magic alone, they wouldn’t risk Arthur’s life, but even if they were willing to do that, for whatever reason—wouldn’t they, at least, try making it look as if magic was used, to drive the point home?”

“She’s not wrong,” Gwaine says, and as much as Arthur agrees, this still doesn’t bring them any closer to an answer.

“Unless…” Merlin says, his fingers tapping a slow, aimless rhythm against the table.

“Unless?” Arthur prompts, his own nerves too strained to be patient.

“Unless it is someone who wants Camelot’s throne. If it looked like Escetir killed the king, the next person in line would have an easy time not only to claim it, but to rally the council, the nobles, and the people behind them, wouldn’t they?”

Everyone is silent, and Arthur’s mind is already providing him with a list of the few people this could apply to.

It can’t be, though. It can’t.

It is a strange balance that he and Merlin find themselves in during the aftermath.

While Arthur redirects a large part of his forces towards the border with Escetir, and Merlin informs his mother of the circumstances, there is not much else they can do.

Both of them are impatient to ride out themselves. Unfortunately, in a rare show of unity, Camelot’s and Escetir’s present advisors alike shoot down that idea before Merlin even finishes speaking.

“Drawing you out sounds exactly like what whoever is behind this is aiming for,” Iseldir says, and while it earns him a staring match with Merlin, Camelot’s advisors all express their agreement.

Of course, they could go anyway, but deep down, they know it wouldn’t be of much use. There is also far more at stake than their desire to do something.

While the court accepted Merlin’s proof, for the most part, it could tip back into suspicion at a moment’s notice. Arthur has no doubt that if something were to happen to Merlin, Escetir’s reaction would be much the same.

So they’re confined to the castle, continuing their pretence of courtship as if it’s not the reason for the threat looming over their heads—while also being the reason that there isn’t a war yet.

It is all rather ironic, and Arthur tries not to think about it too much.

“I have something for you,” Arthur says, a few days later. He had picked the gift up only hours before that godforsaken audience, but ever since Merlin revealed the story behind Escetir’s crest, he has not been sure if it was the right choice.

“You do?” Merlin asks, his eyes snapping up to meet Arthur’s own from where he is lounging in front of the fire playing with Aithusa.

Arthur hums in agreement and tamps down the urge to fidget as he sits down across from them. “I’ve been told gifts are an important part of the courting process, so it would be rather remiss of me to not follow through with that, wouldn’t it?”

It comes out far less joking than he intended, and Merlin snorts softly. For some reason, he doesn’t tease Arthur though, merely tilting his head. “Well, that’s convenient because I’ve got you something, too.”  

Biting down on the grin that wants to carve its way across his face, Arthur huffs in put-upon annoyance. “You can’t even let me have this, Merlin? Really?”

“No one said I was going to give it to you now, did they? If I don’t like your gift, maybe I’ll just keep it for myself.”

As much as it is obviously a joke, the words make the small pouch within Arthur’s pocket feel a hundred times heavier.

“I wasn’t serious,” Merlin says, frowning at him. Since when he is able to read Arthur so easily is a mystery, and Arthur isn’t quite sure that he likes it.

Squaring his shoulders, he rolls his eyes and pulls the velvet pouch out. “Just—look at it, alright?”

Merlin glances at him before he takes it, failing spectacularly to hide his curiosity.

“Only—one more thing,” Arthur says, his tongue clearly deciding that he should speak, after all, whatever his brain has to say about it. “I commissioned it before the open court on Monday. I didn’t—it wasn’t—”

His voice trails off when Merlin opens the pouch and tips the content into his hand. Seeing it there serves to drive home how bad of an idea this was, how Arthur should’ve come up with something different, should’ve put it away and never looked at it again. He should’ve—

“Arthur,” Merlin murmurs, not looking away from his own palm. There is a hint of humour in his voice, and if Arthur isn’t hearing things, there is unmistakable fondness wrapping all around it. “You had this made before—?”

Clearing his throat, Arthur keeps his eyes fixed on the silver pendant of a bursting star, a dragon engraved into the centre of it that reflects the gleam of the fire.

“Well, I just thought… you know. The star is your crest, and you’re a Dragonlord, so I thought you might like it. I didn’t mean—”

“Arthur,” Merlin says again, finally meeting his eyes. “I love it. Thank you.”

“It’s for your bracelet, although I’d understand if you didn’t want to wear it, of course, after—”

“Don’t be stupid, you dollophead,” Merlin says, shaking his head. Aithusa nudges against Arthur’s hand, a low purr emanating from deep within her throat, and the rigid apprehension finally uncoils from around his ribs.

“Good,” he says, slanting a smile at Merlin that must come out rather crooked. “Would’ve been a shame if I had to donate it. A little hard to explain, too.”

Merlin laughs, the sound bright and warm. It’s altogether rather lovely.

“I suppose it’s only fair if I give you your gift, then.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Again, don’t be stupid. I want to,” Merlin says. He pulls a piece of fabric out of his pocket that, on second glance, turns out to be one of his neckerchiefs. “Don’t look like that, just because I didn’t get a fancy velvet—”

“I didn’t even say anything,” Arthur laughs, raising his hands in a gesture of defeat.

“Before you look at it—I know we haven’t really talked about it again, but I went ahead and assumed that you were fine with small magical things. I’m aware it’s rather hypocritical and I still think you’re a prat, but—anyway. I made it myself, and I’ll explain the rest once you’ve looked at it.”

Merlin is actually rambling, and it takes all of Arthur’s self-restraint not to tease him for it. The sole reason he succeeds is that just moments ago, he had been doing the same.

“I think I’ll live,” he says, taking the fabric from Merlin more carefully than he wants to admit. When he unwraps it, a long leather cord is revealed, with a white pendant that looks like a large tooth and gleams unnaturally in the firelight.

“It’s a dragon’s tooth,” Merlin says, his fingers twisting in the sleeves of his tunic. “It’s a traditional courting gift among Dragonlords, even though it kind of went—I mean, it’s not used much, these days.”

Arthur swallows, running his fingertips over the smooth surface, only to notice the delicate engravings winding around it. Lifting it up to get a closer look, he thinks that he can make out flowers, and something else that is hard to discern in the dim light.

“This is the part where you have to bear with me for a bit, alright?” Merlin asks, and Arthur can’t remember ever seeing Merlin this uncertain.

He nods mutely.

“The thing is—I thought it might be a good symbol to gift you something traditional, that a few of the older advisors might even still recognise. But I also thought that, at least between us, it might come across the wrong way, and it’s also not very… Either way, there’s a charm on it that makes it change if you say, a dragon’s garden.”

Arthur stares at him, lowering his hand as he tries to parse through all the implications of what Merlin just said. He’s not sure he’s successful.

“I don’t have magic, though.”

Merlin snorts, and he stops fidgeting. “Believe it or not, I’m aware. Which is why I tweaked it, so that it would work without magic. Go on, try it.”

A part of Arthur is still convinced that this is going to be some kind of joke at his cost, but Merlin looks so stupidly, ridiculously hopeful, Arthur’s not sure that he could bring himself to care either way. And isn’t that a worrying thought right there.

Glancing back at Merlin, he lifts the necklace and says, “A dragon’s garden.”

The effect is instantaneous, the pendant twisting and shifting in front of his eyes until an intricate carving of flowers is left in place of the tooth; an iris, surrounded by thyme and ivy.

His mother’s favourite flowers.

The sudden lump in Arthur’s throat prevents him from speaking, and he carefully runs his fingertips over the petals of the iris, almost startled when he finds them soft to the touch.

“They’re magic,” Merlin says, his voice low. “It’s—well, it’s as close to a real flower as it can get, although it won’t wilt or be damaged when you wear it. It’s what I wanted to give you first, but I thought you might have some hang-ups about wearing a necklace with flowers on it.”

No matter what Arthur is going to say, it can’t possibly explain the chaos unfolding within his chest. What he settles for is, “Thank you,” holding Merlin’s eyes for long moments before it becomes too much.

The moment is broken when Aithusa chirps loudly between them, clearly done with all the attention being directed elsewhere. The laughter tumbling past Arthur’s lips may be a little shaky around the edges, but if Merlin notices, he is gracious enough not to mention it.

The whole castle is on high alert, and even with whatever the hell is going on between Merlin and him, Arthur has rarely let his guard down over the last two weeks.

When the attack comes, it still surprises him.

He is lying in bed, reading one of the books Merlin had given him earlier that day, about myths and tales from the time before magic was banned, when the air in the room shifts.

Arthur has spent the majority of his life as a knight, in training and on patrols and in battle. There might not have been a noise, no tangible indication that anyone is inside his room, but he can tell all the same.

He keeps his eyes fixed on the book, the words becoming blurred as he inches his hand to the spot beneath his pillow where he keeps his knife.

If someone has made it inside his chambers not only without alerting his guards, but without so much as opening the door, it is probably not going to get him far, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least try.

Maybe he’ll have a chance to hold them off for long enough to get his sword that is lying on the table only a few feet away, to call for his guards, and—

“Ah, I see that you do have some skills, after all,” an unfamiliar voice speaks up, and there is a quality to it that sends a chill down Arthur’s spine.

He is out of his bed, knife clenched tightly in his hand, before he can so much as blink. He still startles when a person materialises only a few steps away from him.

They have a hood drawn deep over their face, but Arthur catalogues their appearance as much as possible. They’re shorter than him and less well-built, which is probably not going to help him much, considering the obvious magic.

Their hands are covered in gloves, but their cloak—their cloak is Escetirian, and Arthur’s blood runs cold.

“Who do you think you are, entering my chambers?” Arthur hisses because Merlin had been right; frustrated men talk far more easily than dead men do. “Guards!”

This is it, then, the blatant attempt to kill him and pin it on Merlin. If he is found dead in his chambers with all signs pointing at Escetir, there will be little Merlin can do to convince anyone that it was a setup.

Whoever is out for Camelot’s throne will have an easy time then, to garner support and declare war. Whether they genuinely believe they have a chance against Escetir, or whether they don’t care about what happens to Camelot is hard to tell but if Arthur’s worst fears are true—

If Arthur’s worst fears are true, and the person behind all this is who every sign points to, then the latter is far more likely.

“Oh, it’s sweet that you think that would work,” the man says, the words thick with condescension. “No one is going to hear you until you’ve finished screaming.”

Just in time to find the person adorned in blue and grey still in Arthur’s chambers.

“It’s sweet that you think I would need my guards to do my dirty work,” Arthur says, and he knows the grin stretching across his face must be sardonic, that the venom dripping from his voice isn’t befitting of a king, but he doesn’t care.

A fraction of shock, of surprise, but it’s enough. Arthur throws his knife, a quick, subtle flick of his wrist, and watches in satisfaction as it buries itself within the man’s thigh.

Arthur is thrown into the wall behind him with a force that knocks the air out of him. Beside him, weapons and armour clatter to the floor where the weapons table gets knocked over.

His ribcage hurts and his head is swimming, but he is lying right next to his weapons. It is a little insulting if he’s honest—the least they could have done is to send a not entirely stupid assassin.

He grabs his sword and another knife as he hoists himself up, ignoring the sharp pain shooting up his side.

“Those won’t help you now, little king. I’m—”

Whatever the man was about to say is cut off by a loud crash, the door to Arthur’s chambers banging open. Arthur almost laughs in relief when he sees Merlin standing in the doorway, the gold still fading from his eyes.

The man takes a few steps back, but he doesn’t get far before he is the one slammed into a wall. Unlike Arthur, he doesn’t crumble, staying pinned there as Merlin stalks forward.

“You are going to tell me who you are, and who sent you. You are going to tell me every little detail you know, and then maybe, maybe I will consider not crushing you right where you hang.”

“I’m not going to—”

“Oh, you misunderstand me,” Merlin says, his voice dangerously sweet. “You don’t get a choice.”

It should be terrifying, or at least worrying, to see Merlin like this. All Arthur can do is stare, heart sitting in his throat, thinking that he never wants to get on Merlin’s bad side. It is less of a surprise than it should be that the main reason for that thought is not, in fact, fear.

He expects Merlin to cast a spell. He does not expect Merlin to stop a few feet away from the man and turn to look at Arthur with his expression changing from furious to almost concerned within a blink. “Are you alright?”

Arthur has the strangest urge to laugh, all of this absurd. “I’m fine. Go ahead.”

Merlin watches him for a little longer until he seems to find whatever he is looking for.

Just as he turns away again, Arthur catches the slightest movement in the corner of his eye. The knife flies out of his hand, for the second time tonight, before his brain has so much as considered the possibility that it might be anyone but an opponent.

He is right a second time too, the body of another man lying sprawled across the floor of his chambers as crimson red soaks into the blue and grey fabric.

“Any more men you’re hiding in the king’s chambers?” Merlin says into the following silence, tension now radiating off of him.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” the man taunts, idiot that he must be.

Merlin lunges forwards, but Arthur closes his hand around Merlin’s arm before he can do something truly stupid. The muscles flex beneath his fingertips, and he can practically feel the fury coursing through Merlin’s body. It’s momentarily so dizzying that he almost forgets why he stopped Merlin in the first place.

“If you kill him, all of this will be rather difficult to explain,” he says, somehow still getting the words out.

“Yes, listen to the little king, your Highness.”

“Oh, believe me,” Arthur says, finally tearing his eyes away from Merlin, “I don’t care what he does to you, but I do think I’ve been promised a few enlightening pieces of information first.”

“You’re okay with that?” Merlin asks, a hint of shock colouring his tone which, more than anything, proves that he is no longer three seconds away from snapping the man’s neck—or whatever it is he was about to do.

“He threw me into a wall. As long as you don’t wake up the whole castle—”

“I’m not planning to torture him, Arthur.”

Despite himself, despite this whole disaster of a situation, despite the dead man lying only a few feet away from him, Arthur huffs a breath of laughter. “I know that, Merlin.”

Merlin stares at him, his brows furrowed slightly. In the end, he just shakes his head. “A truth spell, Arthur. I’m going to use a truth spell.”

Arthur gestures for him to go ahead, while the man suddenly starts struggling, pleas and threats bubbling out of his throat.

“That’s enough,” Merlin says, and he doesn’t raise his voice, but the man falls quiet all the same. “You can consider yourself lucky if I don’t render you mute afterwards.”

He doesn’t give the man any time to answer, murmuring a low string of words as his eyes turn golden. Waiting a few seconds, Merlin eventually steps forwards, close enough to pull back the hood from the man’s face. Arthur tenses, but the man doesn’t react at all to Merlin’s movement.

“I’ve never seen him before,” Arthur says, frowning at the marred face, the ash-blond hair and blue eyes staring back at him. “Have you?”

“No,” Merlin says, coming to stand beside Arthur again. “But I doubt that whoever is behind this would’ve stopped by for a personal visit, anyway.”

Merlin does have a point, and maybe they will at least be able to get the answer now.

“So—should we question him?” Arthur asks, wanting nothing more than to get this over with.

Merlin hesitates, his fingers tapping against his thigh. “How likely, do you think, is it that your court will take your word for it once this is over and done with?”

Arthur’s jaw clenches as he runs through the facts. He has been attacked by two men wearing Escetir’s colours, in the middle of the night. It had, once again, been Merlin who saved his life. One of the men is dead, and the other will only reveal anything if he is under a truth spell.

He would love to claim that his court trusts him enough, but at least some of the nobles and advisors don’t.

“I’ll get the knights.”

Merlin’s smile is mirthless, but he bumps their shoulders together lightly before Arthur turns away. It’s far more reassuring than it should be.

Chapter Text

Dawn has long since made its way across the horizon when Arthur’s chambers are finally devoid of people again.

The body has been carried out, the second man was moved to the dungeons under heavy guard, and once again, it is only him and Merlin, sitting in front of the fire with a jug of wine between him.

“I can’t believe—,” Arthur starts, but the words are too heavy to make it past his lips, and he merely shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, his voice quiet, even though there is nothing he could have done. Arthur appreciates it all the same.

“You truly must think this whole family rotten; a father who commits genocide, an uncle who aims for his nephew’s throne, and a son—”

“The son has his moments,” Merlin cuts in, taking Arthur’s goblet from him to refill it. “Mind you, he’s a massive prat at the best of times, but out of the whole lot of them, he must’ve got most of his disposition from his mother.”

The laughter tumbling out of Arthur is wet around the edges, but Merlin has the mercy not to mention it.

“Thank you,” Arthur says, staring into the dancing flames. “For—you know. All of it.”

Merlin hums and they lapse into silence as the fire burns steadily in the hearth, the sky outside turning from pastel pink to the pale blue of late November.

“Can I ask you something?” Arthur eventually says, turning his mother’s ring.

Merlin gestures for him to go ahead, making the wine in his goblet slosh dangerously.

Drumming his fingers against his thigh, Arthur searches for the best way to ask. In the end, he decides that straightforward is probably the best approach. “How did your father do it? How did he become king of Escetir in the first place?”

“You don’t know?”

“Let’s just say that my father tended to avoid the topic if he could help it. It applied to me and my education too, I’m afraid.”

Merlin’s posture shifts, a fissure of tension winding through him. “Let’s—I’m going to answer your question, but I know that you have more than this one. I will tell you how my father became king, but the rest—about the contract and the history between our fathers and all the other questions you probably have—I will answer another time.”

Arthur frowns; something about Merlin knowing all this and getting to decide if or when to tell Arthur leaves him uncomfortable. “Why?”

“Because you’ve already been through an assassination attempt and the betrayal from a family member tonight. And while it hasn’t been as bad for me, I’d still rather deal with this after at least ten hours of sleep.”

One part of Arthur wants to protest, wants to hear the full story now. Another is so weighed down with exhaustion and grief, he can’t deny that Merlin has a point.

“Alright,” he says, and the relief carving itself into the lines of Merlin’s face does nothing to lessen Arthur’s urge to know.

“I think I’ve told you that my father had to flee Ealdor before he knew that my mother was pregnant, didn’t I?” Merlin asks, his brows drawing together.

The conversation feels like it happened ages ago, but the guilt is still distinct, hot and heavy in Arthur’s gut. “You said someone intervened, though.”

Merlin’s expression flickers, and he takes a long drag of his wine. “Someone did. As for why, that would fall into the category of things I will tell you another time. I promise I will, soon, just not now.”

Biting down on his tongue, and the protest, Arthur gestures for him to go ahead.

“The Dragonlords were always considered nobility at least, if not royalty in their own stead,” Merlin says, the words slow and deliberate. “My father came from a long, old line, and while Escetir had a king at the time, King Govran’s claim to the throne wasn’t necessarily greater than my father’s. Every son of a Dragonlord inherits his father’s power; in addition, I was also one of those incredibly rare people—lucky or unlucky, depending on your perspective—who has had magic from the day I was born.”

Arthur recalls the sharp burn of understanding, of what it meant that people did not always make what his father had always claimed to be a conscious decision.

“He didn’t want you to grow up in fear,” he says, only putting the pieces together as the words leave his mouth. “That’s why he conquered Escetir.”

“Yes,” Merlin says, inclining his head. It doesn’t hide the bitter smile twisting his features, and, more than ever, Arthur wants to learn the story behind it, but he doesn’t dare ask.

It is a stark reminder of how, for all the familiarity that has been slowly growing between them, there are still a hundred things he does not know about Merlin. They have avoided the topic of their fathers in some sort of silent agreement. It’s not as if Arthur has told Merlin much about Uther either, as if he hasn’t avoided the name on purpose, too.

With the way Merlin is picking each and every one of his words carefully, with all the hints that there is far more to this story than he seems willing to reveal, Arthur wonders for the first time whether their reasons for that avoidance have actually been the same.

