Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Something lurked in the forest. Merlin could feel it like an undercurrent of magic, crackling beneath his skin. He jolted at every snapped twig, every rustle in the undergrowth, every sharp noise. Any moment now, something was about to happen. Merlin just couldn’t quite put his finger on what it might be.

Each attempt to fall back behind the knights and use magic to peer ahead had proved fruitless because inevitably, Arthur would call his name, and the knights would part to usher him to the front once more.

“What’s got your undergarments in a twist?” Arthur quipped as Merlin drew his horse alongside him.

In truth, it was the fact that after too many months cooped up in the castle over the long winter, Arthur had insisted on joining his knights on patrol. “It’ll be just like the old days,” Arthur had told Merlin as he packed for his king. While Arthur had clearly intended that to be reassuring, Merlin had reminded him that while the “old days” had their moments, they had often involved bandits and near-fatal injuries and the overgrown rodents with a fondness for human flesh. None of that had dissuaded Arthur.

“Nothing.” Merlin studied the clump of mane in front of his saddle and ignored the weight of Arthur’s inquisitive gaze.

“C’mon, then, what is it?” The light, joking tone had dissolved into something that vaguely resembled concern, but Merlin ignored it. “It’s just a standard patrol, what could possibly go wrong?”

Merlin inhaled sharply and twisted in the saddle to glare at his king. “You did not just say that.”

“Say what?”

“You said that and now everything that could possibly ever go wrong most definitely will.” The undercurrent of magic swirled around him as the horses forged on, and Merlin couldn’t shake the feeling that Arthur had just solidified some horrible fate.

“I didn’t realize you were so superstitious,” Arthur said, clearly unbothered.

“I’m not superstitious. You’re just an arrogant prat.”

Not even the insult ruffled Arthur’s feathers. His soft smile was unwavering, and Merlin briefly felt guilty for trying to dissuade his king from this trip. While it was unnecessary, clearly the fresh air and change of scenery had done wonders for his constitution. His expression had been drawn for weeks. If it wasn’t for his bad feeling, this might have been a pleasant outing.

“For the last time, Merlin, you cannot call your king a prat.”

“Oh, sorry, you’re an arrogant prat, my lord.”

Despite the threatening glare in Arthur’s eyes, the edges of his lips curved up in amusement. But his retort never came. Leaves crunched just off the path, and Arthur raised a hand, signaling the knights to halt.

The crackling sensation intensified beneath Merlin’s skin.

Saxons charged from the trees—at least a dozen of them. The knights dismounted and drew their swords.

Merlin followed suit, but his attention wasn’t on their attackers. It was on the whispers emanating from behind a nearby tree, carried on the gentle breeze over the clanging blades.

Whispers of magic.

“Merlin!” Arthur hauled him down as a sword swung right where his torso had been moments before.

Arthur dug his sword into the Saxon’s side, piercing through thick leather armor. Merlin braced himself against the tree roots, but he was still too exposed. He needed to find a better hiding spot so he could help in the skirmish.

“Don’t say it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” Merlin called even though he very much had every intention of reminding him the whole way home that Arthur had practically asked for this.

From his vantage point, Merlin redirected a sword meant for Arthur’s thigh, heated a thin dagger aimed at Gwaine’s torso, and tugged a tree branch low enough to yank an incoming Saxon off his horse.

He’d almost forgotten about the whispers until the crackling beneath his skin shifted, all of the energy taking root in his core. Tension banded around his middle and squeezed. Merlin’s breath became shallow as his lungs refused to expand. And he wasn’t the only one affected.

To his horror, Arthur’s breath came more heavily, too. He barely managed to fend off his opponent’s next move, and Percival had to step in to cut him down on Arthur’s behalf. The rest of the knights seemed unaffected, which meant this wasn’t a general spell.

This complex and powerful spell was meant exclusively for Merlin and Arthur.

Dizziness swept through Merlin, and he slumped back against the inclined earth behind him. Arthur stumbled two steps toward him before falling to his knees. Merlin tried to reach for him, but the band of tension restricted his movement. His arms were practically leadened.

Arthur thudded to the forest floor, his face buried in the dirt, his outstretched hand a few inches from Merlin’s chest.

Through heavily lidded eyes, Merlin watched Morgana step out from behind the tree. Her dark hair frizzy and tangled. Her gown hung in shredded tatters and dirt smudged her pale skin. A stark reminder that she had once been quite beautiful. Before anger had burrowed into her heart and driven out any semblance of kindness. Before her malice became unyielding. Shadows rimmed her feral eyes that glowed golden.

Panic skittered up Merlin’s spine, but that band of tension was absolute. He couldn’t even reach for his magic. It took all of his energy not to slip into the grips of unconsciousness.

He willed himself to move, to get Arthur to safety, but he could only lie still, wholly incapacitated, as Morgana loomed closer.

Merlin struggled to rise, to speak, to catch the attention of the knights currently engaged with their own opponents.

As the gold faded from her eyes, the taut band around Merlin’s chest eased. His breathe came a little easier, but whatever had taken root at the center of his chest remained. His body still refused to listen, his magic fluttering just out of reach.

Morgana unsheathed a blade, but her sights weren’t trained on Arthur—she was focused solely on Merlin himself. She stalked closer and raised her sword.

Merlin tried to scramble away, but his arms gave way before he could so much as prop them beneath his body.

With her cracked lips drawn into a smirk, Morgana brought her blade down.

He shut his eyes and braced for the impact—but it never came. No sharp piercing, no warm gurgle of blood. Just the metallic clang of an intercepting blade. He cracked his eyes open to find Lancelot driving Morgana back and calling to the other knights for reinforcements. All of them rushed to Morgana, blades glinting in the sunlight even as they dripped with the blood of their enemies.

Lancelot grasped Merlin beneath his arms while Leon did the same for Arthur. Together, they hauled them both to the outskirts of the battle.

“Are you all right?” Lancelot asked, but Merlin wasn’t sure.

He grappled for his magic, and this time, energy flooded through his veins with a familiar humming warmth.

Morgana flung Gwaine back, spurring Leon to rejoin the rest of the knights, but Lancelot didn’t leave Merlin’s side.

“Go, I’m fine,” Merlin assured him. Lancelot spared a glance at Arthur, and Merlin shifted closer to his king. “I’ll protect him.”

Lancelot nodded and dove into the midst of the fray. The pure chaos of blades and glinting chainmail kept Morgana away from Merlin and Arthur.

Merlin shook Arthur’s shoulder, and his head lulled, still deep in the grips of unconsciousness. He could only hope his king would remain that way for a few more minutes. He muttered ancient words under his breath, each syllable heavy with power.

The spell blasted Morgana back, slamming her into the nearest tree with a resounding crack. She crumbled to the ground. The last remaining Saxons ran to collect her, retreating into the forest.

Arthur stirred, his groan guttural and teeming with pain. Before Merlin could sit back, give him space, Arthur grasped his shoulder.

“Merlin?”

“I’m here, sire.” Merlin resisted the urge to reach up and cover Arthur’s hand with his own.

“What happened?”

Before Merlin could answer, the knights surrounded them, sheathing their swords. Blood stained Gwaine’s long hair and Percival sported a long gash across his calf. They leaned on each other as the rest rounded up the horses.

“Morgana ambushed us,” Leon said bitterly.

Elyan offered Arthur his hand, and the warmth left Merlin’s shoulder as he accepted it and let the knight haul him to his feet. Lancelot didn’t even ask. He merely gripped Merlin below the elbow, but when he tried to release him, the world swam and his knees threatened to buckle. Merlin sagged against his friend.

“Morgana?” Arthur asked, almost belatedly, as if maybe he’d fought off a bout of dizziness, too. “Where is she?”

“The Saxons took her,” Merlin said.

Arthur exhaled long and frustrated, and Merlin couldn’t bring himself to tease him with an “I told you so.” Merlin had always considered Morgana a dark storm cloud gathering on the horizon that would inevitably strike again. He should have known the moment that he felt that crackling beneath his skin that it was Morgana. That she had been the bolt of lightning poised to strike when they least expected it. 

As they remounted their horses and followed the worn, familiar path to Camelot, Merlin didn’t bother straying from Arthur’s side.

At Leon’s encouragement, they spurred the horses into a steady canter. Merlin usually loved these moments of stillness with only the resounding rhythm of hooves along the packed dirt that quieted his thoughts.

Today, not even that could hope to quell his turbulent thoughts, the endless theories that sprang to mind. As far as Merlin could tell, nothing was wrong with any of them beyond minor physical wounds. No one so much as behaved out of character.

By the time they finally slowed the horses to a walk, Merlin still had no answers.

“What I don’t understand was what she was after,” Arthur said in the quiet voice that Merlin had come to recognize as him thinking aloud, hoping to bait an answer from one of them without posing a direct question.

Merlin wished he could tell him what he’d felt, the whispers of magic. He resolved that he would tell his king as soon as he had a better idea of the nature of her spell.

“If it was an attempt on my life,” Arthur continued, “it was a poor one.”

Lancelot cleared his throat. “Sire, with all due respect, the attack wasn’t an attempt on your life.”

Arthur cocked his head at Lancelot. “Are you defending her?”

“No, my lord. It’s just—”

“What, Lancelot?”

The knight straightened in the saddle. “She had every opportunity to run you through easily enough, but it wasn’t you she tried to kill, sire.”

Arthur furrowed his brow. “Well, who was it, then?”

Lancelot didn’t answer, only flicked his gaze toward Merlin, and Arthur followed the motion.

“Merlin?” His incredulity lent itself to a half-laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

Arthur studied Lancelot and his unwavering expression. The glimpse of mirth was replaced with a solemn nod as Arthur accepted this as truth and turned to Merlin. Although he remained silent, his gaze spoke volumes. Merlin could almost feel the nauseating swell of guilt, and something darker and less tangible, that rose in Arthur then.

“What could she possibly want with my servant?”

Merlin shrugged. At the very least, his secret was safe. If Morgana had discovered his magic, her flare for the dramatic would’ve spurred her to tell Arthur the truth and drive a wedge between them. And yet, the undeniable truth hung thick and unspoken in the air that she had accomplished at least part of whatever she’d set out to do.

Merlin just needed time to figure out what it was.

The entire ride back was riddled with the same tension as the ride out, but now Merlin wasn’t the only one subjected to it. The entire group was rendered quiet in the wake of it.

Night had fallen by the time they reached the castle.

Gwen sprung up from her spot on the steps to greet Lancelot and her brother, and stable hands filed in to attend to the horses.

Merlin stroked his horse’s muzzle as several guards helped Gwaine and Percival from their mounts. Gwaine swayed on his feet and Percival limped away, supported by two guards.

Merlin was about to ask if they wanted him to accompany them to Gaius’ chambers, but he caught Arthur’s stern, determined expression. He knew that look, and with Elyan and Lancelot distracted with Gwen, Merlin chased after Arthur and Leon, who were now padding up the castle steps.

“Call an emergency council meeting,” Arthur instructed Leon. “We cannot simply allow Morgana to ambush us on routine patrols and endanger the lives of my men.”

“Yes, sire,” Leon said, though he didn’t move to follow the order immediately. Instead, doubt flickered across his expression that Merlin understood all too well. Leon didn’t want to defy orders, but he also knew that most of the council was either asleep or would be shortly. Calling them out of their chambers now would incite unnecessary panic.

“My lord,” Merlin interjected. “Are you certain this cannot wait until the morning?”

Arthur’s crimson cape billowed round his legs as he whirled on them. Merlin could practically feel the anger simmering around the fear in his blue eyes.

“No, it cannot. Not when she endangered my life and yours.” Heat crept up Merlin’s throat because that had sounded an awful lot like—Arthur cleared his throat. “All of yours.”  

Merlin shook the traitorous thought away and inched closer to his king, leveling his tone into a measure of calm.

“Do you really believe her capable of breaching our castle walls this evening? She was in no condition to walk when we parted ways, let alone attempt another assassination.”

The sharp edge of anger softened ever so slightly in Arthur’s expression.

“We can call the Council meeting this evening, if you insist.” Merlin wished he could reach out and grasp Arthur’s shoulder, dig his thumb into the muscles drawn taut as a bow ready to fire. “Inform them of what transpired, but it will only incite panic.”

Arthur exhaled low and drawn out, as if this was a painstaking decision. Perhaps it was given how close of a call today could have been.

“Fine, we shall call a council meeting first thing tomorrow morning.” A fraction of the tension dissipated from his shoulders. “On one condition. Leon, station two guards outside Merlin’s chambers.”

Merlin’s jaw dropped. “Sire?”

But Arthur had already struck off again toward his rooms. “Make that three.”

“Surely, that’s not necessary,” Merlin said. “I don’t believe guards are—”

Arthur paused in the stairwell leading to his chambers. “Yet I believe that they are necessary, and if I recall correctly, it is I who wears the crown, not you, Merlin.” His gaze flicked past Merlin to where Leon still hovered, concerned and unsure, before starting up the stairs.

Merlin merely shrugged his bewilderment at Leon and trailed after Arthur.

“Truly, stationing guards outside my door is a waste,” Merlin said, shutting the door to the king’s chambers behind him.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, sharp enough to silence him. “You heard Lancelot. She could have ended my life and instead opted to take yours. Whatever she’s planning…” but he trailed off with the shake of his head. “I don’t like it.”

Merlin clenched his fists, wishing desperately that he could convey to his king that he was the last person in this castle, in the entire land of Camelot, that required protection from Morgana. If she did appear in the midst of the night, the guards would only complicate matters. At best, he would have to wait until they were injured to use his magic. At worst, they could die at her hands before Merlin ever got that chance.

“Sire, I have to tell you something.”

Arthur drew his gaze from the unlit fireplace, and Merlin resisted the urge to squirm. It was never as simple as a look with his king. It was his full attention, and Merlin struggled to keep ahold of all the little pieces of himself that he couldn’t risk Arthur scrutinizing too closely. Those just happened to be all of the pieces that he so desperately wished to show him.

“I saw Morgana.” Merlin steeled himself for the half-truth. “I was slipping into unconsciousness, but I know what I saw, my lord.”

“Which is?”

“She used magic while we were in the forest.”

Arthur scoffed and unclasped his cloak. “Is that all? She is a sorceress after all. That shouldn’t be—”

“No, my lord, it’s not just that she used magic. It’s that she did something. She cast some spell, and then smiled. I can’t help but think maybe she achieved her goal. At least, partly.”

Arthur braced his hands along the wooden back of his chair, his hair slipping past his forehead and into his eyes.

“That is concerning,” Arthur mused. “Thank you, Merlin.”

Merlin inclined his head ever so slightly. “Of course, sire.”

Arthur straightened, and the lack of formality dissolved between them. “Now, I’d rather appreciate a hot dinner and an even hotter bath after today’s events.”

Merlin could’ve smacked him. The last thing he wanted to do was cart buckets of hot water all the way from the kitchens after a long trek, and he dreamt of one day filling his king’s bathtub with steaming water with little more than a few words muttered under his breath. Until then, he sighed rather loudly, earning an eyeroll and a sickly-sweet smirk from Arthur, who had begun to unlace his boots.

As Merlin moved toward the door, that same buzzing he’d felt beneath his skin returned, and by the time he was across the room, fingers gripping the wrought iron handle, the sensation that had taken root in his gut earlier that day grew taut. It tugged at him as he opened the door, but before he could so much as cross the threshold, Arthur yelped.

“My lord?” Merlin turned to find Arthur hobbling on one leg, as if he was being pulled toward Merlin. When Arthur didn’t respond, Merlin shrugged and continued out the door, only for the tugging to grow incessant.

“Oi!” Arthur called, and Merlin whirled again just in time to see Arthur yanked by some invisible force. He stumbled, his boot half off, and he fell to the floor, head smacking soundly against the stone.

Pain erupted in Merlin’s head as if he were the one who’d fallen to the floor in a clatter of armor and chain mail.

“What the hell was that?” Arthur demanded, lurching to his feet.

Merlin wasn’t entirely certain, but he had a horrible, blood curdling feeling that he was starting to understand precisely what it was Morgana had done. He held up a finger.

“Go over to the window,” Merlin said.

“Merlin, for the last time, you cannot command me, I am your king—”

So Merlin walked backward out the door and into the hallway. Sure enough, that tugging started in his gut again. As if they were connected through an invisible tether that rooted at the base of his spine, Arthur was yanked forward once more, effectively silencing him.

As soon as Merlin stepped back into the room, closer to Arthur, the tugging vanished.

The room swam as icy realization flooded through him.

“Oh, this is bad,” Merlin murmured. “This is very, very bad.”

Arthur, irritated and ruffled, dusted himself off. “Yes, I agree, this floor is an atrocity. When was the last time you scrubbed these floors?”

“Not that,” Merlin quipped. “Remember what I was saying about Morgana casting some spell?”

“Yes?” And then realization dawned on Arthur as well, his chapped lips parting in horror. “She… she enchanted us?”

“Only one way to find out,” Merlin lied, grasping Arthur below the elbow and hauling him out the door. Arthur barely managed to secure his boot once more before they were winding down the same hallways and staircases and across the courtyard until they reached Gaius and Merlin’s chambers.

The scent of stew cooking over the fire and the familiar spices and herbs were a comfort, but none so much as the jovial, warm hug that Gaius greeted him with. His uncle held him a little tighter than normal, which meant Gwaine or Percival, likely Gwaine, had told him about the events that had transpired in the woods.

“Merlin!” When he spotted Arthur trailing behind him, Gaius inclined his head. “My lord, how may I assist you?”

“You can start by telling Merlin that he’s an idiot.”

Gaius blinked, glancing back and forth between them. So Merlin launched into an explanation, skimming over the parts that Gwaine had likely already embellished on and quickly arriving at his suspicion about the bewitchment.

The Court Physician hummed a curious noise and turned to a large leather-bound book on his shelf. He flipped through the pages, though Merlin wasn’t entirely certain what he was searching for.

“Here.” Gaius pointed to a passage. Merlin leaned over his shoulder to skim the first half of the page, reeling back as soon as understood what the spell entailed. The words scribbled along the page were familiar, the same echoing whispers that Morgana had cast out earlier that day.

Merlin swallowed thickly. “Oh.”

“What?” Arthur crossed his arms over his chest, thoroughly impatient. “Don’t tell me Merlin was correct.”

“It’s worse than that, sire,” Gaius said, and Merlin shot his uncle a glare. “The spell established a bond between the two of you that not only prevents you from being physically separated, but also allows one to feel what the other does.”

Arthur scrunched his nose up, and Merlin had to hide his grin in his sleeve. His king had never been adept at keeping his thoughts hidden from his expression.

Merlin rubbed at the throbbing spot on the back of his head from where Arthur had fallen. It no longer seemed like a coincidence that Merlin had felt Arthur’s guilt and fear like it had been his own on the return trip to Camelot.

Arthur, too, seemed to be studying Merlin in an entirely new light, and he couldn’t help but feel undone beneath his king’s gaze.

Gaius shut the book, and a cloud of dust kicked into the air. His expression pinched like it had been all those years ago when Uther still sat on the throne. The careful diplomacy of a sorcerer pretending to be against magic to protect those of his own nature by omitting vital information.

“Gaius?” Merlin asked.

His uncle eyed Arthur skeptically, a single eyebrow cocked even higher than normal.

“If one is injured, it affects both parties under the enchantment,” Gaius said, “but that is not all.”

Arthur stepped forward now, and as if he sensed Gaius’ distress, his arms fell limply along his side in an effort to appear less like the irritated king he was.

“Speak freely, Gaius.”

Gaius clasped his hands in front of his body. “That aspect extends beyond simple emotions and injuries. If one of you is dealt a fatal blow, it appears that you will both fall prey to death.”

The blood drained from Arthur’s face, and Merlin tucked his hands under his arms, stilling them so he didn’t reach for his king to steady him. Merlin didn’t need to ask to know that Arthur was struggling to reconcile that notion. The reality that this was why Morgana had aimed her blade at Merlin instead of Arthur. The idea of another dying in his name had never sat well with Arthur, and now, it was dredging up nausea.

When Arthur’s vibrant blue eyes finally met Merlin’s gaze, they were composed and regal, albeit a bit raw and stormy.

“Well, we can’t have that, now can we?”

Chapter Text

Merlin laid awake long after Arthur’s breath had deepened into soft snores. He’d slept beside his king plenty of times, but never before had he slept in his chambers. The moonlight casting long shadows rendered the previously familiar stone strange and mysterious. He shifted on the lumpy mattress George had hauled up for him, but it wasn’t the lack of comfort or the blanket with a threadbare spot right at his knee that kept sleep at bay.

It was the damn spell tethering him to Arthur.

Earlier that evening, Gaius had reopened the book, the old spine cracking, but the passage merely outlined how to cast the spell. Whatever sorcerer or high priestess who had originally created the spell apparently hadn’t thought far enough ahead to include details of reversing it. At both Merlin and Arthur’s avid insistence, Gaius promised that he would further investigate the matter.

If Merlin wasn’t physically restrained by the king sleeping on his lofty, cushy mattress, he would’ve already snuck into the restricted section of the library to conduct his own research.

He felt a sort of smug irony in Morgana selecting Merlin, of all people, likely considering him weak and harmless enough to be an easier mark to assassinate than Arthur himself. Merlin let his mind drift, conjuring a scenario in which he revealed his powers to her and watched as her delicate features contorted into horror at the realization that she had unwittingly tied Arthur’s life to the most powerful sorcerer of the century.

A silent, bitter laugh shook Merlin’s shoulders.

And yet, that very scenario had Merlin’s nerves buzzing incessantly. Every second that they were under this spell, Merlin was in danger for more reasons than one. He couldn’t very well disappear behind an alcove or hide behind a boulder to protect Arthur. And if Arthur discovered his magic… Merlin cringed at the thought.

So many people had had the audacity to betray his king, and Merlin feared that Arthur would consider him just another name on that ledger.

He shuddered and rolled onto his side. He might not know how to dissolve the spell, but he certainly had a few tricks up his own sleeve.

Merlin turned his gaze inward.

The magical tether appeared in his mind like a rope made from starlight, a constellation in its own right, though infinitely more complex. The starlight was woven around a dozen threads, all varying shades of color and texture, and Merlin wasn’t certain where to start or which strand correlated with what.

He merely inhaled deeply, centering himself, and reached for the starlight thread. He tested it with a gentle tug, and the reverberation sang through his entire body like he’d plucked the strand on a harp.

The thread wasn’t taut or slack, but pliable. Even so, nothing happened when he tugged harder at it. Merlin released that thread and attempted another. Each one he turned his attention to was the same. He found no give, and it wasn’t as though he could simply sever the connection, either. Whatever Morgana had done, she’d woven her spell intricately through the bond of friendship that Merlin and Arthur had accumulated over the years.

He couldn’t sever any of the threads for fear of severing that connection, too.

Frustrated, Merlin gave one final tug on the thread of starlight before relenting. This was, evidently, beyond his abilities.

Arthur groaned, and the mattress creaked as he sat up. “What was that?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you not feel that?”

Merlin peered up at his king, trying very hard not to think about the smooth pale skin of his chest practically glowing in the moonlight.

“I felt—” Arthur was breathing heavily, and then Merlin realized that he was actually glowing with sweat. Sweat dampened his hair and coated his forehead. “It felt like something was tugging at me.”

Merlin’s heart caught in his throat. He never would’ve imagined that Arthur could feel his attempts to dissolve the tether, let alone enough to drag him from the depths of sleep.

“I didn’t feel anything,” he lied.

Arthur flopped back onto his mountain of pillows, and Merlin had half a mind to crack a joke about a certain princess and pea but kept it to himself as penance for accidentally distressing his king.

“It’s odd,” Merlin said.

“What is?”

“Sleeping in your chambers. It’s so quiet up here.”

Normally, Merlin’s nights were accompanied by a cacophony of sounds. The changing of the guards, the steady drip of water from the faucet in the square outside his window, the bakers who woke before dawn to put their loaves in the oven, Gaius’ bear-like snores that echoed throughout their chamber. When he’d first arrived in Camelot, it had been overwhelming and difficult to slip into an easy slumber. Now, he was so accustomed to noise that the lack of it was unsettling. Even in the forest, at least the chorus of crickets, the occasional chirp of animals, and the steady streams helped him rest easier.

Arthur snorted and flopped onto his side.

“Are you ever content? Or do you find contentment in discovering new things to complain about?”

Merlin’s retort was out before he could stop it. “Says the princess atop a mountain of pillows and thick blankets. Think you’d be able to feel it if I left a pea beneath your mattress?”

“Why would you leave a pea under my mattress?”

“Oh, no reason,” Merlin said. “Princess.”

Arthur sighed heavily, and Merlin could picture him pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I never thought I’d say this, but I think I prefer being called a clotpole.”

“Noted,” Merlin said, lulling him into a false sense of truce. “Princess.”

“Merlin.” Arthur had this miraculous way of sounding fond even when he was scolding him. Merlin couldn’t help but chuckle and file that away for later taunting, especially if Arthur was still set on making him scrub the chamber floors.

They laid awake, the silence stretching out between them, and Merlin wondered if Arthur could feel the anxiety buzzing beneath his skin. Merlin fully expected Arthur to taunt and tease him into telling him what was bothering him, but perhaps the new, uncomfortable bond between them was so obvious that he didn’t feel the need.

“Arthur?”

“Hmm?” came the sleepy reply.

“Why do you think Morgana chose me?”

“Aside from you being an easy target?”

Merlin frowned. “I just mean, she could’ve picked anyone. What stopped her from tying your life to old man Sully?”

For years, Gaius had treated Sully for achy joints, a foggy mind, and general discomfort. He’d been alive longer than anyone else they knew and couldn’t raise a sword, much less defend himself against Morgana.

The mattress creaked again as Arthur shifted ever so slightly closer. Merlin pointedly ignored the way the tether seemed to resonate and ease his nerves. He chalked it up to coincidence because it couldn’t possibly be Arthur’s proximity to him.

“Well, for one, old man Sully wasn’t in the forest with us, and for two, perhaps she chose you because of your connection to me. Aside from my knights, you might possibly be the closest thing I have to a friend, Merlin.”

Merlin’s heart caught in his throat once again, and every thought that had clogged his mind vanished in an instant. A warmth spread through his chest at Arthur’s words, and even though it was far from an admission of actual friendship, it so closely echoed the words that Arthur had spoken in the tunnels outside of Ealdor that Merlin realized the truth behind them. Morgana likely had chosen Merlin because of the bond that already existed between them.

“And perhaps because Morgana knows that you’re the absolute last person on this earth I would want to be tied to.”

Merlin barked a laugh, the warmth and tension that had settled in the room became light. This time, when he rolled onto his side toward Arthur, sleep didn’t evade him for long.

* * *

Council meetings were never an easy prospect. Merlin was usually a shadow in the corner of the room and only ever stepped away from the wall to refill goblets of water or—in particularly challenging meetings—wine.

This council meeting, though, was excruciating. Not because of the topic of conversation, but because Merlin had discovered exactly how far the tether could be stretched. He’d started against the wall, hands clasped behind his back, but his skin had begun to crawl and itch. He hadn’t even recognized it at first because it was such a stark difference from last night when the tether had physically pulled Arthur along after him. No, this was a constant irritation that had sweat beading across his forehead and an ache building between his temples.

Only when Arthur knocked over his goblet of water with a shaking hand did Merlin realize what was happening. As soon as Merlin surged forward to mop up the spilled liquid, the crawling sensation vanished, and the closer he grew to Arthur, the better he felt. When his knuckles happened to brush along Arthur’s arm, a jolt of euphoria traveled up his arm and eased the ache behind his eyes.

“Thank you, Merlin.” The line of tension dissipated in Arthur’s jaw, and he held Merlin’s gaze a beat longer than necessary.

Merlin understood the silent request immediately, and this time, when he stepped away, he didn’t go far. He stayed within the perimeter of the tether to keep the discomfort at bay.

It was a welcome relief, and Merlin tried not to think about the tingling sensation along his knuckles or the way he’d woken up with Arthur’s hand inches from his own, draped over the side of the bed.

Arthur had reached the conclusion that no one needed to know about the enchantment. That although it was vital to inform the council of Morgana’s return and the threat it posed, informing everyone that the king’s life was now tied to that of a servant would benefit no one.

Merlin had agreed. The fewer people that knew about it, the less danger it posed to them both. The only complication, much to Arthur’s horror, was enlisting George to ferry their meals from the kitchen to Arthur’s chambers. The king couldn’t very well be seen collecting his own meals alongside Merlin.

With the exception of Merlin sharing Arthur’s chambers, everything else was almost—normal. His only regret was not being able to converse with Gaius in private. If they could just put their heads together, surely they could find a solution. But he couldn’t even tell him about last night’s discovery.

After the usual council business that Merlin tuned out, Arthur recounted the sighting of Morgana and the attack of the Saxons. Then he dispatched three patrols to survey the surrounding area.

“My lord,” said one of the old, balding men that had sat on the council since Uther’s reign, “should we not be focusing on our own people, instead of hunting down old enemies?”

Arthur folded his hands atop the round table.

“We have more than enough resources to pursue both, Lord Devon, do you not agree?”

“I do, my lord, however…”

“Speak freely, Lord Devon.”

“According to your report, Lady Morgana made no actual attempt to harm you. Perhaps she has forfeited her fight for the throne.”

Arthur straightened, and despite his composure, heat sizzled in Merlin’s gut—a roiling anger that was not his own. Even now, Merlin found no trace of his king’s anger in the lines of his face or the cadence of his tone. The only slight indication was the rigid spine. Maybe Arthur wasn’t as much of an open book as Merlin had originally thought.

“As much as I would like to believe that were the truth, Morgana is far more cunning and resilient than that.” Goodness only knows exactly where she learned those traits. “Should that time ever come, I would gladly embrace it, but until then, I will not allow her to find Camelot vulnerable and unprepared.” Then Arthur smiled, sweet and kingly, with a slight edge of venom. “Do we understand each other, Lord Devon?”

The old man shifted in his seat. Perhaps he had hoped to ruffle Arthur’s feathers the way he had so frequently done with Uther, and in the wake of his own failure, he merely nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

Arthur nodded to Leon, confirming that he would indeed dispatch men to patrol the outskirts of the forest.

“That will be all,” Arthur said, the chair skidding along the ground as he stood. “Session is dismissed.”

The nobles inclined their heads and waited until their king had swept out of the hall with Merlin at his heels.

“Where to next, sire?” Merlin asked.

Arthur furrowed his brow. “Training,” he said, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

Merlin blinked. Arthur was pretending that this was just another ordinary day.

“But sire, I thought we were going to help Gaius in his search for a cure. The library is full of texts that could have valuable information.”

Arthur, though, merely shrugged off his jacket and tipped his chin to his chain mail. Merlin’s sigh came out ragged from the depths of his chest, but he obliged his king.

“Gaius was the court physician long before you were his assistant,” Arthur said as Merlin worked the chain mail over his head. “I’m certain he’s more than capable of handling such things. Besides, it’s not really keeping up appearances if I don’t attend training.”

Merlin secured the arm brace, hating that Arthur had a point, albeit a shoddy one.

“Besides, it’ll give you time to polish my armor.” Arthur clapped him on the shoulder and plucked Excalibur from the weapon’s wrack.

Merlin groaned loudly enough to earn an eyeroll from Arthur.  

Training wasn’t altogether terrible. Merlin sat on the sidelines, polishing Arthur’s second set of armor as the king drilled the new recruits on the basics of defensive swordplay. His voice boomed over the grass, deep and authoritative. The sun peaked out from behind the gathering of thick clouds, and Merlin had to squint not to be blinded by the shiny metal as he scrubbed.

Sparring matches were trickier. The matches often took Arthur further than the tether would allow. Twice, he was yanked to his feet when Arthur lunged or parried, and Merlin had to pretend like he fully intended to stand and hover awkwardly on the outskirts of the match with a goblet of water.

The knights who were new and unused to facing their king in every day sparring matches took it relatively easy on Arthur, careful not to harm him even accidentally. After several of those in a row, Merlin could feel his simmering frustration. Arthur jabbed a finger at the tallest, broadest knight and beckoned him forward.

The man was larger than Percival and his smile exposed a missing tooth at the corner of his mouth. His long hair was secured with a strip of leather, and when he swung his sword, it sliced heavily through the air.

Merlin set aside the armor and focused in on the match, his magic at the ready, but Arthur merely smirked. His king truly never had met a challenge he didn’t love.  

The match began as the rest of them did. Clashing blades, attack patterns that Merlin had heard Arthur discuss so frequently he could probably recite them in his sleep. But then something shifted. The knight twisted his wrist, moved in a way that Merlin hadn’t expected—and clearly neither had Arthur.

The knight turned his sword and slammed the blunt hilt into Arthur’s chest.

Pain flared across Merlin’s ribs, and he stumbled back, mirroring Arthur’s movements on the field, and barely managed to not crumple to his knees. The pain was sharp, and Merlin distantly wondered, as he struggled to draw air into his lungs, if one of his ribs might be broken.

Arthur, however, barked a laugh and praised the knight for his prowess. Then he twirled his sword and carried on as if nothing had happened. Merlin couldn’t understand it. With a blow like that, Arthur should be on the ground, but he just kept swinging his sword like it was an extension of his own hand.

“You all right, Merlin?” Lancelot asked, approaching from the court yard.

“Yeah,” Merlin lied, prying his hand away from the spot on his chest that still throbbed. “What’re you doing here? I thought you were part of the patrol group?”

Lancelot studied Merlin with all-too-knowing eyes but didn’t press the matter.

“Leon asked for a few volunteers to stay behind. Can’t have all of Camelot’s finest out looking for Morgana in case she ambushes us here.”

Merlin had always liked Leon.

“I bet Gwen was happy you volunteered for that.”

Lancelot smiled. “Very.”

Merlin was all too aware that when Gwen’s husband was away on patrols and missions, her worry grew so incessant that she had a difficult time sleeping. Merlin had delivered many sleeping drafts to her over the past few years. She would never ask Lancelot to stay, but it was much easier for them both when he could.

With Arthur wholly distracted, Merlin inched closer to his friend. “I need to ask a favor.”

Lancelot’s expression immediately turned somber, and he listened intently as Merlin told him about the enchantment and his predicament in solving it because he quite literally couldn’t leave Arthur’s side. Lancelot took it all in stride, eyes widening as he realized the implication that they were inexplicably in danger with Merlin unable to use his magic. Then Merlin whispered a message for him to relay to Gaius.

Perhaps this would be how they managed. With Merlin passing messages to and from his uncle until they could uncover a solution.

“Thank you, Lance.”

The knight nodded. “Of course. Only…” His brows twitched, perhaps deciding whether or not to say anything specific. “Do you really feel you can’t tell Arthur the truth?”

Merlin’s gut churned at the mere thought. As much as he wanted his king to see him for exactly who he was—to know all that he had done to keep him and Camelot safe over the years—it was still too great a risk. He wouldn’t put it past Arthur to plunge a dagger through his own heart to eliminate the threat of magic.

Too many times, he’d witnessed Arthur’s expression darken at the horrors of magic. Even now, with the Druids free, magic was still a raw, festering subject that he didn’t dare broach.

 “I can’t.” His voice came out smaller and more fractured than he would’ve liked.

“Can’t what?” Arthur asked, chucking his helm aside. His sweat saturated hair clung to his forehead, and Merlin looked closer for any sign that maybe his side was killing him, too, but he found no trace of pain on his king’s face.

“Can’t come with me to visit Gaius,” Lancelot said, stepping in seamlessly to bridge the gap in conversation. “Gwaine still has a throbbing headache today, so Gaius is preparing a tincture for him. Though, I’m sure some of that has to do with how he helped close down the pub last night.”

Arthur scoffed. “He’s lucky there’s enough of a brain left in that head of his to bother hurting.”

Merlin snorted a laugh, wincing as the motion send another sharp wave of pain radiating through his chest.

“You up for a round, Lance?” Arthur asked. “You could certainly teach the new recruits a thing or two.”

Lancelot bowed. “Not today, my lord. I really should get to Gaius as soon as possible, but perhaps tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Arthur insisted. As Lancelot made his way back to the castle, Arthur pointed behind Merlin. “Hand over that mace, would you?”

Merlin winced. Somehow this was worse than when Arthur had handed him a shield and instructed him to hold his ground.

* * *

When they arrived in Arthur’s chambers, George had brought up dozens of plates overflowing with food and the bath water was steaming. Merlin selfishly wished he could take advantage of that water, maybe enchant it to reduce sore muscles the way he covertly did for Arthur after long treks through the forest or stressful battles.

“Is everything to your satisfaction, my lord?” George asked, inclining his head.

“Almost,” Arthur said stiffly, “except there is only one place setting.”

“My lord?” George asked, visibly struggling to contain his confusion.

“Merlin will be dining with me, and he will need a place setting and cutlery. Unless you expect him to eat with his hands?”

“It’s fine,” Merlin said, hoping to ease the tension in the room. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

But Arthur wasn’t satisfied until George slid another place setting atop the table and poured a goblet of water for Merlin, as well.

“You really didn’t have to do that.” A strange, unnerving level of irritation festered in Merlin’s gut, but it wasn’t, he realized after a moment, coming from Arthur.

“Don’t be daft, Merlin,” Arthur said. “Can’t have you going hungry, now can we?”

Arthur said it like it was a simple thing and maybe, to him, it was. They certainly had shared meals before. Although mostly out of necessity on long treks through the forest when meals were communal with the knights, but even then, Merlin was the one to prepare it and clean up after them, as well. It was always assumed he would join them, but the invitation had never been extended. Not in the way Arthur was extending it now.

The table was filled with roast chicken, thick sauce, creamy potatoes, fluffy bread rolls, and three different vegetables. None of it was a variety of brown stew that he and Gaius ate regularly.

Mouth watering, Merlin clamped his hands behind his back instinctively. He retreated from the table, finding familiarity along the wall. He had attended many state dinners and fanciful affairs, but only to keep Arthur’s wine glass full. Not once had he ever been offered a seat at the table, and the thought of doing so now had him panicking. He wanted nothing more than to hide in the library and return to his humble chambers with Gaius, but he was stuck here.

Merlin stood awkwardly, wishing he could melt into the shadows of the stone as George stripped Arthur of his armor. After dismissing the other servant, Arthur sat in his usual spot at the head of the table but didn’t immediately reach for his fork.

“You haven’t touched the food.”

“No, sire.”

“Merlin, you didn’t have to wait for me. Now come on, sit. Dine with me.”

“Is that an order, sire?”

Arthur furrowed his brow, studying him intently. “Do you require an order to dine with your king?”

Merlin shifted his weight, trying and failing to find the words to explain his discomfort because Arthur should know better than anyone that servants were expressly forbidden from dining with nobility.

“Merlin,” Arthur said softly. “Since when do you follow orders anyway?”

Merlin snorted a laugh, dissolving a bit of the tension.

“C’mon, until this—thing between us is sorted, you will dine as my guest. Unless you’d rather have me send George to request Gaius prepare you a meal? I’m sure he has some brown concoction of potatoes and carrots for you.”

Merlin sank carefully into the heavy wooden chair under the even heavier gaze of his king. Despite the comfortable, carved seat, he couldn’t quite relax. Merlin felt as though he were desecrating sacred ground.

But Arthur waited, hands hovering beside his own cutlery, until Merlin had taken his first bite of the rich, decadent food that swam in butter and herbs. The moan was out of his mouth before he could silence it.

“Keep that up, and I’ll retract my invitation.” But Arthur’s tone was light and teasing as he carved off a hunk of chicken and bit into it.

“Oh, no.” Merlin waved a skewered parsnip at his king. “Now that I know what I’ve been missing out on all these years, you couldn’t pry this food from my cold, dead hands.”  

Just like that, they fell into a natural rhythm as they always did in the forest, but somehow, it felt more monumental within the cold, stony confines of Arthur’s chambers.

When they’d both eaten their fill, Merlin realized the steam curling from the tub was diminishing with each passing second.

“Better hurry up,” Merlin said. “Your bath is getting cold.”

Arthur folded his napkin atop the table. “The bath might be getting cold, but it’s not for me.”

“Sire?”

“When was the last time you bathed? Because I know for a fact you haven’t since before the patrol. And because I have no choice but to remain in your presence, I demand that you bathe.”

“Are you saying I smell, sire?”

Arthur leveled him with a stare. “The entire castle is saying that, Merlin.”

“That’s rich, considering how vile your morning breath is.”

Arthur’s jaw dropped at the jab. “Get in there before I drown you in it.”

A hot bath sounded delightful right about now, but Merlin still wasn’t convinced that bathing in Arthur’s chambers was a good idea.

“But I don’t have any of my own soaps here,” Merlin protested.

“So? Borrow mine. You already know where they are.”

Arthur said it so simply. In the same way he’d suggested sharing the meal because these were the little things that Arthur took for granted. He’d never had to worry about not having enough food or heating water for a bath or running out of soap.

“But I don’t have any clothes to change into.”

Arthur waved a hand. “Borrow some of mine.”

A wave of heat crept into Merlin’s cheeks. Clearly, Arthur hadn’t considered the implications of what others might think if Merlin suddenly not only smelled the same as the king, but also wore his clothes. It was bad enough that he was sharing Arthur’s chambers, even with George and the guards sworn to secrecy.

If sitting at the dining table with Arthur in private was desecrating sacred ground, then this was crossing a line from which there was no coming back. Merlin just couldn’t think of an alternative.

“Fine.” Merlin kicked off his boots and loosened his neckerchief.

Though Arthur hadn’t moved from the dining table, his gaze was trained directly on Merlin, watching him as he set the cloth—tinged with dirt and a bit of sweat—on a nearby chair. He moved to unfasten the top of his shirt, but paused when he realized that Arthur still hadn’t averted his gaze.

“Do you mind?” Merlin asked.

Arthur cleared his throat. “Sorry, sometimes I forget that you’re not…” but his king trailed off.

“A knight?”

“Yes, that,” Arthur said.

“Not all of us are as comfortable with nudity as you are, my lord.”