Arthur hasn’t brought Uther up for the sake of not making things between them even more difficult, because of the history between Camelot and Escetir, and all that his father had done to Merlin’s kind. More and more, he has the impression that Merlin has skirted around bringing up his own father because there are more secrets tied to Balinor’s name than Arthur can start guessing at.

“Once he knew about me, he left the place where he was hiding and began reaching out to sorcerers—to Druids, the remaining High Priestesses, the Catha up north—anyone who possessed so much as a spark of magic,” Merlin goes on, unaware of the unease prickling at the back of Arthur’s neck. “They were all scattered across the kingdoms, with no real strategy or force to push back against Uther and his allies. Over two years, my father rallied them all, until he finally marched on Escetir and King Govran.”

“And he succeeded.”

“And he succeeded,” Merlin agrees. “King Govran tried to put up a fight, but he had been treating his people horribly, and many of them hoped for a better rule. Fear of magic wasn’t as deep-seated then as it is today in the kingdoms that outlaw it. People still remembered how it was before, remembered how many of their ailments and daily struggles could be eased by magic, and my father did have a claim to the throne—for whatever reason, that detail always seems to matter to people.”

It all sounds improbable. But despite all of Uther’s best efforts, despite all his allies in the crusade against magic—Gwynned, Gawant, Mercia, even Nemeth—one man and one kingdom stood steady through all of it.

“It still took time, of course, but my father made sure that the word was spread, that sorcerers in Camelot and its allied kingdoms knew that there was a place where they could find refuge,” Merlin says, and his shoulders are tense as if he feels the unrelenting responsibility of preserving that safety in every muscle. “Over the following years, many of those who disagreed with him left Escetir. In turn, others who would’ve been persecuted in their homeland immigrated. It balanced itself out, more or less. Of course, it helped that both my parents are just rulers, for the most part.”

“For the most part?” Arthur asks, and he knows he shouldn’t, but the question slips out unbidden.

Merlin merely smiles at him, and Arthur finds the same wariness, the same weight that he can feel all along his spine always, mirrored back at him. “Again, a part of the story I will tell you another time. We should sleep.”

Taking a sip of his wine to hide the irritation that wants to crawl up his throat, Arthur runs over everything that Merlin has told him. It’s not that it doesn’t make sense, except—

Except for the part where Merlin told it like the story of a man who wanted to push back against Uther, while, in reality, almost lost in the half-sentence Merlin tucked in somewhere, it had been for Merlin’s sake. Maybe Arthur simply lacks the experience but why, why would one man go to all this effort? Why conquer a whole kingdom for a child?

“I’ll hold you to it,” he says, and he thinks he successfully keeps the bite out of his words, but Merlin still tenses. “If you want to, I mean. You don’t have to—”

“I have to,” Merlin cuts in, exhaustion and wariness thick in his voice. “Goodnight, Arthur.”

Arthur watches him go, the emotions warring within his chest ruling out any hope for sleep.

While Arthur had sent out knights to Agravaine’s residence, as well as to the other du Bois estates that could be used as a hide-out, each and every patrol returned without him.

“I’m sorry, sire,” Leon says when he reports back in Arthur’s chambers. While some of the other knights seem worried about Arthur’s reaction, Leon just looks apologetic. “He was not in Tintagel either, but it did look like someone had been there recently.”

Arthur’s heart trips over the fury that washes through him. Tintagel. Of all the places, Agravaine dared to set foot onto his mother’s favourite estate, the place where Arthur was born. Where she died.

“If he fled, he must have realised that his men were caught,” Arthur says, his hand clenching around the armrest of his chair. “Not that it tells us much, either way. They could’ve had an agreed-upon signal that failed to show, although I doubt that he would have guessed that we used a truth spell and discovered his involvement.”

“He might just be cautious, sire,” Leon says, and Arthur sighs.

“Yes, I know. This is leading nowhere.”

“Maybe the trial next week will draw him out?”

“I don’t think a man willing to murder his nephew, commit regicide, and start a war all in one swift move cares all that much about loyalty to his men,” Arthur says, and above everything, he wishes this wouldn’t still hurt so much.  

Leon’s face twists in distaste, as much a reaction as he allows himself. “We’ll keep looking.”

“Of course,” Arthur says, but if he is being honest, he doesn’t have much hope that they will find him anytime soon.

The only border that might give Agravaine trouble is the one into Escetir, but most of the estates belonging to that part of Arthur’s family lie south or west to Camelot’s citadel. No one in Nemeth or Gawant or Gwynned would question it if Agravaine was seen crossing the border—if they even recognised him at all.

“Arthur,” Leon says, his expression determined, “we will find him.”

“Thank you, Leon.”

Arthur would love to claim that it isn’t the simmering frustration over it all that brings him to Merlin’s chambers hours later, night already blanketing the castle into silence, but he has little other reason to be here.

“Arthur, I didn’t expect to see you tonight,” Merlin says the moment he opens the door, surprise colouring his tone.

Arthur forces a smile. “Can I come in?”

Merlin steps aside, revealing the dimly lit chambers behind himself. He’s wearing soft-looking breaches and a simple white tunic that looks well-worn and a little too large on him, and he’s missing the usual neckerchief.

It’s distracting, and this fact only fuels Arthur’s irritation further.

“Come on, I have some wine here,” Merlin says, plopping down on one of the furs by the fire where Aithusa is curled up.

Arthur sits down stiffly and accepts the goblet Merlin offers him, but he doesn’t drink. “You’re set to return to Escetir in a week.”

A faint frown forms between Merlin’s brows. “Yes.”

“Well, have you come to a decision yet? Regarding the contract?”

Merlin shifts, his posture straightening. “I’m not sure.”

“Of course not.”

“Arthur—”

“No, it’s fine,” Arthur says, the words spilling forth now that he has started to let them go. “Honestly, I’m not sure either, especially considering that there are still a whole lot of things you haven’t told me. Which, you know, you might have got around to if you didn’t spend half your time with Morgana, but—”

“Arthur,” Merlin snaps, his shoulders going rigid. Aithusa makes a sound of displeasure at the sudden movement, and Merlin pulls her closer to him, the gentleness with which he does it at odds with the growing anger on his face.

Whether the gesture to get her further away from Arthur is instinctual or not, it still stings. Arthur ignores it.

“I think you should go to bed,” Merlin says, his voice deliberately even. “I think you’re in a horrible mood, and if I—”

“Will you finally stop stalling?” Arthur spits out, his hands clenching into fists. “I don’t know if it has occurred to you, but I’m just as much stuck with you as you are with me. Unlike you, though, I have no idea why we’re in this wonderful situation to begin with. So don’t tell me what to do and just tell me.”

A muscle in Merlin’s jaw jumps, and Arthur wants to keep prodding, wants to twist his way beneath Merlin’s skin until all that ironclad restraint splinters apart.

“Suddenly afraid of the truth, Merlin? I didn’t take you for that much of a coward,” Arthur taunts, the insult slipping off his tongue like poison.  

“My father was friends with your mother,” Merlin says, the words sounding as if they are being forced out of his throat. “It’s why he had the position at court. It’s why he thought your father would not betray him, even after everything; that Uther would honour your mother’s memory if nothing else. Then again, he really should’ve known better by then.”

“How dare you—”

“Your mother loved magic,” Merlin goes on, speaking over him with flashing eyes. “She especially loved dragons, and she regularly accompanied my father when he met with the dragons he was bonded to, convincing him to take her along on flights. Your father always resented it, but she didn’t care.”

“You know nothing about my mother,” Arthur says, but where he means for it to come out sharp, all his voice does is tremble and crack.

“Magic didn’t kill her either, at least not in the way you believe it to be true,” Merlin says, his voice growing harsh and unrelenting. “Your mother couldn’t conceive, but your father wanted an heir. So he struck a bargain with a High Priestess—a life for a life.”

“No.”

“As far as anyone can tell, Uther simply did not expect that life to be your mother’s. Or his own, I would assume, but that’s neither here nor there. The Old Religion took what it was promised, and Uther swore his vengeance because it wasn’t a price—,” Merlin breaks off, but Arthur can hear what he was about to say all the same.

His mother wasn’t a price Uther had been willing to pay, and distantly, Arthur thinks that this should be the most shocking part, that this should be what he didn’t already know, out of this whole mess.

The pity etching itself into Merlin’s expression is still unbearable though, and Arthur sneers. “Yes, we can’t all have a happy family made of dragons and magic. Will you just get to the damn point, or do you want me to hold your hand while you tell me a little bit more of your life story?”

Anything that isn’t cold resentment flees Merlin’s face, and he sounds as vicious as Arthur feels when he says, “Your father couldn’t handle the guilt and so he blamed magic. Of course, his purge was doomed from the start—magic cannot be eradicated. It merely found another place to go. Namely, me—magic itself, the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the earth, or so they say.”

“How humble of you,” Arthur says around a snort, and he knows he should stop. He should stop taking all this mounting grief out on Merlin, but it’s pouring out of him as if a dam has broken, racing across his skin and burning on his tongue. He fears that if it doesn’t find a target, it will eat him whole.

“Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head, you’ve got a pompous title all of your own,” Merlin scoffs, his lips curling with disdain. “Once and Future King, they call you. Together, we are destined to unite Albion, to return magic and peace to the land—a prophecy as old as time itself.”

Everything goes curiously numb; the crackling of the fire fades away, as does the prickling sensation beneath Arthur’s skin. The chill of the chambers seems to draw back, and Arthur no longer feels the sting of nails buried into his palms.

There is only Merlin across from him, his face a masquerade of scorn and bitterness, and words that won’t stop coming.

“It’s what the Druids told my father when they informed him of my mother’s pregnancy. It’s what I’ve heard whispered all around me since I could understand it. My purpose—to stand with the son of the tyrant who has hunted my people as if it were a sport.”

Somewhere, deep beneath the firestorm ravaging through Arthur, the words prod at the part of him that, despite everything, has grown to like Merlin, the part that keeps shouting at him to stop this, that he’s tearing something to shreds that he will miss once it’s gone. He knows what it is like to have a whole kingdom resting on your shoulders as soon as you can walk; he can’t imagine the weight of all of Albion.

He swallows, taking care to keep the accusation out of his voice when he asks, “Is that why your father was so set on the contract? To ensure the prophecy?”

“No,” Merlin says immediately, and he still sounds furious, his tone sharp. “My father’s main objective was to stop the purge, first and foremost. He always told me that prophecies were fickle things, that a joint destiny doesn’t mean servitude.” Merlin’s eyes turn even more defiant, every ounce of stubborn pride he possesses shining back at Arthur. “He also had many thoughts on your father’s manner of raising you. So no, the prophecy alone was not the reason for the contract.”

“Then what?” Arthur snaps, the little self-restraint he has scrambled together vanishing at Merlin’s disregard.

“He was certain that Uther would break the contract.”

“I—but—it could’ve killed me.”

“And my father could’ve saved you,” Merlin says as if it doesn’t matter, as if it is that simple. “He could have got you out of Camelot, raised you in Escetir—away from the man who killed one of his closest friends, committed genocide, saw you as a means to an end, and indoctrinated you from the moment you could walk.”

“That’s—” Arthur starts, but he can’t go on, can’t do anything but shake his head and stare at Merlin in horror.

The necklace Merlin gave him feels warm against his throat, and it is impossible to merge the memory of Merlin, soft and rambling, with the man across from him, merciless and callous, as he recounts King Balinor’s schemes.

“Oh,” Arthur breathes, something slipping into place that has ice trickling down his spine. “That’s why you kept mentioning her. Her garden. The necklace. You—”

“No,” Merlin says, his eyes widening. His posture shifts into something more familiar, more like the man Arthur thought he was getting to know. “Arthur, that’s not—”

“I’ve been such a fool,” Arthur laughs, the sound bordering on hysterical. He scrambles to his feet, his heart thundering against the constraints of his ribs, and he has never wanted to get away from someone so badly. “You’re just keeping up his good work, aren’t you? Showing me how very harmless magic is, using my mother to—”

“Arthur, no,” Merlin repeats, jumping to his feet. He takes a step towards Arthur, hand raised, but he stops in his tracks when Arthur flinches. “Gods, I knew that I shouldn’t have told you like this. Why do you—you make me so angry, I can’t—I never once said that I agreed with his methods, did I? It left me with an arranged marriage too, after all, and I also—,”

“Yes, you’ve made quite clear what you think of that. Bit of a sticky situation for you there, wasn’t it?” Arthur sneers, his whole body trembling. “So, you just thought, as long as I liked you enough to leave your kingdom in peace, you could avoid all of it, didn’t you? Get out of the marriage and change my mind about my father’s beliefs along the way—you just had to drag out the breaking of the contract for long enough to be sure that you accomplished both. Tell me, did you come up with that yourself or was that your father’s alternative when my father didn’t follow his fantastic plan?”

Merlin winces, and Arthur laughs again, the room spinning around him.

“Well, congratulations, you almost succeeded. You only messed up when you decided to be honest, for once.”

“Arthur—”

“You should leave,” Arthur says, startling himself with the words. Taking a deep breath, the decision settles around his shoulders. “In two days’ time. I want you gone—two days, no more. We’ll draw up a peace treaty, to keep things as they were. We’ll break the marriage contract—”

“No.”

Merlin’s chin is tilted up, his eyes blazing, and Arthur’s fingers itch for the hilt of his sword.

“What do you mean, no?”

“You heard me; I won’t break the contract. You believe the worst of me, so I will do the same. I don’t trust a drawn-up treaty in place of a magically binding contract. Not like this.”

Arthur grits his teeth, and he contemplates pushing it. Ultimately, he wants Merlin gone more than anything else, though. “And if the peace treaty was magically binding?”

The briefest of surprise flashes across Merlin’s face before it goes hard again. “That would take far longer than two days.”

“Fine,” Arthur hisses, turning towards the door. “The contract stays. You leave the day after tomorrow, and we’ll come up with something to replace it eventually.”

“Fine,” Merlin spits, and Arthur slams the door with enough force to wake half the castle.

Arthur passed out sometime in the early hours of the morning after too much wine, and his head pounds like a war drum when he wakes up around noon.

Unfortunately, the memories of last night are crisp and sharp, as is the dread washing over him when he recalls what Merlin has told him.

He shouldn’t have gone to Merlin’s chambers last night in the first place, but everything Merlin had said is also still curdling like poison in his blood, a mixture of anger and hurt that makes breathing almost impossible.

It is a small blessing that no one has come to wake him yet, and he stays in bed for a little longer, letting the evening replay in his mind over and over.

He doesn’t want to leave things between them like this, but he wants to see Merlin even less. It’s for the best, he tells himself; a peace treaty has always been the best possible outcome for this whole disaster.

Merlin will return to Escetir, and they may have to meet once more to finish the treaty and sign it. After that, though, nothing else speaks against continuing the frigid state of mutual ignorance Camelot and Escetir have fostered for more than a decade, and Arthur can start forgetting all about what Merlin had flung at him last night.

If any of it was even true; he should try asking Gaius about it once the Escetirian delegation has left.

Finally peeling himself out of bed, Arthur gets dressed and calls for breakfast, carefully pushing the raging war of his thoughts into a box at the back of his mind.

Somewhat against expectations, he does not once see Merlin throughout the day. The fact that the Escetirian delegation is leaving early is all over the castle, but as Merlin has apparently claimed political matters at home as the reason, no one seems unsettled by the news.

This is a testament to how well they have enacted their ruse over the last few weeks, and by the end of the day, both Arthur’s jaw and his hands ache from how tightly he has kept them clenched through the last few hours.

A knock on his door makes him tense in his chair, and he briefly contemplates ignoring it. The chances of Merlin standing on the other side are slim—Arthur doubts that now would be the time he remembers the concept of knocking—but there also isn’t anyone else Arthur particularly wants to talk to.

It might be related to the departure, though, and after taking a measured breath, he calls for whoever it is to enter.

Morgana slips into the room, graceful as always, but she hovers by the door.

“Morgana, sit down. What is it?”

Uncertainty is written all over her face, but she settles into the chair across from him, chin tilted up. “I’m going to tell you something, and I need you not to take it the wrong way.”

“Morgana—”

“It’s important,” she speaks over him, her eyes hard. “It’s important to me, Arthur, and I can’t explain why, not now but it’s—please just hear me out, alright?”

Gesturing for her to go on, he tries to come up with a reason that would bring her here like this, but he can’t think of a single one.

“I’m going to go back to Escetir with Merlin and the others. Gwen will come with me, of course—”

“You can’t go to Escetir,” Arthur says, shock coursing through him. “What—why would you even consider that?”

“I’m not asking you for permission,” Morgana says acidly, before visibly reining herself in. “I mean, I’m not. But I do hope you will agree.”

“Is this because of—”

“No.”

“You don’t even know—”

“It’s not. I can promise you it’s not.”

“Will you just—you and Merlin—”

“Oh, for the goddess’ sake, Arthur!” Morgana snaps, her eyes flashing. “It’s not because of Merlin. There’s nothing going on between me and Merlin.”

“Well, maybe there should be,” he throws back, his own temper flaring. Of course, this would be Merlin’s fault.  

Morgana goes still across from him, and her hands are curled around the armrest of her chair so tightly, her knuckles are going white. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Yes, actually, maybe you should marry him,” Arthur goes on. He’s digging his own grave and he knows it, but he just can’t seem to stop, something hot and ugly twisting in his stomach. “It would certainly secure peace, and he likes you far more than me anyway.”

“Don’t be stupid, he doesn’t—”

“And you like him far more than I do, too. You spent half your time around him anyway.”

“Arthur,” she says, her tone taking on an edge that usually presages serious anger. “You’re talking nonsense.”

Unfortunately, though, Arthur seems to have lost the few shreds of self-preservation he possessed because he keeps talking. “I see you together constantly, and I don’t think he has ever insulted you. Just earlier, I heard—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Arthur! He’s not courting me; he’s showing me how to control my magic!”

The sudden silence is so absolute, it’s ringing in Arthur’s ears. Shock is draining all the colour from Morgana’s face, and she’s leaning away from him as if expecting a blow.

It is that, more than anything, that finally penetrates the thick fog of resentment that he has been carrying around all day. He rubs a hand across his face before meeting Morgana’s eyes again. “How long?”

“I’m not—I didn’t learn it on purpose.”

“No, I know,” Arthur says, shaking his head. “I meant, for how long have you known?”

Morgana sighs, toying with the silver bracelet on her wrist. “For certain? Only for a few months. I’ve suspected for longer, though. My dreams aren’t nightmares; they’re visions of the future. I didn’t want it to be true, especially when Uther was still alive, but once I had set my curtains on fire, it was rather hard to deny.”

Swallowing, Arthur tries to imagine the fear she must have felt, magic growing beneath her skin right under Uther’s eyes. “You could’ve told me.”

“Arthur…”

“No, I’m not—I understand why you didn’t. But do you really think I would draw up a ten-page exemption for Escetir’s prince from the laws of magic in this kingdom, and not do the same for you?”

Morgana huffs a laugh, and it is somehow both relieved and contemptuous. “I don’t want to be an exception, Arthur. I knew that you wouldn’t kill me, or even banish me. I know you haven’t prosecuted the laws since you’ve become king.”

“Then what?” he asks helplessly, and he wants nothing more than an easy solution, wants nothing more than for everything around him to stop spiralling out of his control.

“I don’t know,” she says around a sigh, and she looks tired in the dim candlelight. “Maybe I just hoped you would get there by yourself.”

Arthur’s eyes flicker to the locked drawer of his desk, and his mind jumps to a jumble of painful memories of a garden in his chambers, a necklace stuffed into the back of his wardrobe. Of the whole of Albion breathing and vibrating around him.

“I was. I am.”

“And that’s why Merlin is leaving early, is it?”

The mere name causes irritation to spike through Arthur’s gut, and he takes a slow breath. “This has nothing to do with Merlin.”

She huffs, exasperation settling over her features. He’ll take it over her exhausted despondency any day, but he would still prefer it if she dropped the topic of Merlin.

“Whatever happened between you two, you’re both being stupid,” she says, because she has never once in their lives made things easy for him. “You clearly like him, and he likes you—”

“Merlin doesn’t like me. He just wanted to change my mind—”

“Gods, Arthur, can you blame him?”

“It’s not the same as it is for you; he lives in a kingdom where he’s free—”

“Yes, and that he and his people can only leave without facing the threat of execution—or needing a ten-page contract—if he goes east or south,” Morgana scoffs, shaking her head. “Two whole kingdoms in addition to Escetir.”

Arthur would love to argue further, but despite his own feelings about Merlin, in the end, she is still right. He presses his fingers to his temples and says, “Things will change, I promise they will. But it needs time, you know that. I can’t just…”

“Yeah, I know,” she says softly, her lips quirking up into a smile. “I still need to go, though. I need to learn, and to understand, and also to make sure that all those old, dusty councillors don’t accuse you of changing the laws solely for my sake because I set one of them on fire.”

Arthur laughs, but his heart aches at the prospect of seeing her go. “Is that what you two…?”

“Yes, Arthur,” she says, rolling her eyes. “No need to be jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“I’m sure. As I’m sure that Merlin’s early departure is entirely due to matters of court at home that his mother suddenly cannot handle on her own, and not because you’re both idiots.” The pang resonating through him must show on his face because she softens her smile once more. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. And I’ll be back, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

Morgana steps around the desk to squeeze his shoulder for long, lingering moments before she sweeps out of his chambers in a whisper of silk, head held high.

Arthur stares at the closed door until the fire has burnt low, and his body aches from his unmoving position.

The parting of Escetir’s delegation is formal and stilted. Arthur is acutely aware of all the eyes on them, of how Merlin doesn’t meet his gaze, the hard line to Merlin’s mouth as he bows to Arthur.

“Until soon,” Arthur says, and the words taste ashen on his tongue. It is absurd, he thinks, that only a few days ago they were walking the halls of the castle together and stopping assassination attempts, and now the prince across from him couldn’t feel more like a stranger, like someone he has never known.

“Until soon,” Merlin echoes, finally meeting Arthur’s eyes. If it wasn’t such a ridiculous notion, Arthur would say that there is a hint of hurt buried beneath the coldness, but he pushes the thought away.

Down that road lies madness, and he’s not going to be played twice.

He hugs Morgana, tells her for the umpteenth time to write if she needs anything which earns him a slap to the arm, and then watches as the group rides out of the courtyard.

Morgana and Merlin are taking the lead, pale November sunlight glinting off their black hair, and something twists within Arthur’s chest. Gwaine and Lancelot are flanking them, with Guinevere and Elyan riding side by side behind them, with Iseldir and Finna bringing up the rear.

Something about the whole picture shakes Arthur down to his very bones, but he refuses to acknowledge it.

Turning on his heels, he raises his voice. “Well, come on then. Knight training isn’t going to hold itself.”

It will be fine. With a little time and distance, these things usually are.

Chapter Text

The first two weeks after Morgana and Merlin have left for Escetir pass quickly enough.

There are more than enough courtly matters Arthur has to catch up on, and whenever his councillors and paperwork don’t keep him busy, he throws himself into training with the knights or on his own.

Winter crawls across the land though, and with it, life in Camelot slows down.

It has always been the season Arthur liked least; the weather restricting him to the castle, the cold stone and long nights, and the inevitable approach of his birthday.

There were always celebrations, of course, but the kingdom never forgot that it was also the day his mother had died, least of all Arthur.

It is worse this year, with Merlin’s words still echoing at the back of his mind, no matter how fervently Arthur tries to ignore them.

His father always had a way of insinuating that his mother’s death was at least partly Arthur’s fault. Uther had always justified his atrocities against magic by how it had taken Ygraine from him.

But if Merlin is to be believed—and Arthur wants to doubt him, he does, but he can’t seem to bring himself to do so—it was Uther’s hubris, his dismissal for anyone he didn’t hold dear that cost his mother’s life.

More than that: your mother loved magic.

Arthur has spent so many nights of his life trying to imagine what it would have been like to grow up with her there. If she would have hugged him, told him stories, praised him when he was doing well. Now, he also wonders if she would have told him about magic, about why she loved it and the good it could do, if she might have taken him along to riding dragons regardless of what his father would have had to say about it. What it would have been like, with someone on his side not afraid to stand up to his father.

He also wonders what it would have been like to meet Merlin under different circumstances, not as princes of rival kingdoms but growing up in the same court, with magic at every corner and dragons soaring through the sky. What it could have been like without all that animosity and distrust between them, if Merlin would have shown him how to defend against magic, could have explained to Morgana what was happening to her, and if they might have been friends, then, inseparable.

It’s an absurd fantasy, one made for children not kings, but Arthur finds himself returning to it, again and again. What if, what if, what if resonating through his skull night after night.

If he also misses the nights holed up in his chambers, the endless talks and the way Merlin seemed to understand him, if he misses Aithusa nestling close to him, and the comforting weight of a dragon’s tooth against his throat, the sensation of magic dancing across his skin—well… That, at least, is easy to handle, if only he reminds himself often enough that none of it had been real.

Darkness has long since settled over the training field, but the full moon hangs low in the sky, offering just enough light for Arthur to demolish practice dummy after practice dummy.

He has not been at it for long, the council session droning on endlessly today despite a lack of actual topics, and he frowns when his breath grows shorter and shorter. He is used to winter affecting his endurance at least a little, but it doesn’t usually happen this early on.

Deciding to take a break, he downs half of his waterskin, only to be overcome by a coughing fit that shakes his whole body. When he pulls his hand away from his mouth, a single deep red flower petal is lying in his gloved palm.

Arthur stares down at it, then glances around himself, at the deserted grounds and the illuminated windows of the castle and the lower town alike. It hasn’t snowed yet, but the temperatures have been low enough that there should be no more flowers around—certainly not enough for petals to end up in his waterskin, looking as pristine and flawless as this one.

A sense of unease that he can’t quite explain prickles across his skin, but he shakes it off. Dropping the petal, he decides to call it a night and makes his way back to his chambers.

When the first letter from Morgana arrives, Arthur is almost reluctant to open it. He doesn’t know what to expect, doesn’t know if he wants to hear anything about Escetir at all—if it won’t worsen the feeling of someone reaching into his chest to close their fist around his heart.

He wants to know how Morgana is doing though, so eventually, he takes the sealed envelope and climbs the steps to the South Tower. It has been a while since he was up here, and he frowns at the stinging ache within his chest when he reaches the top of the stairs.

It is where his mother’s workroom used to be, something he had only found out by chance when a servant let it drop on accident. Arthur had been fourteen summers old then, and hesitated for three long days and nights before finally coming up here.

He had found a room stripped down to its bones, only the barest necessities of furniture remaining under heavy covers. Morgana had found him, hours later. When she didn’t get a reaction out of him, she’d sat down on the floor beside him, staring out of the window without saying a word. He didn’t tell her what had brought him here, but somehow, she’d known all the same.

Settling into the very same spot now, Arthur leans back against the wall beside the dusty window. It’s already getting dark again, frail orange light spilling across the miniature streets far beneath him. None of the noise that a busy castle tends to make is tripping up the winding staircase.

Finally opening the letter, Arthur tries to steel himself for whatever he is about to read.

It is no longer than a page; Morgana has never been one for many words, always packing her punches precisely. It makes him smile.

She talks only briefly about Escetir as a whole. The main city of Kallis lies deep in the forest of Merendra, which is also about as much as Arthur knows about it. Morgana describes it as more of a fortress than Camelot is, with magic brimming in every corner, from the markets to the organisation of the town, right into the heart of the citadel.

Apparently, alongside knight training, there is sorcerer training, too. He skips the part where she talks of Merlin’s skills at magic and leading his men alike.

She is getting taught by people to control her dreams and her magic. She writes that she can’t remember the last time she has slept this well.

Arthur misses her like he would miss one of his limbs, and he soaks up the words, getting so drawn in that he doesn’t skim ahead for mentions of Merlin in order to avoid them. It’s how he ends up reading the last line, still smiling to himself.

Merlin talks a lot about you. To be fair, mostly to his mother and sometimes to a dragon, and generally not with the intention of me overhearing whatever is said, but I’ve heard your name more than once. It’s going to be alright, Arthur.

The pain shooting through his chest is so sharp, it robs the air out of his lungs, and the next second, he is doubled over, coughing.

Once it finally stops and he has rubbed the tears out of his eyes, he stares down at several flower petals lying between his bent legs. They are the only colour in the dreary room except for his tunic, matching the red of it. There are enough of them to tell which flower they come from—zinnias. Spring flowers.

The taste on Arthur’s tongue is a mixture of tangerine sweet and bitter, as if to mercilessly demolish any last shred of plausible deniability about where the petals came from.

Getting up, Arthur makes his way back down the stairs. On the way, he crushes the petals in his fist and drops them out of one of the arrow slits.

The council had not been happy with Morgana’s decision to go to Escetir, although they made sure to keep any objections to themselves until after the delegation had left.

Considering that Arthur could hardly tell them the truth, he made up something about how it was a sign of trust, as well as an opportunity to get more insight into the workings of Escetir’s court. A chance to make sure that Escetir was genuine about the eventual marriage.

He didn’t mind the first lie all that much—he would do anything to protect Morgana. The second one, though, had slipped off his tongue as if by itself. He simply couldn’t bring himself to lay out the reasons for why there would be a peace treaty instead of a marriage, but he couldn’t think of a suitable excuse, either.

It should have been easy. The majority of the council would have preferred it and most likely not even asked too many questions. Arthur had still lied, and the only silver lining is that the negotiations for the treaty won’t start until spring. It should be enough time to come up with an explanation that does not include baring his heart.

He relates at least some of the contents from Morgana’s letter to the council the next day, but they move on quickly enough to the state of the storerooms, the outer villages, and plans for the Yuletide celebrations.

When the discussion turns to Arthur’s birthday, he rises from his chair. “I’m sorry, my Lords, but I’m not feeling quite well—the weather, I’m sure. We’ll talk about that matter next week.”

Most of them nod in sympathy. Most of them are old enough to actually feel the weather.

Arthur barely makes it out of the council chambers and into a partly shielded alcove before he is coughing again.

Yellow and pink petals, this time. Daffodils and irises.

It’s the latter that does it, pieces clicking into place that he must have ignored until now because that is what he has been doing—ignoring it, all of it.

He waits until the voices of councillors and knights fade away, and then makes his way up to Gaius’s workshop.

“Sire, I’m not sure—"

“He cursed me. I’m coughing up flowers, Gaius—what other possible explanation is there?”

“Well, there is—”

“He was mad at me, it’s exactly something he would do. Infuriating, obnoxious, goddamned sorcerer that he is probably finds it funny to—”

“Arthur!”

The sharpness of Gaius’ voice halts him in his tracks, and honestly, that eyebrow shouldn’t still have such an effect on him. He is the king, for the goddess’ sake.

Gaius exhales a long breath and turns the book he has been looking at between them so that Arthur can see the drawing of a lung, flowers growing within it. The mere picture worsens the ache in his chest.

“It’s not a curse, my Lord. Not in the way you’re thinking of, and certainly not one Merlin would put on you—or anyone—for fun.”

“You sound surprisingly certain of that, considering you barely know him.”

The eyebrow arches up another inch. “He is my nephew, my Lord. I assumed you knew.”

Arthur almost struggles to make sense of it through the fury that is still clouding his mind. “He’s your—you are—”

“Queen Hunith’s older brother, yes,” Gaius says dryly.

“I didn’t know,” Arthur says, and he winces at the note of accusation that slips into his voice. It shouldn’t matter, except—except for how it feels like he should have known. At least Merlin could have told him, and that he didn’t is yet another stark reminder of how little Arthur actually knows about him.

“It isn’t something many people in Camelot know,” Gaius says, and he shifts in his chair with obvious discomfort. “Associations with Escetir weren’t always well-received in this court.”

Of course. His father would have never looked upon this kindly, and it occurs to Arthur how far he has moved away from what his father did and didn’t tolerate.

He closes his eyes and sighs, the air scraping against his throat. “Alright. So if Merlin hasn’t cursed me—which I am still not entirely convinced of—then what is happening to me? I don’t think coughing up flowers is some kind of everyday sickness that people just get over the course of their life.”

“No, Arthur, it’s not,” Gaius says, and he is looking at Arthur with something awfully close to pity.

“Then what…?”

“What you’re suffering from is called Hanahaki. It’s a rare disease, not transmitted or inflicted by anyone else but the patient themselves.”

“But I didn’t—”

“Not voluntarily, no,” Gaius agrees, his smile pained. “Hanahaki emerges in people who have developed deep feelings for someone who they assume to not return them.”

Arthur’s stomach drops, the world grinding to a halt around him.

“I’m—but—but I’m not in love with Merlin.”

“I didn’t say it was Merlin, my Lord. Although I do assume it answers that question.”

Heat creeps across Arthur’s cheeks, and he feels like he is once again ten summers old and has just been pushed into the mud in front of all the knights.

“I’m not—I’ve only known him for two months!”

“That is indeed rather odd,” Gaius agrees, his brows furrowing. “On top of that, this particular disease usually occurs only in people who possess magic.”

Arthur has been coughing up flowers for days. He said goodbye to Morgana, who has magic, has been confronted with a destiny he doesn’t want and kicked Merlin out of Camelot. He has learnt the supposed truth about his mother’s death and has just been told that, apparently, he is so deeply in love with someone who hates him that it’s causing flowers to grow in his lungs. He might have received extensive tutoring in diplomacy, but even he has his limits.

“Might that have something to do with how I was born from magic?” he drawls, leaning back in his chair with an ease he doesn’t feel.

Gaius goes white as a sheet. “Arthur…”

“Merlin didn’t tell you what we fought about.”

Gaius obviously struggles to meet his eyes, but he does so, all the same. “I didn’t know you fought. I assumed, of course, but…”

The reaction is already more than confirmation enough, but Arthur still needs to—to hear it, maybe, from someone who doesn’t tolerate him barely, half the time.

“So, it’s true?” he asks, his voice unsteady. “My father wanted an heir, and he made a deal with the Old Religion?”

“Your Majesty…”

“Gaius, please,” Arthur begs. The last time he begged Gaius for anything, it was to save his father’s life. It feels like decades have passed since then. “Is it true? That it was his fault, not mine? That all his hatred, all his thirst for vengeance, all the horrors he has rained down upon these people—it has all been because of his guilt, hasn’t it?”

Arthur hasn’t allowed himself to go there since Merlin told him, not really. As he speaks, he finds that he doesn’t need an answer from Gaius. It sounds exactly like Uther.

“Yes,” Gaius says anyway, the word little more than a sigh. “We all warned him, of course. The Old Religion is fickle at the best of times, but…”

“But he didn’t listen. He didn’t listen, and then he didn’t want to pay the price that was taken from him, didn’t think the exchange was worth it,” Arthur says, and the words sound hollow and distant, as if coming from somewhere far away from him.

“Arthur, your father—”

“No,” Arthur interrupts, his voice harsher than he intended. He fights for control of himself, his head spinning, and he only speaks again when he is certain that he won’t unload his anger at yet another guiltless person’s feet. “Don’t try to excuse his actions; I have done that myself for all my life and look where it left me. I understand the grief of losing her, I do, but I still never had the urge to kill countless innocents over it. And I may have never known her, and if she had lived, I wouldn’t be here, but I still miss her every day, and she didn’t deserve any of this. Not to be the casualty of a miscalculated bargain, nor the legacy he created in her name.”

“She didn’t,” Gaius says after a long pause, his head bowed. “But Arthur, you do have to know—she never looked as happy as in the few moments that she got to hold you. When she understood what was going to happen to her, she said that she would do it a hundred times over, and then made Balinor and me promise that we would protect you. She loved you, Arthur, more than anything.”

Arthur’s eyes are burning, and the throbbing knot in his throat is nothing but grief.

“Thank you,” he forces himself to say, keeping his eyes fixed on his hands. “What—how can it be cured? The disease?”

He is met with silence, and when he finally looks up, he finds Gaius staring back at him with the same grief etched deep into the lines of his face. “There are only two ways.”

“Anything.”

“One would be for the… beloved person to return the feelings,” Gaius goes on, only a slight stumble in his words. “The other would require magic—to erase all memories you have of the person your affections are for.”

Arthur swallows several times, but his throat doesn’t stop burning, his chest doesn’t stop aching, and there is dramatic irony in here somewhere.

“And if neither of those is an option?” he asks, but he thinks that he might already know.

Gaius hesitates, but he must see something on Arthur’s face, or he has simply been a physician for too long, has delivered too many damning diagnoses to falter now. “If neither of those is an option, the disease will grow steadily worse. The flowers will grow roots around your lungs, and eventually, you will die.”

There is the irony, then. Uther Pendragon’s son, killed by a magical disease, meant for magical people, because apparently, he went and fell in love with magic itself.

“Alright,” he says, rising from the bench.

“Arthur—”

“No. I—I will talk to you in a few days. Thank you for your help.”

Gaius doesn’t say another word as Arthur leaves the chambers.

His first impulse is to write to Morgana. To write it all down somewhere, to make sense of it, to wrap his head around how—

He doesn’t. He knows what she would say, knows what Gaius had been about to say, will say, the next time Arthur speaks to him. That he should tell Merlin, that there is a chance, that—

Arthur doesn’t know what to think of any of this. Maybe, underneath all his anger and his annoyance and the strange tension permeating the air between them, he knew that he was coming to like Merlin.

He liked the fierce confidence with which Merlin carried himself, with which he was ready to protect his people. He liked how Merlin stood up to him, again and again, never giving an inch. He liked, too, how Merlin, carefully and piece by piece, peeled away the layers Arthur so meticulously kept wrapped around himself; how Merlin coaxed admissions out about his mother, about his dreams for his kingdom. He treasured how Merlin had made gifts out of those admissions, had grown a garden in his chambers, and showed Arthur what the land he was destined to rule felt like. He liked Merlin’s laughter and his kindness and the small smile that used to curl up his lips when Arthur did something he didn’t expect.

Alright, maybe Arthur can see it now, all the little scraps of evidence that he had so carefully tucked away somewhere where he could ignore them. He still thinks that this is a rather cruel punishment, all things considered.

He doesn’t write to Morgana. He knows what she would say, but more importantly, he knows what she would do. The moment he refuses to speak to Merlin, she would come home, would try to convince and protect him in equal measures, would give up all the opportunities and the happiness she had just begun to carve out for herself. He is not going to do that to her.

If he thought that there was the slightest chance that telling Merlin might change anything, he would. Maybe. But there isn’t, and Arthur has never made a habit out of lying to himself, of expecting other people to solve his issues, no matter how angry he is with them still.

With that option eliminated, there isn’t much else left to do.

Arthur likes to believe that he would have at least considered removing his memories of Merlin if it was a possibility, no matter how a part of himself baulks at the mere idea of it. Unfortunately, it would be rather difficult to deal with a neighbouring kingdom whose soon-to-be monarch he can’t remember.

Which leaves him with the stark, undeniable truth Gaius had delivered with wet eyes and a steady voice.

Arthur is going to die. He always thought it would be something a little more heroic than heartbreak.

A few days later, he wakes to blue petals on his pillow. Forget-me-nots. The smile creeping across his face feels jagged and raw, but he merely scoops up the flowers and drops them into the fireplace.