Merlin could’ve sworn that Arthur’s cheeks tinged red. “I… have I been making you uncomfortable all these years?”

“No,” Merlin said quickly, only partially lying. “These are your quarters, and you should feel free to walk around as you please. I’m just used to bathing without an audience.”

Arthur nodded curtly and stood. It wasn’t often that Arthur still managed to surprise Merlin, but he did so now. He drew the changing screen out, giving Merlin a modicum of privacy for his bath, and then sat at his writing desk with his back turned.  

“Thank you,” Merlin said. Free from Arthur’s watchful eye, he undressed, careful not to further agitate his bruised ribs, and sank into the bath. The water that enveloped him was lukewarm, but not unpleasant. He briefly considered spelling the water to soothe the ache in his chest, but the only sound emanated from the occasional turning of parchment. Arthur would undoubtedly hear even the barest of whispers.

Merlin scrubbed at his skin with a bar of soap, quick and efficient. Judging from how quickly the water was turning brown, Arthur might have had a point about his smell.

“Until this enchantment is… lifted,” Arthur said from the other side of the screen. “I wish you would consider these chambers as your own.”

Merlin ducked beneath the water and lathered soap through his hair before he managed a response.

“With all due respect, my lord, that wish may remain to be just that. A wish.”

Once Merlin was clean, he rifled through Arthur’s wardrobe for clothes that might fit. He found a dark blue shirt to accompany a pair of brown pants that Arthur hadn’t worn in years. The hem fell above his ankle, though the boots would hide that, and the shirt just about swallowed him whole. The fabric, though, was softer than his clothes and slightly thicker. He had to admit that they were quite cozy.

“How’s this?” Merlin asked as he returned the screen to its usual spot along the wall.

Arthur abandoned his correspondence then, his gaze dragging down his body and back up. He nearly choked on a stifled laugh.

“It’s not… terrible,” Arthur placated. “A bit large, perhaps.”

Merlin cocked an eyebrow, a silent threat that if he started to tease about being too thin, then he would tease about the extra padding around Arthur’s middle. The truce hung in the air a long moment before Arthur said, “Maybe George could bring some of your clothes up from your chambers.”

“No!” Merlin couldn’t risk George discovering his magical text or the staff he’d hidden beneath his bed, or the journal that he’d been writing down the spells he’d created over the years. “Maybe we could pay Gaius a visit soon?”  

Arthur narrowed his eyes suspiciously and dipped his quill in the ink pot.

“All right. I have probably a few hours left with this new tax bill, but we can go after.”

Merlin nodded and distracted himself with one of the few books in Arthur’s chambers that didn’t involve the inner dynamics of Camelot’s court.

He read page after page, but none of the words stuck in his mind. He couldn’t focus on any of them because except for last night, he’d never rested in Arthur’s chambers. He was usually scrubbing floors or polishing armor or packing for the next adventure, but since George had already done all of that, Merlin was at a loss for what to do. If he couldn’t perform his usual tasks as a servant, then he should at least be trying to find a solution to their predicament.

Which was, regrettably, impossible with Arthur keeping him here.

A knock came at the door, and Merlin leapt into action, discarding the book and reaching so swiftly for the door that he momentarily forgot about the tether. His rapid movement sent Arthur tumbling over his desk and nearly spilling his pot of ink.

“Merlin!” Arthur snapped, gruff and cross, and Merlin couldn’t help but be a little glad that maybe he wasn’t alone in his irritation.

Lancelot greeted Merlin with a smile, but Gwen brought a hand to her mouth.

“Borrowing the king’s clothes, now are we?” she asked, barely containing her laughter.

Merlin frowned. “Regrettably.”

The couple eyed Arthur warily as Merlin waved them into the king’s chambers.

“To what do we owe this pleasure?” Arthur asked as he dusted off his shirt and strode toward the threshold. His fingertips were stained black from his quill, and Merlin dampened a cloth and grasped his wrist, scrubbing at the ink before he had a chance to further stain his skin or clothes with it.

“Gaius sent me with a message,” Lancelot said. “He thought the Archive of High Priestesses might contain some helpful suggestions.”

“That sounds promising,” Arthur said, his wrist still resting in Merlin’s grasp. “So where is this book?”

Lancelot ducked his head toward Merlin. “I do not know, sire. Gaius is exceptionally busy without his assistant, and he said that Merlin would know where it was.”

Arthur sighed. “Of course, he did.”

“My lord,” Gwen said, inserting herself into the conversation. “Lancelot mentioned that you saw the Lady Morgana on patrol?”

Arthur slipped out from Merlin’s grasp, rubbing absently at his wrist. “Not I, but the rest of the knights will confirm that it was her.”

Gwen touched his arm, casually redirecting the king away from Merlin and Lancelot.

“Do you ever just think that if you could get a moment alone with her,” Gwen said, “really talk to her, that she might… stop all of this?”

Arthur inhaled sharply. “Gwen, while I marvel your compassion, I don’t believe that is exactly feasible.”

When the king was wholly invested with Gwen, Lancelot lowered his voice and leaned closer to Merlin.

“Gaius said that he hasn’t found anything that might be helpful. That the enchantment was used in the time of the old religion, most often to bind couples who felt strong bonds of affection.”

Heat coursed through Merlin, flushing across his chest, and he shoved his sleeves up around his elbows, only for them to fall once more over his hands.

“Then what I am supposed to do?”

“He said there is only one alive who would know.”

“Kilgharrah,” Merlin breathed. “How am I supposed to ask for his help? Trick Arthur out into the clearing beyond the castle and then, what, knock him out?”

Merlin paused for a long moment because, in truth, that wasn’t the worst idea. Except if he knocked Arthur out, there was a solid chance that it would render him unconscious, too. And likely hurt like hell.

“Before you resort to violence,” Lancelot placated, “perhaps you should consult the book in the restricted section. There’s a chance that it might hold the answer.”

Merlin sighed, but he had to agree that it was the safer option.

“I need one more favor,” Merlin said. “I can’t have just anyone rummaging around in my chambers, but I trust you. Would you bring me a few changes of clothes?”

Lancelot draped an arm around Merlin’s shoulders. “What, you don’t fancy wearing the king’s clothes?”

“It’s not about what I want,” Merlin said. “I don’t want anyone getting the wrong impression.”

Lancelot shot him a puzzling look. “Right.”

“C’mon, Arthur,” Merlin said, grasping Arthur’s elbow and hauling him toward the door. He shrugged off Merlin’s grip, though, intently focused on the conversation with Gwen. Merlin smirked at Lancelot, the only semblance of a warning, and then hurried into the hallway.

A moment later, the tether grew taut, and Arthur yelped, scurrying after Merlin and half-jogging down the hallway after him. He hadn’t even given Arthur the time to slip his boots on, and Merlin grinned at the king walking barefoot through his own halls.

“Slow down,” Arthur barked. “That’s an order.”

“You do realize who you’re talking to, don’t you?”

Merlin slowed only enough that the tether wasn’t throbbing and ducked into the calm, quiet library.

“Good evening, Geoffrey,” Merlin called.

“Evening, Merlin,” he answered before jolting to his feet at the sight of Arthur hot on Merlin’s heels. “My lord. How may I assist you?”

“As you were, Geoffrey,” Arthur said.

Merlin strode past the manager of the Royal Library and into the depths of the familiar shelves. When he reached the particular shelf he needed, Merlin tugged on a grouping of hollowed books. The door swung open, and Merlin grasped Arthur’s elbow, hauling them both into the secret room.

“How the hell did you know this was here?” Arthur’s slackened jaw had Merlin grinning. “I grew up here and never knew there was a secret alcove in the library.”

Merlin blinked at Arthur in faux confusion. “Sorry, you can read?”

Arthur glared daggers, but Merlin ducked away before his king could act on any near violent impulses. The cobwebs were thicker in this section, and the statues and rolls of parchment were coated in thick layers of dirt.

The Archive of High Priestesses was a hefty leather-bound book on the top shelf. Judging from the accumulation of dust, no one had disturbed it in decades, if not centuries.

 Merlin stretched up to grasp it, but when the weight of the book settled into his shoulder, it pulled on the sore muscles spanning his chest. Sharp pain lanced through him.

He winced and yanked his hand away with a grunt, but he’d already caught the book’s spine. It plummeted so quickly that Merlin didn’t have time to move. It would’ve hit him square in the skull if Arthur hadn’t caught it on the way down.

Arthur set the book on the small table, his brows furrowing as he studied Merlin and the way he was bracing himself against the pain.

“What was that?”

Merlin forced a smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re in pain.”

Merlin tried to shrug but ended up hissing through his teeth when the roll of his shoulder sent another stinging wave through his chest. “No more than you are, sire.”

Arthur’s expression scrunched with concern. “Let me see.”

“I’m fine.”

“Merlin,” he said in his determined, won’t-take-no-for-an-answer way.

Arthur gingerly grasped the hem of Merlin’s borrowed shirt and pulled it up, revealing the dark purple and black bruise dappling his chest. Arthur touched the same spot on his own ribs. His look of horror was genuine.

“Merlin, I—”

“It’s fine.” Merlin retreated, the shirt slipping from his king’s grasp. “You deal with it all the time.”

Arthur swallowed heavily, and the darkening of his eyes held an air of concern, of intimacy, that had Merlin fixing his attention on a spider weaving its web.

“Yes, but it’s expected of me. I don’t think twice about bruises, anymore. I hardly even notice when I earn them, but you—” Arthur sucked in a breath and then swore softly. He tucked the book under his arm and grabbed Merlin, his fingers gentle along his wrist. “C’mon.”

“Where are we going? Gaius has more important things to worry about than bruises.”

“Not to Gaius.”

“Then where?”

Arthur led him back to his chambers, only releasing him to toss the massive book onto his bed.

“Are you going remove your shirt, or do I need to do that for you?”

Merlin clamped down on the heat that flooded through his chest, up the column on his throat, and settled in his cheeks. The thought of Arthur undressing him, and the soft, gravely tone he’d spoke in, was far too close to some of the fantasies Merlin had conjured for himself over the years.

“Unlike some of us, I’m still capable of dressing and undressing myself, thank you very much.”

Arthur sighed like he was already regretting helping him, but Merlin did as instructed, tugging his shirt off awkwardly and doing his best not to ignite further pain. Arthur dug around in the cabinet that held the tinctures and soaps for bathing and extracted a glass jar filled with a muddy substance that Merlin immediately recognized as poultice.

“Every few months, Gaius makes me a batch and leaves me gauze and wrappings so I don’t have to bother him with every little ailment.” Arthur popped the jar open. “This might be a bit cold.”

Merlin’s brain struggled to catch up with what was happening because one minute, his king was staring at him like he was fragile and breakable, his deep blue eyes clear and open and honest, and the next, he stepped so close that Merlin could smell the sweet red wine from lunch on his breath. He could feel the radiant heat from his body. Smell the fresh, woodsy scent of Arthur’s soap and the underlying musk of his skin. And then he touched him.

He spread the poultice across the bruise with light fingertips, and Merlin inhaled sharply, grasping Arthur’s shoulder tightly. Not because it was cold, but because no matter how gentle the touch was, it sent pins and needles shooting through his body.

Miraculously, Arthur didn’t shrug him off. He let Merlin cling to him so tightly that he begun to feel the pain in his own shoulder as Arthur applied a thick coat of it across his ribs. Then he took the bandage and wrapped it. As Arthur looped the cloth around his shoulder, over his back, and down across his chest to keep the poultice from soiling his shirt, Arthur skimmed between Merlin’s shoulder blades.

The touch sent another undeniable ping of happiness through the tether that had Merlin’s breath seizing. But that was all it was. The enchantment. Nothing more. Nothing less.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Arthur said, securing the bandage. “I’ll have to be more careful from now on.”

“It’s fine, Arthur, I swear.”

“It’s not,” he said, an air of finality to his tone. “Can’t have you hurt because of my own reckless habits.”

Merlin swallowed, unsure what to make of that. Arthur had always cared about his wellbeing to a certain extent, but this was just a bruise. It wasn’t like Arthur hadn’t left bruises on him when they tussled or rough housed—and that wasn’t even counting the many occasions he’d handed Merlin a shield with instructions to brace himself as Arthur swung the heaviest mace at him. For reasons that Merlin didn’t wholly understand, this unintentional injury was different to Arthur.

Merlin cleared his throat to keep from saying anything ridiculous and stupid. He removed himself from the close proximity of Arthur.

“Especially because after all this is over,” Arthur said, lips wavering in a smile, “I’ll still need someone to carry my bathwater up those stairs.”

Merlin barked a laugh and opened the spoils of their search, hoping the pain would be worth it. He flipped through, but the pages were too dense with information. He would have to wait until Arthur was asleep to skim it with his magic for the exact page he needed.    

“Is that… magic?” Arthur asked over his shoulder.

Merlin swallowed thicky. “Magic might be required to remove the enchantment.” He posed it as a suggestion or theory instead of a known fact. “Is that a problem, sire?”

Arthur stiffened beside him, but his answer was light. “No, the sooner we remove this enchantment, the better.”

Merlin couldn’t agree more.

Later that evening when Arthur was soundly sleeping, Merlin crawled out of bed and padded across the chamber to the book. A simple spell later had the pages turning rapidly as he absorbed the information inside, skimming it for any vital information.

He found records of similar spells. One that temporarily bound people together—Merlin could only assume a mother tired of her children getting lost and separated had created that one. Another that created a bond of empathy that often included a side effect of telepathy (Merlin thanked the stars Morgana hadn’t used that one). And lastly, one that bonded two lives together so that one could not live without the other. While they were all similar, none was quite what Merlin was looking for.

Which meant Kilgharrah was his only hope for an answer.

Merlin sank back onto his thin mattress and stared up at the ceiling. Morgana wouldn’t have just enchanted them without some sort of plan. Merlin just wished he knew what it was.

He didn’t find out until the following morning, when Leon burst into the council chambers, red faced and breathing heavily as though he’d run all the way from the court yard.

Arthur stood, and the rest of the court rose with their king.

“Have the men returned?”

“Yes, my lord,” Leon said.

“Did they find Morgana?”

“Not exactly,” Leon said, flicking a glance to Merlin, a telltale indication that this was not particularly good news. “We didn’t find her, precisely, but we found evidence that she has been tormenting outlying villages.”

Leon rattled off three town names that had all been burned.

“The reports said that…” the knight paused, clearing his throat. “That she has a dragon with her, sire.”

Arthur straightened and set his jaw. Merlin felt the determination flowing through him like it was his own, and he knew even before his king spoke what he was about to say.

“Then we ride within the hour.”

Chapter Text

George burst into Arthur’s chambers early that morning, delivering overflowing trays of fruits, eggs, sausages, and sweet breads. The light filtering through the colorful windows was still dim with the rising dawn. Arthur’s sullen mood at the early hour was only curbed by the sight of Merlin. Creases from his pillow were etched into his cheeks, and the combination of his rumpled expression and unruly hair brightened the morning considerably.

Arthur couldn’t help but notice that Merlin twitched and fiddled with breakfast more than he actually ate it. His knee bounced beneath the table, sending small tremors through the wood that shook Arthur’s goblet. 

He might have been annoyed, except Merlin had been even jumpier ever since Morgana had enchanted them. He was a bird in a cage, frantic to be free, and that thought alone dislodged something hot and uncomfortable in Arthur’s chest. It seemed that spending every waking hour with his king must be torture for him. Arthur didn’t understand. By his side, at least Merlin was taken care of with a plethora of food, a comfortable bed, company. 

“Something wrong with the food?” Arthur asked. 

Merlin immediately dropped the piece of sausage as if it had burned him. “What? No. Why?”

“I can have George bring up something else. What do you usually have for breakfast?” 

“Bread.”

“Just bread?”

“Yes.”

“No butter?”

“Usually, I eat it… on the go.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes at Merlin, who was staring at the four slices of thick, fluffy bread in the center of the table. Normally, when Merlin brought his breakfast, he only ever had a single slice.

“It wouldn’t happen to be bread directly from my breakfast platter each morning, now would it?”

Color crept into Merlin’s cheeks. “No.”

Liar. Arthur shook his head. “Just for that, you’re mopping the floor today. Twice.”

Merlin’s mouth hung open. “I thought George did that yesterday.”

“A floor can never be too clean.”

Merlin groaned, and Arthur hid his smile behind a sip of water. In truth, he didn’t particularly mind Merlin stealing his food. He had a feeling that his friend rarely stopped to remember that food not only existed but was very much essential to human life. 

“And after that, you can polish my boots, launder my clothes, and dust above the windowsills.”

“How do you even know the tops of the windowsills need dusting?” Merlin countered. “You’re not tall enough to see over them.”

Arthur set his water down stiffly. “You say that like you are.”

Merlin’s mischievous smile started small and grew larger. “I am several inches taller than you, my lord.”

Arthur scoffed. “In your dreams.”

“Why don’t we get George to measure—”

A sharp knock came at the door. “My lord,” Lancelot called. “I have something for Merlin.”

Merlin was on his feet in an instant, definitely more twitchy than normal. “How do you explain the trousers, then?” He gestured at the hem of the pants he’d borrowed from Arthur that, frustratingly, fell just below Merlin’s calf.

“Your legs might be longer than mine, but that does not mean you’re taller,” Arthur argued as Merlin opened the door.

Lancelot’s eyebrows shot up. “Should I come back?”

“Please don’t.” Merlin took the bag from him as if it contained the world’s most precious gems and then grinned and patted Lancelot’s shoulder before ducking behind the changing screen. “You’re the best, Lance!”

“Would you care to join us?” Arthur extended his hand to the table overflowing with food and made a mental note to remind George to make sure that whatever they couldn’t finish didn’t go to waste.

“I appreciate the offer, my lord, but Gwen and I already ate breakfast.” Lancelot did, however, swipe Merlin’s cup of tea and gulp deeply, only to make a rude face when he realized just how much sugar Merlin had put in it.

Merlin returned from the behind the screen, moving more comfortably already, and discarded the bag on an empty chair. A small twinge of regret sparked in Arthur’s chest. Merlin’s long neck and prominent collar bones had been wholly on display in Arthur’s shirt, but now they were hidden beneath blue fabric. More than that, though, Arthur found he’d liked seeing Merlin in his clothes. Like he had some claim to him.

Although, it was probably for the best that he’d changed before the council meeting. He wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong impression.

Lancelot tapped the text that Arthur and Merlin had retrieved from the library last night.

“Did you find anything useful?”

Merlin sobered almost immediately. “Not particularly.”

Arthur wanted to reassure his friend that the enchantment would be broken, that everything would be fine, the way that Merlin had always reassured Arthur in dark times. And yet, that same twinge grew in his chest at the thought that Merlin couldn’t wait to be rid of him.

Then again, they were king and servant first, and friends second. Perhaps if the roles were reversed, Arthur wouldn’t want to be trapped at his king’s side all hours of the day and night, wondering when someone might make another attempt on his life.

“I’m sure we’ll figure it out.” Arthur abandoned his mostly untouched plate, and Merlin moved automatically to secure Arthur’s cape for the council session. “Shall we?”

As Leon laid bare the devastation that Morgana was wreaking upon his people, the blood begun to roar in Arthur’s ears and guilt rose like bile in his throat. Morgana had no quarrel with his people—it was Arthur she was after.

So, he would give her exactly what she wanted.

“Then we ride within the hour,” Arthur said.

“Sire?” Leon’s sharp stare was the closest the knight would come to questioning Arthur publicly. While Arthur didn’t mind it the way Uther had—he welcomed a range of opinions—he wasn’t willing to back down on this.

“I refuse to sit idly by while Morgana slaughters my people.”

Merlin hurried forward from where he’d dissolved into the shadows, out of sight until needed. Arthur could already feel Merlin’s anxiety buzzing beneath his own skin. Arthur lifted a hand as he approached, not to stop him, but to reassure him.

“My lord,” Merlin said. “This is a trap. Morgana is luring you out—”

“You dare address this council?” Lord Devon snapped, placing a hand on Merlin’s chest to barricade him from Arthur. “You dare address your king about matters that are none of your concern? Should you not be off polishing boots or laundering the king’s bedsheets?”

Guards shifted forward, hands aiming for their hilts. Arthur beckoned them to stand down and then leveled a smoldering glare at Lord Devon. Perhaps Morgana wasn’t the only one getting what she wanted today. If Lord Devon truly wanted Arthur’s wrath, he was about to incur it.

“Remove your hand from my servant before I remove it from the rest of your arm.”

The lord’s smug expression quickly morphed into shock and then fear.

“My lord?”

“You heard me.” Arthur waited until Lord Devon had released Merlin to address the rest of the council. He dropped a hand onto his servant’s shoulder. “As of this moment, you—all of you—will treat Merlin with the same respect afforded a nobleman. Spread the word amongst the castle, and if any of you ignore my decree, there will be severe consequences.”

Arthur smiled, letting the venom in his tone radiate into the council chambers.

“My lord,” Merlin said. The same anxiety that itched beneath Arthur’s skin was plainly etched in the strained lines of his face. “That is not necessary—”

“Yes, Merlin. It is.”

Tension grew taut in the chamber. Lord Devon’s knees clacked together like the rattling of teeth, but Arthur was thoroughly over this session.

“Council dismissed,” Arthur said before instructing Leon to prepare several groups of knights to leave within the hour. They weren’t quite preparing for war, but close enough.

Arthur all but hauled Merlin out of the council chambers. Once they were in the hall, he relaxed his vigorous grip but didn’t release Merlin, not completely. His fingertips grazed the sliver of Merlin’s exposed shoulder, and the bond between them—the one that tugged at him, the one that had reverberated the other night, the one that still crackled with Merlin’s anxiety—zinged with something like pleasure at the skin-to-skin contact. Not quite ready for it to end, Arthur manhandled him into his chambers.

“Let go.” Merlin spun in his hold, his cheeks flushed and angry. “Arthur.”

Merlin so rarely said his name these days, opting for the more reserved “sire” or “my lord” instead, that it was a cold dose of reality.

Only then did Arthur relinquish his hold. He crossed his arms and waited for Merlin’s inevitable rant. When it didn’t come, when he merely huffed, his chest rising and falling rapidly, Arthur gripped his own arms to keep himself for reaching for Merlin again.

“Go ahead.”

“What?” Merlin snapped.

“Clearly you have more to say on the matter of Morgana,” Arthur said. “Or did you forget that I can feel your anxiety, your fear, like it’s my own?” 

Merlin stilled at that, his chest deflating of all air. He swallowed thickly and when he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“I—it’s just, you know as well as I do how clever and cunning Morgana is.” Merlin waved his hands emphatically. “This is a trap, sire. She’s luring you into a trap.”

Arthur nodded. “I understand.”

“You—my lord?”

“I understand your concern, Merlin,” Arthur said, “and I promise that I will not allow any harm to come to you.”

His shoulders sagged with something like relief. “Then, we’re not going?”

“I didn’t say that. I cannot sit idly by and watch my people burn to death at her hands.”

Arthur opened his wardrobe and found his leather satchel that Merlin had unpacked only days ago. He didn’t quite feel right asking Merlin to pack it at this moment, but time was not on their side, so he began the process himself, finding pairs of trousers and thick shirts for the cold nights at camp.

Merlin had not moved. He stood at the foot of Arthur’s bed, fixated on the candle atop the nightstand. The morning light flooded through the stain glass window, covering Merlin in a cacophony of colors. Blue nearly disappeared into his dark hair, and purple danced across his sharp cheekbones, enriching his cool gray eyes, and pink illuminated the column of his throat.

Moments like these made Arthur wish he could peer into Merlin’s mind, glimpse his eddying thoughts, and soothe them. Though, Arthur supposed—as his chain mail jingled with each movement—that soothing was not his strong suit.

“Do you—not think it ironic?” Merlin spoke carefully, hesitantly.

“How do you mean?”

“If she were ever to return to Camelot,” Merlin said, his voice small and hoarse, “you would burn her at the stake for being a sorceress, wouldn’t you?”

Arthur’s throat constricted. The last thing he wanted was Morgana atop a pyre when she had lived down the hall from him for all of his life. Yet, it seemed she would not rest until one of them was resting in the embrace of death.

“I don’t know what I would do.”

That buzzing beneath Arthur’s skin shifted, becoming heavy and dark and all encompassing—an emotion Arthur had only ever felt in the midst of battle. A fear rooted so deeply that it restricted his breath.

“I’ll protect you, Merlin.” Arthur held Merlin’s gaze even as tears magnified the oceanic depths of his eyes. “I swear on my life.”

Merlin laughed, then. Hollow and wet because that was, precisely, the issue.

“Besides, we’ve fought a dragon before and emerged victorious.”

Merlin’s laughter fizzled out and the color drained from his face. Only the blues of the stained-glass window remained, contouring his jaw and cheekbones in a haunting light.

Bewilderingly, that heavy darkness still hadn’t lessened at all.

“It’s not that—” Merlin began.

Arthur gaped at him. There was a thin line between stupidity and bravery, and he could never pinpoint where Merlin stood on it.

“Not fully, I mean. Obviously a dragon is a formidable opponent, but it’s not just that.”

“Then what is it?”

Merlin averted his attention to the large text open on Arthur’s desk. The one that they’d hoped would hold answers to their current predicament.

Arthur’s confusion mingled with Merlin’s fear until it formed sharp, unrelenting words in his mind. Because, it seemed that his rogue thoughts from this morning had proved true. Merlin truly was terrified of remaining tethered to his king. His fear, his twitchy demeanor—he clearly couldn’t wait to be free from Arthur.

“Don’t worry, Merlin.” Arthur bunched up the neatly folded tunic. “By the time we get back, I’m sure Gaius will have a solution for our predicament.”

Merlin blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“You won’t have to be bound to me any longer than absolutely necessary.”

“My lord—”

“As I said, I swear no harm will come to you. I even promise to be careful for once.” Arthur chucked the balled-up shirt at him. It landed squarely in his face. “Now, are you going to pack for the both of us, or do I need to ring for George?”

“Arthur—”

Another knock came at the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur caught Gwaine ducking his head inside.

“Sire, Leon sent me to inform you that the knights are ready.” Arthur still couldn’t quite wrench his gaze away from Merlin, whose tangle of emotions was so frustrating that he wanted to throw another shirt at him. Except the first one hadn’t helped at all. Maybe strangling him might suffice. “Sorry, am I interrupting something?”

“No.” Arthur finally tore his attention from Merlin. “We’re just about done here.”

* * *

Darkness descended on the realm and a chill permeated the air as the knights made camp in a clearing tucked against the side of a cliff. The stone shielded them from the brisk wind and allowed the fire to billow and emanate warmth even after they roasted game for dinner.

They had navigated the forest as quickly as the horses could manage and only had a few hours ride ahead of them until they reached the village of Blackburn. In the hours that had passed, his frustration with Merlin had softened, but only slightly. They’d barely exchanged more than a few curt words to each other since leaving the castle, and Merlin had ridden behind him the entire way, residing at the outermost edge of the bond.

Arthur even ate his meal beside Leon and the other knights while Merlin sat across the fire from him with Gwaine and Lancelot. The rest of the knights fell into the same steady rhythm they always did on nights like these. Only, this time, they had to divvy up Merlin’s usual task amongst themselves.

As the night wore on and the rest of their companions set up bedrolls and tucked in for the night, Arthur reached for his bed roll, only to find that Merlin had already set it up for him. Because of course he had.

Merlin wedged his own bed roll under his arm, clearly prepared to set it up on the other side of camp, but Arthur grasped his arm, a quiet plea for him to stay close. Merlin stilled beneath the touch, and even through the fabric and chainmail, the bond lit up with a burst of happiness warmer than the flames themselves.

Merlin laid out his bed roll beside Arthur’s and sat atop it with hands resting on his knees and head bowed forward. The chainmail that Arthur had insisted Merlin wear glinted in the firelight. Silence stretched out between them like an uneasy truce.

“How’s your chest?” Arthur asked at last.

Merlin lifted his head. “What?”

“The bruise. Did the poultice help?”

Merlin brushed his palm over the spot that Arthur had bandaged for him the day before. “It did,” Merlin said. “Thank you, for that, by the way.”

Arthur held up a hand. “No need to thank me when it was my fault you were injured in the first place.”

“Arthur,” Merlin began softly, but Arthur was tired. He just wanted to lay down beneath the cloudy sky and hope that sleep could mend that which time hadn’t.

“It’s fine, Merlin. Get some rest. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

Even with the imposing pressure of tomorrow’s battle, Arthur drifted into the graces of sleep. Only to be woken by a hand shaking his shoulder and Merlin’s name on his lips.

Arthur automatically reached for Excalibur at his side and only released it when he noted Elyan keeping watch at the edge of camp, completely relaxed and at ease. There was no threat.

“I swear, Merlin, if you woke me up because you have to take a leak—”

“No, it’s not that.”

Arthur studied his friend, then. The tight pinch of his brows, the thin line his mouth had formed, the tight clench of his jaw. He couldn’t quite pinpoint what he was feeling because it was only a general level of discomfort and upset resonating across the bond.

“Then what is it?”

The embers of the fire cast enough dim light to illuminate the tears welling in Merlin’s eyes. Arthur sat up, his blanket falling from his shoulders to pool in his lap.

“I have to tell you something,” Merlin whispered.

“All right.” Arthur clenched his fist to keep from reaching for his friend because he had the sudden and undeniable urge to stroke his arm, to squeeze his hand, to reassure him that no matter what, they would be fine.

“I—” Merlin sucked in a sharp breath, and turned away, studying the tops of the trees.

Whatever it was Merlin wanted to share was clearly close to his heart. Arthur couldn’t help but wonder if it was the elusive secret Merlin had been harboring. The conversation from years ago echoed through his mind as if it were yesterday.

You couldn’t keep a secret if your life depended on it! Arthur had declared, only for Merlin to snap back, You’d be surprised! Everything inside of Arthur had screeched to a halt at that because Merlin was the keeper of all of his thoughts, all of his deepest fears that he didn’t dare admit to anyone else. He had assumed, apparently incorrectly, that Merlin had extended him the same courtesy. And Merlin had retreated into himself immediately after, as if he hadn’t meant to say it at all, and that—Merlin’s sheepish, Nothing—had inflicted perhaps the sharpest and deepest wound. It was confirmation that not only was he fostering a secret, but it was one he didn’t feel comfortable enough to tell Arthur. 

“Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

Merlin shook his head, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

“You’re afraid,” Arthur said.

“Terrified.”

Merlin’s entire chest shuddered with his exhale, and he studied the flickering embers. The turmoil of emotions roiling through him—and in turn, Arthur—sent an ache through his chest.

“Merlin.” Arthur did reach for him, then, and rested a hand on Merlin’s hunched shoulder. “I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Merlin nodded and ducked his head.

“Do you ever feel—like no one really knows you? That the people you consider your friends are really only your friends because they know this version of you that you’ve crafted into a mask, and if you ever took that mask off, not only would they not recognize you, but they’d hate you?”

Arthur’s heart stuttered. Merlin had once again caught him entirely off guard. But he took a moment to study the stars that sparkled in the dark, expansive sky above them before answering.

“Yes. I think I’d be a fool not to. I try to be more transparent than my father, but there are still days where I wonder if anyone truly knows me.”

“Perhaps that is the burden all kings carry.”

“Perhaps that is the burden all men carry,” Arthur corrected, “but I do trust those closest to me. I know that if I show them the man I am without the crown, underneath the mask, they will still know and accept me because of what is in my heart.” When Merlin still said nothing, Arthur continued, “At least, that’s what I choose to believe.”

Merlin reached up and patted Arthur’s hand. Once. Twice. After the third, Arthur let it slip from his friend’s shoulder.

“And, if it’s any consolation, I believe I know what is in your heart.”

Merlin startled, staring at him sharply. “You do?”

“You, Merlin, are honorable and loyal and brave. You have followed me into battles that would reduce lesser men to cowering imbeciles. That is not something you can fabricate. It’s the truth, and nothing can ever change that.”

Silence stretched out between them once more. Easier, this time. The comfortable weight of a blanket. The same silence they often shared when Merlin kept him company cleaning his chambers while Arthur endured paperwork.

“What if I’m not ready to share that part of me?”

Arthur swallowed thickly. “You’re on no one’s timeline but your own, Merlin, but I think your friends would welcome the chance to know the you beneath your mask.”

“Thank you, Arthur.”

Tonight, it seemed, would not be the night Merlin chose to share his secret. Arthur settled back onto his bed roll with Merlin so close beside him that their arms brushed. He couldn’t help but feel like an idiot for assuming that Merlin’s fear was about him—about their newly enforced proximity—when it clearly ran much deeper. A secret that he had buried in his heart and refused to let out, even under the reprieve of the night sky.

Arthur stirred with the break of dawn and the first flood of sunlight through the canopy of trees. Despite the spring chill, he was much warmer than he normally was on any given night in the woods, and when the thing pressed against his back inhaled, he realized precisely why. At some point while they’d slept, Arthur and Merlin had pressed themselves together, back-to-back with their hands intertwined between them and resting atop Arthur’s thigh.

All of the heat in Arthur’s body converged in his cheeks, and he withdrew quickly and carefully as to not wake Merlin. He told himself it had only been for warmth. And only because the bond seemed to demand close contact. The closer they were, the better he felt.

He drew Merlin’s thick wool blanket around his shoulders to replace the loss of warmth and got to his feet—only to be caught beneath Gwaine’s watchful eye. He cocked a single brow at Arthur with a smug, perceptive smile.

Arthur glared, a silent threat that if he said anything, he would have him beheaded, to which Gwaine’s smile only widened. The damn rogue turned knight had always thrived on threats.

Regardless, Arthur gestured rudely at him and stalked to the edge of camp. He couldn’t very well wake Merlin to take a leak when he’d made fun of him for exactly that last night. Instead, he explored the end of the invisible bond that connected them.

Though Arthur knew almost nothing about the laws of sorcery, it fascinated him. He wondered if Morgana had known that the spell would demand such close proximity, or if that was simply an unintentional side effect.

Oddly enough, the boundary wasn’t always the same. Whereas sometimes it yanked one of them closer to the other, sometimes—like the council session a few days back—the boundary had been crossed without either of them realizing until Arthur thought he might combust from the distress.

He tested it, reaching the end of the bond and slowly encroaching beyond. Though Merlin remained stationary on his bed roll, a jolt of pain lanced through Arthur’s chest that only worsened with each further inch. The moment he retreated toward camp, toward Merlin, the pain evaporated.

The bond ached, a sore muscle stretched to full capacity. Arthur rubbed at his chest before relieving himself behind a bush and returned to camp where the rest of the knights were beginning to stir.

Arthur knelt beside Merlin and gently shook his shoulder.

“C’mon, rise and shine.”

Merlin squinted at him through heavily lidded eyes. “Pretty sure that’s my line,” he murmured drowsily.

“Stop slacking off, then.”

Merlin scoffed and sat up, rubbing at his eyes. “According to you, I’m now a nobleman, and I’ve never seen a nobleman accused of slacking off.”

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. “If I’d known you were going to be insufferable about the whole nobility thing, then I never would have—”

“Oh, no, you’ve already issued your decree. Can’t take that back now.” Mirth crinkled the edges of Merlin’s eyes. “Does that mean people will bow to me?”

“In your dreams.” Arthur rolled his eyes so hard that they hurt.

“Or perhaps yours. It wasn’t my idea, after all, it was yours—”

“Merlin.”

Merlin fell silent, though his grin remained obnoxiously loud.

* * *

As they drew near Blackburn, smoke from nearby villages curled in dark puffs to stain the sky and waning clouds.

Blackburn was nestled in a valley where structures sprouted from each sloping side and were interspersed along the river that carved through the town. Like many of Camelot’s villages, Blackburn was crafted of a mixture of stone and thatch and surrounded by wooden fences.

Even with the river at their disposal, Arthur had no doubt that it would all burn.

As the horses carefully navigated the steep, treacherous trek into the valley, the watchtower along the ridge blew a horn to signal the arrival of Camelot’s king. A crowd gathered at the edge of town to greet him, parting only to reveal a group of men with flowing capes and the pinched expressions of nobility. He recognized the gray-haired man at the front from his visit to Camelot a few years ago, the Steward charged with overseeing Blackburn.

“Bromley,” Arthur greeted.

“Your highness, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

“I come to provide aid,” Arthur said. Under different circumstances, he would ask to speak to Bromley in private so as not to incite panic, but perhaps a bit of panic would save the lives of these people. “An attack is imminent.”

“An attack?” Bromley’s bushy brow wrinkled in disbelief.

“Sire,” Merlin said, but Arthur pressed on.

“Morgana continues to be a plague on these lands. She has returned with a dragon at her disposal and has already burned the two villages south of here. We must evacuate immediately.”

The words Morgana and dragon echoed through the crowd.

“Sire,” Merlin said again, easing his horse closer to Arthur’s own.

“Dragons have long since been extinct,” Bromley said. “Your father saw to that.”

“While I wish that were true—”

“Arthur.”

“What, Merlin?” Arthur snapped, but all of his irritation melted away as he realized that Merlin was fixated on a point in the distance. He followed his gaze into the sky, where a small speck grew larger with every passing second between the parting clouds.

Arthur squinted and raised a hand to blot out the sun. Unmistakably, large powerful wings beat steadily.

“If the word of your king is not sufficient, perhaps you will believe your own eyes,” Arthur said, tipping his chin toward the incoming dragon.

Gasps resounded through the crowd.

“Do not panic!” Arthur shouted over the noise. Evacuation was no longer an option. He couldn’t risk the dragon attacking them before they could reach safety. “Women and children, take shelter in the nearest stone building!”

“That’ll be our town hall,” Bromley said.

Arthur nodded to Leon, who immediately started corralling and guiding the people toward the domed stone structure at the center of town.

“Any and all who are fit to fight, take up arms! We may only have a few minutes before the dragon is upon us.” Arthur addressed Bromley directly. “Dispatch as many archers as you can spare along both ridgelines. They may be our best hope.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Bromley said.

The squadron before him was a mixture of the best knights in Camelot and the villagers strong enough to fight. Some had blunt swords, others hefted pitchforks, and one woman clung to a thick-handled broom. A nervous energy clung to each and every one of them.

Arthur straightened in the saddle and cleared his throat.

“Not all is lost.” Arthur projected the voice he’d always known he’d need and the one he’d always hoped he never would. The only voice that could instill bravery in an hour as dark as this. A king’s voice. “I have defeated a dragon in the past. Do not let your defenses down for a single moment! Dragons are not mere brute monsters. They are intelligent creatures, and difficult to mortally wound. We must work in unison if we stand any chance of defeating it.”

Arthur doled out instructions for each squadron, and by the time he was finished, Bromley had returned and archers were taking up stations along the ridge.

“We also require a building for our base of operations,” Arthur told him.

“Of course, your highness. This way.”

They dismounted and removed the saddle bags brimming with crossbows, armor, and supplies, then left the horses in the hands of servants, who guided them into the depths of town.

“Don’t place them in the stables!” Merlin called after them. “The hay will be the first to burn.”

Arthur clapped a hand on his shoulder, steering him after Bromley. “On occasion,” he told Merlin, “though not very often, you can be rather…”

“Wise?”

“No, definitely not that.”

“Intelligent?”

“Clearly not.” Arthur ruffled his hair for good measure. “But perhaps not as much of a fool as you appear.”

“That was almost a compliment.”

“Almost.”

Bromley led them to a large structure built into the side of the valley. Knights moved with urgency, issuing royal weapons and shields in preparation for battle. Almost as if it were instinctual, Merlin began securing Arthur’s armor, tightening the straps with the precise amount of pressure that Arthur preferred. When Merlin secured the gauntlet along his forearms, his fingers trembled ever so slightly.

“Don’t be afraid,” Arthur said in a low, quiet voice.

“I’m not.”

Merlin grazed the skin along his throat as he fixed Arthur’s collar so the fabric bunched beneath his chainmail wouldn’t rub a sore there. Arthur searched his face, searched the bond for any trace of fear, but found none. Only a slight buzzing of nerves.

“No, you’re not,” Arthur said. Though he wasn’t a knight, Merlin was still brave as ever. “Regardless, you should remain inside.”

Merlin smiled meekly and glanced around to confirm they wouldn’t be overheard. “You know as well as I do the tether won’t allow that.”

“Very well, then you…” The words fizzled on Arthur’s tongue as he fought to reconcile the notion that he couldn’t ensure Merlin’s safety. Inside stone walls, he would be protected from the flames. But outside, there was no guarantee that he wouldn’t be hurt. If not by the flames, then in the chaos of battle. And staying inside wasn’t an option for either of them.

But perhaps Arthur could give Merlin the best possible odds. He grabbed Lancelot and Gwaine as they finished distributing weapons to the villagers.

“You two,” Arthur said, “will remain by Merlin’s side at all times. Protect him with your life, is that understood?”

Lancelot tensed beneath his grasp and the whites of his eyes shone almost imperceptibly as he stared at Merlin in some silent conversation that Arthur didn’t bother lingering on.

“Sire,” Merlin protested, “that’s really not necessary—”

“You really never learn, do you, Merlin?”

Both knights immediately flanked Merlin, remaining by his side as Arthur returned the favor and secured an extra set of armor over Merlin’s torso and arms. As he worked, he felt Merlin watching him intently, as if trying to parse out something vital.

“If you have something to say, Merlin,” Arthur began. “Now would be the time.”

Merlin swallowed. The nerves intensified beneath his skin. Arthur grasped his arm, seeking purchase in one of the few spots where the warmth of his skin was still readily available through the chainmail.

“Arthur, I—”

A shriek split the air around them. A chill bolted up Arthur’s spine and raised the hairs at the nape of his neck.

Whether they were ready or not, the dragon was upon them.

* * *

As the last remaining villagers ran for cover in the nearest stone shelters, Arthur drew his sword. He spared one last glance at Merlin, safely sandwiched between Gwaine and Lancelot, looking every part a knight in his own right between them. Merlin caught his eye and nodded solemnly.  

“On me!” Arthur shouted.

The knights that surrounded him raised their shields and weapons. He motioned to the archers along the ridgeline, who loosed a volley of arrows as the white dragon flew overhead.

The arrows ricocheted off the dragon’s tough hide. Not even their strongest crossbow could pierce its skin. The burst of fire dissipated before it reached the thatch roofs, but that wouldn’t last long not with—

Arthur swore. The dragon looped through the air, and this time, it wasn’t aiming for the city. But the archers.

Flames engulfed the trees along the ridgeline, and Arthur could do nothing but watch in horror as the early spring leaves and bark caught. The archers scattered and ran for cover. Some flung themselves on the ground to extinguish the fire burning them alive.

Arthur gripped his sword tighter.

With the archers decimated, the dragon swooped low over the village. Its wings beat too close overhead for comfort.

Hot flames cascaded around them.

Arthur dove out of the way, the knights around him following his lead. The grass caught and divided the troops in half. As if alive, the flames leapt and spread, igniting nearby homes and land.

Through the air now thick with clouds of smoke, Arthur found Merlin—on the other side of the flames. Gwaine and Lancelot had a tight grip on him with the river at their backs. At least if nothing else, they could take refuge in the water.

Another shriek signaled the dragon’s return, and Arthur scrambled to his feet.

“Hold your ground!” Arthur shouted. Knights gathered at his back. Several rounds of arrows shot into the sky, clinking off the dragon’s hide and falling uselessly to the ground.

Arthur swung his sword as the dragon flew overhead, but the creature was smart enough not to come within reach of his weapon.

The tether at the base of Arthur’s spine grew taut and then yanked him toward the flames, toward Merlin, and if Leon hadn’t flung an arm out, he would’ve ended up in the middle of the fire.

As Leon hauled him back, the tether tightened to the point of pain. The knights on the other side of the flames were regrouping, Lancelot and Gwaine still among them, but Merlin had vanished.

“Where’s Merlin?” Arthur demanded of them, his voice clipped as his lungs refused to draw air into their depths.

Gwaine frantically whipped his head around, and for a brief, flickering moment, Lancelot looked almost guilty as he too searched for Merlin. Like he’d somehow just vanished in the midst of battle.

Cold panic spread throughout Arthur’s chest. Maybe Merlin had been taken, or worse, injured—

“Merlin!” Arthur shouted. “Merlin, where are you?”

His vision blurred as the tether tightened, and he could’ve sworn that something in his chest began to crack. Perhaps his ribs.

Arthur shifted in all different directions, shoving knights out of the way even as they stared at him like he was mad. He supposed maybe he was. Desperation to dispel the tension was consuming him, but no matter where he moved, the tether remained taut.

Perhaps Morgana used the dragon as a distraction to snatch Merlin. Except, if she had, she likely would’ve already dealt the killing blow. Arthur’s heart was still hammering against his ribs. And there was no undercurrent of pain along the tether. The sensation was too distinct, too similar to this morning, to be an injury. Merlin wasn’t hurt. He was just—gone.

“My lord, the dragon is returning!” Leon called, breaking through Arthur’s distress.

Arthur gripped Excalibur with trembling hands and dug his heels into the ground. He cursed the dragon for not landing to fight them on equal ground.

Heat erupted before them as the dragon made another pass. Hands grasped Arthur, hauling him out of the way, and this time, something was ripping inside of him, shredding the bond that connected him to Merlin.

“Merlin,” Arthur gasped. “I need Merlin.”

“I’ll find him, sire, but first, we need to get you to safety.”

“No,” Arthur gripped Leon’s chainmail at the base of his throat. He was fairly certain that taking him any further from Merlin might actually be the death of him. “I need—”

The dragon landed elegantly and spewed flames in a spiral as its head whipped around. Unlike the dragon Arthur had faced at Camelot, this one was all white without a single speck of color. And much smaller. Perhaps younger, too.

With wings outstretched, it stalked toward Arthur and the knights, the burning town rising up behind it. The dragon roared, displaying row after row of razor-sharp fangs. The ground reverberated beneath Arthur’s feet.

“My lord, we need to move.” Leon tugged Arthur away, and pain lanced through him.

A garbled cry escaped Arthur as he fell to his knees. Excalibur slipped from his grasp.

“Merlin!” he called, but his voice came out small and desperate.

Hands grabbed for him, but Arthur shrugged them off. Sweat dripped from his forehead and his lungs burned with each breath, but nothing hurt quite so much as that goddamn bond. Flames consumed the entire village—every tree, every house, every barn—even the grass beneath Arthur’s palms was scorched and dead, and he thought he might soon be, too.

The dragon eyed him, catlike and intelligent, and Arthur grappled for his sword. With a herculean effort, he drew himself to his knees, then his feet, and extended his blade. It glinted so brightly in the flames that it nearly blinded him.

Arthur was so engrossed in the dragon, its maw snapping open with a hiss, that he didn’t even notice that the bond had stopped aching.

Just as flames burst from the dragon’s mouth, a figure appeared. Tall and lanky in the chain mail and crimson cloak, his stark black hair wild in the wind, he skidded to a halt in front of Arthur.

“Merlin!” Arthur shouted, but his servant stood his ground and lifted a hand, his fingers splayed out.

The dragon fire swerved around an invisible curve. The flames bent and eddied, but missed the knights and those behind Arthur entirely before fizzling into nothingness.

It was almost as if Merlin had created a shield.

But that was—impossible.

When Merlin spoke, it was directly to the dragon in a deep, booming voice woven of an ancient language that Arthur didn’t understand. That he had no idea Merlin was fluent in.

Miraculously, the dragon listened. It cried out, almost in protest, before flapping its wings, taking flight, and disappearing into the sky.

With his back still turned to Arthur, Merlin raised his hand overhead and shouted another string of foreign words. The puffy white clouds immediately darkened and shifted, growing heavy with rain that began to fall around the village. Extinguishing the flames one raindrop at a time.

Something crackled beneath Arthur’s skin. Unmistakably warm and energetic. A sensation he’d felt before through the bond but had never been able to put a name to. Until now.

At last, his friend turned to face him. The downpour flattened Merlin’s dark hair and pasted it to his forehead. His eyes were as dark and stormy as the clouds above them. His jaw was clenched, but he held his chin high. Not quite proud, but defiant. Scared, but hopeful.

Wind tore at Arthur’s cloak, pushing him toward Merlin, but Arthur intentionally remained at the end of the tether as an emotion he couldn’t name twisted and roiled in his gut.

Rain poured around them in sheets, drenching Arthur and weighing him down like the truth anchored deep in his chest. He struggled to reconcile what he’d just witnessed. Struggled to comprehend that Merlin had single-handedly saved them all. Shielded them from fire. Sent the dragon away. Summoned a rainstorm.

But Merlin couldn’t have done any of that because that was—magic.

Merlin had magic.

Chapter Text

Even as rain poured into Merlin’s eyes, blurring and distorting his view of his king, he could feel the exact moment that Arthur’s shock and disbelief blossomed into anger.

Whispers reverberated through the crowd of knights and villagers as people began to reappear from the stone shelters now that Aithusa was gone and the flames were extinguished.

“He saved us,” a red-headed little girl whispered, clinging to her father’s leg.

Her voice was quickly drowned out by another’s that boomed through the desolated village. “He’s a sorcerer!”

Merlin inhaled sharply, still unwilling to tear his gaze away from Arthur, who had not yet moved a muscle. He merely stared until the villagers lifted their drooping weapons and turned them on Merlin.

“Kill him!” Someone else shouted, and Merlin balked. He could easily defend himself, but he didn’t want to hurt these people. They were only acting out of fear and embracing the laws Uther had put in place decades before. They had only ever experienced magic at the hands of evil sorcerers like Morgana.

Merlin didn’t want to fight back, but he would if he had to. He would risk his own life, but not when it meant endangering Arthur’s.

Lancelot shoved through the crowd, then, soot and dirt caked across his face, and Merlin was unspeakably grateful to see his friend, the one person who had known his truth since they’d first met and had accepted him without question. He stepped up beside Merlin, sword extended.

“You’ll have to go through me.”

Gwaine joined Lancelot, sword at the ready. “And me.”

“And me,” Elyan’s voice rang out across the square.

“And me,” Percival said, squaring his shoulders.

Leon cleared his throat and joined the other knights of the round table. “You will not touch him as long as I live.”

The emotions welling in Merlin’s throat threatened to choke him. He could hardly believe it. He blinked rapidly, worried the knights and their support might vanish as his vision cleared, but they hadn’t.

Except, Merlin couldn’t help but wonder if they would have taken the same stance without the tether to the king, who stood still as a statue.

When Arthur finally spoke, it was the last thing Merlin had expected him to say.

“Fetch the horses. We leave for Camelot immediately.”

Protests erupted throughout the crowd, demanding the king eliminate the threat of magic, and Merlin clenched his fists. He had saved them. Every single one of them, and they still wanted to burn him at the stake.

Arthur silenced them all with a glare and waited as the knight’s horses were brought around. They were all a little jumpy, snorting at the smoldering ruins of buildings and trees. Merlin soothed his mare with a gentle hand down her smooth neck. The scent of wet horse, the way she nuzzled his hand as if he were the same man who had ridden into this valley earlier today, was a comfort.

The little girl with fiery red hair who’d clung to her father’s leg ran over to Merlin and held up a small, woven band that she’d clearly made herself. He blinked at it curiously, but she waited patiently until he took it, the texture rough against his palm. She peered up at him with wide, clear eyes. Of all the villagers, she wasn’t afraid.

“Thank you for saving us.”

The girl ran back to her father, absorbed into the crowd.

That same raw emotion rose in Merlin again, and this time it wasn’t the rain that blurred his vision. He straightened and was about to mount his horse when he felt the weight of Arthur’s gaze. He seemed to be transfixed by the woven band, but the rush of emotions was too volatile, too overwhelming, for Merlin to parse out what it was his king was feeling.

Merlin would’ve given anything then to take it back. To fall into an easy rhythm alongside Arthur as they had for years. Teasing and bumping shoulders, but in the span of a few mere minutes, all of that between them had become precarious. Their tightly woven connection had a fatal flaw—a single thread that, if pulled too hard, would unravel it all.

“Arthur—”

“Don’t.” His king’s voice was cold, calculated. The likes of which Merlin had never been on the receiving end of before. It hurt worse than all the pain from earlier combined.

Merlin mounted his horse and tried to pin point exactly when it had all gone wrong. He’d snuck away in the midst of battle, hidden behind one of the structures. He’d hoped that he could shout to Aithusa, order her to leave, but she’d been too far away. And even with the overwhelming chaos, Merlin knew he would’ve been heard, and it all would’ve been for naught anyway.

He tried to match his shout to Arthur’s, but it was no use. He couldn’t get far away enough for it to make a difference. Couldn’t even use his magic to put out the flames without drawing suspicion. Merlin had tried to stretch the tether, but then Arthur had screamed for him—a scream that would undoubtedly haunt Merlin’s dreams. A desperate, raw sound born of agony.

And when Aithusa had landed, set her sights on Arthur, Merlin had known he was out of options.

But if it was a choice between letting Arthur die and exposing his magic, he would save Arthur every time.

It was hours before anyone spoke. Hours and countless miles that they’d ridden before Arthur had unceremoniously halted his horse in a clearing and dismounted, evidently stopping for the evening. The rest of the knights had taken his lead.

“Arthur.”

His king had merely shaken his head and moved to the opposite side of camp, residing at the outermost edge of the bond, and just slightly beyond it. Merlin tried to take a step forward to alleviate the discomfort, but Arthur matched it. Apparently seeking out that uncomfortable tightness.

 Merlin didn’t even bother with a blanket or bedroll. He just leaned back against a tree and waited it out. Waited out whatever turbulent thoughts were roiling through Arthur’s mind. Waited out the encroaching darkness. Waited out the seemingly endless night.

Most of the knights had gone to bed when Lancelot offered him dinner, but Merlin denied it. His stomach was too knotted to fathom eating anything at all.

“Are you all right?” his friend asked, dropping a hand to his knee and squeezing.

The contact itself was helpful, and Merlin merely forced a hollow, empty smile. “No. No, I’m not all right, but thank you for what you did. Even if it was just to protect Arthur.”

“I didn’t do it for him.”

Merlin’s smile wavered then, because he couldn’t quite handle that. His breath hitched, and his chest throbbed. If it wouldn’t render Arthur even more hurt, Merlin would’ve pulled back even further against the tether, let whatever it was that still connected them shred him to pieces.

Logically, Merlin had known that this was always how it would go. Arthur would look back at their years together with a new perspective—the good, the bad, everything in between—and yet, as Merlin curled into himself, braced against the cold, and tried to block out the ache, he couldn’t help feeling anything but absolutely wrecked. Some small, naïve part of him had always hoped that maybe, just maybe, Arthur might accept him for who he was. That he might see him, really see him, and not hate him.

That hope was smothered, now.

The tears that had burned the backs of his eyes finally spilled over his cheeks and splashed hotly onto his hands, resting in his lap, still clutching the little girl’s woven band.

Merlin felt a presence hovering above him and didn’t need to look to know that it was Arthur. He hid his face as he wiped his cheeks, layers of soot and grime coming away with his tears.

“You’ve been lying to me this whole time.” Not a question, but a statement.

And somehow, that was worse than any question Merlin had prepared himself for. He stood on shaky legs and faced his king, forced himself to hold his chin high.

“I have magic,” Merlin admitted quietly. “I use it for you, Arthur. Only for you.”

“So you don’t deny it.”

Merlin wasn’t sure if he meant having magic or lying, so he chose the safest option and remained silent.

“Have you been working with Morgana?”

Merlin gaped at his king. “How could you—” he swallowed thickly, tears building in his eyes once more because Arthur was treating him like a complete stranger. Not as the man who had stood by his side all these years. “No, sire. Of course not.”

Arthur nodded curtly. Absorbing this the way he would bad news in the midst of battle.

“Then why can’t you undo this,” Arthur gestured between them, “thing between us? Why can’t you just sever it?”

Merlin frowned, his lips trembling as he pressed them together. “Because.” His voice came out hoarse and raw, and he had to try again. “Because the tether Morgana established is wound around the existing bond of our friendship. It’s too complex to unravel. I can’t sever it without severing our friendship. I wish I could, but I can’t. I tried.”

Arthur’s expression softened, and Merlin thought he might finally be getting somewhere, but then his king said, “I thought I knew you.”

“I’m still—” Merlin hated the way his voice broke. The way tears slipped out. “I’m still me. What happened to welcoming the chance to know me without the mask? I wasn’t ready, but I took it off anyway. I did what I had to do to save your life. As I always have.”

Merlin stroked the woven band reflexively, letting the memory of that little girl’s wonder anchor him. Arthur’s gaze snagged on Merlin’s fist, held tightly against his side, but the crease between his brows only deepened. Merlin could practically feel the war raging within him. The Arthur who wanted to believe his friend, and the king who had grown up believing magic was evil as assuredly as he believed the ground was solid beneath his feet.

“In Ealdor, Will wasn’t the one who conjured that wind storm, was he?”

“No, sire.”

“And the Griffin?”

“I enchanted Lancelot’s lance.”

Arthur shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “What else?”

Merlin was in no mood to lay bare all that he had done for his king in the midst of the forest for anyone to hear. When he still wasn’t sure where they stood.   

“Sire, that could take all night.”

Arthur’s nostrils flared as he crossed his arms over his chest. “What. Else?”

Merlin scrubbed a hand through his hair and took a wild shot in the dark, hoping he might be able to rein his friend back in through their past. “Do you remember when we first met?”

His king’s expression remained unreadable. “Nearly took your head off with a mace.”

“And I stopped you. Using magic.” Arthur’s jaw fell slack and, under less devastating circumstances, Merlin might have laughed. It wasn’t quite a surrender or a truce, but maybe Merlin could help him understand, help him see.

“Morgana’s army of the dead?” Merlin began. “I stopped them. With Excalibur.”

Arthur’s brows shot up. “You? Wield a sword?”

“Just because I don’t need one doesn’t mean I don’t know how,” Merlin said quickly. “Gods knows I’ve watched more than enough of your training sessions to be proficient.”

Arthur snapped his mouth shut.

“When bandits ambushed us and struck me down, I caused the rockslide that separated us.” Merlin could’ve sworn that Arthur’s expression eased at that. “I placed Excalibur in the stone. I sent the dragon away from Camelot.” No need to mention that he’d also loosed the dragon on Camelot, whether he’d intended to or not. “And when Morgana sat on your throne and Agravaine chased us through the tunnels, I stopped him.”

“You knew,” Arthur mumbled, almost to himself. “You knew Agravaine was against me.”

“He was only there to avenge your mother.”

The words were out before Merlin could stop them. The dam of truth had finally broken, and he didn’t realize his mistake until it was too late.

“Avenge my mother,” he repeated weakly. “Then, Morgause was telling the truth, wasn’t she? That wasn’t a vision she showed me. That was my real mother, wasn’t it? And you—” Arthur stumbled back, his blue eyes hardening into cold, unyielding stone.

Panic overpowered Merlin’s senses. His gut wrenched and his skin crackled with it even as he reached for his king.

“Arthur, I was trying to protect you—”

But Arthur shoved Merlin away. “I trusted you, and you lied to me. You let me believe that my father was a good, honorable man when he was behind my mother’s death!”

“Arthur, please—”

True betrayal shone in his king’s tightly coiled expression. Then he drew his sword, leveling it at Merlin’s throat.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t run you through right now.”

Merlin raised his hands in surrender. Of the many scenarios he’d considered over the years, this was often the end result. With Arthur taking up arms against him. Merlin had grappled with whether or not he would use his magic to defend himself. Never once had he come up with an answer.

Merlin glanced beyond the cold bite of steel and its promise of death. Their argument had roused the knights. Lancelot, Leon, Gwaine, Elyan, and Percival were all on their feet. Lancelot was the only one with a hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The others merely stared on in horror. Unsure what to do. Perhaps their loyalties were drawn as taut as the tether between the king and his servant.

Merlin swallowed, his throat bobbing infinitely close to the lethal edge of rage that had consumed his friend.

“If you kill me,” Merlin whispered, “you’ll die, too.”

Dark shadows from the dying flames played across Arthur’s features, sharpening and hollowing his normally soft features. “Then do it.”

“Sire?” Leon asked, voice distant even though he stood a few paces away.

“Sever the connection, Merlin.”

It was a horrifically long moment before Merlin realized what Arthur was asking of him.

“No.”

“That’s an order, Merlin,” Arthur demanded. “And I am your king.”

Tears stung his eyes, but Merlin held his ground. “And I thought you were my friend.”

A muscle in Arthur’s jaw flexed, and if Merlin hadn’t known better, he would’ve thought those were tears welling in the king’s eyes, too, shining even in the darkness threatening to crush them. His expression so closely mirrored the devastation Merlin had witnessed in the throne room so long ago, when it was Uther on the other end of Arthur’s sword.

For a split second, Merlin wasn’t sure if he would run him through regardless. He desperately sought the tether for answers, but it was so clogged with heavy emotions that he couldn’t make heads or tails of anything beyond pure, unfettered rage.

Arthur moved, and Merlin braced himself for the inevitable, shutting his eyes, barely registering the cry of protest from the knights, but no pain followed.

The blade hadn’t pierced Merlin’s skin. Arthur had thrust it into the ground, half-shouting, half-growling into the night as he stalked back to the other side of camp.

Merlin’s relief was quickly eclipsed by his own anger rising up at the way his king had turned on him. Arthur stalked away, shoulders curled in anger, stomping across the forest floor.

“Nothing to see here,” Arthur snapped at the knights, but they stared on, their attention volleying between Merlin and Arthur.  

Merlin leaned back against the tree, let the jagged bark dig into his back as he slid down the trunk and nestled in the space between roots.

Sleep refused to claim Merlin. He’d tossed and turned, and each time he thought that his mind might relent, let him drift into a gentle sleep, it receded from his grasp like grains of sand slipping through his fingers.

Though, he supposed he must have fallen asleep at some point because when dawn broke, a blanket was draped across Merlin’s shoulders. The only one without a blanket, the only one with just a cloak for warmth, was Arthur himself.

Yet, his king still refused to so much as glance in his direction. The kindness had not been a truce. It had been—Merlin wasn’t quite sure what it was. But he was grateful for it all the same.

The convoy packed up camp and began the day’s ride to Camelot in silence. No one dared utter a single word. Lancelot and Gwaine remained at Merlin’s side, but it brought him little comfort. Even if bandits did attack them on the way home, their protection was irrelevant. Merlin could disable anyone that crossed their paths far quicker than the knights were capable of.

The horse’s hooves clip-clopped against Camelot’s cobblestone, and Merlin studied the walls of the city he’d called home for the past few years, absorbing every ounce of brilliance. As soon as the tether was relinquished, Merlin would leave and never return. Arthur had been betrayed by so many people. Even if Arthur forgave him, Merlin doubted that sense of betrayal between them would ever fade entirely.

Hair along the back of Merlin’s neck rose, like he was being watched, but when Merlin turned, even though Arthur was facing him, he was fixated on a point along his horse’s ears.

The group halted in front of the castle steps. Gwen was waiting, as she always did, for Lancelot and Elyan, but when Merlin slid from his horse, his legs trembling with the lack of sleep and sustenance, Gwen reached for him first.

“Merlin?” She grasped his arm. “Merlin, you’re shaking. Are you all right?”

Her eyes were so warm, so welcoming, that Merlin nearly unraveled right then and there. He wanted to lie, to answer that of course he was fine, but his throat constricted with each attempt, and Gwen somehow just knew. She threw her arms around his neck and held him tight. Merlin’s hands reflexively found her waist, and he wanted to bury his face into her neck. Wanted to hide in her tender embrace, but the tether grew taut a second before he was yanked sideways.

“Merlin!” Gwen gasped as Arthur hurried up the stairs, dragging Merlin along behind him.

“I’m okay, Gwen,” he managed. Lancelot and Gwaine were hot on his heels, following them up the stairs to Arthur’s chambers. It was strange, returning to such a familiar place and feeling as though everything had shifted. Nothing was quite where Merlin had left it.

“The two of you are dismissed,” Arthur told them. “Your task has been fulfilled.”

Merlin wrung his hands, wishing more than anything that he could run and hide in the forest, in his chambers with Gaius, in the stables with his horse.

“My lord,” Lancelot began. “Don’t be too hard on—”

But Arthur merely cleared his throat. “That will be all, Lancelot.”

Lancelot hesitated, a single brow raised at Merlin, and it wasn’t until Merlin nodded at him, a silent promise that he would be all right, that the knight shut the door behind him, footsteps disappearing down the long hall.

Arthur wriggled out of his armor, struggling when it caught on his hair.

“Would you like help with that, sire?” Merlin asked hoarsely.

“No.”

Arthur tugged the divider, separating the room between the bed chambers and the dining area. Merlin might have been offended, except he was grateful for the privacy. He unclasped the crimson Camelot cloak, and it pooled at his feet. Then he slipped out of the heavy chain mail, but it did nothing to lessen to the burden spanning his shoulders, pitting in his gut, and weighing on his heart. He didn’t understand how he could be so empty and yet so heavy all at once.

He grabbed the thick leather book he’d already scanned and huddled up in the window to read by the waning light as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. He knew he wouldn’t find anything useful, but it felt good to focus on something else. Something that didn’t feel like it was ripping him in two.

George appeared a few hours later, making several trips with large trays of food and wine. Merlin nibbled at a slice of bread and poured himself a nearly full goblet of wine. The liquid perfumed his tongue and seeped into his muscles and bones, easing some of the tension riddling his body.

Several hundred pages and three goblets of wine later, the devastation twisting in Merlin’s chest no longer felt quite so overwhelming. He felt… almost numb. Perhaps that was why the knights drank so heartily before battle. It let them sleep even in the face of imminent danger.

The dark night stretched out beyond the window when a mumbled voice fluttered near his ear. “C’mon, Merlin. You can’t sleep there.”

Merlin rubbed at his bleary eyes because Arthur couldn’t be standing there beside the window, looking rumpled and drained. He had to be dreaming.

“Fine,” Merlin muttered and slid from the windowsill onto unsteady legs. He wobbled across the room, hitting the divider with his shoulder and sending it clattering to the ground. Merlin would’ve been close behind it if not for the strong band around his middle that kept him upright, tucking him against a warm chest, even as his head swam.

Definitely a dream.

“Fine,” Merlin repeated. “Arthur wants to kill me that badly? He hates me that much? I’ll sever the connection so he can be free of me.”

Something buzzed beneath his skin that he couldn’t quite pinpoint, but Merlin reached for his magic regardless. It slipped away from him, though. Perhaps the alcohol had more of an effect on him than he’d realized. Grasping for his magic was akin to catching an oiled pig. Try as he might, it evaded him.

“In the morning,” Merlin clarified to no one in particular before the band around his waist tugged him down onto the lumpy mattress on the floor.

Something warm and soft swept over him that he burrowed into, and the Arthur that his mind, his dream, had conjured squeezed his arm.

“Don’t.” The entire room was fuzzy, but the voice—and the intention behind it—was crystal clear. “Don’t sever it.”

The numbness and liquor swallowed Merlin whole, and he sank gratefully further from the too-real dream and plummeted into a deeper, more encompassing sleep. Part of him wished that he would settle like a stone at the bottom of a lake and never resurface.

Light pierced the stained-glass window and flooded straight into Merlin’s throbbing mind. He groaned and rolled over to find Arthur’s bed already empty. The king was sitting at his dining table, picking at the fruit and sausages, but George was nowhere to be found.

Merlin groaned and clutched his head, stomach churning as he struggled to his feet.

Steam wafted from the bath water, and a towel was folded across the lip of it with an assortment of oils and soaps as well as a fresh set of Merlin’s clothes. A clear order without an actual exchange of words.

Merlin was grateful to be rid of his clothes that still reeked of soot and smoke and the forest floor. The water turned a disgusting color as he cleaned his hair and scrubbed his skin until it felt as raw as he did.

After Merlin was dry and dressed and feeling slightly less like he might heave up the contents of his stomach, he peered around the divider at Arthur, who was scribbling vigorously with his quill and ink. He rarely ever wrote that quickly, that adamantly. Merlin distantly wondered who he was writing, and if it had anything to do with the past few days.

Merlin moved to the windowsill where he’d left the text and the woven band the night before. The text was still open where he’d left it, but the band had disappeared. He searched his clothes and his sheets in case it’d fallen out somewhere, but there was no sign of it.

“Sit,” Arthur said, shattering Merlin’s obsessive search. “Eat. Before you keel over.”

Arthur hadn’t even bothered to look up from the letter he was penning, and his voice had the same distant cadence it carried when he spoke to foreign dignitaries. Merlin might have preferred the silence to the stilted command, but he obeyed regardless, forcing down a slice of buttered toast and a couple sausages.

His head was just beginning to clear when the stern knock at the door scattered all of Merlin’s thoughts and sent them rattling around his skull.

“My lord, the Council is ready when you are,” Leon said through the thick wooden door.

Merlin kneaded his temples, trying to dispel the ache, and made a mental note to ask Gaius for a hangover remedy the next time he saw him.

“You’d think after all those nights in the tavern, you’d be able to hold your wine a bit better, Merlin,” Arthur said gruffly.

Merlin blinked at his king and took a large swig of water before responding.

“You still believe I was in the tavern all those nights?”

Arthur spun on his heel, hand falling away from the door, his brow pinched inquisitively. “If you weren’t in the tavern, then where were you?”

“Bleeding to death in the forest, battling Morgana, saving your royal backside. The usual.”

Arthur studied his own hands as he considered that. “So that was another lie, then?”

“Gaius never was adept at lying. Not to you, at least.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Merlin inhaled sharply and decided that the truth was the best path forward. Perhaps the only path forward if he ever wished for Arthur to trust him again.

“There were many occasions we had to lie to your father to protect you, or Camelot, and to keep ourselves from the pyre.”

Arthur’s lips parted as though he’d been struck over the head.

“I see.”

* * *

When the topic of Blackburn and the dragon came up in the council meeting, Merlin braced himself for impact. This was the moment his secret would be revealed to the entire kingdom. There would be no turning back. Everyone who once considered him a friend would appraise him as an enemy. 

“Blackburn still stands,” Arthur said, “and the dragon no longer poses a threat.”

Merlin bit his lip to keep quiet. He exhaled, his entire chest collapsing with sheer relief. Arthur had kept his secret. He hadn’t outed him.

“My lord—you defeated the dragon?”

Arthur flicked a gaze at Merlin. “That will be all for today. You’re dismissed.”

Merlin didn’t understand—until he caught a glimpse of the little girl’s woven band sticking out between the knuckles of Arthur’s fist.

Even then, he didn’t let himself consider that Arthur might actually be grateful to Merlin for saving their lives, the lives of his knights, the lives of his people, in Blackburn. Because considering that would open a dangerous door that led to hope.

It was far more likely that Arthur felt obligated to keep Merlin’s powers a secret for the same reason he’d kept the tether under wraps. He couldn’t risk a rogue citizen taking Merlin’s fate into his own hands and endangering the king’s wellbeing. He couldn’t risk inciting panic that a sorcerer had resided at court this entire time. Nothing good could come of that.

The rest of the day was suspiciously normal except for the void of their usual banter to fill the spaces between activities. Arthur led another training session with the young knights, and this time, Lancelot did join him. Along with the other knights of the round table, and Merlin couldn’t help but notice that none of them were training at full strength today. They were all holding back, particularly when they sparred with Arthur. Perhaps afraid of incurring his wrath, even accidentally.

Gwen had accompanied her husband to the training field and settled beside Merlin, who had taken to polishing already sparkling armor on the sidelines just to keep his hands busy.

“He still hasn’t forgiven you?”

Merlin sighed, detesting the way it shuddered. “I’m not convinced he ever will.”

“That’s ridiculous, Merlin.” Gwen’s shoulder brushed his, and she wound her arm around his, stroking fondly. “He’s your friend. He’ll come around.”

Merlin wasn’t so sure. He shrugged and leaned into Gwen, his oldest friend in Camelot who had known nearly as long as Lancelot and had accepted him with open arms. As he watched Arthur showcase a disarming tactic that sent his opponent’s blade flying and left his own poised at his throat, Merlin wished that everyone was as open-minded as Gwen and Lancelot.

Logically, he knew it was different. He knew that Arthur wasn’t just upset that Merlin had magic. He was upset because Merlin had lied. He’d betrayed not only his king, but their friendship, too.

Merlin just wished he could see how much of himself he’d carved up to keep Arthur safe. That all that he’d done, he’d done for Arthur. Maybe one day, he would see it that way.

Arthur flashed his opponent a smile so dazzling and brilliant that Merlin had to avert his gaze.

* * *

After the very awkward affair of dinner (Merlin had piled his plate with roast lamb and potatoes and sat in the window overlooking the courtyard to avoid whatever was sure to be terse, too-polite conversation with his king), Gaius paid them a visit.

Arthur’s fork hovered above the plate with a skewered bite of lamb. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“I came to speak with Merlin, my lord.”

Arthur nodded. “Ah.”

Gaius shifted his weight, hands clasped tightly in front of him. “Perhaps we could have some… privacy?”

Merlin wanted to snap that there was no privacy, not with the tether still firmly in place, and promptly set his goblet of wine aside. Tonight, the liquor wasn’t numbing so much as it was heightening everything else.  

“Are you kicking me out of my own chambers, Gaius?” Arthur set down his fork and knife and leaned back in his chair.

“You must understand, sire, under normal circumstances, I would never suggest such a thing, but considering that the matter I came to discuss requires more secrecy than can be garnered in a meager hallway, I would hope you might prove amenable.”

Arthur sighed and pushed away from the table. “You have five minutes.” Then the king stepped outside, far enough at the outer edge of the tether that Merlin rubbed at his sternum.

 Gaius swept Merlin into an embrace that left him aching for the reprieve of his own chambers. The quite nights by the fire spent reading magical texts or discussing the consequences of replacing even one simple ingredient in a potion.

“Are you all right, my boy?”

Merlin paced in the space before the window.

“I—I don’t know what to do, Gaius. I saved his life. I saved an entire village, but it wasn’t enough. I don’t think he’ll ever understand.”

“Give him time, Merlin. Uther was ruthless in his pursuit of eradicating the ways of the old religion. Arthur doesn’t know any different.”

“He hates me. I thought I could change his mind about magic, but now…” Merlin threw his hands up in despair. “Arthur will never accept me.”

“That’s not true.” Gaius shook his head, his silver hair sliding across his shoulders. “One day, he will understand how much you’ve done for him.”

“Gaius, that day has come and gone, and he tried to kill me!” Merlin burst out. “The only thing that stopped him was Morgana’s damned enchantment.”

Gaius rested a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, stilling him. “Do not lose sight of the world that you are trying to create. Arthur may need time, but if there is anyone in this world can help him understand not all magic is evil, it is you.”

There was a time when Merlin would’ve agreed with Gaius, but now, he wasn’t so sure. He might not be able to fulfill his destiny after all. The thought threatened to choke him.

All this time, he’d wondered whether he was strong enough to defeat Morgana, but turns out, he should’ve been worried about whether or not he could convince Arthur that he was worthy of trying.

“What if I can’t?”

“You will,” Gaius said it simply, like it was an established fact. An event that had already transpired. “Have faith.”

“And if I’ve already lost it?”

“Then have faith in Arthur,” Gaius said. “As you always have.”

Gaius squeezed Merlin’s shoulder once more, and when he opened the door, Arthur nearly tumbled inside. The king cleared his throat and straightened his tunic, but he barely had time to pretend to be doing anything else before Gaius leveled him with a stare.

“Your majesty.”

“Gaius.”

“Do you remember what I told you after I was kidnapped?”

Arthur stilled. “Yes.”

“You would do well to remember it.” Gaius cocked a single brow, a look that would’ve had Merlin shrinking into the shadows, and brushed past Arthur and the guards into the hall.

Merlin crawled into bed early that night, riddled with exhaustion that he wasn’t convinced sleep could fix, but he was determined to try regardless. He woke to the mattress dipping, and then a warm body slid in beside him beneath the thin blanket. Even if the tether hadn’t pulsed happily—hopefully—at Arthur’s proximity, he would’ve known him based on the scent of his skin, his easy movements, the steady cadence of his breath.

Merlin peeled his eyes open to find Arthur watching him. His depthless blue eyes magnified with tears. He’d only ever witnessed Arthur cry at the Druid shrine to save Elyan. He wasn’t even sure he’d shed a tear when his father had died. But this—

“I was out of line.”

Any semblance of a response lodged itself in Merlin’s throat.

Arthur reached across the finite space between them, maybe to rest his hand atop Merlin’s between them, but he flinched back, tucking his hand closer to his chest.

“Merlin—”

“Don’t.”

“Please, Merlin.” Arthur’s voice cracked on his name. “I never should’ve threatened your life, or asked you to sever the connection between us.”

The sincerity in his voice sent treacherous little flutters of hope through Merlin. He clamped down on it, though, refusing to breathe life into it. If he let himself hope that Arthur might accept him, that he might be able to stay in Camelot at Arthur’s side, only to have it ripped away once more—Merlin shivered at the thought.

“I’ve only ever protected you, Arthur,” Merlin whispered. “As I said, I use my magic for you, and only you. My magic is and always will be yours.”

The taut tether softened in accordance with Arthur’s eye. Whatever had become hard and unyielding suppled with each word Merlin spoke.

“I’m sorry I lied about your mother,” Merlin continued. “I hated it, but I knew killing your own father would destroy you. Your heart is too pure, Arthur. You never would’ve forgiven yourself, even if he did deserve to die at your hand.”

Arthur exhaled, his breath ghosting over Merlin’s forehead and ruffling his hair.

“You always were wiser than I gave you credit for,” Arthur said after a long moment. “I’m sorry, Merlin. For not seeing you sooner.”

Merlin had begun to ache and chalked it up to turmoil of emotions over the past few days. “You knew as much of me as I let you.”

Arthur cocked his head, focusing on a point just past Merlin’s shoulder. “Why did you never tell me?”

Merlin shot him a rueful look. “I wanted to, but—”

“But what?”

“You would’ve chopped my head off.”

Arthur drew his lips into a thin line. “I’m not sure what I would’ve done.”

“And I didn’t want to put you in that position,” Merlin said.

“That’s what worried you?” Arthur asked, impossibly gently. “Merlin, I was angry earlier, but I could never—”

“I wouldn’t have blamed you. I’m just a servant.”

Arthur gripped Merlin’s shoulder, then, forcing his attention. “No, Merlin, you’re not just a servant. You’re my friend. The most loyal friend I could ever ask for, and I’m sorry that I asked you to sever that between us. I was hurt and angry, and I had no right.”

Merlin wasn’t entirely sure what possessed him, but he reached up and clasped Arthur’s arm. A little jolt of happiness pulsed down the bond, and Arthur tugged at him, pulling Merlin flush against his chest. Merlin buried his nose in the hollow of Arthur’s throat as his king’s arms banded around him, his fingers finding a home in the nape of Merlin’s neck.

His heart thudded against his chest at the intimacy, the steady swipe of Arthur’s thumb across the span of his back. The little bit of hope that had extinguished in the forest flickered back to life as Arthur held him.

His friend, his king, the light to his dark had finally seen him. All of him.

And he didn’t hate him.

The invisible barrier that the secret of Merlin’s magic had created between them dissolved into oblivion. In the wake of it, Merlin felt lighter. With the heavy burden no longer threatening to pull him under, he gathered the back of Arthur’s loose bed shirt in his hands, gripping him tightly and anchoring himself to his king.

Arthur shuddered with his exhale, expelling his own tension, and rested his cheek along Merlin’s temple.

“If you placed the sword in the stone, then that story you told me about the one true king of Camelot—”

“A lie,” Merlin murmured against Arthur’s skin. “But I stand by that. You’d lost your way, and I did everything in my power to help you find it. I would do it again in a heartbeat.”  

Arthur hummed, his throat vibrating with the noise.

“What?”

“So, all of those great, heroic feats that I pride myself on…” Arthur began, “were all because of you. I’m alive right now, I’m king, because of you.”

“Maybe.”

“Modest.”

Merlin dared to stroke circles across his king’s back, shocked when Arthur didn’t tell him off or shove him away.

“But I’m also only alive today because you’ve saved my life countless times, too. When you didn’t even know I was saving you. You only did it because…” Merlin pulled back just enough to peer at his king. “Why did you?”

“Because,” Arthur said, “you have always been the bravest, the most loyal, honorable, friend I could have asked for. Perhaps more than I ever realized.”

The full weight of Arthur’s attention compounded with the feel of his hands still cradling the nape his neck, the small of his back, was overwhelming. Merlin rested his head once more in the crook of Arthur’s throat and sent out a small prayer to the universe that this was not a dream. That he wouldn’t wake up and still be utterly at odds with his destiny.

“Do you remember the ball of light that helped you in the Caves of Balor?”

“That was you?” Arthur asked, incredulous when Merlin nodded, the movement pressing them even closer together. “But you were on the brink of death.”

Merlin shrugged. “And you needed help. So I gave it, readily.”

Awe blossomed in Arthur’s expression.

“Tell me everything. I want to know everything.”

“Are you sure about that?” Merlin asked. “A lot of what I did was illegal and most of it you definitely wouldn’t approve of.”

Arthur lifted his hand from Merlin’s back, brandishing the little girl’s woven band.

“Did it help people?”

“Yes.”

“Then I want to hear it all.”  

Merlin inhaled long and slow, breathing in nothing but the clean scent of his king. “It could take all night.”

“We have time.”

“Which would you like to hear first, how you killed the first girl I ever loved, or the two times I tried to kill Morgana and nearly succeeded?”

Arthur lurched, sitting up so abruptly he nearly clocked his head on the bedside table. “You what?”

Merlin smirked and began to tell his king as many stories as he could remember, relishing in finally being able to share this side of him. To finally see the shock, the appreciation etched into Arthur’s features.

The minutes ticked into hours as Merlin’s endless adventures stretched out, filling the space between them, knitting together that which had unraveled, until they both stumbled into sleep side by side, faces turned toward each other, hands clasped together.

Something deeper, more expansive than hope, swelled in Merlin’s chest. He no longer had to hide in the dark.

Chapter Text

Arthur had always assumed that Merlin, who always seemed to be freezing, would be cold to the touch even in sleep. At some point in the night, they’d tangled their legs together, and the weight of Merlin’s knee, resting atop Arthur’s thigh, radiated with warmth.  

The points of Merlin’s spine poked out beneath his thin shirt, and Arthur resisted the urge to tuck him into his chest and feel for himself if those points were sharp or soft. He itched to drag his fingertips through the wild mess of Merlin’s hair, but he was sleeping so peacefully, his entire body relaxed, that Arthur didn’t dare.

Instead, he held him with his arm draped across his middle and his thumb skimming along his sternum until the beam of sunlight filtering through the windows inched across Merlin’s forehead and into his eyes. He grumbled and grasped Arthur’s arm, holding tight as he stretched.

Arthur’s heart levitated in his chest, and for a long moment, he could scarcely breathe.

Merlin twisted, his long lashes fluttering open and gaze locking with Arthur’s. The smile that had graced his lips evaporated faster than Arthur could blink, and then Merlin yelped, scrambling away so violently and frantically that his elbow caught Arthur in the temple.

“Ow!” Arthur cried out at the same time Merlin swore.

Merlin retreated until his back smacked against the wardrobe. His eyes were blown wide, and he was suddenly intensely interested in the drapery.

“Sorry, I—just—” Merlin shoved his feet into his boots, the tops of which slumped around his ankles. “Breakfast! We need breakfast.”

Arthur leapt to his feet, the threadbare blanket falling away. “Merlin—”

“I’ll return shortly—”

“Merlin—”

Merlin paused, his hand trembling on the wrought iron handle. It was baffling how Merlin could be so wise and yet such a blithering idiot all at the same time. One minute, he was swearing because the bond had dealt them equally painful blows that would assuredly become black eyes before the end of the hour, and the next, he’d apparently forgotten the bond’s existence and was trying to bodily separate himself from Arthur.