Gaius didn’t say how long this ordeal would last for, but Arthur can tell that this isn’t so much a matter of years as it is of months—and not many of those, either. It has been less than two weeks, and already the flowers come more frequently, the ache in his chest growing constant instead of only flaring up now and then. He doesn’t think about it, not in any way that confronts the end of it. Not beyond what he has to take care of before it happens.

The most pressing matter is the one of succession. He cannot leave Camelot without someone he trusts in charge, even less so with Agravaine still on the loose. The death of the just-crowned king would offer ample opportunity for anyone who means Camelot harm.

There is no doubt within his mind when he writes the royal order, when he presses his seal to the bottom of it. Morgana’s name stands stark against the parchment, and no matter how certain he is about this, he wishes, for so many reasons, that things could be different, that he could just tell Merlin. That there was even a flicker of hope. 

Even if the weeks leading up to it hadn’t made it clear, though, their fight had certainly been proof enough. None of it had been real. None of it had meant anything.

Arthur would appreciate it if his heart, too, would understand that.

Morgana will rule well, though, most likely better than he could ever hope to.

All he can do now is make the transition as easy for her as possible.

It takes Arthur over a week, but he eventually makes his way back to Gaius’ workshop.

There might not be anything Gaius can do for him in the long run, but he still hopes that there might be at least a tonic to ease the itching of his throat, and the pain in his chest.

“Your Majesty,” Gaius says the moment Arthur pushes the door open, his voice wary. “What can I do for you?”

Beneath the almost clinical question, there is a world of concern in Gaius’ voice, and Arthur falters. Gaius is the only person who knows, the only one Arthur has left to talk to, and it feels wrong, suddenly, to pretend that he is nothing more than a king visiting his physician.

“I woke up to flowers on my pillow every morning for the last week,” he says, rather helplessly. It is nothing less than what Gaius had warned him of. “Is there something to slow it down?”

Gaius hesitates, the reluctance plain in the careful scroll of his gaze as he takes Arthur in. “Nothing that doesn’t come with a price.”

“I don’t care,” Arthur says, finding that he means it. “There are too many things I have to take care of. Before…”

Gaius’ expression tightens, but he nods towards the bench Arthur had occupied the last time and puts a cauldron over the fire.

He works in silence, and Arthur lets the familiarity of it wash over him. He used to come here often as a child to watch Gaius work and needle him with questions, and it is surprisingly easy to fall back into the comfort of it.  

“My Lord,” Gaius says eventually, turning to meet Arthur’s eyes. “Don’t you think there’s a chance that—”

“No,” Arthur says, cutting him off before he can finish the sentence. “Believe me, I’d try it if there was.”

“It did look like you two were starting to—”

“Gaius,” Arthur says, his voice tired. “I know you mean well but—what Merlin and I fought about, what he said… His sole objective was to change my mind about magic and to carry on what his father had planned when he made Uther sign the contract. It was all about destiny, my father’s legacy, and making sure that our kingdoms don’t go to war. There is nothing more to it.”

Abandoning his work, Gaius settles into the chair across from Arthur. “Did Merlin tell you that?”

“Not in so many words but—”

“Then how do you know? How do you know for certain?”

“I’m—wait,” Arthur says, something occurring to him. “Did you know about King Balinor’s plan?”

Discomfort settles across Gaius’s face, which is more than answer enough. “I did. I didn’t approve of it, but it’s not like I could’ve stopped him—he only told me about it after your father signed the contract and I approached Hunith about it. He said that he was just trying to keep his promise to your mother.”

Arthur laughs in disbelief, and he shakes his head. “I’m rather certain that’s not what she meant.”

“No, most likely not,” Gaius agrees, a wistful smile washing across his face. “Truth be told, I can’t imagine Merlin liking it too much either. It’s not in his nature to try tricking people into doing what he wants them to; he takes more after his mother, in that regard. Not to doubt you, of course, but… are you sure he told you that he was merely continuing his father’s plans?”

“Well, he didn’t put it like that, exactly, but…”

“Arthur,” Gaius says, exasperation creeping into his tone. “You don’t want people to think of you as solely your father’s son. Shouldn’t you extend the same courtesy to Merlin?”

Sometimes, Arthur thinks, it’s all too easy to forget that Gaius can be rather shrewd if he wants to be. Unfortunately, Arthur can’t deny that Gaius may have a point, and the longer he thinks about it, the more he has to admit that while Merlin’s delivery had been far from ideal, Arthur had also done everything to rile him up.

I never once said I agreed with his methods, did I?

Sighing, he offers Gaius a small smile. “Alright, maybe, but that doesn’t change anything. Maybe he didn’t approve of it, maybe he didn’t do it for his father’s sake, but it was still all about securing peace between our kingdoms, nothing more. Not that I can blame him, of course; it’s not like he ever owed me anything else.”

“You could at least try—”

“He has made it more than clear what he thought of the contract—”

“That’s not the same—”

“—and even if there had been the slightest chance that he genuinely liked me, I certainly ruined it with what I said to him,” he goes on, speaking over Gaius. “And just think what I’d be asking of him, think of what he would do if he knew what was happening to me. I haven’t known him for long, but Merlin would probably blame himself. He would try everything to stop it, and Morgana would find out, and—and I’m not going to do this to them.”

“Arthur, I still think—”

“Gaius,” Arthur says, rubbing a hand across his face before steeling himself. “I know you’re concerned, and I appreciate it, I really do. But there is no other way. I’ve made my decision, and all I need is a little time to get some affairs in order. Until then, none of this will leave this room. That’s an order.”

Gaius stares at him, the urge to protest unmistakable in the way he holds himself, his hands clenched tight. In the end, though, he nods sharply. “As you wish, my Lord.”

Arthur exhales a measured breath, rubbing his chest. “You said that you have something to slow it down, but that it would come with a price.”

“Yes. It will give you a few more weeks—with the way it has been progressing, I’d say until spring. But only—only—if you do not physically strain yourself. The potion slows the growth of the roots, but it puts a strain on your lungs all the same. No training, no fighting, no exercise, or it may kill you even sooner.”

Arthur swallows. “Well then, I suppose I should consider myself lucky that it is winter, shouldn’t I?”

Gaius doesn’t return his poor attempt at a smile, getting up to pour the cooled down potion into several vials.

“One per day. No more, no less,” he says, and it’s as clear a dismissal as he would ever dare to give Arthur.

“Thank you,” Arthur says, his voice quiet. A part of him wants to apologise for putting Gaius through this, for demanding his silence. Another knows that no apology in the world could make up for it.

The potion does help, at least a little. He still coughs up flowers, and neither the taste on his tongue nor the ache in his chest are ever truly absent, but it does feel like the decline has slowed somewhat.

It is worse in the evening and during the night, so Arthur schedules all state business before midday. He spends his afternoons and evenings poring over documents and books, filling countless rolls of parchment with notes.

There are few records on the regulation of magic from before the purge, but Arthur pieces together what he can find. He writes down every little detail Merlin had told him—about magic, about how things are handled in Escetir, everything mentioned in the exemption clause for Merlin’s stay in Camelot.

He combs through the library for a week, and when he exhausted everything that they have left, he pays Gaius another visit.

“I have a royal decree for you here,” he says without preamble, handing it to Gaius. “Anything you tell me about magic, every book you give me, even if I change my mind, you cannot be held accountable by Camelot’s current laws.”

Gaius' eyes are wide, fear Arthur has seen a hundred times before but only recognises for what it is now shining back at him.

“Please, Gaius,” Arthur says, pressing his thumb against his mother’s ring. “I need to lift the ban before I… I need to lift the ban. I can’t do it without you, not in a way that won’t leave Morgana with an even more unstable kingdom than I had to deal with.”

The tension in Gaius’s shoulders is so great, Arthur is almost certain that he will have to accept a refusal.

In the end, though, Gaius sighs, the sound so weary that it betrays each and every one of his years.

“Come sit, Arthur. This will take a while.”

Arthur closes his hand around the dragon tooth necklace that he is wearing again, feeling the warmth of it. Then he starts to listen.

Amidst his meetings with Gaius, working on the new laws, and state business, Yule comes and goes. January slips in, and with it, the castle turns even quieter, activity dying down to the bare minimum.

Anyone who can do stays close to a fire in their chambers, with a partner if they are lucky.

Word from Morgana has been rare since winter tightened its grip on the land. There had been a letter and gifts for Yule, of course, and in a way, Arthur is grateful for the lack of contact.

He has always been abysmal at keeping secrets from her—something he is keenly aware that isn’t true the other way around—and he is not sure how he would have fared at pretending that everything was normal if he had to write to her every week.

Instead, he spends most of his time with Gaius, who has taken to coming to Arthur’s chambers. For all of Gaius’ claims that it is merely because Arthur’s chambers are warmer, Arthur knows that the actual reason is how he is struggling for air now when he has to climb more than three flights of stairs.

It’s almost lucky that this is happening during this time of the year. He never would have been able to keep this from everyone for so long, otherwise.

It has led to more than one discussion with Gaius, but as much as Arthur trusts his advice, he is sure about this. It is better to inform his council and his knights only when it can no longer be avoided; when there isn’t enough time left to ask what illness Arthur is afflicted with, to question his authority on matters such as policy changes and succession.

Questions that, without a doubt, would arise if anyone knew that Arthur was suffering from what basically boils down to lovesickness because of a sorcerer.

It also allows Morgana as much time to learn about her magic as he can afford her. As soon as the news breaks, she will be home, he knows. He still plans to have enough time left to see her, to ask her first if she wants the throne, but somehow, he knows that she won’t refuse. Queendom will suit her, and it will most likely improve relations with Escetir immensely—the one thing Arthur will not be able to take care of.

He would be lying if he claimed that this, at least, isn’t something he is rather grateful for. Winter had stalled the negotiations on the peace treaty too, and if Arthur tells himself often enough that he does not want to see Merlin ever again, he might believe it eventually.

The lack of activity, unfortunately, only lasts until the end of January. Arthur’s birthday has always raised the castle from its winter slumber early. He didn’t think he could feel any more conflicted about the date than he has for all these years, but this year seems intent on proving him wrong.

“As it is your Majesty’s first birthday as the king, we could expand the celebrations—”

“No,” Arthur says, cutting Lord Maylor off. The mere idea makes him feel ill, for more than one reason. “We’ve just made it through a harsh winter. In fact, it’s not quite over yet. Relations with some of our allies are still strained, and we’re not going to send the signal to them and our people that we’re celebrating with lavish feasts in my name when I’ve barely proven myself.”

“Your Majesty, you have more than—”

“This was neither an attempt to ask for compliments nor an invitation to seek favours,” Arthur says, his patience wearing thin. It does that a lot these days when it comes to matters as insignificant as this one. “We will hold a small feast, as we have done every year. We will observe the usual traditions of mourning for Camelot’s late queen. This is not up for further discussion.”

He barely finishes his sentence before he is coughing again, and he presses a handkerchief to his mouth. It’s something he has grown proficient at, hiding the flowers spilling out of his throat in an ever-growing stream of types and colours. Irises are still the ones appearing most often, only rivalled by forget-me-nots. Arthur is not thinking about their meaning.

“My Lord, are you well? This cough has been plaguing you—”

“I’m fine, just a persistent cold. If that’s all for today?”

Most men in the room look relieved at the prospect of returning to their warm chambers. Arthur has no doubts that it is the only reason they haven’t questioned him more in recent weeks, but he takes what he can get, at this point.

“Arthur, do you have a moment?”

Looking up from the cluttered mess that his desk has become ever since he ordered his servant not to clean it up, Arthur finds Gaius standing just inside the room.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. Of course.”

Gaius puts a bag on the edge of the table, glass vials within clinking softly against each other. “I’ve brought your potions for the next two weeks. I do have to warn you, though—you cannot take them for much longer.”

Arthur nods, already aware of this. It is yet another thing he does his best to ignore. End of January; it’s his due date, the day he will have to tell his kingdom, when he will have to call Morgana home.

Not yet, though.

“I have also been thinking,” Gaius says, the uncertainty that has vanished over the last few weeks reappearing. “Do you remember how when I first told you about the cause of the disease, you said that you have only known Merlin for two months?”

Arthur tried not to, but for the first few days, it had been all he could think about. “Yes, I wasn’t—I didn’t…”

Gaius offers him a small smile, but it’s strained around the edges. “I might have found an explanation. When Merlin told you of his father’s plans, he also told you about the destiny that you two share, right?”

A tendril of dread is winding through him, but he nods anyway.

“I have done some research into it,” Gaius says, the tension easing out of him. “The prophecy concerning Merlin and you is older than anyone can tell. I can give you the texts I obtained if you’re interested, but the basics of it say that you are intrinsically linked. Two sides of the same coin they say, two halves of a whole. In whatever way one may choose to interpret that.”

“Gaius—”

“The point is,” Gaius goes on, and sometimes, Arthur misses the days when Gaius was more reluctant to once again treat him as Arthur had always imagined a grandfather would. “It might explain both how you caught Hanahaki despite your lack of magic, and also how it developed after such a short time. If it is connected to not only an assumed rejection of you but also a perceived dismissal of a destiny as great as the one you and Merlin share, if there’s a link between you two that should not be broken, it makes sense that the effects would be immeasurably harsher.”

Arthur’s mind is reeling, but he is saved from having to come up with an answer by another coughing fit; dry, violent hacks that shake his whole body. When he opens his palm, he finds pink and red petals once again, although he hasn’t seen this specific flower before.

Dropping them on the table between him and Gaius, he drains his goblet of water and raises his brows in question. It has become a habit to wonder, even though Arthur doesn’t know why he cares that the flowers have a meaning, too.

“Camellias,” Gaius says, his expression pained. “Love and Longing.”

Heat crawls across Arthur’s cheeks, and he clears his throat. “Thank you, Gaius. That will be all.”

“Arthur, with what I’ve told you—there may still be a chance. A half cannot truly hate what makes it whole. If you—”

“Gaius,” Arthur repeats, drained beyond measure. “I appreciate it, truly, but this will be all. I won’t change my mind.”

The raised brow Gaius bestows on him couldn’t be clearer in its accusation of stubborn, infuriating man, but Gaius leaves all the same.

Red and pink camellias: love and longing. Irises: faith, trust, and hope. Forget-me-nots: a memory of true love, a wish to not be forgotten. Yellow daffodils: chivalry, respect, unrequited love. Red zinnias: lasting affection, thoughts of someone absent. And, of course, every once in a while—cyclamen of every colour: resignation, diffidence, and goodbye.

It’s all rather pathetic and blatant, as if taken straight out of an overly dramatic fairy tale.

Arthur closes his fingers around the dragon’s tooth, knowing the fragile lines carved into it blindly, by now. Thyme—courage and strength. Ivy—affection, friendship, and fidelity.

He is not sure destiny has all that much to do with it if he is honest.

Loud, insistent knocking startles Arthur awake, and moments later, Leon is standing inside his chambers. Even in the dim light, Arthur can make out the uncertainty and concern on his face.

“What is it, Leon?”

“Sire, I’m not sure but…”

The hesitation is uncommon, even more so than the nightly wake up call, and it dispels the last remains of tiredness. “Speak up, Leon. There must be a reason why you’re here.”

“One of our scouts from the eastern border just came back. Apparently, a contingent of Escetirian troops crossed the border into Camelot close to Isgaard this evening.”

The first thing Arthur feels is confusion, even as his mind starts running a mile a minute. No matter the terms on which he and Merlin had parted, one thing he is unshakably convinced of is that Merlin wishes peace for his people as much as Arthur does, that he wouldn’t risk war.

He cannot claim to have the same certainty about Queen Hunith though, a voice whispers at the back of his mind. He doesn’t know what Merlin has told her, and as of now, she is still the ruling monarch. Ultimately, it would be her and her council’s decision whether to declare war or not.

The second thing Arthur feels is a fear for Morgana so strong, it almost brings him to his knees where he stands, just out of bed.

“Did the scout have any further information on the intention of this?” he asks, even as there is a decision already forming at the back of his mind.

Leon shakes his head, his expression still pinched as he asks, “So I take it, you do not have any knowledge of this either?”

It occurs to Arthur that this must look even worse to everyone else. As far as the whole of Camelot is concerned, Merlin’s departure has merely been a planned break in their courting while Merlin takes care of matters in Escetir and spends the winter there.

If Arthur gives the impression that this might be an act of war even if it isn’t one, the whole situation could spiral out of control faster than he has any hope of controlling it.

“No, but communication has been difficult due to the weather. I’m sure there is a good reason for this,” he says, gathering his clothes and his armour and ignoring the burning in his throat. “Prepare a group of twenty knights—only those most trusted. We’ll ride as soon as dawn breaks.”

“Arthur, are you sure? The scout said it’s at least a hundred men.”

Suppressing the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, Arthur considers it. If this is an actually hostile invasion, they won’t stand a chance with twenty men.

Then again—he could take five hundred, and Merlin and his dragon alone could still wipe them out in the blink of an eye. For some reason, Arthur still trusts that Merlin won’t.

“I’m sure,” he says. “I’ll meet you in the courtyard in two hours.”

Chapter Text

“Sire, you cannot go.”

“Gaius—”

“No, Arthur. I’ve told you, the potion demands that you avoid physical strain. You’ve been faring better than I expected, and you will most likely make it through the ride even though it will put stress on your lungs, but if there is a fight, you will not survive it.”

Arthur looks at him, and notes the paleness of Gaius’s skin in the dim light, the immeasurable concern buried deep beneath what Arthur has privately dubbed ‘the physician’s mask.’

Putting a hand on Gaius’s shoulder, he squeezes lightly. “I always expected to fall in battle, one day. I hope there won’t be a fight—in fact, I don’t believe there will be—but if there is and I die, I will prefer it a hundred times over slowly being choked to death by a garden of rejection growing in my lungs. Everything is prepared; Morgana’s succession, the decree to lift the ban, and the laws to put into place. All you have to do is give them to Morgana and the council.”

“Arthur—”

“I will rather die for my people than… than for love, or destiny, or whatever you want to call it.”

“Even if Escetir isn’t attacking, which I agree with you may be unlikely, they must be aware what sending a hundred men across the border would signal,” Gaius says, shaking his head. “Maybe you won’t fight them, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be a battle. What use are you there when you can barely walk a flight of stairs without getting out of breath?”

Arthur winces, both at the reminder and the sharpness of Gaius’s tone. “And what use would I be here? If it does come to a battle, at least I will be able to lead my knights. Gaius, I will die. Whether it is now, or in a few weeks from now, how much difference does it make?”

For some reason, this makes Gaius stop, the stark concern in his eyes giving way to consideration. “As you wish, sire. Then my only request is that you take me with you as your field physician.”

“Gaius, it’s deep winter,” Arthur protests, frowning. “We don’t even know if there will be a fight.”

“If you want me to bear your stubbornness, at least allow me to keep mine.”

Arthur has known Gaius for too long to bother arguing. “Alright, then. We leave in an hour.”

They ride out with a contingent of almost thirty men, Leon’s expression daring Arthur to call him out on the additional ten men that Arthur hadn’t asked for.  

Whether it is twenty or thirty men—in the end, it doesn’t matter all that much, except for the supplies they have to take.

They have sent a handful of outriders ahead, meant to keep track of the Escetirian troop. It is well past midday, the washed-out sun already low in the sky again, when the first man returns.

“Report,” Arthur orders, his voice coming out rough. They have been riding at a slow and steady pace, unwilling to risk the health of the horses on the frozen ground, but Arthur is still as exhausted as if he had fought in a week-long tournament.

“Your Majesty. Last I saw them was about two hours ago, between the Bridge of Chemary and the forest of Brechfa.”

So they are riding straight for Camelot’s citadel, and with that, straight for Arthur and his men.

“If they’ve kept moving at a steady pace, we should meet them within the next hour,” Leon speaks up from Arthur’s right, and he nods in agreement.

“There is something else,” the scout says, his horse shifting beneath him with the same nervousness that is mirrored on the man’s face.

“Speak up.”

“The Lady Morgana is with them, my Lord. She’s riding at the head with Prince Merlin.”

Arthur wishes he knew whether this was a good sign or not.

They are confronted with the Escetirian forces in an open field on the outskirts of the forest of Brechfa, the White Mountains towering high in the west.

Dusk is already blanketing the land, the air cold enough to bite into Arthur’s skin. Despite this, he still spots Merlin and Morgana immediately, riding at the head of a sea of blue and silver that is standing stark against the white landscape.

Lancelot, Elyan, Gwen, and Gwaine are flanking them, as are Iseldir and Finna. Everyone Arthur can see bears the familiar, bursting silver star—the emblem of the prince’s most trusted. The many men within the army who are wearing only light armour are most likely sorcerers, not knights. So this is definitely not Queen Hunith’s work.

Once he has taken stock of it all, Arthur has no other reason to avoid looking at Merlin more closely. It is rather unfair that winter should suit him so, the colour high in his cheeks where it contrasts against the black of his hair, the blue of his eyes.

“King Arthur,” Merlin says, his voice betraying none of the familiarity that they used to share, however briefly. It rings across the distance between them, crisp and clear.

You could cut the tension with a knife, and the men behind Arthur are just as restless and tense on their horses as those behind Merlin. The whole situation is only one wrong move away from open hostility, and Arthur would really love to know what prompted Merlin to come here like this.

“Your Highness,” he says, dipping his chin. He doesn’t miss the faint wince his address causes. “Forgive me for the blunt question, but what is the meaning of this?”

From next to Merlin, Morgana huffs. “You’re ridiculous, the both of you. Escetir means you no harm. This is important, or why else do you think we would’ve come like this?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Morgana,” Arthur says, making a sweeping gesture around them. “You could’ve sent a letter, perhaps? I’ve heard that that is supposedly easier from a kingdom where magic is legal.”

“And you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Morgana shoots back, one of her brows arching up.

“The point is,” Merlin cuts in, “that we’re not here to fight Camelot. Quite the opposite, really, but I’d prefer to explain that to you somewhere where there are fewer chances of being overheard.”

“Forgive me for my directness, your Highness,” Leon speaks up before Arthur can so much as make up his mind. “You cross our borders with a contingent of a hundred men, without a warning. You meet us in a spot perfect for open battle, chosen by you. We will need a little more than goodwill to trust your word, considering that this violates just about every established custom between both kingdoms.”

Merlin stares at Arthur as if waiting for him to say something, but he stays silent. A part of him may still trust Merlin, loath as he is to admit it, but if he is wrong, his acquiescence could put his whole kingdom at risk.

So he merely holds Merlin’s gaze and ignores the blaze of emotions wreaking havoc within his chest.

“I suppose that’s a fair demand,” Merlin finally says, never looking away from Arthur. “I will offer a hostage, under one condition.”

“With all due respect, your Highness, I don’t think you’re in the position to make demands,” Leon says, drawing himself up in his saddle.

Merlin finally looks away from Arthur, sweeping his gaze over the three dozen men behind them before raising a brow at Leon. “Actually, I’m under the impression that it is the other way around.”

Arthur doesn’t have to turn around to know his men are bristling, the tension rising another notch.

“What are your conditions, then?” Arthur asks, ignoring the displeasure radiating off of Leon.

“Only Arthur is to handle the hostage. No one else will touch them, care for them, or be left alone with them. They are to stay with Arthur, and Arthur alone, and if I hear even the faintest whisper to the contrary, I will not hesitate to wipe all of you out before you can so much as draw your swords.”

Arthur’s throat draws tight as it occurs to him who Merlin could be planning to offer. If he is right, Merlin’s demands are still incredibly low.

Of course, no one but Arthur knows this. He answers before the general mood can tip into entirely hostile. “I accept.”

“I don’t make idle threats.”

“I know,” Arthur says, and the familiar fondness that washes through him tears at something he has ignored ever since Merlin left Camelot. “And I don’t make idle promises.”

“I know,” Merlin echoes, his lips quirking up at the corners before he turns away. “Aithusa!”

Arthur expected this, but to hear the confirmation of it, to see the small white dragon fly towards Merlin a little more gracefully than she had two months ago, still hits Arthur like a punch, one that he has no means of defending against.

“There’s a good girl,” Merlin says when she lands on his shoulders. Perched there, it is obvious that she has grown a fair bit, almost struggling now to balance on what Arthur knows to be her favourite spot. “You remember Arthur, don’t you?”

Aithusa turns her head, and the second she spots him, she flaps her wings in excitement. “’Rthur!” she chirps, and he can’t help the unsteady laugh that slips out of his throat.

Merlin says something else to her, but it is no language Arthur speaks. It is deep and guttural even as Merlin’s voice is low. A moment later, Aithusa takes flight for Arthur, and he is so enthralled watching her that he almost misses how his knights tense and shift around him.

“It’s alright,” he says, raising a hand. “She’s too young to do any harm.”

There is a drawn-out pause during which everything hangs in the balance, except for Aithusa who presses her cold nose against Arthur’s cheek. He has to keep himself from running his fingers across her scales.

Merlin clears his throat. “Does that satisfy your demands for a safeguard?”

Arthur is still reeling from the sheer trust of the gesture, but he forces himself to speak before anyone else can. “It does. Thank you.”

“Good,” Merlin says with perfunctory curtness, as if he hasn’t just entrusted one of the last two remaining dragons into Arthur’s care. “We should make camp; we scouted a large clearing in the forest that should be sufficient. So if it’s alright with you, we should go there.”

There is a wariness to Merlin that would have stalled any further protests if Arthur had had them, and he inclines his head.

Merlin’s troop parts for him and the small group around him until he is at the head again, and the whole battalion begins to move. Arthur leads his knights to follow, keeping a few horse’s length of distance.

By now, darkness has begun to douse the land, and the sight becomes terrible once they reach the forest. Before Arthur can utter the order to get the torches out, all along the Escetirian troop line, balls of light start floating up, illuminating the forest around them.

It is almost eerie, the blue light reflecting against the blanket of snow and breaking on the bare-boned trees. It does work much better than torches do, though, and the horses find their path without stumbling until they reach a huge clearing which belies how well hidden it is in the otherwise sparse forest.

Arthur has barely dismounted when Morgana appears in front of him, her eyes bright. She shoves him, hard, before throwing her arms around his neck.

He hugs her back just as tightly, and never before has he been this glad to see her.

It takes less than an hour to set up the whole camp, magic shortening lengthy tasks to a matter of mere minutes at every turn.

Most of Arthur’s knights are still uneasy, sticking together where they can and with hands hovering close to their swords. He does trust that none of them would start trouble against his clear orders, but even if he didn’t, with how outnumbered they are, it is the one thing he is currently not worried about.

He would love to avoid Merlin for a little longer, but Morgana barely listens to his questions about how she has been, much less answers them. Instead, she curls her fingers around his wrist and drags him to a tent at the edge of the camp, where she pulls the tent flap open unceremoniously.

“Talk to him. About what’s going on here, and between you two as well. I can’t take this much longer without developing murder fantasies about the both of you,” she says with a glare. She doesn’t wait for an answer before she pushes him inside.  

He stumbles into the tent, and freezes when he sees Merlin leaning over the table on the left-hand side, a map spread out in front of him.

“Merlin,” he says, the name punching out of him.

Merlin’s head snaps up, and they stare at each other until Aithusa makes an impatient noise from where she is still perched on Arthur’s shoulder.

“Right,” Merlin says, plastering a smile on his face. “I suppose you have a few questions.”

“Merlin—”

“I found Agravaine,” Merlin cuts him off, and it effectively stops Arthur in his tracks. “Well, I didn’t find him inasmuch as that I know where he is.”

“You—what?”

“Sit,” Merlin says, a chair materialising alongside Arthur’s side of the table.

“That still doesn’t explain why you’ve brought an army into my kingdom,” Arthur says once they’ve both sat down, and he has found his voice again. It comes out much harsher than he intended.

If Merlin notices, he doesn’t let it show. He seems as distant and untouchable as he did the first time they met. Or rather, the first time they met as adults, but Arthur really cannot go there right now.

“Yes. You will have to bear it, for the time being, because Agravaine isn’t alone. He has an army of his own, so to speak, and sending you a letter first would’ve taken too long.”

The brief flicker of fear that Arthur feels at the news is followed instantly by annoyance. “Whatever ragtag team of mercenaries he has scrambled together, Camelot can handle them just fine on its own.”

“Oh, you misunderstand me,” Merlin says, looking straight at Arthur. “I’m not here out of the goodness of my heart and your pretending to believe that I have one in the first place doesn’t suit you.”

Arthur knows he deserves that, after what he had flung at Merlin the last time they spoke to each other, but he still has to keep himself from flinching.

“Agravaine has a sorceress on his side, who in turn has a small army of her own,” Merlin goes on, clearly not expecting an answer. “They are no match for Escetir, but they would take you apart before you can so much as gather your forces.”

It takes every ounce of willpower that Arthur possesses to get a grip on himself, to take the raging storm that seeing Merlin has let loose in his chest and lock it away. This is, as it turns out, a strategy meeting, not a reunion. He can’t allow himself to get distracted.

Gaius had been right, Arthur realises, but he had been, too. If this is what it will come down to, a fight against his uncle for the throne, he has to be here. He can’t afford not to be here.

“I assume it is supposed to look like those sorcerers are allied with Escetir—a joint effort between my uncle and you, to overthrow me,” Arthur says, and his voice comes out remarkably steady despite the way his hands want to shake.

“Yes, that’s exactly what it is supposed to look like, although to be honest, I assume that Agravaine’s involvement is supposed to remain unknown for now,” Merlin says, his head tilting. “You will die in battle, in the dishonourable attack from Escetir. Agravaine is to take the throne, and Camelot’s forces, together with Morgause’s, will attack Escetir.”

“Morgause?”

“The sorceress. She grew up in Escetir, but she’s—well, let’s just say she didn’t agree with how my father dealt with Camelot. She lost both her parents in the purge and wants revenge more than she wants peace. She hoped that once my father was dead, my mother would be easier to… never mind,” Merlin stops himself, his jaw tightening.

Arthur senses a story here, a personal side to all of this, but he no longer has the right to ask. He is not sure that he ever did.

Merlin taps a finger against the table, carrying on. “She wants to conquer Escetir, I assume, and you off the throne. I don’t know whether she plans to ally with Agravaine in the long run or to take Camelot next, but I wouldn’t put either past her. They’ve only been working together for a few weeks; I don’t know how it came about, but she wasn’t involved in the attacks back when I was in Camelot.”

“So that is why you are here.”

Merlin leans back in his chair, considering Arthur coolly. “Did you think this was a sentimental gesture? I’m touched, Arthur; I never knew you thought so highly of me.”

“Merlin…”

“If my forces are seen to be fighting alongside yours, it will stop people from thinking it is an Escetirian attack,” Merlin says, ignoring Arthur’s attempt to speak. “Morgana knows, of course, and your men will also need to know—at least about who Morgause is. I don’t care, frankly, what you do about Agravaine, although from a tactical perspective, it would make sense to inform your court, too. Of course, none of this information would have been obtained without the help of magic, so I suppose that will leave you a bit in a pickle.”

“Merlin,” Arthur snaps, his patience running out. “I know what I said to you was uncalled for, and I shouldn’t have said it. I don’t think you—”

“I don’t care,” Merlin bites out, his shoulders stiffening. “You’ve made it quite clear what you think of me. I made it clear what I think of you. I’m the insidious sorcerer who used your mother against you, and you’re the son of the man who wanted to wipe out my entire kind. We’re not friends. We never were, we never will be. We will win this battle and secure peace for our kingdoms, we will draw up a magically binding treaty, and then we can continue merrily on as our fathers have before us.”

It is not what Arthur wants. It is so far from what Arthur wants, and he knows this, has known this ever since he watched Merlin ride out of Camelot’s courtyard, even if he has not once allowed himself to go there. He wants to fight, wants to claw and shout until Merlin finally listens, until he stops taking each and every one of Arthur’s words and turning them into an attack, a barbed insult. He wants to—

The coughing is almost expected; it has always been worse when he doesn’t keep thoughts of Merlin tightly locked away. His hands tremble when he presses a handkerchief against his mouth, and his eyes are watering from the force of it, from the pain flaring in his chest. He doesn’t dare look at what he has coughed up, this time.

When he glances up, Merlin is staring at him, failing to smooth away the frown between his brows, the anger that had been there just moments before now lacking.

“You’re ill,” Merlin says, quite uselessly, and he seems to realise it too because he shakes his head as if to clear it. “Speak to Iseldir, he’s—”

“Gaius has it covered,” Arthur interrupts, his voice still rough. He wants to fix this shattered thing lying in tatters between them, but everything hurts. His throat, his chest, his heart, his pride. Seeing Merlin like this, talking to him as if they are strangers at best, is tearing open old wounds that he would have rather forgotten about. “Tell me about where Agravaine and his forces are, how many men he has, and whatever else you know. I need to send Leon back to Camelot to inform the council and gather more men as soon as possible.”

Merlin watches him for a few beats longer, his fingers tapping against the table. In the end, he gives a sharp nod and turns the map.

Morgana is waiting for him when he finally leaves the tent hours later, Guinevere standing beside her.

“Arthur,” Morgana says, her face drawn in the dim light of the torches and the hovering balls of light. “I need to speak to you.”

He has missed her, and he can see that whatever it is, it’s important. He is also exhausted beyond belief, though, and he hasn’t been able to breathe without pain since she pushed him into Merlin’s tent. “Can it wait until the morning?”

Her lips purse, and Guinevere shifts closer to her. “No. Because Merlin hasn’t told you everything, and you need to know.”

“Why hasn’t he—”

“Because it’s not his story to tell,” she snaps, then turns on her heels and walks away, leaving Arthur with no choice but to follow.

They make their way through the large camp, low voices and the sound of armour and weapons being tended to all around them. The smell of fires and food permeates the air, reminding Arthur that he hasn’t eaten since the short break they took around midday.

Morgana leads him to a tent not far from Merlin’s, pushing the flap aside and raising a brow at him. She is still asking, he realises, and the affection washing through him is enough, at least momentarily, to vanish his exhaustion.

He still heaves out a put-upon sigh for the sake of it, and steps inside.

For the most part, it looks like Merlin’s tent. There are two pallets instead of one, and braziers spread warmth against the winter night. A table stands off to one side, laden with food and wine instead of maps for battle planning.

Arthur waits until Morgana and Guinevere have taken their seats before he sits down across from them. He accepts the wine and plate of food that Morgana pushes at him and waits for her to speak.

Morgana toys with her knife, not touching her food, and the crease between her brows is deep. It does nothing to ease Arthur’s nerves.

“Morgause is my sister,” she finally says, staring straight at him. “And you are my brother.”

“I—what do you mean, she’s—I’m—”

“Exactly as I said it, Arthur, it’s not that—”

“Morgana,” Guinevere says, her voice low as she touches Morgana’s wrist.

Drawing a slow breath, Morgana visibly reins her temper in. “In Kallis, Morgause searched me out. I didn’t know who she was, but she seemed to know Merlin, from how she spoke of him. I didn’t exactly trust her, but… well, I didn’t mistrust her either. She seemed familiar, somehow. She told me there was more that she could teach me than my tutors did, that there was more to magic than was shown to me. It felt a little off to me; what more could she have to offer me than a citadel full of sorcerers who had survived this long? But I was also curious, if not for more knowledge, then about why she was so interested in me.”

Arthur probably would have done the same, and right now, he is also just all too happy to let Morgana explain, without needing to say anything himself.

“I noticed, though, that she only ever searched me out when I was alone, that she seemed intent on making me trust her; to make me feel alienated even in a place where, for the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged,” Morgana goes on, and her tone isn’t accusatory, but it isn’t apologetic, either.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says quietly, tracing the rim of his goblet, “that you could never feel at home in Camelot.”

The determination on her face wavers, a fissure of helplessness winding through it as she looks at him. “It wasn’t about you, or—”

“Morgana,” he says, smiling a smile that feels strained. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I can’t imagine what it must have been like, even when you didn’t know for sure what was happening to you. I’m just glad that you found a place where it feels less like that.”

It is easier than it used to be, to be this honest with her. Maybe it is the exhaustion, or maybe it is simply that they do not have much time left with each other, even if Arthur is still the only one who knows it.

She swallows but catches herself quickly enough. “Maybe it was stupid, but—”

“It was definitely stupid,” Guinevere cuts in, her lips pressing into a thin line. “You have no idea what Morgause was planning.”

“I know,” Morgana says, and despite the sharpness of Guinevere’s words, Morgana’s lips are tilting up with obvious affection. “I apologised, didn’t I? Profusely.”

“Luckily for you.”

It is obvious that something between them has changed since they have left Camelot, but Arthur files the question away for another time. “You went along with it to find out more, didn’t you?”

It sounds exactly like something Morgana would do, and the way she grins at him is all the confirmation he needs.

“It seemed important,” she says, shrugging as she takes a sip of her wine. “And I was right; it was. Over time, she told me that she was my sister. I didn’t believe her, at first, but she wore the crest of the House of Gorlois. She kept speaking of Uther, too, as if he were still ruling Camelot.”

Arthur remembers a conversation with her, months ago, where she had asked him something along the same lines; if Uther’s shadow would not always rule Camelot, leading Arthur’s hand. He remembers the anger on her face and his own answer—I’m trying not to repeat his mistakes.

It is with a sharp, unrelenting twist in his gut that he understands how close he had come to losing her.

“I’ve seen you, though,” she continues, the harshness in the lines around her mouth giving way to something softer. “I’ve seen you with Merlin, have seen you let me leave for Escetir with nothing but a token protest, and said protest only because you knew you were going to miss me.”

It is an old, well-honed instinct to deny any sort of affection that he has for her. “I didn’t—”

“He talks about you, you know,” she goes on as if he hadn’t spoken, “mostly when drunk, to be honest, but—”

“Morgana,” he says, and it comes out as a plea, instead of as the warning that he meant it to be.

At least that seems to be more effective, even as he wants to run from the pity in her eyes.

“Either way, eventually, Morgause began trying to convince me to join her in what she called an alternative movement for freeing magic. She said that Escetir was doing nothing to oppose Camelot’s oppression of magic users—as if a safe haven for all of us was less important than the grudge she holds against a dead man,” Morgana says with a scoff. The fierce pride of hers that has been the root of countless of their fights is suddenly so painfully dear to him that he can hardly breathe.

He opens his mouth to say something, but Morgana shakes her head sharply, a shadow settling across her face. Arthur remembers with sudden clarity that this is only half the story.

“I told Gwen then, and she convinced me to tell Merlin,” Morgana says. “There’s… history between them, more than I was aware of.”

It is nothing less than Arthur already assumed, and the question is burning on the tip of his tongue. He swallows it down.

“She must have noticed… I don’t know, something,” Morgana says, her voice growing harder. “That I wasn’t as open to her suggestions as she wanted, or that I wasn’t as easily won over by familial connection as she had hoped. She disappeared for a while, but eventually returned with yet another piece of information that was… news to me.”

She is watching him closely now, cataloguing his every reaction. The noises from the camp outside are muted, the braziers crackling faintly.

Morgause is my sister. And you are my brother.

Morgana is younger than him, by about a year. They had grown up together, even before Gorlois had died. Uther had always been protective of her.

“No,” he says, his whole body going numb. “He didn’t.”