Whatever had lightened Arthur’s heart now had it sinking, leadened, in his chest. Their reconciliation hug last night hadn’t sparked terror in Merlin, but waking up in Arthur’s arms had, apparently. He was trying not to take that personally, but that was easier said than done considering Merlin clearly wanted nothing to do with Arthur beyond the bond and whatever destiny he felt compelled to fulfill.

“You do realize that you’re not wearing any trousers.”

Merlin glanced down, where his pale, twiggy legs stretched out beneath his long tunic.

“Ah.”

Arthur leaned against the bedpost, the drapery smooth against his bare shoulder.

“What, you thought you’d just drag your king down to the kitchens with a black eye?”

“I—” Merlin tore open the left side of the wardrobe where he’d stashed his clothes and took the trousers from the top of the stack. He nearly fell on his butt as he tried to pull them on over his boots before finally relenting to shed them so he could dress properly.

“Gods, Merlin, you’d think after all these years of dressing me, you’d have a handle on the concept.”

Merlin glared as he yanked the trousers into place and belted them. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

Arthur reared back to study his friend. After they cleared the air last night, he was fairly certain he knew exactly what Merlin was capable of, even if he hadn’t witnessed much of it yet. Although, if there truly was more, Arthur wanted to know. He wanted to understand Merlin on every level that he would allow him to.

“Perhaps you should show me,” Arthur said softly.

Merlin’s already rosy cheeks flamed crimson, but before he could form a more substantial comeback than his stammering, the door creaked open. George waltzed into the chambers hefting a teeming breakfast platter.

Merlin slunk away to steal a pastry from the spread, leaving Arthur to ponder the odd tension that had sparked down the bond and ignited the air between them. He held still while George dressed him, opting for a navy button up and a black jacket instead of his usual long sleeve and chain mail. After the long, sleepless night, Arthur was in no mood for council meetings or training.

Then George knelt before the hearth, cleared the previous night’s ashes, and stacked logs inside, readying for a fresh fire to banish the chill seeping through the castle stone on this frigid spring morning.

“Leave it,” Arthur said.

“My lord?” George asked.

“We shan’t be needing a fire this morning.”

George furrowed his brow, but unlike Merlin, he demurely refrained from questioning his motives and simply bowed before vacating the chamber.

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest and leveled his gaze at Merlin, who was stuffing a handful of berries into his mouth.

“What?” Merlin asked, his mouth entirely too full to be speaking.

Arthur bit back a retort about teaching him proper table manners and instead tipped his head to the fireplace.  

“Light it.”

The chair screeched against the tile as Merlin stood abruptly and reached for the flint.

“No.” Arthur rescued the flint, replacing it on the mantle. “Not like that.”

“Oh.” Merlin squirmed uncomfortably. “But… why?”

“So many questions, Merlin, can’t you ever just do as your told?”

He smirked. “You’d get bored of me.”

“I think you’re mistaking boredom for peace.” Arthur wrapped his fingers around Merlin’s wrist. The smirk dissolved and his pulse jumped out at him in a lively flutter, an echo of the way his heart had beat against his sternum as Arthur had held him in the early hours of the morning. “Go on, then.”

Merlin extended his other hand, the dominant one, to the fireplace. The words he spoke were quiet and throaty and foreign. The flames flickered to life in a flood of warmth, but that wasn’t what Arthur was focused on.

He was wholly transfixed by Merlin’s eyes. For a fraction of a second, a bright gold had eclipsed the cool grey blue that he knew as well as he knew the precise weight and feel of Excalibur.

He’s beautiful, Arthur thought. Beautiful like the sun.

“Do it again.”

“But it’s already lit.”

“Then light the candles, I don’t care.”

Merlin didn’t bother lifting his hand. He merely whispered the words again, and Arthur assumed the candles around the room began to burn. He held Merlin’s gaze with the same unyielding fervency that he held his wrist. He leaned in so he could better see as the gold filtered out from the dark center of his eye and flooded through the rest of the iris.  

Without breaking the eye contact, Merlin whispered another string of words. Probably to extinguish the candles, but Arthur couldn’t have cared less. He reveled in the wash of gold and the warmth fluttering through his stomach like a ray of sunshine.

“Tea’s growing cold,” Merlin whispered.

“I find it hard to believe that your tea ever grows cold.”

But Arthur let Merlin slip out of his hold and back into the sanctuary of distance between them. He hadn’t meant to make Merlin uncomfortable. He’d merely wanted to see for himself, up close, that which Merlin had worked so hard to keep secret for so many years.

“Who else knows?” Arthur asked.

Merlin gulped his tea before answering. “Lancelot and Gwen. Sometimes I think Gwaine knows, but that might just be him being an obnoxious prat.”

“Good to know you call other people prats.”

“Prat is not a term exclusive to your highness.”

Arthur bit into a slice of salted ham to keep himself from saying something he shouldn’t. He didn’t know why he loathed the idea that Merlin could use the same insults he afforded Arthur with anyone else. It was a selfish, bewildering thought. To crave the exclusivity of his own insult. Something that Merlin called him that was for him, and him alone.

Something other than clotpole.

“Anyone else?”

“Gaius, of course. My mother sent me to him originally to help me understand my magic.”

“Is your mother a…” but Arthur wasn’t sure what the proper term was.

“Sorcerer? No, though, sometimes I wonder if she’s a seer.”

Arthur nodded, as if he understood perfectly what that meant. “Then your abilities, you didn’t inherit them?”

Merlin set his pastry down, as if the question had ruined his appetite. When he spoke again, he was sullen and reserved.

“Yes, and no. Do you remember the Dragonlord we sought to save Camelot?”

“Of course. He died during that bandit attack.” Arthur remembered vividly the way Merlin had wiped his tears and fabricated a neutral expression after his death. He’d always assumed it had been the first man that Merlin had watched die, but now… “Was he—”

“My father? Yes.” Merlin ripped off a chunk of his pastry. “Gaius told me the morning we left to find him. I had a father for all of one night and one very short morning.”

“Merlin, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You are not to blame for his death.” Instead of eating the chunk of pastry, he squeezed it, flattening it between his fingers. “He took a sword meant for me. He died saving my life.”

The same all-encompassing darkness that weighed heavily on Arthur when he thought about his own father’s death reverberated down the bond. He thought about reaching across the table and placing a hand on Merlin’s hand, his shoulder, his knee, but the last thing he wanted to do was make him even more uncomfortable than he already had.

“How does Morgana not know that you have magic?” Arthur asked, diverting the conversation to hopefully shallower waters. “You said you’ve defeated her in battle.”

Merlin scratched the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. “I, uh, used an aging potion so she wouldn’t recognize me.”

“An aging potion…” Arthur felt as though he’d been struck upside the head as the image of a snarky old man sprung to mind. “I knew I recognized those eyes. You look awful with a beard, by the way. Truly tragic.”

Merlin huffed a laugh. “I went through a lot of trouble to keep my identity a secret.”

Arthur ached, guilt rising like bile in his throat. He was the reason that his friend had gone through all that trouble. His own hatred had driven his friend to hide that part of himself for so long.

“Then… it was you, that night.”

Merlin’s brow knitted together.

“The night my father died.”

All the color in Merlin’s face drained and he grasped the edge of the table as if it were a ledge keeping him from plummeting into a gorge.

“I—yes, technically, but Arthur, I swear, I did everything in my power to save him. Agravaine had hidden a pendant under his shirt that reversed the spell’s effects. I could’ve saved him if not for—”

Arthur did rest a hand on Merlin’s knee, then, squeezing softly.

“I know, Merlin. It’s all right.”

“It… is?”

“I know you never would have done anything to harm my father.” Arthur released his hold on Merlin and drained the rest of his tea. “Though, I suppose you had every reason to want to. He was, after all, the reason you had to hide your magic in the first place.”

Silence stretched out between them. Merlin tore off another piece of pastry, and Arthur took the opportunity to shove the rest of the ham into his mouth. When Merlin finally broke the silence, his voice was hoarse and vulnerable like it had been in the early hours of the morning.

“You’re forgetting one vital component,” Merlin said.

“Which is?”

“Harming Uther would never have helped free magic in Camelot. It would have caused you far too much pain. I already regret how much pain it brought you even when it was out of my control.”

“You are not to blame, Merlin.”

Arthur had hoped to comfort Merlin, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. He avoided Arthur’s gaze, instead studying the chunk of pastry intently before shoving it in his mouth and chewing automatically.

“You’re not wearing chain mail today.”

“How observant of you to notice.”

Merlin glared. “What ever will your knights do without their king there to train them?”

“Oh, I still plan to attend training. As is payback for this.” Arthur pointed at the corner of his eye, that had begun to throb. “Why?”

He recognized Merlin’s expression. The coy twist of his mouth, the sparkle behind his eye. “You have an idea, don’t you?” Arthur asked.

Merlin nodded, wringing his hands together in his lap. “But you’re not going to like it.”

“Of course not. I never like ideas when they’re yours.” Arthur stole Merlin’s tea and drained that, too. “C’mon, out with it, then.”

“We’ll need a few horses to go down to the clearing.”

Arthur gathered the napkin from his lap and wiped his mouth before pushing away from the table.

“I’ll ring for Leon. We should bring at least a few knights, as well.”

Merlin shook his head. “Only us. Please, Arthur, trust me just this once.”

Arthur wanted to say that he always trusted him, but all he could manage was, “All right.”

* * *

“There’s one more thing you should know about me,” Merlin said as he dismounted and secured both horses to the nearest tree.

“I swear, Merlin, you have more secrets than I have coins.”

Merlin scoffed. “We never did finish that game of dice last month. I would happily alleviate you of the burden of those extra coins.”

“Absolutely not.” Arthur landed on the hard packed, frosted ground. “I would rather die than gamble against you in a game of dice ever again.”

“What? Why?”

“You only won so often because you cheated.” Arthur didn’t phrase it as a question. He had no doubts that Merlin had used every advantage available to him, including his magic, to win. Merlin proved his own guilt as his mouth curved into a proud smile.

“If you hadn’t been so damn boastful, maybe I wouldn’t have had to resort to magic to humble you.”

“Humble me?”

“Humble you,” Merlin confirmed.

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. “What was this secret you’ve conveniently forgotten to tell me?”

“Not conveniently. I simply hadn’t found a natural opening in conversation yet.”

“My patience is wearing thin, Merlin.”

Merlin wet his lips and whispered a few foreign words. The fog clinging to the surrounding lakes and rivers rose and thickened, eddying until the clearing was engulfed in thick clouds. No one from the castle would be able to see anything.

“I did inherit some of my father’s power. A power that can only be passed from parent to child upon their death. He was not the last Dragonlord,” Merlin said. “I am.”

Then Merlin tipped his head to the sky and spoke in the same voice he’d used to send the white dragon away. Deep and guttural, and Arthur could’ve sworn that every tree, every insect, every animal in the clearing hung on each proclaimed syllable. The air itself seemed to vibrate with energy.

Merlin fell silent, his chest heaving from the effort of shouting, and they waited. Until the air swirled around them, and a dragon appeared, soaring over the tops of the forest. The dark scales, the ridges along the spine, and the sharp, feline eyes were unmistakably familiar. It was the same cursed dragon that had nearly razed Camelot. The same dragon who sliced through him as he shielded Gwen. The same dragon that he had supposedly fatally wounded several years ago.  

The ground shuddered as the dragon landed before them in the curling fog.

Heat crackled through Arthur’s veins and coiled around his chest. He wrenched his gaze away from the creature, the massive talons piercing the ground that had cut down his own people, and scowled at Merlin.

“Dealt him a fatal blow, hmm?”

Merlin smiled sheepishly again. “Couldn’t have you believing he’d come back. Not to worry, though. I told him that if he ever attacks Camelot again, I will personally deliver that fatal blow.”

Arthur unsheathed Excalibur, but Merlin stepped between the blade and the dragon.

“You can’t kill him!”

The anger burning through his chest drove Arthur to say the least true thing, that also happened to be most hurtful.

“It’s not for the dragon.”

On the other end of the blade, Merlin flinched. That singular movement propelled Arthur to the forest two nights prior when he’d threatened Merlin’s life. His best friend, his most loyal servant, hadn’t fought back. He probably could’ve sent the sword flying before Arthur so much as wounded him, but Merlin had made no attempt to save himself. Hell, he hadn’t even seemed surprised.

Just like now, darkness rippled in Merlin’s eyes, but he was not shocked.

Merlin must have expected this. Must have played through the different scenarios and ways Arthur might react and had anticipated a violent outcome.

Arthur watched as Merlin set his jaw, his brow furrowing and devastation flooding his grey eyes instead of gold. The anger fizzled into regret, and he lowered Excalibur.

“Sire,” Merlin said quietly, and the formality stung Arthur worse than the bite of a blade. “I know Kilgharrah is far from innocent, but I wouldn’t have called him here without purpose.”

Arthur sheathed his sword. “You’re right. He bears the blood of innocent people. My people.”

The dragon’s chest rumbled with something that might have been speech, but if it was, Arthur couldn’t comprehend it. Merlin glanced over his shoulder at the dragon, though, as if he understood.

“What did the giant lizard say?”

Merlin shifted so he no longer stood between the dragon and Arthur and instead at Arthur’s shoulder. “He’s not a giant lizard—”

“Merlin.”

A sigh. “He said that in his defense, your father held him captive for two decades after slaughtering every last one of his own kind.” Then Merlin addressed Kilgharrah. “That still doesn’t mean what you did was right!”

The dragon’s nostrils flared, little puffs of smoke stark against the white fog.

“Perhaps we can discuss that in further detail later,” Arthur said, by which he meant that he would thoroughly interrogate Merlin about his seemingly endless secrets. “What purpose did you have in calling him here?”

“He’s a creature of magic, one of the oldest there is, and if anyone would know how to sever Morgana’s enchantment that connects us, it would be him.”

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. “Fine, then. Let’s hope he has the answers we seek.”

Merlin turned to the dragon then and explained about the enchantment, their attempts to research it, the repercussions it had dealt them. As Merlin conversed with the dragon, Arthur fixated on the little details. The way one of the dragon’s talons was severed and short. The sharp rows of teeth in his jaw. The leathery wings tucked elegantly against his sides.

This dragon was unmistakably ancient. Arthur wondered if the creature had been alive hundreds or even thousands of years. Regardless, it was clear now that the dragon who had attacked Blackburn couldn’t have been more than a child.

Perhaps Arthur wasn’t the only one who, as a child, had fallen prey to the belief that hatred was the only path forward. If the dragon truly served Morgana, then maybe she had imparted her hatred and methods of destruction to the impressionable creature.

The dragon’s rumbles carried on for a long moment, and Arthur watched Merlin grow more tense. Could feel the crackle of his anxiety through the bond.

“What is he saying?”

Merlin shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “He says there’s a legend about a cleansing waterfall that might be able to dissolve the tether between us.”

“Where?”

“That, is, unfortunately, the issue. He cannot remember. All he knows is that it’s nestled between two mountain passes beyond the southern border.”

Arthur swore. The southern border itself was nearly a week’s ride away through treacherous lands and depending on which particular one, they would be sneaking into enemy territory. The risk to both their lives would be substantial.

“That’s not the worst part,” Merlin said. “The waterfall can only be accessed through a tunnel, and there’s a spell on the entrance than can only be dissolved with dragon fire.”

This was shaping up to be less of a challenging adventure and more of an impossibility.

The dragon spoke again in his thundering speech, but Merlin shook his head indignantly. “I’m not going to tell him that!”

“Tell me what?”

The furrow in his brow deepened. “It’s not that I’ve been lying to you, Arthur, but there are a few more things I’ve kept from you. For one, that sword that you pulled from the stone? It’s forged in Dragon’s Breath. It actually is capable of killing creatures of magic like Kilgharrah, or Morgana… or myself.”

Arthur’s jaw slackened.

“But he wants you to know that my coming to Camelot was not a mistake. It was by design. It is my destiny to serve you. To help you unite Albion and build a kingdom in which all people, regardless of their abilities or their preferences, are accepted.”

The dragon’s rumbles were short and choppy, his chest rolling with laughter. Merlin shot him a menacing glare that Arthur had been on the receiving end more times than he cared to admit.

“Kilgharrah is amused because our destines have always been intertwined. He says Morgana was merely helping the process along, whatever that means. I think he’s thrilled that you finally know about my magic.”

The dragon grumbled in response, and when Merlin refused to translate, he stomped his scaley foot indignantly, sending little tremors through the ground.

“Tell me.”

“It’s not important,” Merlin insisted, but Arthur could feel his mounting anxiety. “What he’s saying has no bearing on our travels, on removing the enchantment.”

“Merlin.”

But then the dragon coughed, and suddenly, the deep rumblings that shook the ground and vibrated the low hanging tree branches, morphed into clear words.

“Merlin is the most powerful sorcerer to walk the earth. He is the balance the universe demanded. A few years after you were born of magic, after Uther disturbed the balance between life and death, magic and chaos, light and dark, Merlin was born, a creature of old, with magic on his lips and power coursing through his veins. You are two sides of the same coin, and together, there is nothing that you cannot accomplish.”

Astonishment filled Arthur’s chest, a stark contrast to the anger that had restricted his breath upon the dragon’s landing. He studied his friend, recalling the golden glow of his eyes, the hand he’d outstretched to the heavens to summon rain.

Arthur could handle Merlin being a sorcerer. He could handle the entirety of his recent past being rewritten in the last twenty-four hours. He could even handle a talking dragon. But he couldn’t handle the thought that Merlin was a creature of magic—that he evidently had more in common with the dragon, with Morgana, than he did with Arthur. His mind spun with the possibilities.

“Seriously?” Merlin asked. “You made me translate when you were perfectly capable of speaking to him this whole time?”

Arthur could’ve sworn the dragon smiled mischievously. “Yes.”

“Of course.” Merlin scrubbed a hand through his hair, leaving little rebellious sections of it sticking straight up. “What about dissolving the spell with dragon fire? Will you accompany us to the mountains?”

“No!” Arthur said at the same moment that Kilgharrah objected in his deep timbre. 

“Then, what? Can we bottle dragon’s breath? How else are we supposed to—”

Kilgharrah’s tail swished, dispersing some of the fog behind him. “There is another you should take. A youngling who has lost her way. Her voice. Her health. She could use you, young warlock, to help her find where she belongs in this world.”

Something sizzled down the bond, and Arthur found Merlin’s jaw clenched and his hands curled into fists. 

“Did she lose her way, or did you neglect your duty as her guardian?” Merlin demanded. “I entrusted her to you, and you were supposed to teach her about the world. You were supposed to raise her!”

Kilgharrah snorted, puffs of smoke emanating from his massive nostrils. Arthur shifted ever so slightly closer to Merlin, his hand itching for Excalibur. Despite Merlin’s assurances, Arthur didn’t trust the dragon not to resort to violence.

“I did my best. Would you rather that I restrained her? Imprisoned her as Uther would have?”

“Anything would’ve been better than letting her fall in line with Morgana!” Merlin burst out.

The dragon was unphased by Merlin’s display of emotion. “Perhaps that was her lesson to learn. Perhaps it will strengthen her against the hardships of the world.”

“Maybe she didn’t need to be strong.” Merlin spoke quietly, and somehow that felt more lethal than his shouting. “Maybe she needed to be safe. She’s barely a child, and she needed your protection from the evil forces of this world.” 

“I cannot alter that which has already come to pass, young warlock.”

“No, but perhaps I can fix your mistakes,” Merlin said.

“If she is already destroying towns, then it may be too late for her. I fear hate has already burrowed into her heart.”

“Says the dragon who heartily attempted to destroy Camelot itself,” Arthur muttered, though neither paid him any attention.

“I don’t share your fear.” Merlin raised his chin defiantly. With the bruise forming at the corner of his eye, he almost looked like a warrior in his own right. “She imprinted on me first. I will not fail as you have. I will show her Morgana is not the only human capable of kindness. That magic is not inherently evil.”

Which, Arthur supposed, was exactly what Merlin had been doing this entire time. He had been proving, one day, one spell, one life-saving event after another, that magic could be used for good.

Kilgharrah tipped his head, bowing to Merlin as if he were his king.

“Good luck, Emrys. You may need it.”

The dragon extended its leathery wings, but Arthur stepped forward.

“Wait. Your actions against Camelot are unforgivable, but I want to extend an apology on behalf of my father. He was wrong to imprison you for so many years. I cannot fathom what it must have been like, thinking you were the last of your kind. That is a punishment that no one deserves. I do not wish you harm, but the decision to take up arms against you is not mine. It lies with Merlin. If he chooses that path, I will not hesitate to stand with him. Though, I hope for the sake of Camelot and the future of your kind that it does not come to that.”

Kilgharrah narrowed his eyes, and Arthur straightened to better shoulder the weight of his scrutinous gaze. He wanted the dragon to understand that he was not Uther.

“As do I, Arthur Pendragon.”

Each beat of the dragon’s wings was the snapping of a whip but thunderous and powerful. He took flight, and Arthur watched until he was nothing more than a dot in the sea of blue. When he finally tore his attention from the sky, Merlin was watching him intently. His lips parted ever so slightly in awe.

“Emrys?” Arthur asked, breaking the spell of silence. “Is that another one of your lies?”

“Secrets.” Merlin lifted a finger in protest. “Not lies, secrets. Secrets that were, more or less, the basis of my self-preservation, of course.”

“Of course,” Arthur said. “Did you want to call on your young dragon now?”

Merlin sighed, exhaustion clinging to his hunched shoulders. “I can’t. There’s not a place for her here. When I call on her, I want her to feel welcomed and cared for. If I summoned her now, she would be stuck living in the forest, and the fog can’t enshrine the forest forever without raising suspicions.”

“Can’t you just... enchant her to look like a horse?”

Merlin gawked at him. “A horse? Arthur, that’s not how that works.”

“That giant talking lizard just said you were the world’s most powerful sorcerer. If you can’t enchant a dragon to appear as a horse, then what can you even do?”

Merlin pinched the bridge of his nose. “I should’ve known that if you didn’t kill me for my magic, you were bound to be just as insufferable about my powers as you are about my servant’s duties.”

Arthur wrapped an arm around his neck and tousled Merlin’s hair despite the lively protest. “C’mon, then. We’ll spend the rest of the day figuring out a place to keep her.”

“We… will?”

“Your young dragon sounds like she could be quite the ally if you’re able to convince her to stay. I would be a fool not to pursue her loyalties.”

There it was again. The awe softening and lifting his brows. “Thank you, Arthur.”

He wanted to tell Merlin that he didn’t have to thank him. That it was Arthur’s fault that they were so deeply in this mess. That they likely could’ve defeated Morgana long before if Merlin hadn’t been hobbled by Arthur’s ignorance. As far as Arthur was convinced, he had a lot of ground to make up for, and finding a home for the young dragon was the least he could do.

“You’re welcome.” Arthur softly squeezed along the nape of Merlin’s neck before releasing him.

They mounted their horses, and by the time they were halfway to the castle, the fog had dissipated completely. Merlin must’ve released the spell without so much as a word.

Before Arthur could inquire about it, Merlin leapt off his horse and scrambled into the bushes. Arthur’s heart rate thundered at a gallop in his chest as he searched for the threat.

He drew Excalibur and swung a leg over his horse, landing in a ready fighting stance.

But there was nothing. Birds continued to chirp their excitement as the frosty morning began to fade into a warm spring day. Even Merlin’s horse had immediately taken to the budding grass, unphased by his abrupt antics.

And Merlin was crouched at the base of a towering tree, digging between the exposed, gnarled roots. He held up a green stem with little white flowers.

“Gaius will be so pleased. He ran out of yarrow a few months into winter, and this is the first I’ve seen all spring.”

“Honestly, Merlin,” Arthur snapped, stabbing his sword into the thawing ground. “You’re impossible. I thought…”

“What?”

“I thought you’d spotted danger. That you were hiding in the bushes.”

Merlin paused, wet dirt coating his fingernails. “Do you really believe I was cowering in bushes all these years?”

Arthur deflated as he thought back over the many battles he’d faced with Merlin and the knights. All those times that he sought out Merlin to ensure he was unarmed and was always shocked to find that the only man who never bothered to bring a sword, let alone wield a weapon, was still unharmed. Aside from the one time Merlin had been injured by bandits, Merlin had always faired well.

In hindsight, Merlin would’ve been a lot safer if Arthur hadn’t been constantly searching for him. Or perhaps if he had paid better attention to his friend sooner, seen that magic was far from what Uther had painted it to be, then maybe Merlin wouldn’t have had to hide in the shadows all these years to protect his friends.

“Merlin, I…” Arthur swallowed thickly. “I’m sorry for the way I treated you.”

Merlin shrugged and collected another bundle of yarrow. In his huddled squat, he seemed so small.

Arthur reached down, grasped Merlin beneath the elbow, and lifted him up, as he should have done all along.

“I always thought you were the bravest man I’ve ever known.”

Merlin dropped the yarrow. His awe twisted into disbelief, his mouth thinning and brow furrowing again. “You don’t mean that.”

“I’m not the liar, now am I?” Arthur teased.

“You do realize that if there actually was any danger out here, you wouldn’t need your sword.” Arthur stared at his blade in confusion. “You’re safe with me, Arthur. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

Of course. Because Merlin didn’t need a sword. He didn’t need anything at all to defend himself, or Arthur.

“I’m not… used to people taking care of me.”

Merlin smiled crookedly. “I always have. You just didn’t know it.”

The world tilted as Arthur fought to find balance in this new reality. If the stories Merlin had told him, were still telling him, were true, then Merlin really had protected him and kept him safe this entire time.

“I suppose you have, haven’t you?”

“I’m not going to change now.”

Arthur reached for his friend. He squeezed both of his shoulders at first, digging his thumbs into the space above his collarbone. But then he changed his mind and slid both hands up Merlin’s lanky neck to cradle his face.

Merlin inhaled sharply and gripped Arthur’s arms. The bond pulsed with something akin to anxiety, though slightly more frayed at the edges, and for a long moment, Arthur thought he might pry him off, but he didn’t. He merely held on as tightly as Arthur held his gaze, his fingers digging into Arthur’s forearms. Arthur didn’t mind, in fact, he was glad for it, because this was vital, and he needed Merlin to not shirk from him. Not this time.

“I don’t want you to change.” The sheer emotion welling in him nearly had his voice breaking. “I want you to always be you.”

Merlin’s eyes brimmed with tears, and he did avert his gaze, before he inhaled a shuddering breath and focused on Arthur again. The awe and disbelief had dissolved, and it struck Arthur how much this was exactly what Merlin needed. Not just to be seen, not just to be understood, but to be accepted, too.

Reflexively, tears burned the backs of Arthur’s eyes, and he ached to think that Merlin had been so alone for so long.

Arthur wanted to lean his forehead against Merlin’s, wanted to draw him in even more than he had in the early hours of the morning, but he had already pushed Merlin enough for one day. Exhaustion crept through the bond like a dark cloud, and Arthur relented, patting Merlin’s cheek, the skin impeccably soft beneath the darkening skin of his black eye, before ushering space between them again.

“C’mon, let’s head home.”

They mounted their horses and rode side by side into the city that Merlin had helped him shape. The tether still firmly in place, but at least they had a plan. A goal. They would research southern mountain passes and find a place for the young dragon.

A dangerous adventure stretched out before them, but Arthur took what the dragon had said to heart. Together, there was nothing that they couldn’t do.

Chapter Text

“Are you going to tell me what your idea is?” Merlin asked as Gaius flitted about their chambers, pouring different tinctures and tossing herbs into the bowl. No sooner had Merlin brought him to speed than Gaius had leapt into action.

“Only if I have all of the ingredients!”

It was comforting to watch Gaius work as he always had. He inhaled the lingering scent of sage that stemmed from Gaius tossing a bundle into the fire each night to ward off unwanted spirits. The chaotic jumble of their chambers was a welcome change compared to the royal chambers, but dust had gathered on the floor, and cobwebs adorned the ceiling. While Merlin had relished in not having chores to complete, clearly Gaius had fallen behind without an extra set of hands.  

Merlin whispered a few words beneath his breath, and a gentle breeze swept all the dust into the corner and tore down the cobwebs. With another word, the broom collected the pile into dust pan and deposited it into the metal rubbish bin in the corner.

Thankfully, neither Gaius nor Arthur had noticed. His uncle was still focused on the task at hand, and Arthur was scrutinizing the room intently, drinking in all the little insinuations of sorcery.

Arthur picked up vial after vial, shaking the contents containing different crystals or minerals or dried herbs. When he opened the cabinet that Gaius had carelessly left ajar in his hunt for fermented stickle wort, Arthur grasped a vial filled with a mossy green gel.

“What does this do?”

Merlin lunged for it, but Arthur sidestepped him and held it high above his head, mouth quirked in challenge. In the past, Merlin might have relented, but now, he glared before reaching up and poking his own bruised temple.

Arthur grunted in pain, his hand reflexively flying down to his eye, and in the process, leaving the vial behind—floating in the air.

 “Cheater,” Arthur grumbled, which only broadened Merlin’s smile.

“That one will turn you into a frog.”

“Really?”

“No, of course not. You’re not a prince, and this isn’t a fairytale.”

“You wouldn’t kiss me, if I was a frog?”

Merlin nearly choked on his own spit. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way Arthur had cradled his face, as if he were the only thing in the entire world that mattered. The soft arch of his brows had sent Merlin’s heart fluttering traitorously in his chest, and it was such a stark contrast to the way his king had threatened his life only a few days ago.

Recently, their usual quick jabs had shifted into uncharted territory that Merlin couldn’t make heads or tails of. Perhaps his king was confused. Perhaps he was merely testing the limitations of the tether. Or, perhaps Merlin’s limitations.

“I would rather swallow a frog whole than answer that question.”

Something flickered across Arthur’s face, too quick and too brief for Merlin to discern, but his teasing expression resurfaced a moment later.

Confused. Arthur was definitely just confused.

Gaius cleared his throat, and Merlin jolted, his concentration slipping and sending the vial plummeting to the ground. He managed to freeze it with his magic just before it shattered against the floor.

“If you’re quite finished,” Gaius said, “I require Merlin’s talents.”

Merlin used his magic to replace the vial and shut the cabinet tightly before following Gaius to his workstation. The bowl contained a myriad of substances. The base of the potion was similar to the aging spell, but the other ingredients had him scratching his neck trying to discern what Gaius was concocting.

“Please tell me this won’t change Aithusa into a horse.”

Arthur barked a laugh. “Please tell me it will do precisely that.”

“No, sire,” Gaius said stiffly. Merlin had to hide his smile behind his hand because, apparently, his uncle was just as prone to grudges as Morgana. “Magic that transforms an object or a person into something entirely different is near impossible.”

“Like alchemy?” Merlin asked.

“Indeed. Alchemy requires an incredibly powerful magical object, not just a mere elixir. But, as with your aging potions, we are not changing the base composition of who you are. We are merely shifting what already exists.”

Arthur leaned closer to Merlin and whispered, “What does that mean?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Merlin inched closer to the bowl and further from Arthur, further from confusion and temptation.

Gaius slid the thick leather-bound text across the table to Merlin.

“A dragon in its natural state cannot be hidden in the castle without discovery. But a dragon the size of a hunting dog? She would be much easier to smuggle in and out of the castle.”

“So you’re proposing we shrink the dragon?” Arthur’s jaw had slackened.

“I’m not proposing we do anything, sire.” Gaius confirmed. “Only Merlin is capable of magic this powerful, but by all means, if you have a better idea, I would love to hear it.”

“I thought the horse idea was pretty decent,” Arthur mumbled.

Merlin drove his shoulder into the center of Arthur’s chest.

“Enough with the horse,” Merlin scolded, prompting a sheepish smile from his king. “Shrinking is a fine solution, but I want Aithusa to trust me. I highly doubt she’ll want to if the first thing I do is drug her.”

 Gaius pursed his lips. “Perhaps you must convince her to take the potion.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“I’m not sure,” Gaius said. “But if you want a chance to help her understand the world beyond what Morgana has shown her, then you’ll have to figure something out.”

Merlin ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose I will.”

It wasn’t like he had much of a choice, but Merlin still had to force a breath around the knowledge that, in the past, his good intentions hadn’t been enough. His attempts to help Morgana had alienated her further from Camelot and ended in the slaughter of entire Druid camps. He couldn’t afford to make another mistake like that with Aithusa.

Before his mind could fray that thought any more, he braced his hands on the table and skimmed the spell in the text Gaius had found. He mentally recounted the words until he was ready and then held his hands over the bowl, fingers splayed.

The room grew taut with each word he spoke into existence. His magic began to warm his chest and weave the energy and ingredients together. The final word of the spell was booming and powerful. Smoke puffed from the bowl where the contents had liquified, and with another few words, the rose-colored liquid funneled itself into an empty vial. Merlin popped the cork in place and slipped it into his pocket.

He was about to shut the text when he noticed scribbles in the margins.

“Wait, there’s a note,” Merlin said. “It says the spell needs time to cure. That the longer it sits before its used, the more effective it is.”

Gaius peered at the text. “You would need quite a strong potion for a dragon. Perhaps you should let that sit overnight before you summon her.” 

“Thank you, Gaius, I knew I could count on you.” Merlin ducked into his room. “I’m going to grab a few things while we’re here.”

The stale air was achingly familiar, but he didn’t miss the thin mattress or lumpy pillow or the corner that dripped when it rained. He did, however, miss having a space that was thoroughly his. He dug the thick magical text out from beneath his bed and shoved it into a bag along with a few more pairs of clothes. He considered taking the Sidhe staff wedged beneath the floorboards but couldn’t risk being caught with it.

Even though Arthur knew about his powers, magic was still illegal. He still had to exercise caution.

Merlin slung the bag over his shoulder but stopped short in the doorway—Gaius was deep in conversation with a rather pale Arthur. A mix of shame and fear reverberated through the tether.

“I hope one day you can understand the depths of Merlin’s loyalty. He has done more for you than you could possibly imagine, Arthur, and he deserves to live in a world where he does not fear for his life simply because he was born with magic.”

“I do understand,” Arthur said and flicked his gaze over Gaius’ shoulder at Merlin. When he spoke, it wasn’t just to his uncle. “As much as I wish my father was by my side every day, part of me is glad that he is not. I want to be a better king than my father was. A better man. If you believe nothing else, please believe that.”

Merlin shuffled into the room, pointedly dragging his feet to alert Gaius to his presence.

His uncle offered Arthur a round, shallow jar. “Take this, for the bruise on your faces. Apply two coats, once in the morning and once in the evening.”

“Thank you, Gaius.” Arthur clasped his forearm arm before accepting the jar. “For everything.”

“You’re welcome, sire.”

The king grasped the front of Merlin’s shirt and hauled him toward the door.

“C’mon, Merlin, we’ve got a dragon to prepare for.”

A cold draft sent a shiver down Merlin’s spine the moment they entered Arthur’s chambers. Before he could even set his satchel down, his king cocked an eyebrow in a silent command. Merlin obliged, and the fire in the hearth blazed to life.

“Are you always going to be this insufferable?”

“Considering that I could’ve had your magic at my disposal this entire time, I have quite a lot of ground to make up.”

Merlin scoffed and dropped the satchel atop his mattress on the floor. He’d have to figure out the best hiding place for his magical text, but in the meantime, he took Gaius’ salve from Arthur.

“Sit.”

The corner of Arthur’s lips curled into a smile. “Did you just give me an order?”

“Yes.”

“Feel good, does it?”

“Yes, sire,” Merlin said, adding a taunting emphasis on the title.

Arthur rolled his eyes but perched atop the edge of his desk regardless. Merlin popped open the jar and gathered some of the ointment on his finger. As he started to spread it across Arthur’s bruise, the king flinched and hissed through his teeth. Merlin braced against the shared pain and gripped Arthur’s chin to still him.

“I thought knights were used to pain.”

Arthur glared. “Careful, Merlin, I might be a knight, but I’m still your king.”

“Yes, you are.”

Merlin tried for a featherlight touch, and the clear ointment spread easily across the bruise. When he’d finished, he realized Arthur was studying him intently, his deep blue gaze spreading more heat through Merlin’s chest than the nearby fire.

An answering spark of heat echoed across the tether, and Merlin wished he could read Arthur’s thoughts, too. He couldn’t quite comprehend what his king was thinking as he leaned into Merlin’s touch. Then Arthur’s gaze dipped, pointedly, below Merlin’s nose and settled on his lips.

Merlin was suddenly acutely aware of Arthur’s thighs framing his own legs and the hold he still had on his chin. Tension ignited in the air between them, and panic ricocheted up Merlin’s spin, coiling around his chest and shallowing each breath.

He released Arthur and retreated as far as the tether would let him. He reached for his satchel and dug out his magical text with trembling fingers.

“So, what’s the plan?” Arthur rose from his perch, irritatingly nonchalant.

“The plan?”

“Obviously, we have to figure out where to keep your dragon before tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, but, it’s not just a matter of where we keep her,” Merlin said. With the shrinking potion, there was plenty of space in the castle. If not in Arthur’s chambers, then guest quarters would suffice. “I have to figure out how to hide her from the guards, the knights, even the servants.”

“Who says we have to hide her?”

“A small dragon is still a dragon. She could sneeze and set the curtains ablaze.”

Arthur appraised the dining table, where George had left out bowls of fruit for them to snack on throughout the day.

“So? Any fires that she starts, you can simply extinguish.”

Merlin pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Just because you know about my magic, doesn’t mean that I can go around Albion using it to solve every little problem we have.”

“And why not?”

Merlin was five seconds away from strangling Arthur. Maybe that would wipe the smug little smirk from his face.

“You cannot be serious. Magic is still illegal, and I’m nothing but a servant! Hell, I’m not actually even a servant anymore. Your decree to treat me as a nobleman means nothing outside the walls of this castle, and I’m not convinced they mean anything tangible inside these walls, either.”

Arthur popped a grape into his mouth. “Easy, I’ll appoint you as Court Sorcerer.”

Merlin gaped at his king, barely able to conjure a grunt of disbelief before Arthur began pacing in front of the table, his feet carrying him from one thought to the next.

“I’ll draft a new title just for you and bestow an honorary knighthood.”

“Arthur—”

“It would give you immunity and a seat at court. Then, you’ll—”

“Arthur!” Merlin waited until Arthur had stopped pacing, hands falling slack at his sides. “They’ll never accept me.”

“The council? I’ll demand that—”

“Not the council, the people. Your people, the people of Camelot, they will never accept me.” Merlin’s voice broke, and he had to collect himself before continuing. “I would ruin you, Arthur. They will always adore you, but they would never trust you again. I couldn’t live with myself if I was the thing that shattered the love your people have for you.”

Arthur furrowed his brow, the smirk gone and his jaw working back and forth. “What… what are you saying?”

Merlin thought he’d have more time to figure out the best way to break this to Arthur, but he supposed now was as good a time as any.

“The truth, Merlin.”

Swallowing heavily, Merlin braced himself. “I’m saying, once this is fixed, I don’t think I should stay in Camelot.” The king laughed humorlessly, but Merlin barreled on. “My presence would only hinder your destiny.”

The grape in Arthur’s hand slipped to the floor, bouncing and rolling beneath the table. Any trace of amusement, of levity, had dissolved.

“Merlin, don’t be absurd. You’re not leaving Camelot.”

“It’s the only way, Arthur.”

“I forbid it.”

Merlin smiled softly. “We both know how well I follow orders.”

When Arthur stepped forward, Merlin couldn’t figure out if the tension pulling at the tether and riddling his expression meant he was going to rip Merlin to shreds or something else entirely.

He barely made it a few steps closer before a knock came at the door. Leon and the rest of the knights of the round table meandered inside.

“What?” Arthur snapped.

Leon’s brows shot up and his gaze volleyed back and forth between Arthur and Merlin like they’d interrupted something. In truth, Merlin was glad they had. “You summoned us, my lord?”

“Right.” Arthur tore himself away from Merlin and straightened his shirt. “I… we, have an announcement.”

“Finally,” Perceval muttered, and Merlin caught Gwaine exchanging a purse of coins with Elyan.

“When we encountered Morgana in the woods, she placed an enchantment on myself and Merlin. We cannot physically be separated without excruciating pain, and…” The color flooding Arthur’s cheeks accompanied his falter. “Well, we haven’t found a solution yet, so it’s begun to pose quite a problem.”

“So… that’s the only reason Merlin’s been staying in your chambers?” Gwaine asked, pointing between the two of them. “That’s why you have matching bruises? Nothing else?”

“What other reason would there be?” Merlin interjected.

“Nothing,” Gwaine said all too quickly, but Elyan wrestled the coins back from him.

“There’s more,” Arthur said, and Merlin knew from the weight of his gaze what he was about to formally announce to the knights. But he didn’t want Arthur speaking for him. Not about this.

“You may already know, but I want to tell you for myself.” Merlin lifted his chin and spoke with as much pride as he could muster. “I have magic. I was born with it.”

Lancelot beamed, and Elyan grinned like he’d just won a hand of cards.

“Yeah, Merls,” Perceval said, “we kind of figured as much when you made it rain.”

“That’s when you figured it out?” Leon demanded of him.

“Why, how long have you known?”

“When the Druids brought me back to life, I overheard them talking about Emrys, a sorcerer who resided at Court. I started paying attention and…” Leon shrugged. “Well, Merlin isn’t as sneaky as he thinks he is.”

Merlin was both horrified and relieved that none of the knights bore expressions of surprise.

“Honestly, we’re just relieved Arthur finally knows. Figures he’d be the last to know. He was always too distracted with—” Gwaine grunted as Leon’s elbowed dug into his gut. “With kingly duties to notice Merlin’s magic.”

“Will that be all, my lord?” Leon asked.

Arthur rested his hands on his hips, looking ever like a cross father who’d been outsmarted by his children. “I suppose if I ordered you lot to protect Merlin with the same diligence that you protect me, you’ll just tell me that you already do, won’t you?”

“This… feels like a trap,” Elyan muttered to Perceval.

Merlin cleared his throat and set the potion, which had turned a bright pink hue, at the center of the table amongst the snacks.

“Unfortunately, it will not be as simple to remove Morgana’s enchantment as we’d hoped.” Merlin launched into the explanation. For once, he didn’t have to mince his words or veil the truth behind a half-baked lie. For once, he had the honor of indulging them in the entire plan.

None of them shied away from any of it. Not even the perilous southern mountain pass.

“I understand that this is perhaps a greater risk than I have ever asked of each of you before,” Arthur said. “If you deem it too dangerous, your honor will remain intact even if you elect not to join us in this adventure.”

“We will accompany the both of you to the ends of the earth,” Lancelot said.

While the rest of the knights voiced their agreement, Perceval merely belched. Gwaine couldn’t quite contain his snicker behind a gloved hand.

The vial containing the shrinking potion had disappeared from the table, and it dawned on Merlin slowly, like cold water trickling over the top of his head, what had just happened.

“Did you just—”

“In my defense,” Perceval said, lifting a finger that was already beginning to shrink, “Gwaine dared me.”

 Merlin and the rest of the knights stared on in horror as each of Perceval’s fingers began to shrivel. Then his wrists and bare arms, his legs shortening, then his torso, and lastly, his head. He shrunk until he was the size of a six-year-old child. He wasn’t any younger, though; he was just a man-child with an unusually large head swimming in chain mail.

“Well,” Gwaine said. “On the bright side, at least normal chain mail will finally fit him properly.”

Merlin couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of him. He might have been angry if it wasn’t so gods-damned hilarious. The fit of laughter overwhelmed Merlin, and he grasped Arthur’s arm in an attempt to not double over. Even Arthur’s sulking mood evaporated, and when he looped an arm around his waist, gripping tightly even as amusement roiled through his own chest, Merlin didn’t mind one bit.

The past few days had been filled with so much intensity that he hadn’t quite realized how desperately he needed this. To laugh with his friends, to be seen and understood, and to still feel like he belonged.

“You can reverse this, right?” Perceval asked, his voice a higher octave than normal.

Merlin was positive that he could easily reverse the potion, but he wasn’t about to let him off that easily.

“Oh, no,” Merlin said between fits of mirth. “You’re stuck like that until it wears off.”

Arthur roared with laughter and leaned into Merlin. Gentle puffs of breath tickled his skin, and Merlin was acutely aware of how close Arthur’s lips were to the column of his throat.

Merlin gripped his king even tighter, ignoring the suggestive curve of Lancelot’s brow and let himself revel in this moment. He didn’t even care that they’d have to revisit Gaius before dinner and recreate the potion.

Nothing but pure happiness stirred in his blood and hummed through the tether. Merlin reveled in it, even if it was fleeting.

* * *

In the darkest hour of the night, Merlin woke with a gasp. His heart raced, blood roared in his ears, and his skin was damp with sweat. Despite the chill permeating the air, he was nearly feverish. He flung the blankets off and welcomed the cool air, but his heart continued to pound.

The pinch in his chest morphed into fear that skated up his spine and threatened to lock each vertebrae in place. Merlin clamped down on it, trying to suppress it, only to find that the fear wasn’t his own.

It was Arthur who was murmuring incoherently in his sleep.

Merlin jolted to his feet, stars peppering his vision as he reached for Arthur, but he was too far away in the oversized bed. His knees sunk into the mattress as he leaned across it, and he could’ve sworn that his magic responded, too, desperate to console his king.

“Arthur.” Merlin shook his shoulder.

But Arthur cried out. His eyes shifted rapidly beneath his lids. The king refused to wake from whatever dream had the peppery stench of fear saturating the air.

“Arthur!” Merlin grasped both of his shoulders and shook with all his strength. 

One moment, Arthur was deep in the clutches of his nightmare. The next, he’d moved so quickly that Merlin barely had time to blink before Arthur’s hand closed around his throat. He flipped Merlin, pinning him to the bed with his body as his hold tightened just beneath his jaw. 

The king’s eyes were wild and blazing. Merlin clutched Arthur’s wrist and braced his palm against the flexed chord of muscle in shoulder. The fear evaporated, and in its wake, the air in the room stilled, waiting, watching, apprehensively.

“Merlin,” Arthur gasped, his grip slackening. “I—did I hurt you?”

“No,” Merlin managed, surprised to find he wasn’t lying. His throat didn’t ache. Even in his blind panic, even in his most vulnerable, Arthur had instinctively known Merlin meant him no harm.

Slowly, Arthur seemed to realize that his knees were on either side of Merlin’s thighs. That his chest brushed against Merlin’s with each desperate bid for air. That his hand was still resting at the base of Merlin’s throat, lingering in a way that had heat coursing through Merlin’s veins. Arthur peeled himself away, dangling his legs off the mattress and cradling his head in his hands. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur mumbled, barely coherent.

“Arthur, I’m fine. I swear.” Merlin assured him, though he wished his heart would stop thundering against his ribs. “Do you want to talk about—”

“Don’t say it.”

“What, nightm—?”

“Merlin.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Arthur. We all have bad dreams.”

“Not kings.”

Merlin steeled himself and tentatively rested a hand on Arthur’s back. He didn’t swipe his thumb or stroke circles as he so desperately wished, but the contact was an extension of the tether, a comfort in itself.

“Yes, Arthur, even kings.”

Arthur exhaled, long and low, and his hands fell away. Merlin’s heart ached at his wrecked expression and the unshed tears gathering at the corners of his bloodshot eyes. His hair was curled and plastered across his forehead.

“Merlin, I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t leave Camelot.”

Merlin let his hand slip away. He should’ve seen it coming, but he’d assumed Arthur’s nightmare was born of the horrors of battle or the burden of wearing the crown. He supposed it still could be either of those, but he hadn’t expected this to be top of Arthur’s mind.

“Anything but that.” Merlin tried for a light, easy tone, but his voice came out stiff.

“I’m serious.” Arthur trembled ever so slightly, probably the cold seeping through the sheen of sweat on his skin. “All these years, Merlin, and you never sought any credit. Let me rectify that.”

“That’s not why I did it.”

“Then why?”

“You know why, Arthur.”

“Tell me.”

Merlin studied the window, the moonlight streaming through it, and it was impossible not to think how two sides of the same coin were never meant to face each other. They were always mean to operate side by side, but never in unison. His very existence helped Arthur succeed, helped him shine, but only as long as Merlin kept his head down, only as long as Merlin hid in the shadows.

But Merlin couldn’t say any of that. All he could manage was, “Because, it’s my destiny to serve you.”

But his pledge didn’t soften Arthur in the slightest.

“And you’re willing to throw all of that away, destiny and all, on the chance that people might not accept you?”

Merlin had never known anything different. All he’d ever done was conceal his true self for the sake of Camelot.

“Yes.”

Arthur leaned across Merlin and removed a woven band from his nightstand. The band from the little girl in Blackburn.

“You’re failing to see the whole picture,” Arthur said. “You’re assuming that people want the laws my father established, but what about people like you?”

“People like me?”

“You could help them. Give them hope that they won’t be judged for something they were born with. Something they didn’t choose, but that chose them. You could set an example as Court Sorcerer. A new precedent and a promise that Camelot, that I, understand that not all magic is evil.”

Merlin wanted that more than anything. He wanted to stay by Arthur’s side. He wanted the people to accept him, but he wasn’t convinced that would be the reality. The opposition to magic had grown in startling numbers over the years, and if Arthur appointed him to court, their enemies would only grow. The threat to the kingdom would multiply.

“Arthur…”

But his king shoved the woven band into his palm. “Just, think about it, all right?”

“All right.”

Arthur slid beneath his covers once more, punching his pillow into the right shape, and Merlin was about to return to his lumpy mattress when Arthur caught his wrist.

“Will you just… stay with me for a minute?”

Merlin might have said no, except for the vulnerability sculpted into the lift of his brows and the softness around his lips.

“Of course,” Merlin said.

Arthur lifted the duvet, and Merlin shimmed beneath it. As he laid back, he couldn’t quite believe how much warmth the covers created, or how impossibly luxurious the mattress was. He might as well have been sinking into a supportive cloud.

Merlin swore.

“What?” Arthur asked.

“This is how you sleep, and you still wake up a grumpy arse every morning?”

“I’m not a grumpy arse in the morning.”

Merlin lifted his head from the fluffy pillow to glare at Arthur.

“Oh, shut it,” Arthur snapped without opening his eyes.

“I didn’t say anything!”

Arthur rolled over and shoved Merlin, but he put so little effort into it that he barely moved Merlin at all. Astonishingly, Arthur didn’t retract his hands, either. They settled on Merlin’s arm and in the dip of his waist, and for a long, breathless moment, Merlin considered what he should do.

The tether hummed happily, and Merlin selfishly didn’t want Arthur to let go. He wanted to slide ever so slightly closer so that one of Arthur’s hands slipped beneath his body and came to rest along his sternum. He wanted to thread their fingers together. He wanted to reach up and trace lines across Arthur’s forearm.

He couldn’t, but he didn’t dare pull away and end whatever had possessed Arthur to reach for him, either.

When he finally glanced over, Arthur had relaxed into his pillow, the picture of peace as he snored quietly.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered to his king.

As Merlin followed him into the graces of sleep, he could’ve sworn that Arthur’s hand flexed around his waist, holding him even tighter.

* * *

The next morning, Merlin forced himself to take deep breaths in the clearing. The curling fog concealed them from the castle, but soon, that wouldn’t matter anyway. Arthur had informed a handful of castle guards that if they saw anything strange in the next few days—no they didn’t.

Despite the reassuring weight in his pocket, Merlin tapped the new shrink potion, feeling the glass beneath his touch.

“Stop worrying so much, Merlin.”

“I’m not worrying.”

“You do realize that whenever your stomach is in knots, which is unfortunately quite frequently, mine is as well?”

Merlin pressed his knuckle into the temple that wasn’t bruised. “Sorry.”

“It’ll be fine, Merlin.” Arthur squeezed Merlin’s shoulder, his thumb digging into the tense muscles above his shoulder blade.

Merlin wished he shared Arthur’s optimism, or at least, more of it than what had trickled through the tether.

“Are we sure it’ll be fine?” Perceval asked, leaning against a tree at the edge of the clearing. “This dragon did try to kill us only days ago.”

“You’re both safe with me, I swear it.” The subtle softening of Arthur’s expression was an echo of the day before. Arthur had always trusted Merlin, but this was a whole new level of trust, and Merlin found himself oddly invigorated from it. “Remember the plan?”

“Yes,” Arthur said begrudgingly. “I’ll be standing behind that tree. Making no noise and pretending like I don’t exist.”

Merlin coughed to hide his budding laugh. “Just until I can get her to accept the potion.”

“Are you sure you can?”

“You just said that it’ll be fine!”

“I was bluffing!” Arthur exclaimed. “You have to admit, it did help, though.”

Merlin was seconds away from smacking his king when Perceval dragged Arthur away. Before disappearing behind the broad tree, Arthur motioned for Merlin to get on with it.

When Merlin said he wanted Arthur to see him, this wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind.

He let his eyes fall shut as he tuned into the currents of life surrounding him. The blades of grass reaching toward the sun, the leaves swaying atop their branches, the family of deer lapping at the babbling creek. Everything was connected, and everything was magic. He tapped into that boundless vitality, tracing the threads of it back to his own body, his own vast pool of energy, and let it wash through him.

Merlin tipped his head to the sky and shouted the ancient, powerful words to summon Aithusa.

He sensed the air stir before he caught sight of the dragon cresting over the canopy. Dispersing clouds of fog, Aithusa landed in the clearing. What should have been a light and graceful landing became stumbling and heavy. The ground shook, nearly sending Merlin off balance.

As soon as she spotted Merlin, Aithusa hissed and bared her fangs.

“I just want to talk.” He approached slowly, carefully. “I promise you won’t be harmed.”

Aithusa reared up on her haunches and exhaled flames. Merlin lifted a hand, diverting the attack until it fizzled into mere sparks.

“I won’t ask that you don’t try to harm me,” Merlin said gently, “but know that you won’t be able to, even if you try.”

The young dragon cocked her head curiously and lowered herself onto all fours. A twinge of guilt settled in Merlin’s gut that he hadn’t tried harder to shield her from the dangers of the world. She was just a child—young and impressionable—and Merlin had failed her.

“You remember me, don’t you?” Aithusa inched closer to inspect Merlin, her nose twitching eagerly. “I was there when you hatched. I rescued your egg from a man with greed in his heart. He only wanted the power and glory that comes with acquiring a dragon egg. He was blind to the fact that you’re a living, breathing creature with a mind of your own.”

Aithusa was so close now that Merlin could see how her scales were not just white, but pale and sickly. The flesh around her sunken eyes was nearly grey. Whatever Morgana had done to her was slowly killing her.

“You can call me Emrys.”

Aithusa chirped, and the realization struck Merlin that he’d never heard her speak. The dragon carried so much tension in her wings and so much pain in her young eyes. Her right wing was folded along her back at an awkward angle. She’d flown just fine at Blackburn, but perhaps it hindered her flight across long distances. Perhaps it was the reason behind her uncoordinated landing.

“You’re injured,” Merlin said. Aithusa inclined her head, a silent assent.

The embers of irritation blazed into rage. At Kilgharrah for not protecting her, at Morgana for taking advantage of her impressionable mind, at himself for not keeping her safe from enemy hands.

“I can help you.” Merlin stretched out his hand. “I have the power to heal you.”

Aithusa nudged him with her snout, quick and tentative. A confirmation that she wanted to be healed, but she didn’t trust him, not yet.

“How about a bargain?” Merlin proposed. “If I heal you, you’ll stay with me for a few weeks. I’ll bring you into the castle, where it’s warm and you’ll be fed and cared for.” At the mention of the castle, Aithusa retreated ever so slightly, her disapproval twisting into a snarl. “You won’t be a prisoner. I help you; you help me. It’s a fair trade, and you’re free to go whenever you want.”

The ridges above Aithusa’s eyes lifted at that. Merlin wondered when the last time anyone besides Morgana had shown her an ounce of kindness.

“The king is my friend,” Merlin said, and Arthur carefully stepped out from behind the tree. “If you’ll let us, Arthur and I will show you that not all humans are evil. That not all of us wish you harm.”

Arthur lifted a hand, wiggling his fingers the way Merlin had seen him do with human children, and Merlin suppressed a laugh.

“No harm will come to you if you stay with us,” Arthur promised. “We’ll keep you safe.”

Aithusa peered through the fog at the castle spires.

“You’re clever,” Merlin said. “We’ll need to make you a bit smaller so you can join us.”

Aithusa snorted, nostril’s flaring in suspicion. Before Merlin could lose any hope of the young dragon agreeing to his terms, he turned to Arthur, who scruffed Perceval by the collar and dragged him out from behind the tree. The knight didn’t bother to protest. His legs dangled as he hung limply in his king’s grasp bearing a cross expression.

“You may not remember him from Blackburn,” Arthur said, “but we shrunk him by about three feet.”

“Temporarily, of course,” Merlin added.

Aithusa exhaled puffs of smoke, still unconvinced, and extended her injured wing.

It was a gamble, healing her before she agreed to the terms of the bargain, but Merlin needed to show her that his intentions were pure.

“Watch my back?” Merlin asked Arthur, who dropped Perceval in exchange for a grip on Excalibur’s hilt. He didn’t draw the blade so as not to risk the tentative truce with Aithusa, but he stood at the ready regardless.

“Always.” Arthur inclined his head, nothing but unfettered conviction resounding down the bond.

With Arthur at his back, Merlin gathered his magic. Healing was a challenging art to master, but once a sorcerer understood that everything in the body was connected, it became much easier. He reached out with his magic, tracing Aithusa’s muscles to her tendons and ligaments and bones. Several ligaments were bent and crooked, while one tendon was severed and shriveled, but Merlin was confident he could fix them.

“This might pinch, but only for a moment.” It was what Gaius always told his patients when a treatment was about to hurt, but he didn’t want to scare them.

As Merlin spoke, he poured his magic into her wing. He focused on straightening and lengthening and stretching the ligaments. Distantly, he heard Aithusa’s roar of discomfort and felt a pressure at his shoulder, but he didn’t stop until he heard the pop he was looking for—until the severed tendon had been reattached.

He released his magic and opened his eyes. Arthur had grasped his shoulder, his blade still sheathed, but his expression fierce, like he were about to yank Merlin away from danger. Merlin shrugged off his king. Aithusa’s roar fizzled and she stretched the wing, her eyes growing round with wonder as she realized that the movement was free of pain.

Aithusa folded her wings, and this time, they laid flat against her back. She padded closer to Merlin and Arthur and bowed at Merlin’s feet, peering up at him expectantly. Wonder shown in her eyes, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of trust.

“You did so good,” Merlin praised.

Aithusa nuzzled him again, and this time, she didn’t flinch away. Merlin dared to stroke along the ridges protruding from the top of her head. Her scales weren’t as rigid as he thought they might be. They were pliable, more like a flexible version of Arthur’s chainmail.

Merlin extracted the potion from his pocket, and her eyes widened even more at the magenta liquid sloshing inside.

“I think she likes pink,” Arthur mused.

“I think you’re right about that.”

Merlin uncorked the bottle and offered it to her. “It’s entirely your choice. You don’t have to take it, but I really hope you do.”

The dragon closed her mouth around the vial and tipped her head up to the sky before spitting out the empty glass.

Moments later, Aithusa began to shrink until she was the same size as the royal hunting dogs. Her talons were thinner, less lethal. Her wings the size of a falcon’s, and while her fangs were still razor sharp, her jaw was less likely to crunch down on his arm unforgivingly.

She reared up on her haunches, now barely reaching the height of Merlin’s hip, and chirped again. If he didn’t know any better, Merlin might have thought she didn’t particularly mind the shift into a smaller version of herself.

“She’s actually quite cute,” Arthur said, a smile gracing his lips as a ray of sunlight filtered through the fog and illuminated his features.

“Are we positive that she’s not going to try and eat us?” Perceval asked.

Aithusa turned toward him, snapping her jaw at him without menace, but Perceval scrambled back nevertheless.

Merlin bit the inside of his cheek to quiet his laughter, but the mirth rising in his chest was indescribable. Not only were they one step closer to dissolving Morgana’s enchantment, but Merlin had finally fixed that which never should’ve been broken in the first place.

Chapter Text

Sneaking Aithusa into the castle was much less challenging than Merlin had expected it to be. In truth, smuggling tiny Perceval back into the castle was the bigger challenge.

“My lord, who is that child with you?” a guard asked as they reached the castle steps.

“Pay no heed.” Despite Arthur’s instructions, they continued to stare as their group hurried past. Maybe the satchel strapped to Merlin’s back containing the baby dragon hadn’t been necessary at all with Perceval as a distraction.

Aithusa had occasionally shifted on their trek, cooing at the dragon-like stone gargoyles overlooking the courtyard. Arthur had nudged him, a silent note that she was peering through the top of the bag.

“You’ll have plenty of time to look around later,” Merlin had whispered over his shoulder to her. “Keep hidden until then, okay?”

When they reached Arthur’s chambers, Gwaine was balancing a pile of books atop his head while Elyan placed obstacles on the ground to heighten the challenge. Only Lancelot, who’d taken up Merlin’s preferred spot in the window, and Leon were actually engaged in their texts.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Gwaine and Elyan froze. Leon and Lancelot glanced up from their texts, only to scatter when Aithusa launched out of the satchel and flew around the room, landing atop Arthur’s bedpost to perch like a gargoyle.

“What are you all doing here?” Merlin demanded.

“I enlisted their help to narrow down which specific mountain pass the old bastard was referring to,” Arthur said.

“Language,” Gwaine chided, gesturing at Perceval. “There’s children here.”

Perceval chucked a text at Gwaine’s head with deadly accuracy and clocked him so cleanly that he tumbled into Elyan, knocking them both to the floor.

Arthur sighed. “So glad to have Camelot’s finest at my disposal.”

Merlin stifled his laughter and pointed at the texts. “You do realize you’re wasting your time, right?”

Leon tore his gaze away from Aithusa, though it kept meandering back to the little dragon as if she might attack or disappear if no one was watching. “What do you mean?”

“I can just search for it with my magic.”

“See!” Elyan said, dragging Gwaine to his feet. “I told you there was no point in us looking.”

Merlin cracked his knuckles and set out in his magical search for a handful of keywords. Each text flipped open and the flutter of rapidly turning pages filled the room.

“Anything?” Lancelot asked when he’d finished.

“Nothing,” Merlin said. “But that doesn’t mean we won’t find anything. We just need to gather more books.”

“That sounds like the perfect job for Gwaine and Elyan,” Arthur said, shoving a stack of the texts at Gwaine’s chest. “Since you’re clearly in dire need of entertainment.”

Aithusa chirped and swooped so low over the dining table that Leon dove to the floor to avoid her talons. She snatched up a half-eaten strand of grapes before landing in the window seat and swallowing them whole.

Then she curled up, her tail blowing softly with each exhale.

“Are we sure that’s a dragon?” Lancelot whispered to Merlin.

“What else would she be?”

“A demon,” Leon answered, dusting himself off.

Aithusa cracked an eye open, a predator evaluating her next meal.

“She might not be able to speak yet,” Merlin said, tipping his chin at her, “but she does understand us, so perhaps you should watch what you say around our honored guest.”

“What do you mean yet?” Lancelot demanded.

Arthur waved a hand. “You’ll get used to it.”

Lancelot looked very much like he hoped that would never happen.

“You two will lead training today,” Arthur said, pointing at Leon and Lancelot. “Can’t have the knights slacking off.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Leon said. “Good luck babysitting the dragon.”

Leon and Lancelot left with Perceval trailing after them like a suspiciously buff duckling. Merlin could only hope that he would hide or that none of the other knights would pay him any heed.

Merlin didn’t bother stooping to collect all the books. He merely outstretched a hand, and gathered them all into a single, towering stack with his magic. Arthur stared at him the entire time, his gaze intense and unyielding.

“What?” Merlin asked.

Arthur shook his head ever so slightly. “Most powerful sorcerer to walk this earth, and you couldn’t have created a potion to reverse the effects?”

“I could,” Merlin grinned fiendishly, “but then he wouldn’t have learned his lesson, now would he?”

Arthur huffed a laugh.

“Besides, it’ll give us a better idea of the potion’s expected duration. We’ll need Aithusa fully grown if she accompanies us to the southern border.”

“If,” Arthur said, sitting heavily in his chair and opening the first letter in a stack waiting for him. “You do realize you could simply order her to join us?”

Merlin watched the baby dragon, sleeping peacefully in a ray of sunlight that scattered colors from the stained glass across her scales. The unbidden thought formed that this was how it should’ve been all along. If he’d been brave enough to tell Arthur about his magic sooner, maybe he could’ve prevented everything that was happening now. Maybe Aithusa wouldn’t have sought family and comfort in those corrupted by evil. Maybe even Morgana would have felt less alone.

“Is it bad that I want it to be her choice?” Merlin asked.

“No,” Arthur said softly. “Of course not.”

Merlin bit at the dead skin on his bottom lip, thinking back on all those moments he’d almost told Arthur the truth. All of those missed opportunities. There was no telling if honesty would have landed him in the stocks, or perhaps atop a blazing pyre, but at least he would’ve been true to himself. And perhaps Arthur would have accepted him.

At least Merlin had the ability to hide, but Aithusa didn’t have that privilege. She would be villainized throughout her life because of her nature. Merlin could feel the magic flowing through her veins; it was the same magic that flowed through him.

“Merlin.” Arthur’s voice guided him out of the dark storm of his thoughts. “We’ll sort this out together.”

Merlin wanted to accept the comfort that Arthur’s words carried, but he couldn’t quite manage it. He traced the woven band around his wrist, trying to center himself with the texture of it, but the kind words of one child couldn’t erase the way an entire village at Blackburn had turned on him the instant the danger had been eliminated.

“I know, it’s just…”

Arthur set his letters aside. “What?”

“How can you be so certain that the people will accept me? That they won’t want to persecute me on the spot?”

“The day we returned,” Arthur said, “I wrote a letter to Bromley instructing him to keep the events of our visit secret, and that if he would not honor my decree, then I would find someone who could.”

Gratitude bubbled in Merlin’s chest, but he still wasn’t convinced. He’d seen too many sorcerers burn, too many heads roll, and he struggled to trust Arthur’s sincerity. He didn’t doubt that he was telling the truth, but he did doubt how he might find someone to fit such a roll if Bromley wasn’t agreeable.

“They may still want to burn me at the stake.”

“I would never let that happen.”

“Of course not,” Merlin said. “Not when your life is tied to mine.”

“Not now, not ever, Merlin, you hear me?” Arthur was on his feet, then, reaching for Merlin. His fingers closed around his wrist, around the woven band. “Even after this enchantment is lifted, I would die before I ever let you step atop that pyre.”

Merlin struggled to breathe beneath the intensity of Arthur’s gaze.

“You do know that this works both ways,” Arthur said. “You’re safe with me, too, Merlin.”

The conviction in Arthur’s voice was magnetic, drawing Merlin into a comforting embrace. Merlin tried to quell his racing thoughts because there was no way that Arthur was leaning into him, mirroring him. He couldn’t be because, at the end of the day, Arthur was still a king and Merlin was still a servant.

No amount of magic could enrich royalty into his bloodlines.

Merlin broke away from his king in search of the jar of ointment Gaius had given them. He applied some to his own bruise in the mirror before turning back to Arthur, whose gaze had not lessened in the slightest.

With trembling fingers, Merlin spread the ointment over Arthur’s bruise, careful not to apply too much pressure.

“Before, you mentioned…” Arthur winced ever so slightly at Merlin’s touch and inhaled deeply. “You mentioned Freya was the first woman you ever loved.”

Merlin nearly dropped the jar. “Yes. Why?”

“I—” Arthur swallowed. “Have you been with other women?”

Merlin wanted to disappear. He wanted to take his own shrink potion and become a speck of dust that could be swept up and tossed outside into the ether.

“Aside from the one time Gwen kissed me, no—”

Arthur balked. “Gwen kissed you? Does Lancelot know?”

Merlin chuckled as he resealed the jar, setting it on the foot of the bed a few paces away.

“It’s not like that. As soon as it happened, I think we both realized we were better off as just friends. And it was long before Lancelot, anyway. What’s with all the questions about my love life, anyway?”

“I—I just thought that, maybe—”

Merlin had never seen Arthur stumble this much over a question. Not even with all the stuffy princesses Uther had forced him to court in his youth.

“Arthur, what is it?”

His king fixated on the window as he spoke, his voice an octave higher than usual. “I wondered if you’d ever been with a man?”

Merlin inhaled sharply, his chest tightening as tension rippled through air between them.

The door banged open. Merlin flinched away from Arthur and put as much space between them as possible.

Gwaine and Elyan burst into the room with armfuls of texts.

Merlin usually prided himself on his ability to compartmentalize his life, but his body betrayed him at this very moment. His cheeks flamed with the memory of Gwaine’s mouth on him, the sweaty movement, the press of—

The echo compounded with the heat flickering through the tether, the same heat that simmered in Arthur’s gaze still transfixed on Merlin.

It was all too much. Forget shrinking into a speck of dust. Merlin needed a bath as frigid as the snow melt, and briefly contemplated the consequences of summoning an ice storm inside Arthur’s chambers.

“Hopefully,” Gwaine said, “second time’s the charm.”

“That’s not the saying,” Elyan chided.

Merlin laughed, hollow and loud, barely able to concentrate on what they were saying because Arthur was studying Merlin as if he could read his traitorous thoughts.

“What’s wrong, Merls?” Gwaine asked. “You look a little—”

Gwaine’s hand landed on Merlin’s arm, and he scrambled away from him so vehemently that he slammed straight into something solid and unyielding that knocked him straight on his back. Stars burst behind his eyes, and Arthur yelped his surprise. Merlin rubbed at his pulsing forehead and cursed himself for running directly into one of the bedposts. 

“—flushed,” Gwaine finished. “Maybe I should open a window. Get some fresh air in here.”

“Probably for the best,” Merlin agreed, waving a hand and whispering a spell to open the windows. A blissfully crisp breeze wafted in and began to cool Merlin’s overheated body.

Aithusa huffed her annoyance at the cold and flew the short distance to Arthur’s bed.

“Not there!” Arthur exclaimed, but she’d already curled up atop the plush blankets and emitted a loud, pointed snore that was definitely not fake.

Elyan hauled Merlin up and dusted him off. Merlin’s vision swam, and he sat heavily on the bed beside Aithusa, resting his head in his hands and shutting his eyes.

Something cold and damp nudged him, and Merlin was about to shove them off before he realized that it wasn’t one of the knights. It was Aithusa. She opened her mouth and exhaled, her breath becoming translucent and fluttering against his forehead. Instantly, the throbbing dulled and Merlin’s blurred vision cleared.

The lump on Merlin’s forehead was still there—and still visible beneath the sweep of Arthur’s hair along his own forehead—but the pain was gone. Aithusa’s eyelids drooped, and she yawned, revealing rows of sharp fangs that had Gwaine and Elyan retreating.

Merlin scratched beneath her chin and marveled at what must be a natural ability to heal. He never would’ve expected a dragon so young to have already been so adept at such a challenging skill. He made a mental note to ask Kilgharrah about it when they saw him next.

“Never mind,” Arthur called. “She can have the bed.”

Aithusa proudly exhaled a ring of black smoke and promptly fell asleep.

* * *

When the sun had set and the candles had burned low, Merlin had to pry Aithusa away from the king’s bed so she’d join him on his lumpy mattress. She’d huffed enough times that he even shared the threadbare blanket with her.

Moonlight streamed through the window, signaling the break of midnight, when Merlin woke to the little dragon pouncing on his chest and then taking flight once more.

“Aithusa!” Merlin hissed. “What’re you doing?”

But she swooped across the chambers, diving and picking up different objects. First it was an apple, then a book, but when she reached for Arthur’s polished helm, Merlin cried out. As it plummeted, he caught it with his magic before it could clatter against the floor and wake his king—and half the castle.

Merlin slipped out from under the blankets and immediately shivered as he picked up all the strewn objects. Aithusa didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. No, her jaw hung open with the joy of mischief. 

Merlin muttered under his breath, and when everything was sorted again, he returned to his thin, lumpy mattress only to find Aithusa hogging it entirely. 

“You’re gonna have to move over,” he told her, tugging at the blanket that she’d trapped and tangled beneath her legs and tail. When she didn’t move even an inch, merely blinked at him innocently, Merlin sighed. “Seriously? Do you just expect me to freeze to death tonight?”

Merlin supposed the floor would do. It wouldn’t be the worst place he’d slept, after all.

But before he could grab the pillow, Aithusa slapped her tail across it, pinning it.

Merlin was about five seconds from ordering her off the mattress when Arthur mumbled something in his sleep. Something that sounded suspiciously like Merlin’s name.

The king’s bed did look rather warm and comfortable.

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” Merlin hissed to Aithusa, and he could’ve sworn that she was grinning.

Carefully, Merlin peeled back the blankets and eased beneath them. Even though things had shifted between them, Merlin still felt like he was violating some peace treaty. Like he was crossing a boundary in sharing a bed with his king. Comforting each other after hard days or nightmares was one thing, but this was a choice Merlin was making. As much as he didn’t want to have to curl up in the window seat and freeze his ass off overnight, he wanted even more to be close to Arthur.

It was a selfish want that he’d never let himself consider for longer than the length of their shared eye contact. It was a want that, over the years, he’d suffocated regularly with distractions—distractions like Gwaine or the occasional maiden. But now, Merlin didn’t want a distraction.

He wanted Arthur.

Even admitting that to himself was terrifying, but he eased onto the bed, staying so near the edge of the mattress that a draft ghosted over his thighs and chest. He shivered and tried to let himself relax.

But then Arthur rolled over and draped an arm over Merlin’s chest. He didn’t wake, didn’t startle, he merely tugged Merlin closer, away from the frigid edge and into the encompassing warmth of his chest. Arthur murmured his name again, squeezing him tight, all without so much as waking.

As if it were a reflex to reach for him in his most vulnerable moments, to want him closer. Merlin’s heart fluttered in his chest and reached up to cover Arthur’s hand. The feel of his king’s skin against his own was utterly euphoric, and Merlin traced the scars on his fingers and the back of his hand. He knew each raised bit of skin as well as he knew his own, but to feel it this up close and personal—it was the first time Merlin let himself truly believe that he was safe with Arthur.

* * *

Loud banging woke Merlin that morning. Assuming Aithusa must be at it again, he lurched out of bed—would have, if not for the band of Arthur’s arm around his middle.

“Just something knocking,” Arthur mumbled, his thumb swiping soothingly along his back.

Merlin groaned and buried his head into the blissful comfort of royal pillows, but the knocking only grew louder and more incessant. It could only be George at this ungodly hour, come to deliver them breakfast.

“I told you we shouldn’t have locked the door,” Arthur grumbled.

“I didn’t want Thusa to explore the rest of the castle,” Merlin said. “If she’d escaped in the middle of the night, I would’ve had a hell of a time rousing you to help me find her.”

“Thusa?”

Merlin shrugged. “Just a nickname I’m trying.”

Arthur groaned his acknowledgement into his pillow, and when Merlin slipped away, Arthur’s hold on him lingered as if he wasn’t quite ready to let go of him yet. Merlin shook the absurd thought away.

“One second!” Merlin called, slipping on socks and the first pair of pants he could find—only realizing after he’d pulled them on that they were far too soft to be his own and must have been Arthur’s—then lit the hearth.

Merlin unlocked the door to let George inside. His arms were shaking beneath the weight of the breakfast platter, and Merlin instinctively reached out to help. Together, they lowered it onto the table and began setting bowls of fruit and dishes of fresh cooked meat out.

“Not like that,” George said when Merlin set the cutlery down. “Those are the serving spoons for the quiche.”

“What quiche?” Merlin asked.

“I just—” George glanced around, eyes wide and brow furrowed. “I just set it down right there.”

The tip of Aithusa’s tail disappeared under a dining chair.

“Oh, weird,” Merlin said, feigning ignorance. “Maybe you left it in the kitchen?”

George straightened indignantly. “I did not leave the king’s quiche in the kitchen.”

Merlin shuffled toward Aithusa’s chair and wished Arthur would wake and help him handle this predicament, but he seemed to be taking a page out of Aithusa’s book with the fake snoring. Merlin tugged on the tether, hoping to irritate him.

Then a bundle of grapes disappeared from the table, and Aithusa belched, loud enough that even Perceval would be proud.

George’s eyes flew wide. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Merlin asked.

“That,” George stuttered, pointing at the end of the table where Aithusa was peering at the servant from behind a chair. “That giant… winged lizard.”

Merlin scratched the nape of his neck and casually stepped between George and Aithusa, tugging even harder at the tether.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Arthur groaned as he sat up. “That will be all, George. You’re dismissed.”

George was still so stunned at the sight of a miniature dragon that it was an extra minute before he bowed to his king and hurried to the door with the breakfast table half set.

“Oh, and George?” Arthur said. “Not a word of this to anyone. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sire.”

As soon as the door was shut again, Arthur burst into laughter.

“Poor bloke, I thought his head was going to explode.” Arthur snatched a pastry and ripped off a chunk that he tossed to Aithusa. She chomped on it initially, but then her face scrunched up and she spit it out. Arthur frowned and offered a slice of bacon instead, which she sniffed tentatively—as if the pastry he’d offered her had been proof that he was willing to poison her—and then gulped it down in a single bite.

“She liked that,” Merlin said happily. “Let’s see what else you like.”

He offered her a pear slice and was still awaiting the verdict when Arthur poked Merlin in the ribs.

“Heat a bath for me, would you?” Arthur asked, tugging his sleep shirt over his head.

Merlin eyed Aithusa and took the three remaining pieces of bacon, wafted them in front of her nose, and then chucked them at Arthur. The king yelped as the bacon slapped his back and tried to duck, but it was too late—Aithusa was already airborne.

She crashed straight into Arthur and flattened him against the floor.

“Sure thing, sire,” Merlin grinned unabashedly, but he murmured a few words under his breath to heat the bath water, regardless.

Arthur glared at him over Aithusa’s head as she licked bacon grease from his arm.

 * * *

Merlin took Kilgharrah’s words to heart and didn’t want Arthur’s chambers to become a prison cell. So each day, he dragged Arthur outside to the river and let Aithusa explore and swim and catch fish. Sometimes she would roast them in her own flame and sometimes she would gulp them whole. But she always brought at least two fish and left them at Arthur’s feet. Arthur, who had merely shifted training responsibilities to Leon, brought the knights of the round table along to train at the river so they all could keep a close eye on Perceval. 

“Wouldn’t want a hawk to mistake you for a small child and carry you away,” Gwaine quipped, which resulted in Perceval tackling him—or trying, at least. He managed to cling to Gwaine’s shoulders and pound on him but wasn’t big enough to actually take him to the ground. It took both Elyan and Lancelot to pry Perceval away from him. Meanwhile, Merlin dissolved into a fit of laughter that was cut short when Aithusa copied Percy and landed on Merlin’s shoulders, play-biting his shoulders and nipping at his ears. 

“You’re on your own there, Merls,” Elyan told him.

None of the knights were brave enough to get close to young dragon, not even Lancelot.

In fact, other than Merlin, the only other person Aithusa allowed to touch her was Arthur. He tried to hide it. When Merlin returned from baths or woke after Arthur, it was usually to find the two of them together, Aithusa nuzzling up to Arthur. The king would hide his hands and whistle innocently, as if Merlin were blind and dumb and couldn’t parse out for himself what was happening. 

The castle staff had remained silent about the entire endeavor. After that first encounter with George, Merlin had taught Aithusa to play hide and seek any time the servant brought food or cleaned the room. George had even begun to bring extra helpings of meat and fruit.

Merlin had thought that keeping a dragon in the castle would’ve been a largely destructive endeavor, but in truth, it hadn’t been bad at all. Aithusa had learned how to slide wood into the hearth and then light it herself when she was cold. When Arthur and Merlin had to attend council meetings, she burrowed beneath the blankets on Merlin’s mattress or curled atop the cushion Arthur requested be placed in the window sill.

Each night, without fail, Merlin would attempt to crawl into bed beside Aithusa, only for her to have stolen every available inch of space.

“C’mere, Merlin.” Arthur had left a spot beside him on the bed, and the half-asleep lilt of his voice was all too welcoming.

Merlin rubbed Aithusa’s snout and wished her goodnight before slipping into place beside Arthur. They usually fell asleep with their hands to themselves, but Merlin always woke with his knee between Arthur’s legs, his hands resting atop the muscles of Arthur’s chest, and his king’s arm tucking him snug to his chest.

Whatever this was between them, Merlin was afraid to afford it much thought. He worried it was an illusion forming in the fading mist that, when stared at too directly, would dissipate before his eyes. He couldn’t bear the thought of that, so he merely let himself enjoy it while he could.

On the third day, Gwen brought a pink neckerchief for Aithusa, and Merlin overheard her whispering, “Do you miss her?” The little dragon exhaled a cloud of smoke that formed a woman’s silhouette. “I do, too.”

Merlin dropped a hand to Gwen’s shoulder. When Morgana had first left the castle, Gwen had taken it the hardest. She’d felt abandoned by her best friend and continued to bear the weight of that every single day.

A tentative thought formed in the back of Merlin’s mind that resembled hope more than anything substantial. Maybe if Arthur legalized magic, if he reversed Uther’s laws, Morgana would no longer be so vengeful. He highly doubted it, but it was a nice dream, nevertheless.

On the fifth day, Perceval was opening a dusty text when he sneezed—loud and abrupt—and the pressure shifted in the room. All at once, he was back to his normal size and had burst from the seams of the borrowed clothes. After a particularly intense sparring match during training, he left Gwaine limping the remainder of the day.

The following morning, they unearthed a contender for the passage Kilgharrah had mentioned. A southern passage nestled between two peaks in the mountains of Asgorath that was both cumbersome and dangerous.

“Should I ready the horses, my lord?” Leon asked, and it took Merlin a long moment to realize that he was not, in fact, speaking to Arthur, but looking to Merlin for an answer.

Merlin cleared his throat. “We should confirm with Kilgharrah that we have the correct pass before setting out.”

“Have the horses on standby,” Arthur instructed. “If we’re correct, we’ll leave at first light.”

Leon tipped his head to them both before departing to handle the arrangements.

In the late afternoon, they paid a visit to the clearing. Arthur draped Aithusa around his shoulders—the guards had adapted to ignoring the dog-sized lizard with wings entirely—and stood patiently at Merlin’s side as he summoned the elder dragon.

Kilgharrah landed in the clearing silent and lithe, but his eyes began to shine at the sight of Aithusa, who flew from Arthur’s shoulders and landed between the larger dragon’s spiny ridges.

As the sky illuminated in deepening purples and reds, the last light of the day streamed through the trees and struck Aithusa’s scales, producing a brilliant rainbow effect. Now that she was healed and nourished, her scales were no longer pale and lackluster, but radiant.

It was clear that Merlin had chosen the right name for her. Light of the sun was truly fitting.

Kilgharrah twisted his neck around to nuzzle the little dragon, and the reunion might have brought tears to Merlin’s eyes if not for the rage sizzling in his gut. It should have been a joyous moment, except that it was Kilgharrah’s fault that Aithusa had been so ill in the first place.

“You have done well with her,” Kilgharrah said at last when the little dragon had returned to Merlin, snaking between his legs and nipping at his pant legs. He rubbed her head fondly.

“No thanks to you,” he snapped.

“Excuse me?” Kilgharrah demanded. “How dare you—”

“I dare because it’s clear to me now that you abandoned Aithusa when she needed you most. Since she cannot yet speak for herself, I will happily do so on her behalf. She might remember you as a kind caretaker, but that’s only because she doesn’t know the truth.”

Kilgharrah’s chest expanded with a massive breath, and Merlin adopted a protective stance.

“Did you summon me merely to berate me, young warlock? Or perhaps to gloat that you have not failed as I had?”

“Gods forbid that anyone dare to berate a dragon so great as yourself,” Merlin snapped. “A little humility might do you some good. Perhaps then, you might actually stand a chance at not shirking your duties and instead teaching Aithusa something other than basic healing!”