It is not disbelief. It is only horror, and Morgana’s expression transforms from hesitant suspicion into relief; proof of how she, too, had felt the massive crack that is carving itself right through Arthur’s heart.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, his mother’s ring feeling heavy on his hand. “He shouldn’t have—”

“No,” she agrees, and the smile twisting her mouth is bitter. “He shouldn’t have. If he were still alive, I don’t know what I would do. But he is not, and you may be his son, but I’ve seen you, Arthur, and you’re not him.”

The urge to tell her then, to tell her everything, to hand her the decree of succession and spill everything that has been growing within him over the last two months is almost overwhelming.

He doesn’t. He should, but he doesn’t, everything within him still reeling.

“I try not to be,” is all he says, and she smiles, the first real smile he has seen on her tonight.

“Anyway, to finish this whole sorry story,” Morgana says after refilling their goblets, “Morgause was obsessed with the idea that I could take the throne from you. Our theory is that after she realised that she wasn’t getting anywhere with me, she searched out Agravaine. It makes sense that they’ve allied with each other not long ago, and he is the only one she could have got the information about Uther from.”

There is a certain irony in how, all too soon, Morgana will actually take the throne from him. He has never been more certain that this is the right decision.

“She would’ve known about Escetir’s court, and at least a little about how powerful Merlin is,” he agrees, the pieces slowly clicking together. “The fact that Agravaine has been behind the last assassination attempt is common knowledge since the trial, both in Camelot and Escetir, because of the bounty on his head. She’s not stupid, I’ll have to give her that.”

Morgana grimaces, inclining her head. “She certainly knows how to twist her words. In retrospect, she revealed remarkably little of her plans to me, through all the time I talked with her.”

Guinevere shifts and one glance at her tells Arthur that she is making a valiant effort to bite down an ‘I told you so,’ that, he has no doubt, Morgana has had to hear more than once already. Despite this whole mess, he has to tamp down a smile.

“Then how do you know so much of their plans?” he asks, focusing back on Morgana.

A slow smile unfurls on her face, one he is most familiar with from the time when they were children and still trained together often. It is the exact same way she used to smile, a few seconds before she would disarm him and put him on his back.

“Well, for one, they have their ways in Kallis. But for the other—I told you how my dreams were visions, didn’t I?”

It is something Arthur has been thinking about a lot. For as long as he can remember, Morgana has been having nightmares. He had seen how they were getting worse, had seen the dark shadows beneath her eyes, and how exhausted she had grown. He has wondered, ever since she told him, how much of her suffering could have been prevented if someone had known what was happening to her.

“I was glad to hear that you were sleeping better,” he says, and it is the second time tonight that he is almost too honest. If he doesn’t want her to start asking unwelcome questions, he should probably stop.

“Yes, well,” she says, considering him carefully, “as it turns out, with the right instructions, they are not only useful but can be directed, to a certain extent. And apparently, I’m a rather powerful seer.”

Of course, she would be. Morgana never does things by half. He smiles. “So, that’s how you figured it out? That’s amazing.”

“Some of it, at least,” she says, her brows furrowing. “It’s more… well, it shows me the future, not the present. I’ve seen the battle, more than once, and you—Arthur, are you well?”

The question catches him off guard. He clenches his hands where she cannot see them. “Of course, I am. I’ve had a bit of a cold these last few weeks, but—”

He doesn’t need to keep talking to see that she doesn’t believe him, that she is seeing straight through all the lies that he has been telling for weeks now. He should tell her, he knows, he knows, but—

“Tell me the rest of it,” he says, the words scraping against his throat. Her brow arches up, a clear sign that she knows exactly what he is doing, but she has also always known when to push, and when to let things be.

“As I’ve said, I saw a battle. It took me some time to make sense of it, but between that and what others put together from the information we gathered, a few scouts here and there, and Agravaine being not nearly as subtle as he likes to believe, we pieced most of it together. Unfortunately, when we finally did, his and Morgause’s army was already halfway through Tir Mor, so we didn’t have time to send you a letter in advance.”

He sighs softly, running a hand through his hair. His chest aches. His whole body aches, truth be told, and this night still isn’t over.

“I’m glad,” he says, slanting a smile at her. “And the rest? Of your magic, I mean; I have no idea how one goes about learning to control it but are you—are you alright, too?”

She softens, then, the sharpness in her eyes lessening. “Yes, it’s—Finna has taught me so much, and Nimueh has, too. She said that if I keep at it, I might make it as a High Priestess, even.”

A High Priestess. It is one of the designations his—their—father had only ever uttered with the utmost contempt. Morgana looks excited, though, her eyes bright, and Arthur can find neither the fear nor the hatred that his father had done his best to instill in him.

“Of course,” he says with a smile. “You always had to aim as high as one could possibly go.”

“It runs in the family,” she says, and while her voice is light, the magnitude of the words hangs between them, both a question and a dare.

He should tell her. He should, he should, but he still cannot. He can do the next best thing, though.

“You are aware,” he says, rearranging his face until it feels at least close to the obnoxious smirk he had graced her with so often, “that once we return to Camelot, you will be crowned princess, right?”

Another fissure of tension unwinds itself from her shoulders, and she leans back in her chair. “Well, I would hope so. There has to be some kind of compensation for the fact that I now have to call you brother, doesn’t it?”

“Sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose,” he says, grinning back at her. For a moment—if only for a moment—he can almost forget that these are their last days together.

“I think I will be alright,” Morgana says, tilting her head.

It is really all Arthur wants.

Arthur finally returns to his tent in the late hours of the night, after he has talked to Leon too, giving him the royal sigil and instructions to inform the council, as well as to ready parts of Camelot’s army.

His tent is quiet, braziers radiating warmth and their light flickering against the red canvas. A vial of potion stands on the table, and the searing burn in his chest makes him down it without a second thought, assuming that it comes from Gaius.

It is only when he places the vial back on the table that he notices the small note.

For your cough.

He stares at it, at the tidy handwriting with a hint of a scrawl that is familiar from the signature on a contract that has led him here in the first place. Merlin’s handwriting looks exactly like his father’s.

Arthur crumples the note in his fist and drops it into the embers of the brazier closest to him.

Merlin has made it clear where they stand, what he thinks of Arthur. He has made it clear that his only interest in keeping Arthur alive and healthy is to preserve peace for his own people. Arthur is not going to get hung up on foolish hope again.

Leon leaves the camp early the next morning, long before the sun even climbs into the sky. He is accompanied by two knights and Arthur watches them go, the impending threat of battle cloying on his skin.

“My reinforcements will be here tomorrow,” Merlin says, appearing next to him. He is the only one who has ever managed to sneak up on Arthur, and Arthur still resents him for it. “What do you think, when will Leon be back?”

Arthur draws in a measured breath, feels it rattling through his lungs. A few, restless hours of sleep in the early hours of dawn have done little to dispel his exhaustion. “Not before the day after tomorrow. He will have to inform the council, and these preparations take time.”

He is acutely aware of how Merlin had drawn together his forces at a day’s notice. He sees it in the camp, all around him, how magic shortens tasks to a matter of minutes that take his men hours.

Merlin doesn’t point it out. “If our estimations are correct, and with the eye that Finna and Morgana are keeping on things, Agravaine and Morgause should just be crossing through Escetir by then.”

They had laid it out last night, on the map in Merlin’s tent; Agravaine and Morgause had gathered their forces in Tir Mor, the one kingdom that doesn’t outlaw magic but isn’t allied with Escetir, either. It is the perfect place to launch a campaign from, if one wants to avoid scrutiny from both Camelot and Escetir.

Tir Mor doesn’t border on Camelot directly, Escetir separating both kingdoms. At the southernmost border of Escetir, the distance to Camelot is so short, though, that an army can pass through it within a day.

“If we leave as soon as my forces arrive, we can meet them between the forest of Ascetir and Isgaard, then,” Arthur says, recalling the map in his mind. “With the time we have left to plan, we might even manage an envelopment attack.”

A faint smile flickers across Merlin’s face before he looks away from Arthur, watching as the camp wakes up around them. “I’ll mention it to Iseldir and Alator. We should talk about it tonight. Although, if we want to keep the element of surprise, we will have to use magic to mask our movements, much like we are hiding the camp right now.”

The challenge is unmistakable, but Arthur is too exhausted to rise to the bait. “Then we will use magic. I have it on good authority that Camelot’s crown princess may become a High Priestess, soon.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, turning away before Merlin can rearrange his expression into something less shocked.

Arthur just wants all of this to be over.

Ultimately, they do decide on the envelopment attack. It is the best approach for more reasons than one; Agravaine and Morgause’s forces will have to pass over the mountains of Isgaard with the route they are taking, which will not only tire their forces out but make it impossible to hold their lines.

It also makes sense to keep his and Merlin’s armies separated, not only because of the vastly different manners of fighting. Arthur’s part will be to take on Agravaine’s mercenaries, whereas the Escetirian troops will try to deal with the sorcerers of Morgause.

Both of their kingdoms will provide archers for the ridge over the mines of Chemary. If their plan works, they will flank the invading army from three sides, with the mountains offering a fourth, impenetrable one.

It is a good strategy, combined with the element of surprise they have on their side, but Arthur is still restless. The strain of the last few days is impossible to ignore; his muscles and lungs alike are refusing to obey his demands even if he could ignore the pain, and he knows, he knows that he will not be one of those who make it out alive.

He avoids Gaius as much as he can, but the occasional sight Arthur catches of him is still enough to make guilt burn beneath his skin.

If no one else, he should tell Morgana. He can feel her eyes following him through the camp, watching him as he talks to his knights and oversees the care of weapons and supplies.

He knows that she suspects something is wrong, that he owes her the truth. Faced with the inevitability of it, he can’t bring himself to do it. He has had it all planned out; she would return to Camelot, and he would hand her the decrees of succession and to lift the ban, the laws he had drawn up. He would have explained, with Merlin miles away in another kingdom. She would have raged at him and cursed his name, but it would not have been like this.

This is different, and whenever he thinks that now is the time, the words tie themselves up into a tight knot within his throat, and instead, he asks yet another question about her magic.

Maybe it will be better this way. She will return to Camelot, and it will be known, then, that she has a claim to the throne. Arthur’s death will be associated with the battle, and no one will question too much whether there had been a warlock involved, whether the legislations ready in his desk had been anything more than an idle plan of a king bored during the winter months.

It will be better this way, he tells himself, and he ignores Morgana’s sharp eyes, Merlin’s not so subtle glances, and Gaius’s wordless admonishments.

Another thousand men from Escetir arrive as Merlin has promised.

“I would’ve brought them from the start, but I thought an army of over a thousand men might have stopped even you from listening to me first,” he says, Aithusa back to resting on his shoulder.

It is difficult, this; talking to Merlin, the faint humour that occasionally sneaks into Merlin’s voice as if he, too, has trouble separating what they had at some point, and what they have come to.

“Of course, this wouldn’t be a problem—” Merlin starts, and Arthur tunes him out.

It has been like this a lot, Merlin coating his words with taunting dares and subtle insinuation, returning each and every insult Arthur had flung at him, all those months ago, one by one.

Arthur just misses the ease with which Merlin used to laugh, the way his eyes used to crinkle at the corners. He misses the time before he went and fucked it all up, before Merlin revealed his father’s plans in the worst way possible, and Arthur reacted even worse.

“Leon should be here tomorrow,” he says, and he hopes, hopes beyond anything, that it is true.

He cannot take all of this much longer.

Leon does, in fact, arrive late the next day with a thousand of Camelot’s men behind him.

It is, frankly, a miracle how he accomplished this on such short notice. War preparations take time, even if one keeps the supply chains as short as they are doing—the one advantage they have with the battle taking place within Camelot’s borders.

There is a certain satisfaction in seeing the numbers of blue and grey finally matched by red and gold. Arthur doesn’t think too much about why the sight of it, of their banners flying side by side, leaves something awfully close to contentment humming beneath his breastbone.

“If we ride at dawn, we will make it just in time, at least assuming that the recent snowfall will slow Agravaine and Morgause down, too,” Arthur says, that night in the tent they had set up for planning.

He is more grateful than he cares to admit that these meetings are no longer taking place between him and Merlin alone.

Morgana is there, as is the Escetirian delegation that had accompanied Merlin to Camelot. Leon and a few more of Arthur’s most trusted knights are there, too, all of them bowed over maps and magical replications of the ground they will have to weather, their troops indicated by countless sparks of light.

It is a far better method than the wooden blocks Arthur is used to, he has to admit—at least in the privacy of his own mind.

“If your troops approach from Isgaard in the east, and we do from Eorharm in the west, we should be able to kettle them in between the mountains and the mines of Chemary. With the archers hidden in the ridge, they won’t have a place to run,” Merlin says, his fingers tracing the lines on the map.

It makes sense to have Merlin’s forces coming from the western side, instead of from the east, close to Escetir’s border; it will make it clear to anyone that this is a joint effort between Camelot and Escetir.

“I still maintain that you should take at least some of our magic guard,” Iseldir says, frowning at Arthur.

They have been over this countless times. For all their planning, there is no way to tell where in the army Morgause’s sorcerers will be placed, and there remains a slim but dangerous chance that it will be on Arthur’s side.

Whenever he weighs it up against the unrest that a bunch of sorcerers might cause among his own knights, though, he knows that it would not do any good. His men aren’t used to fighting alongside magic, two decades of prejudice not that easily overcome.

“We’ll be fine. I trust that you will take care of it,” he says, meeting Merlin’s eyes briefly. He finds that he means it.

Chapter Text

The first frail threads of light are barely weaving across the horizon when they ride out. The freezing air is biting into Arthur’s skin and shuddering through his lungs, and he can’t help but glance at Merlin beside him, again and again.

There is a strange feeling to riding at the head of their armies as they leave the forest of Brechfa behind. The noise of two thousand men is loud across the still countryside, startling birds from the bare trees wherever they pass.

It is strange to have Merlin next to him, is the thing. They don’t speak as they ride, and Arthur is beyond grateful for it; he fears that if he opened his mouth, he might spill all those secrets that he had promised himself to take to his grave.

They follow the narrow border between Ascetir and Brechfa until the ridge of Chemary comes into view, and they call their armies to a halt.

Two scouts meet them as if on cue, one decked in blue and grey, the other in red and gold.

“Your Highness,” the Escetirian scout says, his shoulders straight despite the exhaustion he must feel. “Last we saw about an hour ago, the army was in the middle of the White Mountains. They were slow-moving, the lack of magic on part of the mercenaries hindering them.”

Merlin inclines his head, gesturing for the scout to join his men.

“As we thought, then,” Merlin says, glancing over at Arthur. “We’ll have to wait after we split.”

This is it, then, Arthur thinks, even as he fails to process the gravity of the moment. It all feels unreal, the idea of fighting his uncle, of this battle being his last.

“We’ll have to wait,” he agrees, turning his horse and giving the signal for his men to follow. This is what he is used to; to fight, to lead his men into battle. There is no room here for sentimental words, but somehow—

Somehow, he stops his horse all the same, turning back to Merlin. Their eyes meet, and Arthur bows his head if only to hide his expression. “Good luck, Merlin.”

He turns before he can see the reaction, but he thinks that he hears the sentiment echoed back at him.

It has to be enough.

Arthur gives his speech. He rallies his men. He ignores the lack of air within his lungs and raises his sword. The sound of horns is harsh against the winter silence as he charges, his horse restless beneath him.

At first, it is like any other battle. There is only the clang of steel, the collision of horses and bodies, of first screams and lines breaking, of blood drawn and adrenaline coursing through him.

Then the magic comes in a wave of blue and silver flooding the battlefield from the west, fantastic shudders wrecking the earth, static brimming in the air. There is fire, and thunder, and the scent of blood mixing with the one of charred earth.

Arthur does not allow himself to focus on it, shouting for his men to hold the formations even as his chest burns, as his voice cracks and scatters across the noise of the battlefield.

He gets pulled out of his saddle, and so he fights on foot. He loses sight of the formations, of the battle as a whole, meets steel with steel and thinks only of surviving.

It is ironic, in a way. He knows he will die, can feel it in the shortness of his breath, the trembling of his muscles, and the pain radiating from his core, but he does not stop.

He does not stop, fighting the mercenaries that wear no colours, the men who have no allegiance to anything but money. He searches for his uncle in the crowd, searches for black hair and grey eyes, and he finds blonde hair instead, furious brown eyes glaring back at him.

Morgause is excellent with a sword, but he meets her thrust for thrust, dodges and twists and thinks, in the end, that she is merely toying with him. She could kill him any time she likes, and he cannot tell whether it is mercy or cruelty that keeps her from doing so.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. Arthur’s days have always been numbered, and he might once have been the greatest swordsman and warrior in Albion, but none of it matters when his lungs refuse to draw another breath, when his muscles refuse to work.

The battlefield is a thundering, chaotic mess and the ground has gone soft, snow and ice melted away by the heat of bodies and things he would rather not think about. The sole of his boot slips, his footwork long since sloppy, and the impact knocks the little air that he had left out of him, pain flaring through him like a firestorm.

This is how it will end, and maybe there is justice in it, after all. Maybe Merlin had been wrong, and they are damned to pay for their fathers’ sins, in the end.

Morgause’s sword rests on his chest, and he stares up at her, something almost close to calm washing over him. If he had the strength left, he might have asked her to do it, if only to finally satisfy the thirst for revenge burning in her eyes.

She strikes, and her blade is met by another.

Arthur’s head jerks up and he meets Elyan’s eyes until Morgause pushes forwards, and Elyan matches her attack for attack.

Their swords cross, and she pushes back, her anger making her careless. Elyan’s eyes burn golden, and she drops her weapon as she is forced to her knees. The blade against the skin of her neck seems wrong, somehow.

“Yield or I will kill you,” Elyan says, his voice even. Morgause bares her teeth even as she kneels, even as her eyes turn gold and nothing happens. All Arthur can think is that, despite everything, Morgana will mourn her; the sister she has never known.

In the end, the cut is clean. Morgause’s body slumps as anyone else’s would, and the relief rattling through Arthur’s lungs leaves him dizzy.

Elyan turns, reaching out to pull Arthur up, and the world goes black around him.

Warmth is suffusing Arthur’s chest, smoothing away the burning ache that he has grown used to over the last two months. There is no scratching in his throat, no putrid-sweet taste on his tongue, and his limbs feel light.

The furs beneath him are soft, and there are no sounds except for the faint crackling of braziers and someone else’s breathing.

When he opens his eyes, Merlin is staring down at him from where he is sitting next to Arthur, his face all hard lines and furious eyes.

It all comes rushing back then; the battle, Morgause, Elyan. Merlin.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Merlin hisses, his voice brimming with barely constrained anger. “You could’ve died. Damn it, you almost did die.”

Dread is spreading through Arthur, but when he tries to sit up, dizziness washes through him, and Merlin makes a noise in the back of his throat that is almost a growl.

Arthur’s head takes a few moments to stop spinning. Once it finally does, he notices the warmth against his wrist and finds Merlin’s fingers curled around it. Someone must have taken off his gloves and his gauntlet.

Actually, his whole suit of armour is gone, and warmth is still brimming in his chest, familiar in a way that reminds him of—

“Arthur!” Merlin snaps, his fingers flexing against Arthur’s wrist. “Will you just—what were you even doing, riding into battle like that?”

He hasn’t been this comfortable and devoid of pain in ages, but he wants nothing more than to get away from Merlin, from the sinking suspicion that Merlin knows exactly what is happening to him.

“Merlin,” he says with a sigh, his voice surprisingly steady. “What are you doing here?”

The grip Merlin has on his wrist goes so tight that he can feel his bones shift, and he couldn’t pull away if he wanted to. Lifting his other hand, Merlin presses it against Arthur’s breastbone, the warmth growing stronger, spreading through his body like—

Like Arthur has felt only once before, tethered to the land and to Merlin, just before everything went to hell.