Kilgharrah eyed the little dragon. “I taught her no such ability. Has she demonstrated proficiency already?”

Merlin’s head swam, the anger eddying behind his piquing curiosity. “If you didn’t teach her, then who did?”

“It is entirely possible that healing is a natural affinity for our young dragon.”

“Our?” Arthur interjected.

Kilgharrah ignored him and pressed on. “Her proclivity to healing should be handled delicately. It can be taxing even on the strongest of our kind.”

Merlin remembered the way Aithusa had immediately fallen asleep after healing him her first night in Arthur’s chambers. “It exhausts her.”

“Indeed. It would be unwise to rely on her healing abilities on your journey.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Merlin answered. If Morgana had known about her ability and overused it, that could have played a part in her underdevelopment.

“Speaking of journeys, you senile old bat,” Arthur said, and Merlin couldn’t help but snicker, “the mountain pass you mentioned. Was it the Asgorath mountains?”

“Bat?” Kilgharrah extended his wings indignantly. “Bat?”

But Merlin held up a hand, the only warning he cared to issue. The elder dragon exhaled steam but confirmed that their findings were correct.

“I don’t suppose you would reconsider assisting us in our journey?” Merlin asked. After all, it would be much more streamlined to simply let Kilgharrah fly them across Albion and deposit them in the mountains.

“I am too old and senile to be in the business of ferrying young kings and warlocks except in matters of life and death.”

Aithusa trilled, and even though she formed no actual words, Merlin understood the message all the same. She was volunteering to accompany them.

“As soon as we have dissolved this enchantment and returned to Camelot,” Merlin said, “I will enlist your assistance in teaching Aithusa to speak.”

Kilgharrah did not protest. He merely bowed, knowing full well that Merlin wasn’t asking, but issuing a promise to put his Dragonlord abilities to good use if he did not readily comply.

Merlin watched Kilgharrah launch into the air and turned to find Arthur utterly beaming at him, as if he had relished witnessing Merlin’s display of authority.

* * *

Before the rise of dawn, Arthur stood patiently while Merlin secured the last pieces of his armor for their journey south. Merlin had refused his own armor, but agreed to at least wear the clothes Arthur had procured for him that were thicker and softer and would keep him warmer.

“You never answered my question,” Arthur mused.

Merlin didn’t need to ask what question he meant. Despite sharing a bed every night, neither of them had dared to broach the subject of Merlin’s preferences again. The thin line Merlin was walking grew thinner with each passing day.

“I’ll answer honestly if you do the same,” Merlin said finally.

Arthur considered that long enough that Merlin had finished with both wrist braces by the time he answered. “I suppose that’s only fair.”

Merlin swallowed, letting his fingertips linger on Arthur’s bare wrist. “I have been with women, and with men, yes. My preference relies less on gender and more on the person themself.”

The gentle swell of Arthur’s eyes sparkled like sunlight glittering amongst the ocean waves.

“While I’ve only ever been with women,” Arthur said, shyly, “I’m certainly curious. At least about… one man in particular.”

Merlin might as well have been a pebble swept out to sea on the current of Arthur’s attention. His king reached for him, fingertips finding a home at the nape of his neck and drawing him closer.

Arthur’s gaze dipped again to Merlin’s lips, and heat ignited not just in Merlin’s core, but across the tether, too, which meant, impossibly, that Arthur felt the same.

But that couldn’t be.

Arthur couldn’t be curious about Merlin. That was unfathomable.

And yet—

The line all but dissolved beneath Merlin’s feet as he leaned into Arthur’s hold, his heart thundering against his ribs at the breath ghosting over his cheeks. Their noses brushed, and it was all Merlin could do to hold onto his king as Arthur pressed even closer—

“My lord,” Leon said, bursting through the doors. Merlin tried to pull away from Arthur, to hide how close they had been, but Arthur refused to relinquish his grip on him. Leon immediately blushed and averted his gaze. Elyan appeared behind him and aimed a kick at his ankles.  

Leon winced at the attack, or maybe the interruption, and stammered, “excuse me, my lord… my lords.” Then cleared his throat. “We’re… ah, ready for you.”

“Thank you, Leon,” Arthur said without breaking eye contact with Merlin. “We’ll be there momentarily.”

This time, when Merlin pulled back, Arthur let him go.

Merlin straightened his shirt and tried desperately to find steady ground beneath his feet and an inkling of normalcy between them.

“Shall we?” Merlin tugged both their packs over his shoulders.

The sparkle in his king’s eyes fizzled, and Merlin was no longer a pebble with no concept of up or down. The world had righted itself, and yet… regret twinged in his gut.

“We shall.”

Despite Arthur’s many attempts to convince Merlin that they should bring an entire group of knights, Merlin had insisted it only be their core group. They’d be able to move through the forest, and enemy lands, much more easily without an entire army slowing them down.

Merlin had taken the liberty of hiding their tracks at every turn, blowing leaves or mud over the hoof prints. In a rather desolate area, he whispered a spell that prompted the growth of grass and vibrant wild flowers.

“You’ve done this before,” Arthur said to him as they rode.

“If by that, you mean I’ve saved your royal backside more times than I care to remember?” Merlin quipped. “Then yes. Yes, I have.”

Since Aithusa was still miniature, she alternated between riding behind Merlin’s saddle, astride Arthur’s shoulders, and occasionally flying out ahead of them.

They broke for the evening in a valley where their camp wouldn’t be easily spotted from the path. Even so, an unease settled under Merlin’s skin that nullified his appetite as he sat beside the fire with his friends. He forced down some of Leon’s stew, but Lancelot’s wide eyes issued a warning—they should’ve let Elyan cook. At least he understood the meaning of seasonings.

Merlin offered the rest of his meal to Aithusa, but she crinkled her nose after a single sniff.

“I’ll finish that for you, Merls!” Perceval said, snatching up the rest of his bowl. “If you… weren’t going to, that is.”

Merlin clapped him on the shoulder. “All yours, Percy.”

Then Merlin turned his attention inward and cast out his magic. All he could sense in the surrounding area was the usual hum and vibration of life, energy, magic coursing through every leaf, every tree, every insect. He followed each strand of that network, but found no trace of anything sinister. Nothing that warranted the agitation crawling beneath his skin. He traced a strong vein of magic to himself and another to Aithusa, who had fallen asleep inches from the embering fire.

“What is it, Merlin?” Arthur asked when dinner was finished and they were settling on the bedrolls that Lancelot had laid side by side for them.

“Probably nothing.”

“Which means it’s something,” Arthur sighed. “Lancelot is on watch first. Everything will be fine.”

When Merlin still said nothing, Arthur elbowed him in the ribs and rolled over.

“All that magic at your disposal, yet you can’t create some form of barrier around camp?”

Merlin propped himself up on his elbow to gape at Arthur. “You truly believe magic has no bounds.”

“It’s magic.” Arthur shrugged. “Why would it have bounds?”

Merlin flopped back onto his bedroll. “If you shut your mouth, I’ll promise to look into wards when we return home.”

Arthur’s eyes illuminated in the dying firelight. “Good.”

He couldn’t help but wonder if what had happened between them at the castle before was a mere fluke, or if it was something more. He could still feel the brush of Arthur’s nose along his own like a resonant echo.

Merlin drifted off to sleep on the pillowy curiosity of just how soft Arthur’s lips might be, and if he might ever have the privilege of finding out.

Searing pain wrenched Merlin from his dream. His entire face burned, but his scream was trapped in his lungs, unable to breech his lips. He couldn’t draw air. Couldn’t even open his eyes. All he knew was pain and darkness and that the thing covering his face wasn’t just blocking his airway but it was moving, too.

Whatever it was, was slimy and slick, and no matter how he thrashed, he couldn’t get a solid grip on it.

Merlin needed air. His lungs were about to burst—

It was ripped away. Merlin gasped for air and squinted at the sudden flood of moonlight streaming through the canopy. He stumbled, knees wavering, but Arthur was there, discarding Excalibur and gripping Merlin by the waist to keep him upright.

“Are you all right?” Arthur’s eyes were wild with the same fear singing down the bond as he appraised Merlin, his hands following the path of his eyes and tracing Merlin’s cheekbones. Despite the way his cheeks and forehead felt as though they’d been rubbed raw by a pumice stone then doused in boiling water, no blood came away on his royal hands.

“I dunno. What was that?”

Arthur pointed at a massive slug that Leon speared repeatedly until it stopped writhing. Merlin once recalled Gaius telling a story about a similar creature, but it had only been once, and quite late at night, and his entire memory of the evening was hazy. But it must have been a bizarre creature if even Aithusa hadn’t come to Merlin’s aid.

Merlin twisted in Arthur’s hold as he searched for Aithusa, but she was no longer curled by the fire. The imprint of her scales in the packed dirt was all that was left behind.

“Where’s Aithusa?” Merlin whipped his head around so vehemently that he nearly made himself dizzy. Not only was the little dragon nowhere to be seen, but Lancelot was slumped over with his head lulled against his chest.

The unease from earlier in the night expanded in Merlin’s chest and settled in his gut like a heavy, sizzling rock.

“How nice to see you, dear brother,” Morgana drawled from the edge of camp. The moon cast a shadow over her face as she swaggered toward them. Her dark cloak fluttered behind her, where pale scales glowed in the moonlight. The little dragon was not so little anymore. The potion must have worn off in the early hours of the morning. Nevertheless, her expression was taut with guilt as her gaze volleyed between Merlin and Morgana.

Clearly, her loyalties were not as solidified as Merlin had hoped.

Before Morgana could draw any closer, Merlin raised a hand, mentally reciting the words that would send Morgana flying into a nearby tree and render her defenseless, even if momentarily.

But nothing happened.

No flicker behind his eyes. No flutter of warmth in his gut.

Merlin could still feel the energy humming through the forest, flowing through the roots that burrowed into the ground and the creatures that flew from tree to tree. He could feel that reserve of energy inside of him, but it was barricaded. Untouchable.

He couldn’t reach his magic.

Terror struck him so deeply that his stomach wrenched. Bile rose in his throat, leaving a bitter residue on his tongue.

Morgana’s lips twisted into a malicious grin. “Not so powerful now, are we Emrys?”

Merlin staggered back, his hand trembling as it fell limp against his side. He felt the burn of the knight’s eyes on him as they pieced together what was happening—what the slug had actually done.

All too slowly, the knights drew their swords.

“That’s no way to greet your future Queen.” Morgana’s eyes flashed gold and the knights—all but Arthur and Lancelot—flew backward. Merlin watched in horror as Elyan’s head cracked against a tree. Leon landed in a thorny brush that swallowed him whole. Perceval reached for Gwaine, but he wasn’t quick enough and they both ended up far too close to a cluster of jagged rocks stick up out of the forest floor for comfort.

Arthur tightened his grip on Merlin, but Excalibur was still laying several feet away.

Merlin’s mind swam. He’d worked so hard to keep his magic hidden from the world, from Arthur, from Morgana. It couldn’t be a coincidence. It had to have been—

“Blackburn,” Arthur said, almost as if to himself. Of course, when the village hadn’t burned, when Aithusa had returned too soon, it must’ve raised Morgana’s suspicion.

“Bromley sends his regards,” Morgana said. “At least, I believe that was what he said before I gutted him.”

Merlin felt Arthur’s wince like it were his own.

“I always knew you were daft, brother, but I thought you’d outgrown hypocrisy. It seems that you’ve been fooling everyone. You maintain Uther’s barbaric outlaw of magic all while keeping a sorcerer at your side—and in your bed.”

“He’s not just a sorcerer.” The protective edge of Arthur’s voice was as sharp as Excalibur’s blade. “He’s the greatest sorcerer to walk this earth.”

Merlin gaped at his king and the fervency with which he defended him.

“Not anymore,” Morgana hissed.

Merlin could barely breathe. He merely stared at Arthur’s ardent fingertips digging into his skin, but he couldn’t feel it. Couldn’t feel the shaking in his own fingers. Couldn’t feel the cold, crisp air that should have soothed his stinging face. He might as well have been floating, wholly disconnected from his body.

He had to be dreaming. This was just a nightmare. Any second now, Arthur would wake him and everything would be okay.

His magic would still be brimming at his fingertips and not imprisoned behind some magical dam.

He wouldn’t be utterly defenseless.

Arthur squeezed his arm rhythmically to wrangle Merlin’s attention and then winked. He knew immediately what his king’s plan was. If anyone could reach Excalibur before Morgana could cast a spell, it was Arthur.

Merlin held his breath as Arthur released him and lunged for the sword in one swift motion.

Arthur’s fingertips grazed the hilt as Morgana extended her hand again. The flash of gold in her eyes teemed with power and she sent Arthur flying, much farther than any of the knights, who were all were still lying unconscious.

Something flickered down the tether. The relief that it wasn’t pain—that Arthur hadn’t struck his head or been injured—was promptly eclipsed by terror. The icy douse of fear emanating from Arthur wasn’t for himself, but for Merlin.

The undergrowth rustled, and dozens of men rose up around the camp.

Merlin was surrounded.

His only hope at surviving this night was Aithusa, who had begun to tremble in the frigid forest air as she watched everything unfold from the shadows.

“Thusa, please,” Merlin whispered.

“Do not speak to my dragon!” Excalibur flew into Morgana’s waiting grasp. The lethal blade aimed directly at Merlin’s heart.

“Aithusa is her own creature.” Merlin didn’t bother to raise his arms in surrender. Nothing that he could do or say could reverse the trajectory of Morgana’s resolve. “She’s not yours or mine. She belongs only to herself. If you trusted her loyalty, you would understand that.”

“She chose me,” Morgana snapped. “She healed me and chose to stay by my side.”

Merlin stared past Morgana and spoke directly to the not-so-little dragon. “She did what she had to do to survive, and I’ll always be proud of her for that.”

“Enough!” Morgana snapped her fingers, signaling to someone behind Merlin.

Everything happened at once.

The tether grew excruciatingly taut in the same breath that Morgana sliced forward with Excalibur. Merlin flung himself aside, but he wasn’t quick enough to avoid the blade’s bite.

Warm blood bloomed between his ribs, saturating the nice clothes Arthur had gifted him.

As Arthur’s voice rang through the clearing, Merlin’s knees slammed into the frozen ground.

His existence narrowed into agony. He couldn’t think around the sharp burning in his chest, but that was nothing compared to the blinding pain from the tether, threatening to shred him to pieces as Arthur was held captive outside the bounds of the enchantment.

“Any last words, Emrys?” Morgana lifted Excalibur once more, and crimson slid from the blade to stain the earth between them.

This was it. With the knights incapacitated, with Morgana’s men surrounding them, with Arthur detained, with his connection to his magic severed, this would be how Merlin died.

Merlin only had one for her. “Coward.”

“Excuse me?” Morgana demanded.

Merlin gathered the last remnants of his strength to form a sentence, each word leaking from him in a puff of air.

“Too afraid to face with me with my magic, weren’t you?”

Morgana’s expression warped with disgust and rage. Arthur’s voice reached his ears again, and somewhere amongst the inescapable pain coursing through him, Merlin felt Arthur’s desperation to reach him.

Morgana cried out as she thrust forward with Excalibur to deliver the final blow. Merlin shut his eyes and embraced his fate.

But the blow never came.

Merlin opened his eyes to find Excalibur hovering above him, the lethal edge caught on Lancelot’s blade.

Morgana’s mouth parted in shock, mirroring Merlin’s own. Excalibur tumbled from her grasp and thudded to the forest floor where it could bring no harm. She clutched her middle, her fingers coming away coated in blood. She crumpled to her knees to reveal Leon towering over her as he ripped his blade from her torso.

Chaos erupted around Merlin in a clash of steel. Lancelot grasped Merlin by the back of his shirt and hauled him away from Morgana. Merlin had never been more grateful to see his favorite knights all in one piece as they fought the men at Morgana’s disposal.

Merlin leaned heavily on Lancelot, the compounded pain frazzling his ability to walk, to form thoughts, to breathe. But then Lancelot propped him up against a tree, and it must’ve been within the bounds of the tether because the sweet embrace of relief washed over him.

Dark spots peppered his vision as he sought Arthur’s golden hair in the pandemonium. He caught a glimpse of him with an enemy sword in hand, back-to-back with Elyan. Despite the blood from their shared injury, his expression was that of a hardened warrior determined to win this particular battle.

His gaze ricocheted back to Morgana, still on her knees, still catching her breath. Malice glinted in her eye, and Merlin knew exactly what she was about to do. But he was helpless to stop it.

His warning cry died in his throat as Morgana rose and twisted in the span of a blink. Moonlight shimmered off the dagger in her hands just before she buried it into Leon’s chest.

Leon, who had been fending off one of her men. Leon, who had risked everything to come to Merlin’s aid. Leon, who had always been loyal to a fault. Leon, who coughed as Morgana withdrew the blade.

Blood stained his pale lips.

Leon had barely hit the ground when Morgana was on her feet again, eyes wild and upper lip curling in a snarl.

Only Merlin’s death would satiate her craving for blood.

Merlin reached for his magic, but it remained hopelessly out of reach.

In a blur of pale gold, Aithusa—who had taken flight to avoid the skirmish—landed directly between Merlin and Morgana.

Merlin’s heart plummeted, sending another jolt of pain through his body. Aithusa stared at Merlin with an unreadable expression and a twitching tail.

“It’s okay,” Merlin whispered. He wouldn’t begrudge Aithusa for choosing Morgana, choosing the more familiar of the two. “It’s okay.”

Something shattered in the dragon’s vibrant blue eyes. She whirled on Morgana and roared, exhaling flames.

Morgana’s scream of surprise was lost to the ringing of Merlin’s ears.

A sharp, stinging sensation throbbed across Merlin’s shoulder, but he knew even without seeing that the pain wasn’t his own—it belonged to Arthur. He cried out, begged Aithusa to protect the king, but the dark splotches grew and expanded until they covered his vision entirely.

As the darkness swallowed him whole, Merlin’s only regret was not being able to sever the connection between him and Arthur so at least one of them might live.

Chapter Text

Arthur prided himself on the honed weapon that was his body, but at this very moment, his mind was the greatest weapon in his possession. While the wound pulsed at his side, the mirror to Merlin’s own, he refused to let himself feel anything beyond the fact that it existed. Adrenaline coursed through him and the need to get Merlin and his men to safety numbed any semblance of pain even as blood dripped down his side. 

Through clenched teeth, Arthur blocked and parried with the half-dull enemy sword Perceval had snatched for him. He sank his heel into a bandit’s chest and swung his elbow into the nose of another. Bones crunched beneath the blow.

All of it was instinctual.

All of it was simply a matter of reading the situation and responding accordingly.

A sharp sting erupted between his shoulder blades. Warm blood spilled down his back, and Arthur whirled, but Gwaine was already there—striking the enemy down in a single, swift motion.

Gwaine tipped his head at Arthur’s wounds. “You all right, Arthur?”

The pain was acute, but nothing he hadn’t endured in battles before. And nothing could quite compare to the pain of watching helplessly as his estranged sister buried a blade in Merlin’s chest.

Arthur twirled the sword, missing the familiar weight of Excalibur, and braced his other arm against his throbbing ribs to staunch the bleeding.

“I’m fine.”

Arthur carved a path through Morgana’s men. The sheer volume of them was overwhelming, but the aching need to protect Merlin grew in his chest until he could scarcely breath around it.

His knights fought by his side. All of them but Leon, who laid still on the forest floor in a growing puddle of his own blood, and Lancelot, who stood over Merlin’s equally unconscious form. Lancelot was at a severe disadvantage, not being able to move his feet from either side of Merlin. He parried and shoved one of Morgana’s men, only for another to lunge forward and sink a blade into his thigh.

Lancelot’s cry escaped through his gritted teeth, and in the split second of Arthur’s distraction, another disarmed him. The sword was wrenched from his grasp and arched through the air to land harmlessly in a nearby shrub.

Arthur clenched his fists, fully prepared to fight with his bare hands to reach Merlin if that was what it took.

A burst of heat and flames had the battle screeching to a halt. Bandits shrieked and ran as their clothes caught fire and dropped their weapons as they began to glow, molten hot.

Aithusa landed, lithe and graceful, between Arthur and Morgana. The dragon’s tail coiled around Arthur’s legs as she roared. Morgana’s features twisted with rage, becoming almost unrecognizable, before roaring in turn.

Part of Arthur rejoiced that Morgana had lost control of her dragon. Merlin had taken a shot in the dark and shown the baby dragon so much love and kindness, and it had worked.

Yet, another part of him lamented that his sister—the girl he’d grown up learning to fight with, the girl he’d trusted with his life, the girl he would’ve died for, once—had lost yet another being she cared about.

The remaining bandits abandoned their now smoldering weapons and flocked to Morgana, whose blood stained the forest floor beneath her.

“This is not over, brother,” Morgana called. “Mark my words, you’ll regret stealing my dragon for as long as you live.”

Arthur straightened to his full height, doing his best to exude authority even as everything around him was crumbling.

“I stole nothing that wasn’t readily given,” Arthur said. “Head my words, Morgana. If Merlin dies, I will tear the world apart to find you and end you.”

Despite the blood coating her fingers from where it was pressed against her side, Morgana threw her head back and cackled. “How easily you forget. You won’t live long enough to draw breath after he dies, let alone pursue vengeance.”

The bandits scooped Morgana up and started toward the edge of the now destroyed makeshift camp.

“Why him?” Arthur demanded before the bandits could disappear with her. “Why did you choose him, out of everyone?”

Morgana stared at Arthur through the dark cover of night, her expression unreadable.

“You always were the last to discover your own feelings.”

And then Morgana and the bandits were gone. Leaving the forest quiet and haunting amidst the bodies and bloodshed.

Pain pressed at the edges of Arthur’s numbness, the weight of what had just transpired threatening to crush him, but then Merlin whimpered, his eyes fluttering open ever so briefly, and Arthur dropped to his knees beside him.

“I’m here,” Arthur whispered as he drew Merlin’s limp body into his lap, his head resting in the crook of his elbow. Arthur stroked his sharp cheekbones and pushed sweaty hair away from his forehead. The touch alone was a balm, alleviating some of the agony that riddled their bond. Merlin curled into Arthur. “I’m here.”

Arthur could feel the fragility of Merlin’s body and the shadow of death looming nearby, patiently waiting to claim them both.

“You’re not allowed to die, you clotpole.” Arthur pressed his forehead to Merlin’s. “You hear me? You’re. Not. Allowed. To. Die.”

Merlin’s chest rose and fell with his breath, and pain pricked Arthur’s his spine, settling like a band around his chest. Merlin wouldn’t survive the ride back to the palace. He’d bleed out long before they breeched the palace walls. He needed a healer. He needed Gaius. He needed—

“Thusa,” Arthur murmured, lifting his head. The dragon had followed him to Merlin’s side and her eyes were wide and watery. Arthur didn’t know if dragons could cry, but he thought she might be on the cusp of it. “Can you heal him?”

He understood that Aithusa’s healing powers were limited, but it was the only hope they had at survival. Arthur had been preparing for his own death since he was a boy. Death went hand in hand with battle, and regardless of how skilled he was, it was only a matter of time before he succumbed to it. The thought of Merlin dying, though, was too much to bear when he’d promised to protect him.

“No.” Merlin drew a shuddering breath. “Leon, heal Leon.”

Arthur had not once let himself consider that not all of his men would return to Camelot. He knew Leon was injured, but had not seen quite how badly. The knight’s skin was ashen, and the pool of blood beneath him had spread. Arthur was no medic, but he was well enough acquainted with the brink of death to recognize it when he saw it.

Aithusa whined, a resonating hum, and bowed her head. Arthur’s gut clenched as the realization struck him: the dragon could save one, but not both.

“Arthur,” Leon sputtered. Each word that passed his lips was a battle in its own right. “There is but one choice, and you know in your heart what it is.”

Even as the wounded sorcerer in his arms protested Leon’s declaration, Arthur knew what must be done.

“It’s been an honor, sire,” Leon said.

Arthur released Merlin and dragged himself over to the knight. Lancelot accompanied him, limping the short distance. Elyan drew blood-crusted fingers from his scalp and laid a hand over his heart. Perceval and Gwaine leaned on each other, their heads tipped forward in a bow.

Leon coughed and blood bubbled up between his lips, staining them.

“The honor has been mine.” Arthur gripped Leon’s gloved hand and held on as the light seeped from his eyes.

When Arthur was certain that his friend had drawn his last breath, he released the now limp hand and closed his eyes for a final time. Then Arthur forced himself to his feet, but the forest tilted and he swayed. Without some form of magical intervention, he wouldn’t last much longer. There was only so much pain Arthur could bury in the numbness before it all rose up to claim him.

“We—we should bury him,” Lancelot said.

Arthur couldn’t argue that Leon deserved a proper burial and the respect of a funeral, but logistically, that was not an option. With Elyan and Lancelot injured, they’d need both Perceval and Gwaine’s assistance to return to the castle.

“Leon would not want his death to be in vain,” Arthur said, carefully gathering palm-sized stones from the surrounding area and stacking them near his head. “We need to return to the castle before the rest of us join him.”

The other knights followed his lead in stacking stones and crafting a cairn to honor their fallen friend. Arthur silently swore to return and properly bury Leon as soon as possible. It was easily an entire day’s ride back to the castle, and while Lancelot and Elyan could likely make that distance on horseback, Merlin and Arthur could not.

Perhaps there was another benefit to the shrink potion wearing off when it had. Aithusa’s transparent wings gleamed in the moonlight, and Arthur remembered just how swiftly she’d descended on Blackburn. Aithusa might just be the wildcard that Merlin and Arthur needed to survive this night.

“Aithusa, could you fly Merlin and me back to Camelot?”

The dragon nodded.

“Could you still fly us back even if you healed us both just a little first?”

Aithusa chirped her confirmation, and relief threatened to release the pain Arthur had trapped within the numbness, but he clamped down on the sensation. He couldn’t let himself surrender to anything—not until Merlin was safely behind the castle walls and in Gaius’ capable hands.

Arthur knelt beside Merlin and drew him into his arms once more. Aithusa nudged Merlin, then exhaled on his chest, hardly more than a brief puff of air. He inhaled sharply and cried out before going rigid. Sharp, unyielding pins and needles erupted in Arthur’s torso. It felt as though his skin and muscles were beginning to stitch themselves back together. He hissed a breath through his teeth and squeezed Merlin’s hand, the proximity alone was enough to take the edge off, even if it was only a little.

Then, Aithusa turned her attention to Arthur, and they endured it all over again. Merlin clung to Arthur’s hand, and Arthur braced his other palm in the dirt.

But then it was over, and the blood pouring from their wounds had slowed to a trickle. Some of Arthur’s strength returned to him, and when Merlin’s eyes opened, their depthless blue was clearer than they’d been minutes before.

“C’mon,” Arthur whispered. “Let’s get you home.”

Perceval gripped Arthur beneath the arms and hauled him to his feet while Gwaine did the same for Merlin. Aithusa bent her front knee, lowering herself to the ground, but her back was still much higher than any horse. Even without their injuries, mounting would have been challenging. 

First, Perceval lifted Arthur high enough that he could slide a leg over and scramble onto her back, wincing as the movement tugged at the raw, sensitive wound. He hoisted Merlin up next, and Arthur grabbed hold of his arm and slid him into place in front of him.

Merlin slumped forward, and Arthur banded his arms around him to keep him steady.

He couldn’t be sure how long the flight would be, but he needed to keep his wits about him to ensure they made it back to the castle safely. He could only hope that the archers would recognize Aithusa even in her larger form.

“Secure a cloak around her neck,” Arthur ordered. The Camelot crimson should be enough to reassure the archers and ward off the castle’s defenses. At least until he could he could bellow at them to stand down.

“Be careful, sire,” Lancelot called from the ground. “Take care of Merlin.”

“I will,” Arthur promised.

Aithusa rose from her crouch and twisted her head around to peer at them, a silent question etched into her expression. It was odd to think that the dragon he’d carried across his shoulders was about to fly them across a breadth of his country. 

“Ready,” Arthur answered.

Aithusa extended her wings and each flap scattered dirt and fallen leaves on the gust of her own creation.

Arthur anchored the man in his arms to the dragon’s back as Aithusa carried them above the tree line and up and up and up until they were soaring amongst the clouds. He had often dreamt of such a feat, but the actual experience beyond anything he could have ever imagined. The view of his kingdom left him breathless. The wind tore through his hair and caught at his cloak, but the space behind Aithusa’s wings was remarkably secure. He’d worried that he might struggle to stay atop the dragon’s back, but her scales were far from slick.

The rolling hills and forests passed beneath them. Arthur squeezed Merlin a little tighter, and he groaned, his eyes flicking open only briefly before shutting again.

“You really should see this,” Arthur said over the roaring wind.

“Already have.” Merlin slumped against Arthur, his head lulling into the crook of his neck.

Because, of course he had. Arthur made a mental note to interrogate Merlin about precisely when he’d last ridden a dragon. He wanted to know every detail, but for now, Arthur pressed a kiss into his hair.

The sky lightened as they flew on, and Arthur tried to remain in the moment with Merlin, but Morgana’s words continued to reverberate through his mind on an endless loop.

He couldn’t fathom how many years he’d squandered. How many times he looked straight through his servant, his best friend, his confidant without really seeing him. He wondered how many times Merlin had used his magic right beside him and Arthur had been too caught up in his own mind, his own problems, and missed the fact that the solution to most of them was right in front of him. Or, rather, ever so slightly behind him. The position Merlin assumed naturally. The position Arthur found himself regularly pulling Merlin from because he couldn’t bear Merlin’s belief that he was inferior to Arthur.

Merlin was his equal, if not his superior, in every way that mattered. Magical abilities aside, Merlin at his core was loyal and true and irrevocably good. For years, he had happily sacrificed and fought for Camelot’s safety while remaining invisible to everyone, including Arthur. Not once had he stepped out of the shadows and demanded praise or reward. He’d simply done it because he cared about the kingdom, and for Arthur, beyond any reasonable doubt.

Realization struck Arthur so suddenly and so vehemently that he wondered how the hell he could’ve missed yet another truth about Merlin. Only, this was not one his friend was keeping from Arthur, but one Arthur had inadvertently kept from himself.

He was in love with Merlin. 

Perhaps had been for years. 

Perhaps he’d been a coward, disguising his feelings behind flippant jokes and armor and kingly duties. 

But strip all that away, as Merlin’s abilities had been stripped from him, and what remained was simple and yet powerful beyond measure. 

Arthur’s love for Merlin. 

Morgana had been wrong about one thing. Arthur wasn’t the last to know his feelings this time. Now, he just had to survive long enough to tell Merlin.

* * *

Dawn broke as they reached the walls of Camelot.

The archer’s raised their weapons, but Gwaine’s cloak worked as Arthur had intended. The crimson fabric fluttering in the wind a direct order to stand down, and the archers obeyed.

Aithusa landed in the square. The last time the guards had seen her, she’d been pint-sized, but now the massive winged creature with fangs the size of daggers had them gasping and drawing their weapons.

“Stand down!” Arthur shouted.

“Your majesty?” One of them asked, daring to come closer. “Is that you, sire?”

Arthur slid from Aithusa’s back, taking Merlin with him. When his feet hit the cobblestones, his knees buckled, and would have fallen if not for the guards that reached for him.

“Gaius,” Arthur muttered as black spots encroached on his vision. “We need Gaius.”

The hallway was a blur as the guards guided Merlin and Arthur to the infirmary.

With dawn barely broken, Gaius was still in his night gown, hair untamed and wild, as he stoked the fire to coax heat into the chamber. He rose from his crouch, jaw falling slack at the sight of Merlin and Arthur.

Enough blood stained their clothes that he could only imagine the physician must be in awe that they were alive at all. Arthur couldn’t exactly blame him when he was in awe of it, too.

“Sire, what—”

“Morgana,” Arthur gasped, bracing his hands on the cluttered table as the guards set Merlin down on an open bed. “She attacked us in the night.”

Gaius’ hands flew to Merlin’s side where blood had soaked through his shirt.

“But sire, what about—”

Arthur cut him off before he could finish the sentence in the presence of countless guards.

“Gone,” he said. “She used a slug. Rendered him powerless.”

Gaius nodded astutely, and with no more questions left to ask, he leapt into action. Arthur’s vision swam as Gaius gathered bandages and herbs and tinctures and things that Arthur didn’t care to know about.

“You should sit, sire,” Gaius ordered, but Arthur ignored him.

“Is he…” Arthur couldn’t catch his breath. His lungs refused to fill. “Tell me he’ll be all right.”

“He’s lost a lot of blood, sire, but you got him here just in time. Any longer, and he might have—”

The rest of Gaius’ sentence didn’t reach Arthur. Utter relief coursed through him at the knowledge that Merlin would live, that he would be all right, and it was enough to unleash the dam of pain. It was enough that the numbness receded, and the black spots grew and expanded until darkness claimed him.

* * *

Arthur woke to soft light spilling through thin curtains and a bone-deep ache riddling his body. He tried to sit up, but pain lanced through his chest, and gentle hands guided him back onto whatever soft cushion supported his body.

“I know it is not my place to issue orders to you, sire, but in my expert opinion, you are in dire need of rest.”

Arthur pried his eyes open to peer up at Gaius. The old man drew the scratchy blanket that smelled faintly of Merlin beneath Arthur’s chin, but his presence alone was a comfort in such a time of agony. Every ailment Arthur had endured as a child, every illness that had plagued him, every fever that had his child-self crying in the middle of the night, it had not been his father at his side, but Gaius. His snarky remarks as readily forthcoming as his expertise.

“It’s all right, Gaius,” Arthur mused, waving a dismissive hand. “Issue away. Just know that I may elect to ignore them.”

Gaius huffed his displeasure but dabbed at Arthur’s forehead regardless. The cool cloth was soothing along his sweaty temples, and Arthur requested a goblet of water. When his tongue no longer felt at risk of crumbling into desert sand, he asked, “Have the rest of my knights returned? Lancelot and Gwaine and the others?”

“Not yet, sire,” Gaius said. “Though, I suspect they may be a few hours behind your arrival. After all, traveling by dragon takes a mere fraction of the time it will take them.”

“Ah, so you heard about that?”

“Everyone heard about it,” Gaius said.

Arthur sat bolt upright, grunting at the tug of pain in his chest. “Aithusa. Is she—”

“Resting in the square,” Gaius said.

Arthur supposed that was about right, but he also knew full well that if she’d fit down the hallways, she would’ve happily curled up and waited for them atop his canopy bed.

“Not the stables?”

“And run the risk of setting the hay ablaze? I certainly think not.” Gaius cocked a bushy brow at him. “Besides, I didn’t think frightening the horses was wise, either.”   

“But she’s safe? The guards haven’t harmed her?”

Gaius shook his head. “I made sure of it.”

Arthur was tempted to slump back against the bed that was the twin to Merlin’s and not, he was surprised to find, a makeshift cot. Those always made his joints creak for days afterwards, and he was endlessly grateful for the proper mattress. Instead of laying back, he forced his legs over the side of the cot. That movement alone left him shaky and breathless, so he paused to watch as Merlin slept with a hand draped over his middle and another twisted up in the blankets. His head was tipped back, ear smushed against the pillow and mouth open in a soft snore. His skin was no longer pale and sickly.

Arthur’s heart lightened in his chest at the peaceful sight. He didn’t need to ask Gaius if Merlin was all right. He could feel that death no longer lurked in the shadows.

Merlin might be hurt—he might be powerless—but he was safe.

“His magic,” Arthur whispered, “is it… gone forever?”

As if his question had been too heavy to answer while standing, Gaius sat on a creaky wooden stool and threaded his fingers together, atop the table covered in half empty vials and dried herbs.

“I do not know,” Gaius said. “The creature that Morgana used is rare and strange. A leech that feeds on magical energy. There have been no accounts of magic returning to those subjected to such treatment.”

Arthur’s throat constricted at the thought that he might never see Merlin perform magic again. He might never see the gold illuminate the center of his eyes. He might never get the satisfaction of watching as Morgana realized how hopelessly outmatched she was. But above all, his friend might never be whole again.

If the situation were reversed and Gaius was sitting here telling Merlin that Arthur would never lift a sword again, Arthur knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Merlin would exhaust every single possibility before accepting that as fate.

“There has to be a way.”

The edges of Gaius’ eyes crinkled as his gaze softened with something akin to despair as he too stared at his unconscious nephew.

“Legend speaks of a cave deep in the Valley of the Fallen Kings that is filled with crystals and said to be the birth place of magic.”

“And that will restore his powers?”

“I didn’t say that, sire,” Gaius said. “It is merely the best hope Merlin has if he wishes to restore them.”

“The best hope, or the only hope?”

Gaius merely offered Arthur a woeful smile that he was all too familiar with from childhood. The pitiful expression of a man who knew precisely how much damage confirming the hopelessness of a situation could do.

Merlin woke with a gasp and Arthur’s name on his lips. Before Arthur could lunge across the space between them, Gaius placed a heavy hand on Merlin’s shoulder and pointed at his bandaged chest.

“You’re all right, son,” Gaius said. “Lie still, you need time to rest and heal.”

Arthur gritted his teeth and slowly got to his feet so as not to aggravate the wound and render Merlin even more pain. The stones were a shock of cold on his bare feet, but he padded across the meager distance.

“Arthur,” Merlin gasped, pushing himself up despite Gaius’ warning, and they both winced at the movement.

Gaius muttered something about how apparently even physician’s assistants made the worst patients before buggering off to tend the crackling fire.

“I’m here, Merlin, you’re safe.” Arthur sank onto Merlin’s bed and rested a hand at the small of Merlin’s back. “I’ve got you.”

Merlin wilted back onto the mattress. “Tell me it was a dream,” he whispered with shining eyes. “Please tell me it wasn’t real.”

Arthur’s heart ached for the man beside him. He was tempted to lie to him, to let him live, even for a moment, in a world where his connection to magic wasn’t severed indefinitely, but Arthur had never been good at lying to Merlin. Not when it mattered.

“I wish I could, love.”

Merlin’s entire expression crumpled. His lip quivered and his eyes fluttered shut, and Arthur could feel the vein of devastation as clearly as if it were his own. Merlin reached for him, and Arthur carefully crawled into bed beside the man he loved, holding him as sobs wracked his body.

Merlin’s tears dampened Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur merely tightened his hold on him and stroked soothing lines over his scalp and down his back. The crushing sadness was too much, too overwhelming, and Arthur found tears pricking the backs of his eyes, too. He didn’t fight it. He simply let himself grieve with the man he loved.

He longed to tell Merlin the truth, but this was not the time for it. Arthur’s love couldn’t reunite Merlin with his powers. It couldn’t even come close to alleviating the powerlessness he must be feeling.

When Merlin’s tears ran dry, Arthur drew his face away from his shoulder to peer into his shattered blue eyes as he spoke.

“I swear on my life that I will do everything in my power to restore that which Morgana stole from you.”

A sob bubbled up Merlin’s throat and he tried to avert his gaze, but Arthur tightened his hold, refusing to let Merlin evade him.

“You are not alone in this, Merlin,” Arthur said. “What I said before still stands. I will protect you. I’ll keep you safe. We will handle this, together.”

The moment unfolded between them. Merlin must have realized that Arthur’s resolve on this matter was unshakeable because he didn’t push it, he didn’t fight back, he didn’t even ask if it was possible. He simply nodded.

“Together.”

* * *

Despite the sun shining through the infirmary window, a dark cloud lingered over walls of Camelot with Merlin at its core.

Arthur made no attempt to cheer Merlin up, for there was no point. He merely joined him beneath that cloud, held his hand, and coaxed him into a few bites of Gaius’ stew. When Merlin fell asleep with his head in Arthur’s lap, he carded his fingers through his hair until his shallow breaths elongated into the deep rumblings of peaceful rest.

As night fell, Gwaine, Elyan, Lancelot, and Perceval joined them in the infirmary. Gaius treated the knights while they solemnly recounted their journey back and the suspicious lack of bandits.

“Aithusa must know where you are,” Lancelot told Merlin. “She’s curled up beneath that window right out there, waiting for you.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, only to slip a second later.

Later that evening when they were alone, Arthur asked Merlin what had upset him in that moment.

“I was the last Dragonlord, but I suppose I no longer am,” Merlin had muttered into his pillow. “If we can’t restore my magic, there will never be another.”

“Then we will not allow that happen,” Arthur swore.

Two days later, the knights Arthur had dispatched to retrieve Leon’s body returned empty handed. He and Merlin still wouldn’t be well enough to conduct their own search for at least a few more days, so Arthur decided to proceed with the funeral to honor his fallen brother.

The council chambers overflowed with knights and warriors and common folk. Even allies of Camelot who had fought alongside Leon had appeared to pay their respects.

Arthur had elected not to stand at the front of the hall, but instead with the rest of his knights and with Merlin at his side. The crown weighed heavily atop Arthur’s head.

Murmurs passed through the crowd behind Arthur as one such commoner came to stand beside the knights of Camelot. Most of them had come in their ceremonial armor, but many of them wore the only armor they had—their chain mail that they wore in battle. This man, in particular, wore chain mail that had seen better days. He crossed gloved hands over his torso, perhaps in an effort to hide the gaping hole in the connected silver loops that had clearly been severed by a sturdy blade.

The priest took his spot at the front of the hall, but before silence could descend on the gathering, the man beside Arthur leaned over.

“Who are we mourning?” the man asked.

Elyan’s jaw parted, and Lancelot stumbled back in shock.

“Leon?” Gwaine demanded, his cracking voice an octave too high.

The knight pushed his chaotic curls away from his face. Though dirt smudged his cheeks and blood stained his clothes, it was undoubtably Leon.

Arthur could scarcely draw breath, and the words caught in his throat that he had watched him die.

“You!” Perceval exclaimed. “We’re mourning you!”

“But, I’m right here,” Leon said, eyebrows stitching together in confusion. “No thanks to you, lot. You left me in the goddamn woods!”

Chapter Text

What did it feel like? It felt like missing a limb. Like reaching out with a part of his body that he expected to be there—that should have been there—but wasn’t.