“I assumed you would’ve figured that out by now. I’m saving your stupid, ungrateful, ridiculous excuse of a life because you thought it was a good idea to charge into battle while your lungs were crumbling,” Merlin says, and his voice cracks, then. The impenetrable wall of anger splinters away to reveal what Arthur had almost convinced himself was nothing but a figment of his imagination.

He feels rooted to the spot, his heart thundering against his ribs. “Did Gaius tell you?”

Merlin’s brows furrow, his eyes searching Arthur’s face. “Yes; when Elyan got you away from the battlefield and called for me, you were barely breathing.”

“He was still under orders—”

“Well, and I ordered him to tell me. His sister is a queen too, you know, so he had to decide whether he wanted to deal with a stupid dollophead of a king, or with a furious sister and her son,” Merlin says, scowling. “He decided that telling me was the better choice, although it might have had more to do with how he wants to see you live, too.”

“What about the battle?” Arthur asks, if only to change the topic, and he already feels sluggish again. “Agravaine?”

Merlin’s lips purse, but for once he seems to decide not to be contrary. “We won. Agravaine was captured, I will tell you the details later—”

“I might not have a later, Merlin—”

“You will, you stubborn prat. I’m not going to let you die,” Merlin grinds out, and his voice takes on an edge again.

Arthur has the strangest urge to comfort him, to wipe the flickering fear from Merlin’s face and to ask what he is so afraid of. He pushes it down, ignores the longing for a time when things had been easier, and raises his brows. “Do you need to rub it in? Your magic will not keep me alive indefinitely; we both know that.”

“My magic—you,” Merlin says, and his fingers press more firmly against Arthur’s chest, making the warmth spread. “My magic won’t keep you alive indefinitely, but—but I can. How haven’t you understood that yet when I know you’re not actually as thick as you look?”

The meaning of it takes a moment to sink in, as if taking its time to carve itself into Arthur’s entire being, hollowing him out.

“You are not in love with me,” he spits out once he finds his voice, the words jagged and raw. “Don’t lie to me, Merlin. Not about this.”

“I’m not bloody lying to you; do you really think—”

The magic within Arthur roils and his lungs instantly protest. He is coughing before he can so much as process what Merlin is saying, and only Merlin’s hands helping him into a sitting position keep him from choking on nothing.

Irises; of course, why should he be allowed a last shred of dignity before all of this is over. Merlin stares down at the purple petals, his face a masquerade of grief and hope.

“Don’t lie to me,” Arthur repeats, finally pulling his wrist out of Merlin’s grip. “I’ve made my peace with it, and you owe me nothing. I didn’t—I wasn’t fair to you, when you told me, even though you really could’ve gone about it better, but it doesn’t change anything.”

He wants to say more, but spots are dancing in his vision. The last thing he sees before darkness claims him once more is Merlin staring down at him, his eyes dark and angry, and—at least in Arthur’s imagination—painfully hurt beneath it all.

When Arthur wakes the next time, the tent is dark except for a small ball of light hovering nearby. Merlin is still there, sitting in the exact same spot, his fingers curled around Arthur’s wrist once more.

“Have you nowhere else to be?” Arthur rasps out, only noticing when he does so how dry his throat is.

“No,” Merlin says, simple as that. He flicks his fingers and a goblet flies into his hand. “Here, drink.”

Arthur valiantly ignores the way Merlin steadies him as he sits up, the hand Merlin keeps at the back of his neck, and how he wants to do nothing more than to lean into it.

Once he is done drinking, Merlin shoves a pillow behind him, and Arthur mutters his thanks. He doesn’t meet Merlin’s eyes, and the silence is quickly threatening to become oppressive.

“Where are the others?” Arthur finally asks, if only to say something. He doesn’t exactly want to explain this to Morgana either, but anything has to be better than whatever is happening here.

“Kept out by a very strong magical barrier,” Merlin says with a shrug, as if he is talking about the weather.

Arthur instantly bristles. “You can’t just keep people away from me.”

“It’s not to keep them away from you. I simply don’t want to deal with everyone telling me that I should eat, or sleep, or whatever they consider more important right now.”

“I—what?” Arthur asks, finally lifting his gaze to Merlin’s face. The dark shadows beneath his eyes are unmistakable, his hair looks like even more of a mess than usual, and his clothes are rumpled and dirty. “Gods, you look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

“Three days, actually,” Merlin says, a faint smile curling his lips. “You’ve spent a lot of time asleep, but not that much.”

“I have—you—and you have been here? The whole time?” Arthur asks, and the mere idea makes it impossible to tamp down the sudden hope, to ignore the treacherous warmth spreading through him.

He remembers what Merlin had said, the last time Arthur was awake; or rather what he had implied, without so many words. Arthur remembers telling him not to lie, and he still doesn’t believe him, he doesn’t, but—

“I told you, I’m not going to let you die,” Merlin presses out, and his grip on Arthur’s wrist tightens. “If that means that I have to keep you alive with my magic alone until you believe me, then I will do that.”

“I really have been asleep for three days?” Arthur asks, and he knows that ignoring this, however misguided the attempt, is not going to solve any of it, but Arthur—he needs more time. He needs to build his defences back up, to remember why none of this is real. Why it cannot be.

“Yes, for most of it,” Merlin says, arching a brow. “You did almost die, as I think I have mentioned before. My magic might be powerful, but it can’t actually perform miracles.”

“Could have fooled me,” Arthur mutters, averting his eyes when the self-deprecating smile on Merlin’s face becomes too much to bear.

“Arthur—”

“Merlin, please.”

“No, Arthur, you are going to listen to me,” Merlin says, his voice taking on an almost frantic note. “Do you really think so little of me that you believe I would lie to you about something like this?”

He still does not want to look at Merlin, but he does so anyway, something forcing his eyes up, forcing his mouth to work before Arthur gives it permission to do so, an avalanche he cannot stop even if he wanted to. “I don’t think you are doing this for the fun of it, but I also know—I know that you could not live with yourself if you didn’t try to save me. You are so goddamn honourable and kind, and the irony is that that is what made me fall for you in the first place. It’s not even that I don’t understand, but I do know that this isn’t genuine, that it can’t be. Not after everything my family has done to you and your people, after everything I have said to you. I’d rather die than let you betray everything you believe in; let me at least keep this last bit of dignity.”

Merlin stares at him, the expression on his face indecipherable. “You really are a complete, utter idiot, aren’t you?”

Scowling, Arthur tries to pull his wrist out of Merlin’s grasp. “You don’t have to—”

“No, Arthur,” Merlin snaps, his eyes flashing. “Yes, your father was a horrible tyrant, but you are not him. It took me all of a week to figure that out. I still never planned to bloody fall for you, but I did so anyway, alright? Somewhere between you letting that family go after the attack and gifting me my crest without knowing what it was, between forcing me to learn how to defend myself with a sword and your absolute wonder for my magic, it just happened.”

“Merlin—”

“Shut up, it’s my turn now,” Merlin says, his voice almost a snarl. “I didn’t think it possible that you would ever feel the same, or at least I didn’t, for a while. Then I started to wonder, but there were still secrets I was keeping from you, secrets that weren’t even mine but that I knew would change everything. Why do you think I waited so long to tell you? You’ve met me; I have never had any trouble riling you up, so use that brain I know you have, and maybe ask yourself why I put telling you off for so long?”

Arthur ignores the growing hope and shakes his head. “Your whole kingdom was at stake; why would you have told me if you were set on convincing me that magic and sorcerers weren’t what my father made them out to be?” 

Merlin growls, running a hand through his hair harshly. His eyes roam across Arthur’s face before he dips his head and says, “I should have known, really.”

Despite how much Arthur had tried to prepare himself, his heart still sinks. “I told you—”

“No,” Merlin laughs, shaking his head as he meets Arthur’s eyes again. “I should have known that logic and reasoning wouldn’t get me anywhere with you. So how about this—Aithusa, the dragon bonded to me, adores you. She has done so ever since the attack in the forest. Not only that, but I also left her with you. One of the last two dragons in Albion—do you really think I would leave her with someone whom I didn’t trust with more than my own life?”

Arthur swallows, hope flaring up stronger, bright and warm. “You wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t,” Merlin agrees, his lips tilting up briefly before he sobers again. “Is it really so hard to believe that the weeks we’ve spent together, talking and training and trying to keep ourselves from getting killed, giving each other gifts and drinking too much wine—that all of that meant as much to me as it did to you?”

And the truth is, it isn’t that hard to believe. The truth is that, for all that Arthur has tried to keep any hope tightly locked away, his mind has been returning to the weeks they had spent together again and again, has run over the details and small moments of it, trying to convince him that there had been more to it, after all. He has always cut the chain of thought off, refusing to go there.

It is almost impossible now, with Merlin staring down at him with both determination and fear, as if he is still afraid that Arthur would deny him if it comes down to it.

“You still don’t believe me,” Merlin says, as if on cue. As if it isn’t about Arthur’s whole perspective rearranging itself but some kind of stubborn refusal. “The worst part is, I can’t even blame you, after—after everything. It’s ironic, how it is both of our fathers making this so goddamn complicated, isn’t it?”

Merlin sounds exhausted, and a little broken, too. Arthur hates it, hates it so much that his chest is burning with it, that he wants nothing more than to reach out and smooth the tension from the lines of Merlin’s face, to believe him.

The truth of the matter is, though, that Arthur is scared, plain and simple. He is terrified, down to the marrow of his bones, of allowing himself this kind of hope and having it crushed once more. He doesn’t think he could bear it, garden in his lungs or not.

“I want to,” he finally says, his voice breaking with the admission. “I want to believe you, but what if… gods, all I’ve been doing these past two months was to prepare for—for dying, and now you sit here and tell me that all of it was for nothing, that I wouldn’t have had to miss you, and it’s—I don’t know what to do with it.”

Merlin’s expression flickers as if Arthur’s words pain him, and he raises his free hand, the one not still curled around Arthur’s wrist as if he is scared of letting go. It hovers between them before Merlin’s fingertips come to rest on Arthur’s chest, barely touching.

“You do have a choice,” Merlin says, his voice strained.

“Between believing you or dying,” Arthur scoffs, and for all that he had tried convincing himself that he was ready, he still does not want to die. It isn’t about his kingdom, isn’t even about Morgana, or Gaius, or Merlin. He is barely twenty-two summers old, and the truth of the matter is that he does not want to die yet.

Merlin shakes his head. “No. You have a choice between believing or forgetting me. I know now; you can forget me, that we have ever met before, and I promise I will make sure that our kingdoms will be at peace. I promised that I will not let you die, so this is your choice. I agree to break the contract, and I’ll speak to Gaius and Morgana. You will forget all about me, and you will live, and nothing has to change.”

Arthur almost struggles to comprehend it, to wrap his head around the magnitude of what Merlin is offering him. His voice shakes when he says, “You can’t do that; without the contract, and without my memories of you, you don’t know what I will do to your kingdom.”

“I do know,” Merlin says, his eyes narrowing. “I’ve come to know you, Arthur, and whether you believe me or not, I know the kind of person you are. I know that you were raised to hate magic, and yet you were the only person to ever look at me without seeing my magic and my power first. I trust you, even if you do not trust me. If you cannot believe that I would not lie to you about my affections, at least trust that I would never put my people at risk.”

“You would really,” Arthur starts, but his voice falters. His mind is scrambling to put the pieces together, to make sense of this, but in the end—in the end, it really is as easy as it looks. “I don’t want to forget you.”

Merlin makes a noise in the back of his throat that is all frustration, and he presses his fingers against Arthur’s chest more firmly. It makes the magic flare, and it feels familiar—like home. “Arthur, there are only so many—”

“I don’t want to forget you,” Arthur repeats, and the certainty settles into the centre of his chest as if it has always belonged there. “It would be rather stupid of me, wouldn’t it, when I have what I want right here.”

For once, it is Merlin’s turn to gape at him, his whole body going curiously still. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

The doubt written all over Merlin’s face almost hurts more than all that Arthur has done to himself, recently. He twists his hand until he can wrap his fingers around Merlin’s wrist in return, tugging lightly. “I thought you liked me for my honesty, among other things?”

Merlin stays unmoving, his pulse drumming hummingbird-fast beneath Arthur’s fingertips, as if he had been certain that Arthur would choose to forget him.

Slowly, carefully, Arthur pushes himself up, ignoring the faint ache that echoes through his body. There is only little space left between them, and Merlin’s eyes are very, very blue in the dim light.

“I believe you,” Arthur says, his voice low. “Can you believe me, too?”

Merlin laughs, the sound erupting out of him as if he hasn’t expected it. “You’re an utter clotpole, and a prat, and I hate you more than I ever hated anyone. You just—”

Arthur can’t help his own laughter even as his eyes burn, and he leans forward until he can press his forehead against Merlin’s. He can’t tell whether he is the one trembling or if it is Merlin.

Merlin sobers, even though he doesn’t pull away. He moves his hand from Arthur’s chest to his neck, tangling his fingers into Arthur’s hair and sending a shiver down Arthur’s spine.

“If you change your mind,” Merlin says, the words slow and deliberate, “I will kill you myself.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Arthur breathes out, and then he finally, finally bridges the remaining space between them until he can brush his lips against Merlin’s, the barest of touch that he can still feel down to his toes.

He lets go of Merlin’s wrist and travels his hand up Merlin’s arm until he can curl it around Merlin’s neck, and he presses closer, his head spinning with Merlin’s warmth against him, the softness of his lips and the faint sound of their breathing. Merlin still smells like battle, but Arthur doesn’t care, doesn’t care about anything but this, Merlin’s fingers clenching into his back and his wrist, the rest of the world falling away.

It is far too soon when Arthur’s breath grows short, when his throat starts burning, and he pulls away reluctantly, keeping his eyes closed.

“How are you still here after I doubted you like this?” he asks, and despite everything, a part of him still fears the answer.

Merlin merely hums. “Well, I knew you could be rather stubborn, actually.”

“Did you, now?” Arthur asks, the concern seeping out of him as soon as it appeared.

“The fact that you tackled me after I pushed you into the mud with magic, instead of calling for your knights, might have been a clue.”

Arthur laughs, finally pulling away to meet Merlin’s eyes. “That was fifteen years ago.”

“I have a very good memory,” Merlin says, his lips pulling into a smirk.

“Not to disregard all the effort you have put into keeping me alive,” Arthur says after a pause, taking in the exhaustion in every line of Merlin’s face, “but you should sleep. You should probably eat something too, and order a bath, and—”

“Already trying to order me around, I see.”

“Just trying to take care of you,” Arthur shoots back, easily. “Also, trying to distract me won’t work. Seriously, Merlin, you need to sleep.”

The tension shooting into Merlin’s shoulders is unexpected, and Arthur frowns. “What?” he finally asks when Merlin stays stubbornly silent, digging his fingers slightly into Merlin’s neck.

A spark of fury reignites in Merlin’s eyes, and he clenches his jaw. “You almost died. Hell, if not for my magic, you might still die. I’m not going to leave you until—until I’m sure.”

Arthur wants to protest, but something stops him, makes him consider what he would do if their roles were reversed. He swallows, the magnitude of everything Merlin has done, of what Merlin had offered to do for him, still more than he can begin to comprehend.

“Stay here, then,” he says, shifting to make room on the furs. “Your magic isn’t going to stop working, just because you rest for a bit, right?”

Merlin considers him through narrowed eyes as if expecting some kind of trick. Arthur stares back at him steadily.

In the end, Merlin sighs, and with that the fight and every last ounce of energy seems to leave him in a rush. “You really do believe me? You’re not going to change your mind?”

“I’ve been told that I am rather stubborn, so no. I won’t change my mind, I promise. And to quote you back to yourself—if you do, I might actually kill you myself.”

Merlin laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “As if you would have a chance.”

Humming, Arthur moves to lie back down. The contentment washing through him when Merlin finally stretches out beside him, throwing an arm around Arthur’s middle, is so great that Arthur almost can’t believe that he ever doubted any of this.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Merlin murmurs into Arthur’s shoulder, his voice already drowsy. “Now that you finally believe me, you will heal by yourself, too.”

It is obvious that it isn’t directed all that much at Arthur, but he vows then, right there in the secluded tent in a camp he doesn’t even know the location of, that he will do everything in his power to never worry Merlin like this again.

After that, Arthur’s recovery becomes far more of a public spectacle.

He finally convinces Merlin to find a bath, food, and fresh clothes, and is, in turn, instantly accosted by the people who want to see him.

Morgana shouts at him for an hour before she finally hugs him, uttering threats and exclamations of relief alike. Gaius visits, too, apologising for telling Merlin about Arthur’s affliction while his eyebrow is a study in, I told you so.

Arthur can’t even bring himself to mind, either Morgana or Gaius, or that his recovery is slow-going. As of now, Merlin’s magic is still supporting his lungs, even though the Hanahaki seems to lessen with each passing day, evident in how the rare coughing fit now brings up fewer and fewer flowers.

A visitor that Arthur did not expect is Elyan. He slips into Arthur’s tent one afternoon, only moments after Merlin has left.

“Your Majesty,” Elyan greets him, and he takes one of the chairs beside Arthur’s pallet without waiting for an invitation. “I hope you are getting better?”

Arthur doesn’t bother tamping down the amusement that he is sure must show on his face. “I’m getting there, thank you. I do have to thank you for that, though.”

“Merlin wouldn’t have taken it well if you had died,” Elyan says with a shrug. “It was just lucky that I was in the right place, at the right time.”

Arthur inclines his head, not certain why Elyan has come here. “I didn’t know that you have magic, too.”

Elyan smiles, the faintest hint of bitterness to it. “There is a reason why I left Camelot when I was barely fourteen summers old.”

Familiar guilt washes through Arthur. “I’m sorry. I should have—”

“Uther was still the king, at the time,” Elyan cuts him off, shaking his head. “I’m not telling you this to blame you; no one knew, at the time, not even Gwen. She didn’t understand until recently why I left.”

“Then why are you telling me?” Arthur asks mildly, some of the tension easing out of him.

Elyan smiles at him, and it’s all edges. “When I left Camelot, I travelled for a long time. I met Gwaine eventually, and we travelled together. Gwaine doesn’t have magic, but he never judged me for it. He eventually took me to Escetir, and I found a home there, a place where I could learn, where I could be myself. Not unlike Morgana, I suppose.”

Arthur gives a slow nod, still not certain where this is going.

“Merlin came across us one day, as I was practising my magic. For some reason, he decided to take us in. He has a habit of collecting strays, and I owe him more than I could ever say,” Elyan goes on, fondness creeping into his tone. “What I mean to say, though—in all the years I have known him, I have never seen him as frantic and out of sorts as these last few days. I might have saved your life, and I might not be Albion’s greatest sorcerer. I might not care what your father has done before you, or even what your kingdom comes to. But if you hurt him, I swear that I will find you, and I will make you pay, no matter what Merlin’s too soft heart has to say about it.”

Even if Arthur had an answer to this, Elyan allows him no time to give it. He rises from the chair, nodding once at Arthur in a poor imitation of a bow, and walks back out of the tent.

In between all of it, Merlin is there whenever he isn’t busy with the clean-up that inevitably follows after a battle. After almost two weeks, their troops have returned to their respective kingdoms, and Arthur finally has enough of his strength back, so they will finally be able to break up the rest of their camp the next morning.

“You know, you don’t have to come back with me, right?” Arthur says, his fingers running absently through Merlin’s hair where he is lying with his head in Arthur’s lap. He is conjuring aimless lights in front of him, and his expression is more peaceful than Arthur can ever remember seeing.

He stops at Arthur’s words, glancing up at him. “Don’t be stupid; you are barely fit to ride. I’m not going to leave you when you might relapse.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, tugging lightly at Merlin’s hair. “Gaius said it was fine. As long as I—”

“Yes, and if I’m not there, you might actually stop believing me again, and then you’ll go on convincing yourself once more that you shouldn’t tell me. I’m coming with you; just try to stop me.”

The affection in Arthur’s chest is so massive, he almost fears it might be what he will choke on, in the end. “I just don’t want you to do something you don’t want to do.”

“Have you ever known me to do anything I don’t want to do?” Merlin asks, arching a brow. The lights above him swirl and twist, colours so bright they are almost dizzying.

Arthur smiles, tracing his finger over the bow of Merlin’s brows and down his nose. “Well, I do remember that you were ready to marry me despite your claim that you would rather fight a horde of Wilddeoren.”

“That doesn’t sound like me,” Merlin says, his eyes bright. “Must have been some other prince.”

“Must have been,” Arthur agrees, and his heart feels too big for his chest. To think that he had almost given up on this—

“You still wear it,” Merlin murmurs, his hand coming up to wrap around the dragon tooth. “I didn’t think you would, but I saw it when I took your armour off.”

“I didn’t, for a while... But it felt wrong, not to.”

It sounds stupid even to his own ears, but Merlin merely smiles. He pulls back the sleeve of his tunic, revealing the leather bracelet he has worn ever since Arthur had met him. The silver pendant of a bursting star dangles from it, a dragon engraved into the centre of it.

Before Arthur can even try to find his voice, Merlin taps the necklace again, a crease forming between his brows. “I can change it if you want. You probably aren’t exactly keen on the symbolism of flowers, after everything.”

Arthur considers it; he certainly has lost some if not most of his fondness for flowers over the last two months, but the idea of Merlin changing the necklace still doesn’t sit right with him.

“Leave it,” he says, his voice coming out softer than he intended. He catches Merlin’s hand in his, threading their fingers together. “I like the memory of it.”

Merlin smiles, and Arthur can do nothing but duck his head to kiss it off Merlin’s face until they are both laughing with it.

Returning to Camelot, almost two weeks after the battle, is a little like stepping back into reality.

Their arrival must have been anticipated because people are lining the streets, their faces a mix of joy and relief. It reminds Arthur why he loves his kingdom so, why he had been ready to die for them.

Merlin watches with a small smile that Arthur has trouble tearing his eyes away from. Once they dismount, though, Merlin manoeuvers them into the castle, somehow sidestepping nobles that Arthur hasn’t successfully avoided since he had been ten summers old.

“Are you sure that you want to do this right now?” Merlin asks once they reach the doors to the council chambers. “Agravaine is under magical guard, you could rest—”

“Merlin,” Arthur interrupts, biting down on a laugh. “I’m fine; stop fussing.”

“Yes, well, you almost weren’t,” Merlin mutters, his voice so low that Arthur almost misses it.

He steps closer, curling his fingers around Merlin’s wrist until he can feel the pulse thrumming there against his skin. “I am now, though, thanks to you. I just want to get this over with, and not have it at the back of my mind for yet another day.”

And maybe it should be weird, he thinks, how easy just being with Merlin is. It is not, though; over the last ten days, Merlin has slipped so seamlessly into all the nooks and crevices Arthur has guarded against anyone, for as long as he can remember, that it almost feels as if it has always been like this.

Merlin sighs, but the reluctance in his eyes gives way to understanding. “Alright. But if you struggle to breathe, or—”

“I’ll tell you. I promise.”

“You better,” Merlin murmurs, brushing his lips against Arthur’s temple before pulling away. “Come on then.”

There are only a handful of Arthur’s closest knights and advisors waiting for them when they enter the council chambers, none who had been close to Uther.

“Your Majesty, your Highness,” Sir Yusek says, bowing as the others in attendance follow suit.

Sir Yusek had become a knight under Arthur’s father, but he had avoided raids of Druid camps and homes of suspected sorcerers one too many times. He owns the estate of Daobeth, though, and was too important to dismiss from the court, but Uther had assigned him to lower guard duties for years.

Arthur plans to involve him far more if he is willing. His request for Sir Yusek to be here right now is one of his first steps in that direction.

“My Lords, my Lady,” Arthur greets, gesturing for them to sit before settling down at the head of the table with Merlin to his right. “Report, please.”

He listens as he is given a brief rundown of the last two weeks. There is little of importance; the army had returned without problems, and while there had been tense anticipation among both the council and the people about Arthur’s delayed return, it hasn’t come to unrest or other problems.

“Of course,” Lady Avela says, her sharp grey eyes considering Arthur, “the rumour of your uncle being imprisoned is all over the castle. As is the story that your Majesty has been hurt in battle, and…” she falters, her eyes flickering around the table.

Discomfort spreads through the room within seconds, and Arthur raises his brows. “And what?”

“And that it is solely thanks to Prince Merlin that you survived, my Lord,” Lady Avela finishes, her shoulders straightening. She hadn’t held an important position in Uther’s court either, too ready to disagree with him. Arthur has always liked that about her.

“Well, both of those rumours are true,” Arthur says, and he should probably not enjoy the distinct shock on everyone’s faces this much. “Has Agravaine confessed yet?”

“No, my Lord,” Sir Yusek says, his expression transforming with obvious disdain. “He insists that he would only speak to you.”

Arthur expected nothing less, and he knows, too, that he has to make at least one attempt to speak to his uncle before he can hope to move on from the whole ordeal.

“Then I will speak to him.”

“Your Majesty,” Sir Yusek starts, but he falls quiet again when Merlin shifts beside Arthur.

“I'll go with him,” Merlin says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

There is a pause during which everyone seems to wait for Arthur to protest, but he simply rises from his chair. “I suppose it is best to get this over with. Schedule the trial for tomorrow; I suspect the people are nervous to see justice, even if the battle has not reached their home.”

He barely waits to hear their agreement before he walks out of the council chambers again, Merlin falling into step beside him.

“Arthur—”

“If you’re about to ask me again whether I’m fine, I will have to take drastic measures,” Arthur says, smirking slightly at Merlin with a bravado he doesn’t quite feel.

Merlin rolls his eyes, but he bites his lips before he speaks. “To be fair, I mean it more in regard to Agravaine than to your health, this time.”

“Well, I will be once—I haven’t spoken to him since…” he trails off but shakes himself before the disbelief can make itself a home on Merlin’s face. “Either way, I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea of you using a truth spell at the trial, if it becomes necessary.”

Merlin turns, walking backwards so that he can face Arthur. A small smile is gracing his features, and he says, “Is that so? And whatever would I do if I were to be discovered?”

Arthur grins back, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. He couldn’t put his gratitude, for how Merlin seems to pick up on his reluctance to speak about this right now, into words even if he tried.

“I think I might just know the person who could write you a pardon if it came to that,” he says, grabbing Merlin’s arm before he can run into a servant.

“Do you, now?” Merlin teases, his smile sheepish. “Well, if it’s like that, I guess I can be convinced.”

They reach the staircase that leads down to the dungeons, and any humour deserts Arthur.

The guards nod silently as they pass, and the dungeons are empty except for the last cell, one built specifically to hold sorcerers.

There is a certain irony to standing side by side with Merlin, of all people, on one side of the bars, as Agravaine rises from his cot as if he is about to receive guests of lesser standing than himself.

It shouldn’t be this, of all things, that makes Arthur’s stomach twist with anger, but the sheer arrogance of it is almost unbearable.

“Ah, nephew, how kind of you to come,” Agravaine says, his voice smooth. “There has been a misunderstanding, but your knights have been rather remiss—”

“And what misunderstanding would that be, Lord Agravaine?” Merlin cuts in, his voice deceptively calm. “Is it about the various assassination attempts on your nephew over the last few months or the battle of Isgaard? Or maybe about your alliance with the sorceress Morgause? Or, after all, solely about how you were never aiming for both Camelot’s and Escetir’s thrones, but merely one of them?”

For the first time since they have arrived, Agravaine takes his eyes off Arthur. It is clear that he does not recognise Merlin, his lips stretching into a sneer. “I don't know how that would be of any concern to you.”

Merlin’s smile unfurls slowly, all sharp edges. “How remiss of me not to introduce myself; I am Prince Merlin of Escetir. I assume Morgause would have told you about me.”

Agravaine goes pale, taking a step away from the bars, and it is almost satisfying to watch the realisation, of just how far into a corner he has been backed into, sink in.

“I don’t think there has been a misunderstanding, uncle,” Arthur says, his voice steadier than he feels. “In fact, we have enough evidence to prove that it was not. The only thing I want to know is—why? What have I ever done to you?”

“You are just like your father,” Agravaine snarls, his expression transforming into something poisonous so quickly, it is almost jarring. “The prince’s presence only proves it all over—you use magic when it suits your needs, and tomorrow you will cast him out again. But you have done that once already, haven’t you? The goddess knows why he is still here.”

The words try their hardest to twist their way beneath Arthur’s skin, but Merlin’s arm is warm against his own, and he breathes through the sting of them. “Is that why you did it? To get revenge on a man who died almost a year ago?”

“No good will come upon this land for as long as the name of Pendragon sullies it,” Agravaine spits, and the colour is growing in his cheeks, leaving them blotchy. “She was my sister, and he killed her for a son that desecrates her memory just like his father did. He had to die, and he did; you and your kingdom might have believed that it was nothing but an unlucky ambush, but it was me. It was me, finally avenging her, and I would have killed you too if not for the pet sorcerer you have acquired.”

“That's enough,” Merlin says, taking a step forward as if to shield Arthur. “Do you know who you are speaking to? I understand your hatred for Uther Pendragon, but what is one sister against thousands of innocents, against families and children, against fathers and mothers and siblings? How dare you claim an aim for justice when it is nothing but pitiful revenge that has led your hand? You, Lord Agravaine, are nothing but a speck of dust in a world that has never once cared for you, and if you dare claim the right to judge once more, I will claim mine to avenge the lives of my men that you have killed. I promise that it will be far less pretty than the trial Arthur will give you.”

Arthur watches silently as the fight drains out of Agravaine as if Merlin has cast a spell. There is still disdain, stark and bitter in the lines of Agravaine’s face, but his uncle has always been, above all else, a rational man. He knows a lost battle when he sees it.

He turns to Arthur instead, rearranging his expression into something that is probably supposed to look pitiful. “You cannot mean this, Arthur; I am your last remaining family, the only one you have left—”

“Morgana is my last remaining family,” he interrupts, and even as his voice comes out hard, the truth of it is as painful as it is comforting. “I think her companionship will serve me far better than that of the man who has just admitted to killing my father.”

“Arthur, you can’t…” Agravaine starts, a pleading note creeping into his tone.

Arthur raises his hand. “Enough. Your trial will be held tomorrow. We are finished here.”

The silence stretches, but Agravaine does not speak again, his expression warring between pride and fear.

“Come on,” Merlin says eventually, his fingers curling around Arthur’s wrist. “Let’s get out of here.”

Arthur swallows and turns, but he stops once more at the door. Glancing back at Agravaine, he says, “I like to believe that I am more like my mother, actually; loving magic for the sake of it, not for what it can do for me. Unlike you, I might say.”

Arthur’s chambers are blissfully quiet, a fire crackling in the hearth. He is lying with his head in Merlin’s lap, and it almost feels surreal to be here like this, after everything.

Merlin is running his fingers through Arthur’s hair in slow, absentminded motions while Aithusa is curled up against Arthur’s side. It is peaceful, but Arthur’s mind still is a tangled mess, a cacophony of questions about what he could have done differently. If he could have done anything differently at all.

“Morgause and I grew up together,” Merlin says, the movements of his fingers through Arthur’s hair not faltering. “She was Nimueh’s ward, and Nimueh taught us both.”

There is grief in Merlin’s voice, stark and clear, and Arthur blinks up at him in a hopeless attempt to gauge why Merlin is telling him this.

Merlin merely smiles, a small, bitter thing that Arthur wants to smooth away. “We had the same tutors, and grew up in the same castle. I knew her, and she knew me. In the end, she still launched an army against my kingdom.”

A lump forms in Arthur’s throat, and he reaches up to press his hand against Merlin’s chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Sometimes—I think sometimes, it has nothing to do with us. Morgause had lost her parents, while I had not. I don’t presume to understand what it must have been like for her, even when she had everything in Escetir that she could have wanted. In the end, revenge was still more important to her, and there's nothing I could have done to change her mind.”

There is an ocean of grief washing across Merlin’s face, and Arthur forces himself into a sitting position, turning so that they are facing each other. “I’m sorry; I didn’t know—”

“I’m not telling you so that you can pity me,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “What I’m trying to say is… it doesn’t matter all that much if you share blood or a childhood with someone. Sometimes, their own darkness is larger than any light you can shine on them, and it has nothing to do with you, with what you did or didn’t do. All you can hope for is that they won’t drag you down with them, as painful as it is to let them go.”

Arthur dips his head. “I just… I don’t understand how he could have done this. I loved my father, I did; I would be a fool to deny it, but maybe I can understand why Agravaine would have wanted him dead. But me? Am I not his sister’s son, too?”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, his fingers slipping between Arthur’s own. “It's not about who or what you are, but what some people choose to see. Morgause grew up safe and loved, my parents treating her as if she were my sister. There are still signs… rumours, pointing towards her involvement in my father’s death. The second spell I learnt was to make a crown for her; one out of sticks and dried leaves, granted, but I wanted to crown her princess alongside me. She still wanted to kill me; do you think that is because of something I did?”

“I—no, of course—”

“Because I did,” Merlin goes on, his voice growing heavy. “I have asked myself a thousand times what I could have done differently, and there certainly are a few things. But ultimately, everyone makes their own choices, and, frankly, your uncle is a bastard. If he cannot see you for anything but your father’s son, that is his problem, not yours. I have it on good authority that you are nothing like Uther Pendragon.”

Arthur almost chokes on the fragile laughter spilling out of him, and he leans forward until he can rest his head on Merlin’s shoulder. “I never knew you were so wise.”

“I have my moments,” Merlin says, his hand coming to rest on Arthur’s neck, warm and solid.

They stay like this, the noise of the castle trickling faintly into the room but otherwise left alone and uninterrupted. Arthur could stay here forever, with his nose pressed to Merlin’s throat and the world nothing but a distant, almost unreal concept that does not demand anything of them.

It is not how their lives tend to be like, though, and eventually, he pulls back to meet Merlin’s eyes. “What are we going to do? You cannot stay here for good; in two months, you will be king, too.”

Merlin huffs, somehow both amused and exasperated. “Do you really want to talk about this now?”

“Yes,” Arthur says, with more vehemence than he expected. “The sooner we plan for it, the easier it will be.”  

Merlin tilts his head. “Okay. And I assume that you have already thought about this too, haven’t you?”

Discomfort is doing its best to crawl up Arthur’s spine and stall his words, but he ignores it. The fact that they are here at all is so improbable in itself, he isn’t going to bother with fear any longer. “Do you know what Geoffrey said to me when he found the contract?”

“No, I can’t say that I do.”

Arthur smiles, tentative excitement coalescing into his nervousness. “Once, many years ago, there was no border between what we call Camelot and Escetir today.”

Merlin stares at him, his lips parted slightly. “You cannot be serious.”

“My answer was about the same,” Arthur says, playing with Merlin’s fingers. “But is it really so absurd? We are destined to unite Albion; why shouldn't we start with our own kingdoms?”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, but his disbelief is slowly giving way to contemplation. “It would send the other kingdoms into a frenzy.”

“And what are they supposed to do? With our armies combined, they would have no chance to defeat us, and they would know it, too.”

“Where would we even rule from?” Merlin laughs, but it is unsteady, his eyes shining bright. “Camelot would never accept its king living in Kallis, and vice versa.”

It is almost too easy, Arthur thinks, to offer all the answers, to have the image of a future he had never dared to dream of unfold within his mind. “So we will build a seat of governance in the centre; where did you say your parents met? In Ealdor, close to the border? Let’s build a fortress there. Or we can find something more symbolic—something between Isgaard and Kallis, where the battle took place. There are a lot of abandoned castles in the area that we could restore.”

“You're serious about this,” Merlin says, as if he still cannot believe it. He touches Arthur’s jaw, his fingers trailing across the stubble there. “You really want to do this.”

“Did you doubt me?” Arthur asks, and while his voice comes out teasing, the idea that Merlin could see this as something less than it is, is almost physically painful. “I did not cough up flowers for months, for you to think that this is some kind of game to me.”

“No,” Merlin says, his voice going soft. “No, I don't think that you are toying with me. I merely want to know—your kingdom still outlaws magic, Arthur. And I will break the contract with you, if only to prove to you that I am with you because I want to, but… how is this going to work?”

Arthur knows that Merlin has a point. He tips his head forward until their foreheads are pressed together, breathing for a few moments before he smiles and says, “Actually, I have just the plan.”

Agravaine’s trial had been a relatively quick affair with all the evidence they had already gathered, and Merlin casting a truth spell as promised. The only new piece of information was that Lord Maylor had been bribed by Agravaine to report on the happenings while Merlin had been in Camelot the first time and to try fomenting dissent in Camelot’s court against Escetir.

As it turns out, Lord Maylor has not been seen in days, but Arthur is confident that they will find him eventually. On his own, he doesn’t pose a threat anyway.

Arthur is not looking forward to attending Agravaine’s execution, but for now, he puts it out of his mind.

The throne room is still filled with people when Agravaine is led out, and Arthur rises from his throne, Merlin coming to stand beside him.

“People of Camelot,” Arthur says, drawing everyone’s attention back to him. “As you have heard over the last hour, the most recent attack against our kingdom has come from within, and it has failed. We have to thank both our own men and Escetir for that.”

The story has spread by now, the Escetirian prince who came to support Camelot's army against the usurpers, and who, together with his knight, had saved Arthur’s life. It is evident in the way people look at Merlin, a spark of pride and admiration in place of the previous distrust and wariness. Arthur doesn't even mind the insinuation that he needed saving, in this particular case.

“As you all know, there exists a marriage contract between Prince Merlin and me,” Arthur goes on. “We have decided to break this contract, by mutual agreement.”

A gasp travels through the crowd, and Arthur raises a hand to stop people from talking. “This is not to say that there might not be an eventual marriage between us, but if there is, it will be because we choose it. We do plan to rule our kingdoms together, although we are still working on the finer points of how to achieve that.”

They had discussed it late into the night, how they would ask Morgana and Hunith to stay in Camelot and Kallis to oversee things, while they would build their future home and centre of power somewhere in the middle. How they would combine their crests, keeping Merlin’s bursting star and Camelot’s dragon, with a combination of their colours. Neither kingdom needs to know this quite yet, though.

Arthur clears his throat, letting his gaze travel through the throne room, over his own and Merlin’s knights, over Morgana, Gwen, and Gaius. “As of now, the most important announcement I have for you is this: as both a sign of my trust and because it has been long since overdue, the ban on magic will be lifted. We will implement laws that will be proclaimed as soon as possible, but from this day forward, magic is no longer outlawed in Camelot.”

Noise erupts all throughout the hall, but it is far less in shock than Arthur had feared. The air is brimming with excitement, and Arthur smiles when Merlin steps closer to him, slipping his hand into Arthur’s.

Merlin lifts his free hand and conjures up a small dragon that takes flight, among cheers and whistles that, while still coming mostly from the corner housing Gwaine, Lancelot, Elyan, Gwen, and Morgana, catch on across the throne room.

And maybe, Arthur thinks as he watches the delight and happiness on Merlin’s face, he understands, after all, why one man would conquer a whole kingdom for Merlin.

If Arthur is honest with himself, even laying all of Albion at Merlin’s feet is still less than he deserves.

*

It was so simple. If you want it, I will do it. If it would make you happy, I will go with you. Is there a moment that a heart cracks?

Madeline Miller - Circe

*

—The End