Merlin moved through the motions, the world, as a shell of himself. He let Gaius tend his wound, replacing the bandages each morning and night and applying different salves. He didn’t even bother to grit his teeth when resentment rose to tighten his throat because he should’ve been able to simply mend it himself. If not his own, at least Arthur’s matching wound.

Merlin expected tears to fall, but none pricked the backs of his eyes.

Not even in the dead of night when he was alone with only his king and his turbulent thoughts whispering unkind truths.

The numbness was most apparent, though, when Leon waltzed through the front gate. While Merlin was thoroughly relieved to see his friend alive, not even that was enough to dislodge him from the isolated cliff that was the numbness roiling through him.

He merely watched as the funeral disbanded unceremoniously and then followed at the end of his king’s tether to join the knights of the round table who had gathered in Gaius’ chambers. After a thorough evaluation and some scrubbing with a damp cloth to remove the caked grime and blood, it was found that Leon bore scars—white elevated lines where Morgana’s blade had sunk into his skin, slicing through muscle and sinew and vital organs—but that he was, otherwise, the picture of health.

Everyone was baffled, but Merlin knew better.

Once, during Uther’s reign, the Druids had found Leon at the brink of death and, impossibly, he had returned to Camelot wholly unscathed a few days later. Leon’s recant of the encounter was hazy and vague, but he’d mentioned being offered a drink from a strange chalice.

A gold one with the heads of dragons carved into the base.

One that Merlin had nearly died retrieving for his king. One that Merlin would have gladly gone to war over if it had meant saving Arthur’s life.

Regardless, Merlin couldn’t make himself utter his realization aloud. He merely melted into the shadows while the memory of his battle with Nimueh bubbled to the surface. Energy had crackled beneath his skin and invigorated his soul as he’d summoned rain and thunder and cast lightning from the heavens.

The sheer power that he’d harnessed that day had solidified his place—his purpose—in the world. A part of him had clicked into place, and he had seen the world exactly for what it was. Cruel and unyielding, but Merlin… he could make a difference. He could alter fate. He could bend the natural world to his will.

He clenched his fist, and his knuckles paled as the edges of his nails bit into his palm.

“Merlin?” Arthur’s voice was a flicker of light in the darkness, a private whisper meant only for Merlin, but all of the knights turned to study him. His king crossed the room and gathered Merlin’s clenched fist in his own supple grip, stroking softly until Merlin released the tension. “You know something.”

Not a question, but a statement. An invitation to share his thoughts with the group.

“A hunch, my lord.”

Heat simmered in Arthur’s gaze at the formal title, and the bond between them ignited. The numbness was powerless against Arthur’s disappointment and irritation even as they left a bitter aftertaste across the top of Merlin’s tongue.

Arthur discarded Merlin’s hand as if it had suddenly become as hot as the logs embering in Gaius’ hearth.

“Share your hunch, then.” Arthur’s clipped tone was the one he reserved for commanding armies. Merlin knew better than to push back again because his king would not take no for an answer, but he wanted to. He wanted another taste of Arthur’s emotions.

Merlin swallowed, flicking his gaze to Gaius and then Lancelot.

“The Cup of Life.”

Arthur narrowed all of that battle-ready energy at Merlin. “The one Morgause used to make Cenred’s army immortal?”

“Precisely.”

Any semblance of nobility slipped from Arthur’s expression then as he gaped up at the ceiling for a several heart beats and then pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you saying that Leon is… immortal?”

Technically speaking, Merlin didn’t fully understand the multitude of uses that the Cup of Life possessed, but he craved the irritation rising in Arthur. “I’m not not saying that?”

His king sighed heavily, as if he very much wished to strangle Merlin at that moment.  Part of Merlin wished that he would.

“I thought you said that magic has limitations.”

Merlin shrugged. “It… does? I’m just not sure what those are, exactly.”

Gaius cleared his throat before Arthur could act on the murderous intent simmering in the depths of his eyes, but Merlin was quite content to stoke those dangerous flames. That was the closest he’d come to feeling anything in days.

“To my knowledge, the Cup of Life has many abilities,” Gaius said. Only then did Arthur tear his gaze away from Merlin. Almost immediately, the absence of Arthur’s heat left Merlin cold and hollow once more. “My guess would be that Morgause abused its powers by filling the cup with the blood of Cenred’s army and casting an enchantment. When they drank from it, the army gained immortality but lost their free will. The army was loyal to a fault.”

“So, its abilities come at a cost,” Leon said carefully. “I don’t… feel unquestioningly loyal to anyone. Especially not the Druids.”

“You wouldn’t,” Merlin explained. “The cup is also capable of restoring the health of a person at the brink of death. I assumed that the Druids healing you was no different than the water from the cup that I retrieved to save Arthur’s life after he let the Questing Beast scratch him.”

Arthur whipped his head around. “You—what?”

Merlin waved a hand, a silent promise to indulge him in that story later. With any luck, his king would forget between now and the cover of nightfall.

“Leon, did you drink directly from the cup, or were you given water to drink that came from the cup?”

“What would that matter?” Gwaine asked, but Elyan shoved an elbow into his gut.

Leon stroked his now unruly beard as he considered. “Definitely the cup itself. I remember the cold bite of metal on my feverish lips and the liquid… it felt strange. Like I was drinking liquid fire.”

Merlin nodded. “Perhaps the key, then, is the vessel itself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Arthur isn’t immortal, but clearly, Leon is. The only difference was the vessel. Arthur was given water blessed in the cup but didn’t drink from it. Whereas Leon drank directly from the Cup of Life.”

The group exploded with questions and theories, voices carrying beyond the crackling and popping fire and over the steady march of armor-clad warriors outside retreating from the almost-funeral.

“And we’re sure that Leon is…” Gwaine began.

“Himself?” Lancelot offered.

“I was going to say not a demon,” Gwaine said, “but that works, too.”

“Or under Morgana’s control,” Arthur said, poking Leon in his hollowed cheek and earning a glare that somehow still managed to come across respectful. “Gaius, surely there is a way to confirm that he is truly himself?”

Gaius glanced to Merlin, and Arthur followed his gaze, his hand falling limp against his side as the realization struck him.

“It is not my realm of expertise, sire, but I may be able to uncover something useful in that regard,” Gaius said. “It will take time, however.”

“Of course,” Arthur said.

Then Perceval reached over to poke Leon in the cheek, too. Leon barked his protest, but the rest of the knights had joined in. Lancelot jabbed him in the side, Elyan went for what was very likely his belly button if his high-pitched squeal was any indication, and Gwaine prodded his behind.

“Enough!” Leon called. “I feel like myself. I swear on my life, on my mother’s life, on Arthur’s life, that I am not under the control of a witch.”

Gwaine crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s precisely what someone under the control of a witch would say.”

Leon huffed, but his retort was lost to the ringing in Merlin’s ears. Not that anyone was paying him any head, but he touched his side to blame the wound for his lack of energy anyway. Even as it throbbed, his exhaustion ran much deeper than the mere surface wound Morgana had landed.

The numbness weighed on him, too heavy to continue dragging around the castle, dragging on every word, dragging on every thought, dragging on every hollow action.

He wanted to crawl into bed. He wanted to sleep for a hundred years. Maybe, just maybe, his magic would at least return to him in his dreams.

Merlin felt Arthur’s gaze like a caress, gentle and attentive, and then the king clapped Leon on the shoulder to silence the chatter.

“Regardless of how you survived, Leon, I’m endlessly grateful that you’ve returned to us alive and well.”

The other knights echoed the king’s sentiments, and Arthur exchanged a glance with Gaius that Merlin didn’t understand—and didn’t care to.

Arthur gripped Merlin beneath the elbow, forcing him up from the workbench and marching him out the door and down the hall.

“Where are you hauling me off to?” Merlin muttered.

“To see Aithusa.” Arthur’s whisper was so close to the shell of Merlin’s ear that his breath ghosted over his skin and goosebumps erupted along his neck and back. “The only one pouting more than you is Aithusa since she’s too big to curl up on my bed now.”

Merlin yanked his arm from Arthur’s grasp. “I’m not pouting.”

“And the sky is not blue,” Arthur quipped, nodding to the passing guards. “You might be fooling the others, but I feel that weight the same as you.”

Merlin flinched. He opened his mouth, but the words clung to the tip of his tongue. Nothing seemed adequate to describe how the numbness that kept the devastation from flaying him alive also kept anything remotely good from reaching him.

“Sire—”

“It’s all right, Merlin,” Arthur said, impossibly gently. “You don’t have to talk about it, but you’re not alone in this, either. When the burden becomes too great, allow me the honor of carrying it for you.”

“Arthur, I…” Merlin swallowed around the lump forming in his throat.

“Don’t you dare thank me. Not for that.”

Merlin nodded, but still couldn’t quite summon the energy to continue toward the square. “I’m exhausted. Can we see Aithusa later?”

Arthur’s lips drew into a thin line, and Merlin had the distinct sense that he was disappointing his king in some way, but he merely said, “Of course.”

This time, when he squeezed Merlin’s shoulder, warmth seeped through the fine threads of his tunic and into the cracks in his numbness to thaw the cold, fluttering heart that scarcely dared to beat.

Arthur’s steady reassurance was a painful reminder that even in the tattered remains of life without magic, the world was not as much of a dark shell as Merlin believed it to be.

* * *

Merlin didn’t remember falling asleep, but when he woke, his skin was tacky with sweat and drool coated his chin. The shadows cast from afternoon light had grown long. Arthur’s face practically glowed in the golden light as he scribbled on parchment.

His king ran a hand through his hair and shifted, adjusting the formal outfit he’d donned for Leon’s funeral much earlier in the day.  

A melody resounded through the square and wafted through the cracked window.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Merlin asked as he sat up.

“What is, Merlin?”

“The same man who commands armies and rules the whole of Camelot cannot manage such a mundane task as undressing himself.”

Arthur pushed away from his desk, a brow cocked in challenge.

“Careful, Merlin. I’m not above throwing you in the stocks.”

“Only if you wish to join me, sire.”

Arthur loosened his collar and ruffled Merlin’s hair on the way to his wardrobe, where he selected a loose-fitting tunic and comfortable trousers. He drew the screen out to separate them as he embarked on the noble adventure of changing his own clothing.

“There is one thing I still do not understand, Merlin.”

“I am willing to bet there are a great number of things you do not understand, my lord.”

A boot flew out from behind the screen, arched across the room, and Merlin had a split second to realize that he couldn’t simply stop the bloody thing with magic before it clocked him in the temple.

“Ow!” Merlin’s cry was echoed by Arthur’s own grunt of pain and a muttering under his breath of “worth it.”

Arthur emerged from behind the screen in a white tunic with such a low cutting V that it left a majority of his sternum and chest hair on full display. Merlin meant to quip that he shouldn’t have bothered with a shirt at all, but his mouth felt oddly paralyzed. All he could summon was a low hum in the base of his throat that Arthur ignored.

“If Cenred’s army was immortal,” Arthur began, “then how did we ever beat them? Clearly, it was not my doing.”

Arthur popped a grape into his mouth and began to pour two goblets of water—one for himself and one that he would inevitably set on Merlin’s side of the bed. Merlin had never overheard a direct conversation about it, but one evening after Gaius had dismissed them both from the infirmary, the thin mattress laying on the floor had disappeared. As if it were the most natural thing in the world for a servant to sleep beside his king.

Merlin winced because technically, he was no longer even a servant. He hadn’t scrubbed floors or polished armor or washed clothes in several fortnights. While he was grateful for the break, it also set his nerves ablaze with an anxiety that not even the numbness could rob from him.

Kilgharrah had been clear that Merlin’s destiny was to serve Arthur. To assist him in any way necessary, but now, he couldn’t even do that. He felt utterly useless, so he answered Arthur’s question with a shrugged in the hopes that he wouldn’t have to dwell on the past—on a more valuable version of himself—for longer than need be.

“All I had to do was sneak into the throne room and spill the blood.”

The pitcher nearly slipped out of Arthur’s hands. “Is that all?”

“Yes?”

“That means—bloody hell, Merlin, do you have a spell that grants you invisibility?”

“If I had a spell that granted me invisibility,” Merlin said, crossing his arms indignantly, “do you really believe I wouldn’t have used it in Blackburn?”

“Fair point.” Arthur took a swig from the goblet of water. “But, that means you… what, fought off Morgause and her men?”

Merlin shrugged again, wishing this conversation would end. “It was nothing, truly. Did you ring for George to send up dinner?”

Arthur pinned him with a stare, unwilling to let him change the subject.

“First the truth, Merlin. Then dinner.”

He cleared his throat and dislodged himself from Arthur’s gaze to brace his palms against the windowsill where Aithusa used to nap in the beam of sunlight. A cold breeze snaked up his spine, soothing his sweaty skin. The musical group that had gathered in the square continued to play, their serenade bubbly and jubilant. Likely, they were celebrating the canceled funeral and the return of a beloved knight, but the music wafted over Merlin instead of through him.

“I hardly did anything, and that’s the truth. Lancelot was with me, and I had Excalibur. Contrary to what I led you to believe, I was the first to wield that sword.”

The music elongated the stretch of silence between them.

“That hardly qualifies as nothing.”

“What did you think I was doing?” Merlin pulled the window shut to muffle the music. He perched on the sill and found Arthur’s brows soft and pliable. Merlin didn’t want his softness or his grace. He wanted his fire. He wanted to feel something. “Cowering behind a stone pillar? Hiding in the kitchen? Waiting it out until the coast was clear?”

“No—” Arthur said, too quickly. “I mean, maybe I once thought that, I’ll admit, but now I know better. It’s just…” His king’s expression had morphed from simple incredulity into sheer bewilderment.

“What?”

“After all that, you let us believe that it was luck. That Cenred’s immortal army fell without rhyme or reason.”

Merlin feigned a teasing grin. The skin of his face stretched around the smile, the expression foreign and false. The smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes would have fooled anyone except Arthur.

“Respectfully, sire, if you didn’t think that was suspicious, that’s on you.”

There it was. Heat reignited in Arthur’s eyes and flickered down the bond. Merlin might not be able to light the hearth with a mere thought anymore, but at least he could still ignite one fire.

“Or, if you hadn’t been such a blithering idiot and just told me, trusted me with vital information—” Arthur exhaled and pressed his palms against his eyes.

“I couldn’t. Just as I couldn’t tell you that I had the power to protect you from the questing beast. Just as I couldn’t tell your father when I snuck away from the kingdom to strike a bargain with Nimueh for your life. Just as I couldn’t tell you when I had to return to reverse it.”

Arthur grew impossibly still, so much so that Merlin had to peer at his chest to catch the rise and fall of his breath. Finally, a muscle twitched in his pristine, royal jaw.

“What bargain?” Those two words cleaved the air between them, straddling the line between fury and injury.

Merlin blinked, unsure where Arthur’s sudden interest in this story was coming from. He’d told him dozens of stories the other night, and most of them had involved at least a few brushes with death.

“In exchange for saving your life,” Merlin explained carefully, “I was prepared to sacrifice my own, but Nimueh tricked me, and my mother fell deathly ill instead.”

“Your mother? I—”

“Then Gaius tried to take her place, but I couldn’t let him die when the life necessary to restore balance was my own. So I challenged Nimueh.”

The words tumbled out of Merlin unbidden as the cool, overcast day crystalized in his mind. As the atmosphere thickened around him in the seconds before he summoned lightning. At the memory of his chest filling with the determination to right his own mistakes, instilling him with the bravery he’d needed to face Nimueh.

On a reflex, Merlin reached for his magic, only to find that it—of course—had still abandoned him. The magic he had once leant on to decimate armies and defeat powerful high priestesses was now nothing more than a memory.

A gaping, aching crater that had been carved out in the very core of his being.

Just as it had earlier in the day, devastation cleaved through him.

“Merlin…” Arthur’s voice drifted, as if even his king didn’t know what to say. Merlin couldn’t blame him; he wasn’t sure any words could ease his heartache. “You never told me.”

Merlin hugged himself. He hadn’t even realized that the hair of his arms was standing on end. The sun had begun to set and the day’s warmth leeched away from the stone. They needed a fire, and Merlin needed to do something other than stand still while Arthur felt sorry for him.

To release his king from that burden, Merlin turned to the hearth. A thick blanket of ashes lay inside from the night before.

“Would you have believed me if I had?”

Arthur shivered. “I suppose not.”

Merlin picked up the metal bucket and began shoveling the ashes into it. He’d hoped the motion would help. He’d hoped it would fortify the numbness that he’d been carrying around all day, but it only continued to crack the harder he worked.

“What are you doing?”

“Lighting a fire.” A thin layer of ash dusted his skin, equally thin as the barrier keeping his emotions at bay. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Merlin, stop.”

But Merlin ignored him. If he focused on Arthur, if he focused on anything other than this goddamn filthy hearth in front of him, he might—

“Merlin!”

“Why?” he snapped.

“Because I asked you to.” Not ordered, but asked. Practically begged.

Merlin’s hands trembled as his finger closed around the wiry broom.

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can, and you will. You’re not a servant anymore, you’re—”

“You don’t think I know that?” Merlin stood so abruptly that he capsized the bucket and spilled ashes all over the stone floor. “Because I’m painfully aware! I’m no longer employed under the crown. You stripped me of my servanthood.”

“Why does that bother you so much?” Arthur asked, irritation forming a jagged edge along his patience.

“Because!” Merlin threw the broom, but it wasn’t enough. He slammed his fist against the hearth and instantly regretted it. His knuckles stung and the rough stone left jagged indents in his skin. Blood would bloom any second now. “Sorry.”

Arthur crept closer and drew Merlin’s injured hand into his own. The touch itself alleviated a fraction of the agony and turmoil raging through Merlin.

Merlin found no trace of the violent flames from earlier. Just a softness the likes of which Merlin had dreamt of but never once considered he might actually experience—especially not from his king, who relied on portraying a hardened exterior. He wanted to curl up in that soft haven and let it protect him from the harsh realities of the world.

“Because?” Arthur asked gently.

Merlin dredged up the raw, splintering truth from the depths of his soul.

“Because…” Merlin’s eyes began to burn as tears built and blurred his vision. “Without my magic I’m nothing.” His voice cracked, dislodging a sob from his chest that worked its way into his throat. “If I can’t protect you, then I’m just a servant, and now I’m not even that.”

Arthur squeezed his hand. “You’re still you, Merlin.”

Merlin shook his head. The numbness had crumbled, leaving him tender and aching in its absence. Hot tears fell steadily now and his nose began to run, but he forced out the next words around the lump thickening in his throat.

“I’m nothing.”

The softness shattered in Arthur’s eyes like shards of glass that threatened to cut Merlin open even deeper if he let it. His king released him, and Merlin was fully prepared to sink to his knees and sob, but Arthur gathered Merlin’s face between his hands, his fingers swiping through the dampness at his cheeks.

“You’re not nothing,” Arthur’s voice was just as broken as his eyes. “You’re everything.”

Merlin didn’t get a chance to ask what that meant because a second later, Arthur was closing the distance between them. The kiss was salty and damp but everything Merlin had ever dreamt it could be.

Arthur’s lips were soft, but strong. Warm and pliable. Firm, but gentle. Arthur quickly abandoned Merlin’s jaw to burrow into the hair at the nape of his neck with one hand and trace the shell of his ear with the other.

The bond sizzled with explosive, crackling energy that sent a wave of warmth from Merlin’s mouth all the way to the tips of his fingers. The pleasure, the closeness, the way the threads of the bond wove even tighter had his toes curling in his boots.

Then Arthur’s hand fell past his shoulder, past his collarbone, and came to rest over Merlin’s heart.

Merlin let himself lean into his king’s embrace, let his friend and confidant anchor him, let him mend that which had broken inside of him.

When his king pulled away, Merlin sought the tether between them for any trace of deceit—any trace that this had been some trick or lie or falsehood meant to cheer Merlin up, but only conviction and something far sweeter than fondness brimmed through the bond. Merlin closed his eyes and could still picture the tether Morgana had woven between them, but the little speckles of starlight had begun to glow even brighter.

“Why did you—”

“Because I’m exhausted with the effort of not kissing you.” Arthur leaned his forehead against Merlin’s, and it was almost more intimate than their kiss. “Because I’ve been wanting to kiss you for longer than even I’m willing to admit. Because I needed to show you that you’re not worthless, Merlin. Strip all of it away, your magic, your job, and what’s left?”

An answer was poised at Merlin’s lips, but he kept it to himself so as not to endanger the safe haven Arthur had gifted him.

“Your heart. Your kindness. Your loyalty. The only reason we’re alive is because you befriended that wonderful goofball of a dragon lounging in the square. She chose you over Morgana, and that isn’t something that you achieved with your magic. But with your heart.”

Merlin dared to trace the V of his king’s shirt. He wished he could believe Arthur’s beautiful sentiment. He very much wanted to tell Arthur that—if it wasn’t already completely obvious—his heart belonged to him. But his entire body trembled in the wake of this glorious, triumphant moment.

“Thank you,” Merlin whispered.

“For what?” Arthur brushed a kiss along Merlin’s jaw with a feather-light touch.

“Reminding me who I am when I lost my way.”

This time, when fire brimmed in Arthur’s depthless blue eyes, it was not irritation heating those depths, but something else—the promise for more that sent a shiver up Merlin’s spine.

“Always,” Arthur murmured.

“Let’s go see her,” Merlin said. “Before the sun sets.”

“But I’m in my pajamas.”

“I thought the king could do as he pleases?” Merlin countered, dragging him to the door.

Arthur grasped Merlin by the belt and hauled him in for another kiss. This time, his tongue slid along the seam of Merlin’s lips, and he gasped at the sensation, opening for him. The king certainly could do as he pleased.

“For once, you’re right,” Arthur said, flicking Merlin’s nose gently before starting down the hall and leaving Merlin to trail after him, dazed and dumbfounded and questioning why he suggested leaving Arthur’s chambers in the first place.

Aithusa might not hold a royal title, but the guards certainly treated her as such. A dozen mattresses had been dragged from the servant’s quarters—or perhaps the dungeons—and laid out for her beneath one of the raised walkways connecting the different towers. She’d amassed a collection of shiny goblets, jewelry, boots, bundles of flowers, and parcels of fruit.

The line that had formed was dwindling as the day waned, and Aithusa was roasting several skewered fish over her own flame.

Only Aithusa could win over the hearts of Camelot so easily. She’d inserted herself seamlessly into the city, and Merlin was once more overwhelmed to think that Morgana had been selfish enough to keep the dragon for herself.

To Merlin’s shock, Arthur waited his turn in line. Arthur stood so close to Merlin that their hands brushed. It was the barest of touches and even though the square was emptying, there were still too many people around for comfort. The king might be able to do as he wished, but Merlin was afforded no such luxuries. He placed a respectable distance between them, trying not to focus on the pang of hurt that traveled across their bond.

At the sight of them, Aithusa chirped and bounded around them in a circle.

Merlin reached for the dragon, who nuzzled his hand affectionately before resting her head on his sternum, careful to avoid the still-healing wound. Merlin ran his fingers along the blunt, bony protrusions that would eventually develop into sharp horns.

Aithusa gently lifted her head, peering out at the mountains in the fading dusk and then back to Merlin. A clear message that she was ready to leave.

Merlin wasn’t ready to lose Aithusa, but he also refused to be her captor.

“Stay as long as you want, but you’re not a prisoner,” Merlin told her. “You can leave as soon as you’re ready.”

Disappointment rounded her eyes and the dragon shook her head, nudging Merlin again and sending him back a step.

“She doesn’t want to leave,” Arthur said.

“And how do you know what Aithusa wants?”

“I do not need to be a Dragonlord to understand Aithusa.” Arthur scratched beneath her chin. “She’s offering to carry us across the valley.”

Merlin gazed beyond the castle walls and out toward the mountains beyond the surrounding forest. “What use is such a journey when I can no longer sever this tether?”

“For now,” Arthur pointed out. “According to Gaius, we need to journey to the Crystal Cave, and Aithusa is willing—”

“But that’s in the Valley of the Fallen Kings.”

“Yes, Merlin,” Arthur said fondly, “I do have a solid grasp of my own kingdom’s geography.”

But Merlin didn’t find any of this funny at all. The mere notion was rubbing up against the raw, aching vulnerability the numbness left behind.

“It’s too dangerous.”

Arthur barked a laugh. “And? A little danger never dissuaded you before.”

“That was different!”

“Why?”

“Because—!” Merlin clamped his mouth shut, but the square was vacant now. Only a few guards stood watch.

“Go ahead,” Arthur said patiently. “Enlighten me as to why you’re refusing to restore your powers.”

“Because it’s nonsensical,” Merlin snapped. “What if Morgana ambushes us at the Crystal Cave? She’s probably already assumed we’ll head their next because it’s our only option. But it’s not just her. Any sorcerer could ambush us there.”

The crease deepened between Arthur’s brows. “We’ve never concerned ourselves with such dangers in the past.”

“Of course not!” Merlin shouted. “Of course you haven’t! Because it’s always just worked out for you. And you know why? Because of me.” He jabbed a finger at his own chest. “Because I was the one behind the scenes, making sure that no sorcerer could so much as lay a finger on you! That wasn’t by accident. It wasn’t by coincidence. And the only reason fate was involved at all is because fate brought me here. To you. To protect you.”

Arthur’s tightly cross arms loosened, and he reached for Merlin. As much as Merlin craved the comfort of his king, needed that soothing touch of Arthur’s skin on his own, he needed Arthur to understand. Merlin retreated, not allowing his king to bridge the distance between them.

“Merlin, I—”

“Can Gaius swear that this gamble will be worth it? That, beyond the shadow of a doubt, my magic will return?”

Arthur shifted his weight, his shoulders curling ever so slightly as he averted his gaze to the cobblestones.

As much as Merlin longed to have his magic restored, he wasn’t entirely convinced that it could be. To travel into dangerous territory on the mere whim that his magical abilities might be able to be restored… he couldn’t risk Arthur’s life. Not over a slim possibility.

“Then, I’m not going.”

“Merlin—”

But the decision was his. And it was the same decision that Merlin had been making for years. He would choose Arthur. Every time, he would choose Arthur over his magic. Over the ability to wield magic freely and openly.

The wind ruffled Arthur’s golden hair, and Merlin’s heart clenched. He was so in love with his king—his king who had kissed him and might one day come to love him in return—and he refused to let anything come between them. Not Morgana and her incessant enchantment. Not his lack of magic. Nothing.

Arthur would always come first.

Even if the stubborn arse couldn’t see that for himself.

“End of discussion.”

Merlin waited, chest heaving, for the flames in Arthur’s eyes to engulf him. He waited for the inevitable shouting, a shove, some derogatory name—but the heat had extinguished.

Arthur bridged the space between them and dropped a hand on his shoulder right at the base of his neck, his thumb sliding along his throat and swiping gently. It was so completely the opposite reaction he’d been expecting that Merlin trembled beneath his king’s touch.

The king drew him in despite Merlin’s protest that they weren’t alone, and Arthur’s lips moved along Merlin’s temple as he whispered, “All right, Merlin. We’ll find another way.”

Merlin clung to Arthur’s wrist in the way he was unable to cling to the hope that his king might be able to defy the odds once more. He would have to make peace with life as it was now. He might have been a sorcerer, once, but that was no longer his truth.

He would have to learn to live with the sensation of missing a limb.

* * *

In the darkest hour of the night, when Merlin should have been adrift in the realm of dreams, sleep had refused to claim him. He laid awake staring at the now familiar stone surrounding him and the velvet canopy draped over them both. He traced circles down Arthur’s strong back and loathed that, of his king’s collection of scars, that fateful day had only added another.

Arthur never should’ve been in danger in the first place. Merlin should’ve been smarter. He should’ve researched wards before they left. He should’ve ensured that he could keep his king, his dragon, his knights safe before they embarked on this journey.

Merlin shut his eyes and mentally stroked the tether that connected them. The bond that permitted him access to his king’s most private, personal feelings. He couldn’t help but wonder if, after everything, they would simply be stuck like this forever, now.

Perhaps Gaius could send word, request a sorcerer from his past to accompany them to the mountain pass and assist them in shedding this enchantment.

Or perhaps, the solution was simply to kill Morgana.

Not that that had ever been a simple endeavor.

Even when Merlin had been forced to poison Morgana to save Camelot, he’d hated every second of it. She hadn’t been evil, then. She’d just been his friend. And Arthur’s. And Gwen’s. She’d merely lost her way, and instead of illuminating the path back to herself, Merlin had plunged her further into darkness.

He squeezed Arthur a little tighter, and his king emitted a soft, sleepy murmur of approval.

A bubble of happiness swelled in his chest, expanding beneath his ribs and sending his heart fluttering. He pressed a kiss to the top of Arthur’s silky, golden hair. His prince. His king. His love. All he’d ever wanted, all he’d ever fought for, was here in his arms.

He only wished it hadn’t cost him everything.

Loud banging erupted outside their door.

In a split second, Arthur—who dragged his feet rousing from bed on a normal day—snatched Excalibur and leapt out of bed, landing in a crouch with the blade extended and a hand wrapped protectively around Merlin.

“Who dares—”

“Apologies, my lord,” said a knight in Camelot red who was very pointedly staring at the ceiling and definitely not Arthur and Merlin together in their undergarments in the middle of the night, “but this cannot wait.”

Arthur sighed and sheathed Excalibur. “Where is the threat?”

“Just over the hill, sire. Only half of the scouts returned.”

“Perhaps I should have asked what is the threat?”

“An army,” the knight said. “And leading the charge is—”

“Morgana,” Merlin finished for him. Because of course it was. She’d rendered Merlin defenseless and had come to collect what she deemed to be rightfully hers—her dragon, her throne, her kingdom.

“Merlin, if there was ever a time to reconsider,” Arthur began, but Merlin gripped his arm. He didn’t need to be persuaded. The imminent danger now outweighed the potential threat waiting for them in the Crystal Caves. “If Camelot has any hope of not falling, it’s you, and only you. As it has been for years now.”

Arthur threaded their fingers together and drew Merlin closer. “It was only to the detriment of my kingdom that my greatest ally had to hide in the shadows. Let me right this wrong, Merlin, and ask you to stand by my side and fight to help me protect our kingdom.”

Merlin nodded. “Let’s go. Right now.”

Arthur’s eyes flickered with the dying firelight and something darker that Merlin couldn’t quite parse out. Something that felt simultaneously like hope and regret.

Merlin would restore his magic, one way or another, so that Morgana could finally meet her match.

Chapter Text

Flying in the early morning had been exhilarating. Flying in the dead of night was… horrifying. Not that Arthur would ever admit that aloud.

He could only hope that this particular flavor of fear—the kind Arthur had beaten into submission since he was a teen swallowed up in knight’s armor—was unfamiliar enough that Merlin didn’t recognize it for what it was. Arthur might have been upset with himself for the burst of terror, the eruption of baby hairs standing up along his skin, except that never in his wildest dreams would he be soaring thousands of yards above ground in the pitch black.

And now, each time he clamped down on the fear, it simply slipped away from him and reverberated down the bond toward Merlin, where he was hopeless to chase it.

“Nervous flyer?” Merlin teased. 

Arthur wiped away the droplets of sweat that had gathered across his upper lip. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re referring to.”

“I finally found something that the great Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, is afraid of.” Merlin was all too pleased with himself.

Arthur clenched his jaw. “Like hell you have.”

“Arthur is afraid of heights.”

“I am not afraid of heights. I’m afraid of flying around in the dark and quite possibly crashing into a bird or tree or a mountain for god sakes!” 

“Aha!” Merlin proclaimed. “So, you are afraid!”

Arthur sighed and tightened his hold on Merlin. Then he lowered his forehead to Merlin’s shoulder and mumbled, “I liked it better when you were pouting.”

“I’ll remind you of that the next time a sullen mood holds me captive.”

“Merlin,” Arthur groaned.

“What?” Merlin asked, light and airy.

Arthur craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the grin stretching across Merlin’s face. It was such a welcome relief after the past few days that Arthur’s sharp retort fizzled on his tongue. The three words he’d been longing to say climbed up his throat, clawing and desperate, and as epic of a spot as this would be to profess his love for his idiot friend, this was still not the time.

He wanted Merlin to be whole, to be entirely himself, when Arthur told him the truth.

That way, there could be no confusion. No misunderstanding. No worry that Arthur was attempting to cheer him up in what would have to be the strangest way possible. Yet, he still wouldn’t put it past Merlin.

Especially not after the last few days.

Arthur had felt Merlin’s depression like a boulder tied at the other end of the bond, heavy and impenetrable and unmoving. He’d known that no matter what he said or did, the boulder would remain a boulder.

So he had merely rolled up his sleeves and helped Merlin drag it across the castle, across the court yard, up each winding step to his room.

But even that had become unmanageable, and Merlin began to weave lies about himself. Lies that he had believed about himself. It had been too much, and maybe the kiss hadn’t been Arthur’s best idea, but he hadn’t been able to think of any other way to prove to Merlin that he was worth so much more than he gave himself credit for.

Even at his weakest, Merlin was ten times the man Uther Pendragon could’ve ever hoped to be.

Arthur would’ve done anything to preserve the smile gracing Merlin’s lips now.

So instead of barking at him to shut up, Arthur burrowed his fingers into the light, fluffy hairs at the nape of his neck, and pulled him into a searing kiss. 

As it had been the first time, the feel of Merlin’s lips on Arthur’s own was like flint striking stone. The ignition of kindling at the base of a hearth. He supposed he could chalk it up to the bond and the way it not only pulsed with happiness but reverberated—like two dancers swaying to the serenade of a violin—with absolute euphoria. It was very near the same jolt of happiness that traveled down the bond anytime Merlin drew near, anytime their skin brushed, except infinitely stronger.

Arthur leaned into his best friend and reveled in Merlin leaning into him, too. Heat engulfed them as they warred for whose tongue belonged in whose mouth and by the time Arthur pulled away, Merlin had a fistful of the collar poking out from Arthur’s chainmail and was shuddering beneath Arthur’s hold. He was thankful that Aithusa was solid and steady beneath them because he was dizzy and half drunk on the lingering taste of Merlin.

He nuzzled Merlin’s temple with his nose. “If I’d known that’s all it takes to shut you up, I would’ve done that a long time ago.”

Nothing but the beating of Aithusa’s wings accompanied the rush of air. 

“A long time ago?”

“Yes.”

Disbelief surged like lightning in Merlin’s eyes—the radiance lingering as if he wanted to believe Arthur but didn’t quite manage it.

“How long?”

Arthur cleared his throat and gestured toward the thin sliver of light blossoming along the horizon. “Shouldn’t your first priority be steering Aithusa at this very moment?”

“You know as well as I that she requires no assistance in flight.” Merlin swatted at his arm. “You’re merely dodging the question.”

“The truth?”

“The truth,” Merlin pleaded, desperate around the edges and high pitched at the tail end.

“Longer than even I realized, Merlin.”

“Oh.”

That was all that Arthur was willing to say on the matter because if he went into any further detail, he was in danger of admitting how deeply his fondness for Merlin was ingrained in every fiber of his being.

“Now, may we simply endure this flight in peace and quiet?”

As if in response, Aithusa jolted—a terrifying movement that had Arthur clinging to Merlin and clenching her sides with his thighs as he would if his mount had reared or bucked—and coughed up a ring of smoke before diving through it, leaving the ring to pass right over their faces. 

Arthur coughed and sputtered, but Merlin merely laughed. Even as the sun began its climb, casting light across his own lands and dappling the sky with vibrant ceruleans and crimsons, Merlin’s laugh was by far the most beautiful.

His heart lightened until it skipped a beat, and those three stubborn words nearly leapt from his tongue. Perhaps there was no wrong time. Perhaps he should simply tell Merlin now, before they landed, before they attempted to restore his powers, before they inevitably had to defend Camelot once more from Morgana.

Merlin leaned back against Arthur’s chest, his breath puffing over Arthur’s neck as he turned into him. Arthur adjusted his hold on Merlin so that he could hold him close.

“Merlin,” Arthur began. 

“There it is!” Merlin exclaimed, cutting him off and pointing at the twin statues that guarded the entrance to the Valley of the Kings. “Thusa, can you drop us right in front?”

The valley itself was too narrow for Aithusa to accompany them through and the canopy of trees was too thick for Aithusa to navigate a landing without dislodging her two riders, so they’d agreed that Aithusa would fly overhead to keep an eye on Merlin and Arthur as they made their way to the mouth of the cave.

Arthur’s ears popped during the descent, and he barely bothered waiting for Aithusa to come to a full stop before slinging a leg over her back and jumping to the ground. Then he raised his arms and let Merlin slide into them, finding easy purchase at his waist.

Merlin grasped his shoulders, and Arthur was suddenly acutely aware that it was a gesture he never would’ve done except for someone he was courting. Yet, it was so instinctual, and the way Merlin’s cheeks were blossoming into a deep red set Arthur’s insides ablaze.

Arthur hadn’t thought beyond his feelings for Merlin and into the territory of labels, but he supposed courting was precisely what he was doing with Merlin. It was just… about as unorthodox as he could manage. He silently sent off a little apology to Uther, who was surely rolling over in his grave—not because Merlin was a man, but because he was both a lowly servant and a sorcerer.

“What even is a startled stoat?” Merlin asked.

Arthur balked. “I beg your pardon?”

“The last time we were here, you called me a startled stoat.”

Arthur winced and released Merlin, letting his hands trail down his arms as he reached for the supplies he’d stashed in the saddlebags they’d rigged for Aithusa.

“No, I don’t think so, your memory must be failing you,” Arthur said. “Though, I must say, it cannot be worse than a bone-idle toad.”

Merlin cleared his throat, his blush deepening. “Fair enough.”

Arthur offered Merlin a chunk of bread and some dried meat.

“Care to break your fast?”

Merlin waved a dismissive hand. “No, thanks.”

Arthur tore into the half-stale bread and chewed thoughtfully. “You need to eat something, Merlin. Can’t have you fainting from lack of energy.”

“When have I ever fainted?”

“Well, for starters, that time a bandit ran you through—”

“Yes, because I’d been stabbed!”

“And when Morgana first cursed us in the woods.”

“That was magic, which was out of my control.”

“Hmm,” Arthur mused. “Was that one of the mysterious limitations you were telling me about?”

“Perhaps.”

“Limitation or not, you need to eat something before I shove this strip of bacon down your throat.”

Merlin glared, but grasped Arthur’s outstretched wrist and raised it, snatching the dried meat with his teeth and leaving behind the wet, hot feel of his lips on Arthur’s fingers. Arthur swallowed as he searched for his water skin and took long, thorough gulps of the cold water.

Despite the layer of frost coating the vegetation in the forest, Arthur was sweating beneath his tunic. He tossed Aithusa the last of the dried meat and unsheathed Excalibur.

Arthur pressed the hilt into Merlin’s hand. His brows shot up in surprise, but Arthur secured the second sword he’d brought at his belt. Though it was no match for the craftmanship of Excalibur, it was forged by the royal blacksmith and still a fine weapon by any standard.

“Since Excalibur is the only weapon capable of ending your life, it makes the most sense that you should wield it. So long as you don’t run yourself through with it,” Arthur said pointedly, “we should be safe.” 

“Arthur, I—”

“You know to use the sharp end, right?”

Merlin shoved his shoulder into Arthur’s chest. Tears shone in his eyes, and Arthur looped his arm through Merlin’s.

Aithusa took flight once more, scattering small pebbles and dried, fallen leaves from last autumn.

Compared to their vantage point in the sky, the valley was still shrouded in dim morning light, and Arthur found himself squinting up at the dual towering statues. The kings of old carved from stone stood watch over the valley. Vines crept along the weathered stone and hung like curtains between branches.

Merlin tensed at his side, and Arthur swiped his thumb gently over his skin.

Arm in arm, they stepped across the threshold and into the valley. The spring grass peeking out from damp earth and half-rotted leaves swiftly became shallow stone steps. Sculpted heads seemed to watch them as they moved through the narrow pass, and Arthur made a point to fix his gaze ahead of them. A thin layer of mist coated everything, hiding any number of sins, and Arthur took comfort in knowing that even if bandits were idiotic enough to brave the valley, they would have to contend with their air support.

The sensation of being watched didn’t fade even when the moss-covered sides of the valley rose up around. Only, it wasn’t the stone heads staring at Arthur. It was Merlin, his blue eyes shimmering and vulnerable.

Arthur tightened his grip on the sword. “I know what you’re going to say, Merlin.”

“I doubt that.”

“You’re going to say that nothing good ever happens in the Valley of the Fallen Kings.”

“I wasn’t going to say that, though technically, that’s not incorrect. What I was going to say,” Merlin said, a smile coaxing up the corners of his lips, “was that this is already off to a much better start than our last adventure here.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “If you had actually tied the horses properly, then we wouldn’t have had to outrun the bandits on foot.”

“And if we had brought the other knights with us like I had suggested in the first place, then we wouldn’t have been in that mess to begin with.”

“It turned out all right,” Arthur said. “We both made it out in one piece.”

Merlin scoffed. “Barely!”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

The sorcerer opened his mouth and then promptly shut it.  

“You told me that arrow didn’t pierce my armor. That when I fell, I knocked myself out.”

His smile turned sheepish. “I lied.”

“Of course.” Arthur dislodged Merlin’s hold on his arm just long enough to sling an arm around his shoulders and tug his head low and ruffle his hair despite muffled protests. Arthur released him, but plied a kiss to the side of his mouth before continuing.

Merlin led him onward, taking several of the less worn paths until they reached the mouth of a cave that was partially hidden behind the tall stones littering the forest floor.

“Here we are,” Merlin said.

Anxiety that did not belong to him pitted in Arthur’s stomach.

“Hold fast to that hope, Merlin,” Arthur whispered. “We’ll face whatever happens together.”

That pit eased ever so slightly, letting Arthur suck in a deeper breath. Before he could think of anything more comforting to say, Aithusa plummeted through the air, snapping branches and showering them with budding leaves.

The dragon landed in a heap, but bounced back onto her feet with a wide toothy grin. A laugh bubbled out of Arthur.

“You were right,” Arthur conceded. “We never would’ve survived the landing closer to the cave.”

They extracted the torch from Aithusa’s saddlebags, and she lit it for them before curling up to guard the entrance.

Arthur stooped low into the cave. The dancing flame did little to dispel the shadows and cold air. His breath formed clouds in the air before him, and he shivered against the damp, frigid breeze. Water plunked into pools gathered in the uneven ground. The stone was coated in a thin layer of dirt and pebbles and became so sharp at times that Arthur felt it even through the soles of his boots.

Merlin guided him until the paths diverged.

“Which way?” Arthur peered down one of the tunnels, but it seemed to dead-end rather quickly.

“I’m not sure.”

A sharp wind extinguished the flaming torch.

“Was that a gust of wind?” Arthur asked. “This deep in the tunnels?”

Before Merlin could answer, the ground trembled and bucked as if Arthur had triggered a trip wire. Merlin flung his arms out for balance, and Arthur understood what was about to happen. The rock above Merlin’s head was about to collapse on top of him.

In the split second that followed, Arthur did the only thing he could think of.

He shoved Merlin away from him, back the way that they’d come. Merlin’s eyes widened in horror as huge boulders tumbled from the ceiling. Pain erupted behind Arthur’s eyes. His ankle snapped, and he was crushed beneath the darkness.

Merlin

Merlin had never been delusional enough to believe that restoring his magic would be an easy endeavor, but as the stone ceiling caved in and an avalanche of boulders separated him from Arthur, he couldn’t help but think that this was the universe’s idea of a cruel joke.

Except, this was too cruel even for the universe. This could only be the work of one person, one sorcerer. Morgana’s essence radiated through the cave like a magical signature.

While she hadn’t ambushed them here, she had still managed to bar him from the crystal cave.

Merlin’s entire body was wrecked. His lip was hot and swollen and his head pounded.  His ankle throbbed and when he stumbled toward the wall of boulders, sharp pain radiated through his leg up and left him gasping for breath.

“Arthur?” But there was no answer. Nothing but pain resounded through their bond. “Arthur!”

An ominous silence thickened the dust riddled air, and Merlin reached for his magic. He had to free them from this mess. He had to save his king. He had to heal Arthur—

But his magic was exactly where he’d left it. Trapped behind a wall in his mind as Merlin was trapped in this gods forsaken cave.

Frustration mounted in his chest until it tore from Merlin’s throat in a desperate scream. He lost track of his body as he thrashed, pounding his fists against the rough rocks. By the time his scream fizzled, his throat was raw. He gulped down air in a frantic attempt to refill his lungs and clutched his hand to his mouth, smearing hot liquid across his face.

A coppery taste bloomed across his tongue.

Blood.

His knuckles were bleeding, but it was so dark that Merlin couldn’t see the outline of his hand, let alone the self-inflicted injuries. He whispered a hoarse apology to Arthur for adding to his pain.

He couldn’t even ignite a flame to see his surroundings, let alone save his king. Or himself.

Merlin was useless.

Utterly useless.

Despite Arthur’s kind words the night before, not even the king could change the bitter sting of reality. Without his magic, Merlin truly was nothing.

“Merlin.”

The name floated to him. So soft at first, that Merlin wasn’t entirely certain it was real. Perhaps it was merely his imagination messing with him. 

“Merlin.”

There it was again. Not just any voice, but a familiar one. One he’d hardly known for the length of a day, but one that had burned itself into his memory. One that he would have given almost anything to have heard again. Somehow, impossibly, here it was, calling out to him in the depths of his despair.

“Father?”

“My son.” Balinor’s voice echoed through the cave.

Merlin craned his neck up at what he’d previously assumed to be a sheer wall of rock. The faintest glow emanated from an opening in the stone.

Maybe there was still a chance.

A slight chance, but a chance nonetheless.

Merlin followed the voice, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. He half-crawled, half-climbed up the sloped rock. It bit into his palms and stung his fingers, and sharp twangs of protest reverberated up his angry, swelling ankle with each push.

The stone leveled out, and suddenly, he was doused in a pure, vibrant light.

Half-blinded, Merlin held up a hand and squinted as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness emanating from a crevice.

Morgana may have closed off the main entrance to the crystals, but there was another, much smaller opening into the cavern.

Merlin shimmied through it, his knee finding a puddle that dampened his torn trousers, and when he reached the other side, a laugh of disbelief bubbled out of him. Hundreds—no, thousands—of crystals banished the darkness surrounding him.

The crystal spheres were crafted of iridescent shards, like little rays of light reaching in all directions. A distant pulse of magic resonated from one crystal to the next.

Relief coursed through Merlin, but it wasn’t merely his proximity to the crystals. It was the sight of Balinor standing among them, too.

Grey accented his father’s beard and streaked through his long, dark hair. He wore the same modest clothes from that fateful day in the woods. Only now, his skin was grey and transparent.

“Are you here?” Merlin asked. “Are you real?”

Balinor reached out a hand, the tips of his fingers passing through a crystal as if he were nothing more than mist.

“Dead or alive, real or imagined, past or present, these things are of no consequence. All that matters is that you heed the words of your father, who loves you.” The words struck a chord deep in Merlin’s chest. They were the words he’d longed to hear, would have coveted for the rest of his days if his father had whispered to him in his final moments. And here he was, saying them now, in his darkest hour. “Do not let go, Merlin. Do not give in.”

Merlin tried to draw closer to his father and deeper into the cave—but couldn’t.

He’d reached the end of his tether. In Blackburn, Merlin had pushed it to the limit. His gut had wrenched itself into knots and his eyes had felt as though they might burst from sheer pressure. Merlin had been convinced he would be ripped in half.

Now, he didn’t dare try. He merely collapsed against the hard ground with truth leaping from his lips.

“I have no reason to go on.” Tears gathered in his eyes once more. Stubborn, stupid tears. He was tired of crying. He was tired of feeling broken. He was tired of feeling like nothing he did was good enough. “The battle is already over. Morgana has won.”

“Only if you accept defeat,” Balinor said, sounding eerily reminiscent of Arthur as he encouraged his knights before battle, “but if you fight, if you let hope into your heart, Morgana cannot be victorious.”

Merlin tore his gaze from the ground to study the gap of space between himself and the surrounding crystals—a gap that might as well have been meters long for all the difference it made. He could no sooner reach the crystals than he could turn water into wine.

“What hope is there without my magic?”

Balinor crouched, and Merlin braced himself for a lecture or false encouragement, but the words his father offered him stole the breath from his lungs.

“Merlin, you are more than a son of your father. You are son of the earth, the sea, the sky. Magic is the fabric of this world, and you were born of that magic. You are magic itself. You cannot lose what you are.”

His father made it sound so simple, as if he could simply find himself with the north star or by taking a shovel to the earth.

“But how do I find myself again?”

“Believe, Merlin.”

Merlin wanted to. He tried, stretching and struggling and pushing against the infernal weight crushing his chest, the voice that whispered that he would never fulfill his destiny, that he would fail and Arthur would die before he ever had the chance to become the king that Camelot deserved.

His mother’s voice drifted through his mind, reassuring him that he was special. Closely followed by Gaius, who sung his praises anytime he completed a challenging spell with ease. Then Lancelot and Gwen, who encouraged him before anyone else had known about his magic. And the little girl who’d handed him the woven band in gratitude for saving her village.

All of the memories slipped through his fingers like grains of sand.

None of them could dislodge his devastation.

But then he felt the weight of Excalibur at his side, the hilt digging into his hip, and remembered Arthur’s soft, proud expression as he’d secured the blade at Merlin’s side and his king’s gentle support.

Arthur had finally seen him.

He had seen all of Merlin and still believed.

In the same way that Merlin had once believed in Arthur unwaveringly. His king had been so sure that he could not pull Excalibur from that stone, but Merlin had encouraged him all the same.

And Arthur had, by all means, done the impossible.

Perhaps Merlin could do the same.

This time, when Merlin’s efforts to reach his magic once more landed him in front of that impassable wall, he cast his mind down the tether and honed in on Arthur’s presence.

Merlin did not need to search for hope. Not when it stood beside him, unwavering in his conviction. He let the strength of his king flow through his veins and this time, when he pushed against that wall, he gasped and his entire body began to tingle.

Impossibly, the tips of his fingers were suddenly a mere breadth from the nearest crystal. He wasn’t sure how that had happened.

“Believe what your heart knows to be true—that you have always been and always will be.”

“Always will be,” Merlin repeated, unsure what that meant.

As Merlin brushed the smooth surface of the crystal closest to him, an immediate sense of calm washed through him.

“Rest now,” Balinor instructed. “Rest my son, and soon, you shall awaken into the light.”

Arthur

The weight of his eyelids must have amounted to the collective weight of the boulders threatening to crush Arthur. His ankle throbbed and his toes were thoroughly numb. The air was too thick to draw breath, and the darkness surrounding him was absolute. Arthur reached out for Merlin, but he found nothing except the now useless torch.

He swore, cursing Morgana’s name for the rockslide that had trapped him.

Then Merlin screamed. Blood curdling and devastating, the sound would haunt Arthur for the rest of his days. Tears welled in his eyes and his chest was impossibly tight.

“Goddamn you, Morgana. Merlin needs me!” Arthur punched the stone beneath him, and the skin across his knuckles burst—but not from his own blow.

“Merlin needs you, as you need Merlin.”

Arthur stilled. That voice. He knew it from somewhere, but his mind was too muddled, his body too broken, and the memory resurfaced all too slowly.

“Balinor. I thought—aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

A chuckle reverberated through the cave.

“Straight to the point, as your father once was. Even if I am no longer alive, why should that mean we cannot speak?”

“Limitations my ass,” Arthur muttered.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing,” Arthur said. “Never mind the how, why are you here?”

“Because my son is precious to me, and even though I had no hand in raising him, he is still the best thing I could have done with my life. Time is fickle, a cruel mistress, and I shall eternally regret never having enough time with Merlin.”

Distantly, Arthur wondered if his father would ever have said the same about him, if given the opportunity. Part of him severely doubted it.

“Any chance you’ve come to free us from the bond that tethers us?”

Balinor cleared his throat. “Is being tied to my son really such an inconvenience?”

Arthur shook his head before realizing that it was far too dark for what was likely the ghost of Merlin’s father to see the motion anyway.

“Do not misunderstand me. My primary concern is ensuring that if I die beneath these boulders, your son does not succumb to the same fate.”

Silence resounded for so long that Arthur began to wonder if Balinor had abandoned him. The encroaching numbness in his ankle and toes began to radiate into the rest of his body and tingles stretched into his torso, down his arms, into the tips of his fingers and the muscle of his jaw.

When Balinor spoke again, his voice was hoarse. “If I could free you from your entrapments, the boulders or Morgana’s enchantment, I would do so readily. Take comfort in knowing that this cave shall not become your tomb.”

It was oddly comforting to hear those words, and Arthur wished he could lean back and relax, but as the prickling sensation faded, the pain riddling his body returned three-fold.

“The crystal cave. Will it work as Gaius suspected it might?”

“Merlin is not like other sorcerers,” Balinor said, the outline of his figure finally forming as Arthur’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. He wore plain white robes belted at his middle. His dark, curling hair tumbled over his shoulders and his thick brows were drawn together in sincerity. “His magic is not so easily stolen from him.”

Arthur exhaled, igniting a burn in his chest. “He’s special.”

“Merlin is far more than simply special.” Balinor’s eyes seemed to glow defiantly. “He is extraordinary, and I should hope that whomever he has given his heart to cradles it with the utmost care.”

Arthur didn’t want to know how this ghost had known what was in his heart, but he obliged him all the same.

“I swear on my life. I would rather die than break Merlin’s heart. Even before Morgana tethered us, my heart belonged to him, and it shall continue to belong to him long after I’ve drawn my last breath.”

Balinor’s expression was impassable, wholly unreadable.  

“Do you realize, Arthur Pendragon, that the best way to protect your sorcerer is to free magic from the confines of Uther’s rule?”

“I have already appointed Merlin Court Sorcerer.” Not that Merlin himself knew that, yet. He’d signed a royal decree before this adventure in the hopes that by the time they returned, Merlin would be free to use his restored magic openly without repercussion.

“That is a start.”

“A start? I cannot justify legalizing all magic. I’ve seen magic corrupt those I love. In truth, Merlin is the only sorcerer I’ve ever known that used his powers for good.”

Balinor hummed as he considered that. “You should do well to remember that life is rarely as black and white as humans portray it to be.”

Arthur didn’t understand what that meant, and his head was beginning to ache.

“What should I do?” Arthur asked. “Beyond issuing Merlin immunity?”

“Let your heart lead you, Arthur Pendragon. It will guide you down the right path if you are brave enough to listen.”

He wanted to snap that he was listening, but Arthur shoved down his irritation and wished that the ghost of Balinor would simply tell him what he should do rather than hinting and suggesting.

“You both are more than two sides of the same coin. You are each other’s complement. You balance each other. Whereas you were born from magic, he was born of magic. Your destiny was written, woven into the stars by the hands of fate themselves, long before either of you were a twinkle in your mothers’ eyes. You are two halves of the same whole, and you cannot truly shine in the light while your other half remains hidden in the shadow.”

Arthur nodded, but the pressure in his skull increased like it might crack open at any moment. He called out for Merlin as he slipped into the graces of unconsciousness.

Merlin

Merlin blinked slowly and Balinor swam into view. His brown eyes were wrinkled around the edges and softened beneath hefty brows.

He began to rise and pain engulfed him in one fell swoop. He reached up gingerly to touch his swollen lip, only to find that the puffiness had faded and the broken skin had mended. In fact, all of his wounds were healed. So the pain was not his own, but Arthur’s. The king was lying in agony, and Merlin’s gut wrenched at the thought.

He hauled himself into a sitting position, and this time, when he reached for his magic, it flooded through him. He had called, and it had answered. He nearly sobbed in relief, but he needed to be absolutely certain.

There were no candles to light or embers to transform into tiny flying creatures.

Instead, Merlin rubbed his hands together and then cupped them around his mouth. Each word imparted the magic imbuing his blood, his breath, his very essence, until he exhaled life into existence.

Merlin’s eyes began to burn, steady and warm and familiar, and soft flutters tickled his palms. He parted his hands to reveal a butterfly. The little wings beat against the air and began to glow a soft blue, perhaps illuminated from the crystals or perhaps shining with its own radiance.

Merlin rose, a mixture of relief and conviction flourishing in his chest as the butterfly soared past Balinor and through the expansive cave.

“Thank you for your help,” Merlin told his father, “your guidance.”

“I only offered a hand.” Balinor had done far more than that. He had restored Merlin’s hope when he’d needed it most and had guided him into the heart of the cave. “You stand tall on your own two feet, Merlin. You always have done.”

Balinor beamed at him, and Merlin reveled in the fatherly pride. It wasn’t that Gaius never told Merlin that he was proud of him—because he did, almost daily—but it struck him deeper that this had come from his father. The man who he shared blood with. The man who was a legend in his own right. 

Merlin could only hope to achieve such greatness.

“As did you, Father. I follow in your footsteps.”

Balinor chuckled fondly. “Your journey has only just begun. You wield a power you cannot yet conceive of. Your destiny awaits. Do not be afraid. Trust in what you are. Trust in what will be.”

A thousand questions were poised at the tip of Merlin’s tongue, but Balinor was fading. The grey outline of his skin becoming more transparent by the second.

“Goodbye, Father.”

“There are no goodbyes, Emrys.” The name itself was like a cold douse of water, but his father spoke it with the same reverence with which the knights called Arthur your majesty. “For I will always be. As you will always be.”

Always.

Always.

Always.

The word echoed through Merlin’s head and escaped out into the now empty cave, returning to him in the boomeranged syllables of his father’s voice.

Merlin wished he understood, but all he could picture was Kilgharrah. The dragon whose eyes had softened as he told a much younger Merlin that he was the last of his kind because Uther had slaughtered the rest of his kin. The dragon had roamed this earth long before Uther’s reign—in a time before man had even fathomed laws, let alone kings, into existence.

Merlin wondered if he too would wander this earth long after all of his loved ones had lived and passed on. If he might be the singular creature that did not bend to the natural laws of time.

Yet, he did not have time to dwell on what might come to pass. Especially not when he was surrounded with windows into the future.

Merlin outstretched a hand. Instead of sifting through time, he sought a single being.

Arthur lay half-crushed beneath a pile of boulders. Dirt smeared his cheeks and stained his golden hair. His eyes were open, but just barely. The crystals might have healed Merlin, but Arthur was still in dire condition.

Merlin would find his king and heal what he could, but first… with the aid of the crystal, he cast his magic outward. Beyond the cave, beyond the forest, beyond the surrounding lands and toward Camelot.

Leon, Elyan, Perceval, Lancelot, and Gwaine fought on the front lines. The crimson Camelot cloaks fluttered behind them like rivers of blood as they cut through Morgana’s army.

The image shifted as time accelerated. Thick clouds of black smoke billowed into the night sky, blotting out the stars like spilled ink. Loose stones littered the land beneath the castle wall where a hole had been blasted through it. Even the main gate had buckled, the hinges twisted and gnarled, and the bodies strewn across the battlefield bore the faces of his friends.

Deep in the depths of the castle, Merlin’s own voice rang out loud and clear.

“Face me.”

“You cannot help your king now.” Morgana slunk forward, the dim glow of light barely illuminating the beautiful features of her face. “You cannot even help yourself.”

Merlin reeled back through time and space and stumbled from the crystal and its power.

His breath was shallow and quick, and he forced himself to breathe and slow down.

None of that had happened yet.

The walls of Camelot had not yet fallen.

He only had to find his king and ensure that it never happened.

Arthur

The pain had become so overwhelming that Arthur slipped into unconsciousness. When he woke, it was to a loud explosion and the ground trembling. The boulders shifted and moved until he was no longer buried beneath them.

He waited patiently for the sense of relief at no longer being crushed, but all he felt was blinding agony. He cried out and curled into himself, bracing against that pain.

And then Merlin was there. His eyes glowed, brilliant and warm, and Arthur basked in the glory of his love’s power as he might a ray of sunshine on a cold winter day. He murmured Merlin’s name but couldn’t rouse enough energy to move.

“I’m here,” Merlin’s voice drew nearer as he knelt beside him and gathered Arthur into his arms. The embrace was so tender and comprehensive that Arthur surrendered to the instinct to nuzzle into him. “I’ll take care of you.”

“As you always have,” Arthur whispered as Merlin’s hands swept over his body, assessing and pausing at each sign of injury. Merlin, he noted, was remarkably unscathed. Whatever had happened in the depths of the cave had done more than simply restore his magic.

Merlin’s fingers hovered over his aching ribs. His eyes illuminated once more and he spoke strange words with conviction. His tone had shifted and deepened, and energy swirled throughout Arthur’s body, pooling at his chest and the cuts across his lips and knuckles began to burn as they healed.

The golden light of Merlin’s eyes extinguished, and he slouched over Arthur’s body.

“I can’t—” Merlin gasped. “I’ve never mended a broken bone before.”

“All that magic at your disposal, yet you cannot mend simple bone.”

Merlin huffed at the tease even as a smile played at Arthur’s lips.

“Imagine what I could do if I had been trained by healers who’d spent years honing their craft instead of fleeing for their lives. If the scrolls written by healers had not been burned.”

There it was. The resounding proof that Arthur—and his father—had subdued the world’s most powerful sorcerer. A shudder ran down Arthur’s spine at the thought of Merlin’s untapped potential and how powerful he could have been without Uther’s imposed limitations.

It wasn’t fear coursing through his veins, but excitement.

Merlin draped Arthur’s arm over his shoulders and lifted him from the ground. For all the jokes he’d made at Merlin’s expense over the years, he did so quite effortlessly.

The muscles in his arms flexed along Arthur’s back and beneath his legs. Merlin’s dirt-streaked chin fluttered, and the strength with which Merlin carried Arthur out of the tunnel had heat coiling in his gut.

Arthur ached in an entirely different way now. He ached for Merlin. He ached to touch him and be touched by him. If they didn’t have a war to end, Arthur might have demanded that he put him down this instant so that they could rip their clothes off and satiate that deep seated need within him.

“You’re flushed,” Merlin remarked. “Do you feel feverish?”

Arthur nearly choked on his own spit.

“No.” But the word came out funny and high pitched, and Merlin’s grin was all too knowing. The little shit was teasing his king. Arthur made a mental note to return that particular favor when this was over.

A cool rush of air washed over them as Merlin carried him into the forest and left the cave behind. The sun was already beginning to set, and panic lanced through Arthur, tightening his chest. His kingdom may have already fallen. Morgana might already be sat upon his throne.

“Hurry, Thusa,” Arthur muttered as Merlin set him down atop a boulder. “We must return to Camelot swiftly before my sister can decimate it.”

Aithusa stood and stretched from her tightly curled position near the mouth of the cave. Then she exhaled hot air along Arthur’s ankle. The bone snapped back into place, and Arthur cried out. A band of sweat gathered across his forehead and he clutched Merlin’s hand, bracing through the pain.

Thankfully, it was over as quickly as it had begun. Arthur scratched beneath Aithusa’s chin and flexed his ankle to test it. No sharp spike of pain followed the movement, and he let Merlin help him to his feet. The ankle bore his weight without complaint.

“Camelot has not yet fallen.” Merlin spoke with such conviction that Arthur didn’t even ask how he knew that. “And if I have anything to say about it, it never will.”

Arthur squeezed Merlin’s shoulder. “Glad to have you back, Merlin. It was beginning to look bleak without my sorcerer.”

Merlin’s gaze dropped to the forest floor, and Arthur stepped closer in the hopes of bridging whatever mental distance Merlin had placed between them. He stroked Merlin’s cheek softly, coaxing out his thoughts.

When Merlin met his gaze once more, his eyes shimmered with doubt.

“What if I cannot beat her?”

“You will.” Arthur kneaded the taut muscle in Merlin’s neck.

“How can be so sure?”

Arthur recalled Balinor’s words and gazed up to the darkening sky as dusk turned to night.

“Because our destiny has been written, woven amongst the stars, long before either of us were born. Because this time, neither of us will face Morgana alone. I will be right there, by your side, and we will save our kingdom together.”

Merlin reached up to grasp Arthur’s forearm and his expression softened, blossoming from the seeds of hope Arthur had proud to have sewn.

“Together.”

Chapter Text

The last lingering remnants of daylight slipped away in the darkening ribbon of the horizon. Aithusa’s strong wings beat steady and calm, a stark contrast to the chaos waiting below.

Merlin had urged her to fly as fast as possible—much to Arthur’s dismay, though the trembling king contained his protests when Merlin reminded him that falling to imminent death was no longer a concern—and it had hardly felt like the blink of an eye before Camelot’s towers rose in the distance.

Below, the battle surged. Wave after wave of soldiers pressed onward, forcing their way through Camelot’s ranks. While part of Merlin wished he could magnify his sight and peer down at his friends, he was also grateful that it was simply a sea of faceless soldiers.

Morgana, however, needed no magnification to locate. She was not hovering at the edges of the battle but right at the center—the eye of the storm. Magical energy vibrated through the air as Morgana funneled it into a fierce wind that wrapped around her, pelting Camelot’s army with rocks and sticks and fallen weapons.

Heat simmered beneath Merlin’s skin. Morgana hadn’t simply stolen Emrys’ wind technique but improved upon it. It was goddamn lucky that Morgana never witnessed his summoning of lightning.

Perhaps Merlin should offer her a taste of his true power.

With half a thought, Merlin evoked his magic and stretched it out into the atmosphere. Storm clouds gathered around Aithusa, her wings beating through the edges of clouds and dispersing droplets of rain. Here, where they were already so close to the heavens, lightning was at the tips of his fingers. His skin was practically crackling with it. All he had to do was give it a direction. He focused in on Morgana—

“Where the hell did she find a goddamn army of this size.” Arthur tightened a trembling grip around Merlin’s chest. The bond resounded with fear, but he knew better than to think the battle awaiting them had spurred it.

Merlin exhaled and released his grip on the lightning before it could form.

“As long as they’re not undead soldiers,” Merlin muttered.

“Pray tell, where is the cup of life?”

Merlin grimaced. “Perhaps that’s a conversation best saved for a later, less catastrophic date?”

Arthur stilled, and Merlin could practically envision the king’s eyes narrowing into a glare. “As long as you can promise the cup is safely tucked away and was most definitely not used to conjure this army.”

“I swear on our lives that it’s in the safest place possible.”

Merlin did not feel the need to tell Arthur that the cup was very much not in the safest place possible and in fact hidden beneath Merlin’s floorboards, but alas, he needed to reserve his king’s temper for other matters.

“Must be more of those goddamn Saxons.” Arthur swore as they shoved Camelot’s army even further back. If they couldn’t regain that ground, and soon, their ranks would fall.

Camelot would fall.

All their knights needed was one well aimed strike.

The clouds had already formed, and with the sun imminently setting, it was likely that the rest of the castle would assume a bolt of lightning striking all that metal armor to be coincidence.

Before he could second guess himself, Merlin raised a hand and concentrated all of his attention on the enemy’s front lines. The burn in his eyes was followed by a rush of energy coursing through his veins and down, down, down until it struck the ground with a resounding crack.

A blinding white light illuminated the battlefield and the Saxons flew backward, careening into the ranks behind them. Morgana tipped her head up toward the incoming dragon and shouted his name—Emrys’ name.

Merlin waited for Arthur to chastise him, but nothing but approval fluttered across the bond. Perhaps his ability to read a battlefield and offer strategic assistance had proven useful.

Aithusa swooped low, abandoning the thickening clouds, and with a single exhale, rained fire down on the Saxons. Those that had managed to evade the burst of lightning had no hope of escaping the flames.

Before the dragon’s claws so much as skimmed enemy lines, Merlin grasped Arthur’s arm and yanked. Together, they tumbled sideways into the air. Arthur Pendragon yelped and clung to Merlin.

Under less dire circumstances, Merlin might have chuckled. His magic was there to greet them the second that Aithusa’s back was no longer beneath them. As if an invisible net slowly lowered them to the ground.

Merlin had only meant to slow their fall, but he seemed to have slowed time itself, too. In that little infinity, he drew the dirt-smudged golden locks away from Arthur’s forehead and rubbed at the arms still locked in a death grip around Merlin’s middle.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Merlin teased, pressing a kiss to his temple.

Arthur drew a shuddering breath and only then did the anxiety drawing the tether taut ease. Their feet brushed along the ground—solid and sure—and Arthur immediately released Merlin in favor of drawing his blade.

Merlin released the magic, and time regained its normal cadence.

Morgana hissed as she whirled, blood dripping from her blade and chaos storming in the depths of her eyes. She commanded her army to leave the king to her.

To Merlin’s horror, her army continued onward as if nothing had happened. As if the king’s presence held no bearing on the outcome of this war.

The knights—Leon, Lancelot, Perceval, Elyan, and Gwaine—were all holding their own on the front lines, but they must have been battling for hours on end. They were coated in layers of dirt and soot and sweat and their chainmail was torn and soiled. Blood trickled down Elyan’s upper leg, and Lancelot was reduced to fighting one-handed, his other arm hanging limply at his side with a gash high up on his arm. Perceval and Gwaine fought beside him, providing cover for Lancelot’s exposed side as needed.

Merlin needed to end this battle sooner than later.

The bond ignited with Arthur’s rage before Merlin heard the twinges of it in the king’s demand. “Call off your army!”

“I can’t do that, dear brother,” Morgana answered. “Not when I have as much claim to Uther’s precious throne as you do.”

“Only by blood.” Arthur lunged with his sword, and Morgana raised hers in defense. The clanging of their weapons was swallowed up by the rest of the battle. “You forfeited that right when you decided to slaughter my people for your own personal gain. A leader should be prepared to spill their own blood to protect their people.”

“Oh, spare me your notions of honor.”

Morgana advanced, but Arthur caught her blade with his own, locking her into a battle of strength that had her arms trembling. Her swordsmanship skills were superior to most, but even if she could hold a candle to Arthur, she was no match for his brute strength. Arthur bore down on her ruthlessly, and Merlin held his breath.

Gold flashed across her eyes. She cried out a single word and then shoved.

In the split second before she could send Arthur flying, Merlin sprang forward to counter it.

The two mirroring spells collided mid-air with a deafening boom that sent tremors through the ground and shockwaves blasting through the air.

Morgana skidded back, her boots leaving small trenches in the packed dirt, and her sword dipped in disbelief. Her gaze tracked up and down Merlin’s body as if she had only just now considered that he might actually pose a credible threat.

That was when it clicked.

Morgana had been surprised to see them, yes, but she’d been wholly unphased that Merlin had returned with his magical abilities intact. Almost as if she’d been expecting it. Or, if not expecting it, she already had a contingency in place.

Merlin just had to figure out what it was.

“Call off your army!” Arthur lowered his own weapon but did not sheath it. “Let us discuss this in a civilized manner over food and drink instead of bodies and bloodshed.”

Morgana tipped her face up and the final rays of daylight cast long shadows over her eyes and nose as she watched Aithusa swoop low. The dragon’s flames brightened the battlefield before spilling over the Saxons.

“I’ve had enough talking.” Morgana sheathed her sword and swung her arms around in an arc. The magical words that flew from her mouth constricted the air around them.

Aithusa’s flames coiled into a fiery sphere that soared straight at Merlin and Arthur.

Arthur lifted his sword, as if the metal blade would do much against a ball of fire, but the bravery struck a chord deep in Merlin’s chest.

Grasping the king by his cape, Merlin yanked Arthur behind him and ignored his cries of outrage.

As Merlin recited the magical words, his ears popped and his hearing dampened. He’d cast similar spells in the past, but this particular one was untested and each word leapt from his tongue coated in power. Nearly invisible tendrils of magic gathered around them to form a forcefield. The fireball struck its surface. For a horrifying second, it appeared to cave in toward them before ricocheting.

Catapulted across the battlefield faster than Merlin could have ever imagined, the massive ball of fire slammed directly into the outer wall of Camelot.

Stones showered the battlefield along with a plume of smoke.

Just as the crystals had shown him.

In the silence that fell afterward, Merlin risked a glance at his king—whose expression was precisely at the intersection of incredulous and furious—and exposed his gritted teeth in a sheepish smile. Arthur’s nostrils flared even as he gave the tiniest shake of his head. The message was clear as day: later. They would talk about this later.

When their lives, and the kingdom, no longer hung in the balance.

Morgana’s laughter chilled Merlin’s blood. “This is who you’ve allied yourself with, dear brother? Allow me to show you what true magic really is.”

Arthur shifted close enough to Merlin that their shoulders brushed, and Merlin gently dropped his hand to secretly squeeze his king’s wrist, a silent promise that he could handle Morgana. That he would protect Arthur and his kingdom. That he would not make that same mistake with the forcefield a second time. The reassurance dispelled some of the tension riddling their bond.

Morgana twisted her fingers as she raised them to the billowing storm clouds. Merlin recognized her intention even before she uttered the familiar spell. The atmosphere crackled around them, and the hairs along Merlin’s arm and the back of his neck stood on end. He released Arthur’s wrist and shuttered his eyes, waiting for that telltale strike.

He didn’t need his vision to feel the disturbance with his magic. He merely exhaled and let his own power engulf the lightning bolt meant for Arthur. With a single word, he propelled the lightning away. His eyes flicked open just in time to see the blinding light strike the ground before Morgana’s feet.

As the dark cloud of smoke dispersed, so did the pressure and scent of ozone. Even Aithusa had halted her attack. She hovered over the battlefield like a guardian angel.

“You want to play with fire?” Merlin whispered darkly. “I’ll show you fire.”

Morgana swallowed her shock and lifted her chin, but no amount of grit could disguise her frantic attempts to pull air into her lungs. She might have been skilled enough to cast lightning, but it had cost her dearly.

Merlin had no such limitations.

His body was weary after the long day of travel and the trials in the cave. His muscles ached and his head throbbed, but his magic was nowhere near exhausted.

It was rare that Merlin didn’t have to curb his magical abilities. Ever since Gaius and Kilgharrah had dared to mention that he might be the most powerful sorcerer to walk this earth, Merlin had exercised caution. He knew that the well of power within him ran deep—much deeper than he’d ever needed—but had never investigated it.

As he reached for his seemingly endless magic, Merlin did not hold back. He relished the power that flooded through his veins, coaxed out from every cell in his body, every crevasse of his soul, every fiber of his being, and let it all bleed into the world around him.

The drizzling rain grew heavy, and the temperature plummeted. The rain began to freeze and thicken into hail the size of Merlin’s fist, pounding the earth and the soldiers around them. Merlin dedicated a fraction of his attention to shielding Camelot’s soldiers. After several dozen Saxons collapsed, they began to raise their arms above their heads to fend off the impending ice.

The river swelled and flooded the banks, sweeping enemies into the rapid flow of water.

Merlin extended a hand, palm facing the earth, and his already burning eyes began to smolder—as if even the whites of his eyes had been consumed by the deluge of power.

The ground shook and bucked beneath enemy feet. Fissures opened in the ground, swallowing an entire platoon whole before the earth mended itself.

The clamor of battle had shifted into screams of terror. Lightning struck again and again, singling out clusters of soldiers without pause, without even so much as a breath to allow thunder in. Merlin redirected the next several bolts of lightning toward Morgana.

Her eyes widened as she retreated, raising her arms to defend herself with a sliver of what resembled Merlin’s own forcefield.

The next bolt struck her directly, sending her sprawling onto her back. The sliver of a shield had saved her life, but her hair was frizzy and smoldering and her eyes were blown wide. The chaos had extinguished, leaving nothing but horror in its wake.

But Merlin was far from done.

His next words were ancient and devilish. He’d stashed them away in his memory long ago and hoped he’d never need them. He invoked the protection of the gargoyles that stood watch over Camelot. The stone creatures roared to life and thudded to the ground.

The Saxons in the midst of battling the nearby knights barely had time to lift their weapons before the first gargoyles ripped heads from shoulders and let them roll.

The sparse remnants of Morgana’s army balked and fled, discarding their weapons and running before the river could rise high enough to block their passage across the road. Aithusa chased them with her flames, roasting the slow or limping soldiers.

Morgana scrambled to her feet and screamed after them that they were cowards. Even if that were true, staying had made her something worse than a coward. An insufferably brave idiot, perhaps.

“It’s over, Morgana,” Merlin said. “You’ve lost.”

“No! It’s not over until one of us is dead,” Morgana shouted, raw and unfettered. “You’re not the only one that left that cave with gifts.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Arthur demanded, and Merlin flung an arm out to keep his king from drawing any closer to her.

But of course. Merlin should’ve known. Morgana was powerful, sure, but the last time they’d fought, she hadn’t been anywhere near powerful enough to harness fire or wield lightning. She might have been able to garner that strength over years of training, but without that—she would require a conduit.

“You stole a crystal,” Merlin said.

“I stole nothing,” Morgana sneered. “It was given to me. My father, my real father, appeared before my eyes and said that it was my birthright. That since he couldn’t gift me a country of my own, the least he could do was present me with the means of obtaining one.”

Morgana lifted a glowing white crystal that she must’ve kept hidden in the skirts of her tattered dress.

“That wasn’t your father,” Merlin said quietly.

His heart ached, though, because if her father hadn’t actually appeared to her, then it was an impossibility that he had actually spoken to his father, either. Perhaps the cave, the birth place of magic, had simply created an entity that Merlin would recognize and trust. As it must have done with Morgana.

His gut wrenched as he considered that the cave might have offered her similar assurances. That if she simply believed in herself and her abilities, then Merlin had no path to victory.

But why had it offered her a crystal?

Even if the cave had offered Merlin a crystal of his own, he wouldn’t have accepted it. The ability to glimpse the future or increase his own power would have been nice, but wholly unnecessary.

Unlike Morgana, whose obsession for power had driven her to the brink of madness.

“Even if it wasn’t,” Morgana spat. “The cave granted me this crystal, and all it did was restore your power. Camelot will be mine, and if I have to go through you to get it? All the better.”

Despite the thrumming magic crystal inflating her power, Merlin was still confident that he could best Morgana. Yet, such a battle would risk the lives of Camelot soldiers—and potentially innocent citizens—in the process. He couldn’t trust Morgana to spare their lives in her quest to vanquish Merlin from the face of the earth.

Merlin sifted through all of the spells that he’d been researching over the past few weeks in an effort to free Arthur and himself from this binding spell, and suddenly, he knew what to do.

He studied his king, whose full lips were drawn into a tight, pale line. The fear echoing across the bond was not for Arthur himself, but for his kingdom and his people. Leon had told them about the time that Morgana had opened fire on Camelot citizens in an effort to force the knights to bend a knee to her.

Merlin refused to ever allow that to happen again.

With his face hidden from Morgana, he winked at his king. Arthur inhaled sharply and held his breath, waiting to see how Merlin planned to navigate them out of these treacherous waters.

“You really think you can beat me?” Merlin asked.

Morgana squared her shoulders. “Without a doubt.”

“Then this ends here and now. Just you and me. No one else gets hurt. A fight to the death. Whoever still stands at the end is the victor.”

Morgana’s laugh was deep and confident. “It will be my pleasure to end your life and my brother’s in the same fell swoop. You have defied me for the last time, Emrys.”

Merlin began to whisper an untried spell under his breath. Each word grew louder until his shout was booming over the silent battlefield. He drew not just from his own well of strength, but from the magical energy in the landscape around him. Wind began to gust and tear at his clothes. The clouds cleared, exposing the twinkling stars and the allowing the full moon to shine down in beams that illuminated Merlin’s pale skin.

His eyes burned as he focused all of the energy on Morgana and the crystal in her hand.

As the spell he’d cast settled, the wind snapped to a halt. The stillness was so sudden that the world itself seemed to be holding its breath. Even Aithusa hung still in the air, coasting on an upward draft high in the sky.

The spell had left him breathless, but not drained. Merlin let himself stumble backward, though, let Arthur’s hands steady him from behind before sliding to his knee.

When his efforts had seemingly no effect, Morgana arched her brows in surprise and cackled. Manic and loud and confident that imminent victory was hers to claim.

“Not so powerful now, are you!” Morgana shouted. “Wore yourself out with all your little tricks, did you? You might have the rest of the world convinced you’re the strongest sorcerer, Emrys, but I. Do. Not. Fear. You.”

Morgana thrust a blast of wind in Merlin’s direction.

He didn’t even need words to dispel it and merely dispersed the channeled energy outward. He rose, letting the exhaustion of his body show in the shaking of his legs and the trembling of his fingers, and gestured for Arthur to rejoin the circle of knights surrounding them.

Morgana summoned bolts of lightning, but after Merlin’s display of power that had sent her army running for their lives, her creativity had become limited to merely copying him.

“Is that all you got?” Merlin asked.

That unleashed more than just her anger. Morgana came at him with everything she had, and Merlin deflected all of it. He let her keep going until she was seething, spit flying from her mouth as she fought to land a single strike—and failed.

She advanced, though, attack after attack. Each one fizzled as unremarkably as the last. Morgana bellowed her next spell, as if volume and sheer will could force this one to land.

But it didn’t. The lightning she’d meant to conjure had not even formed.

Panic darkened her eyes as she realized that her power was no longer amplified by the crystal, but was waning instead. She drew her sword with unsteady arms. The blood encrusted blade did not even glint in the moonlight.

Merlin unsheathed Excalibur and knocked her blow aside.

“This isn’t possible. This can’t be—”

With a tendril of his magic, he extracted the crystal from her pocket. It hummed with all of that feral magical energy that he’d trapped safely inside where it couldn’t harm anyone. Not even Morgana herself.

“No!” Morgana shouted. Her eyes flickered gold before fading into frigid blue.

“You’re not the only one who can be creative with binding magic.” Merlin disarmed her with a flick of his wrist—undeniable pride resounded through the bond—and leveled Excalibur’s lethal blade at her throat. “Any last words?”

Morgana narrowed her eyes, a fighter even to her last breath.

“No mortal blade can kill me.”

Merlin couldn’t help the smile that curled the side of his mouth. “This is no ordinary blade. This blade has been forged in dragon’s breath.”

Horror flooded Morgana’s features, and she staggered back, but with the knights and remaining soldiers surrounding her, she had nowhere to go. She was utterly defenseless, but Merlin couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when the blood of Camelot’s knights was staining the ground beneath their feet. Not when she would have eagerly taken the life of his king if the situation were reversed.

Morgana was too far gone, and without her magic, she was finally at his mercy. She might have been his friend once, but that was long before darkness and hatred had leeched into her soul and blossomed into unwavering evil.

“Goodbye, Morgana,” Merlin whispered.

Morgana had accepted her fate. She tipped her head up to the night sky, but if she hoped to absorb some final rays of moonlight, Aithusa’s flight barred the light from reaching her.

“Stop!”

Merlin froze at his king’s command.

Arthur stepped forward into the circle of their battle. The wild sorrow brimming in the depths of his blue eyes was pained and a desperate aching reverberated through their bond. Merlin’s anger fizzled into empathy. Morgana was still his sister. Arthur had grown up with her, treated her as such long before they’d known. Evidently, he still harbored compassion for her, even after everything she’d done.

If Merlin had any doubts that Arthur was the better man, they had been extinguished.

“She’s harmless without her magic, right?” Arthur asked.

Merlin sent a tendril of magic to bind her hands behind her back for good measure before sheathing Excalibur.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then let us imprison her overnight until we can find a better solution for her,” Arthur said. Perceval and Gwaine were the first to reach Morgana, wrenching her to her feet.

“I do not need your pity,” Morgana snarled.

“You may not need it, but I give it freely,” Arthur said softly. “That’s the difference between you and me, Morgana. Hatred cannot drive compassion from my heart as absolutely as it does your own.”

Merlin released the gargoyles and the stone creatures returned to their ledges before the temporary life drained from them as they awaited their next summons.

The other knights swarmed in to congratulate Arthur, clapping him on the back. With the exception of his friends, Merlin couldn’t help but notice that most of them kept their distance from him.

Lancelot tugged him into a fierce, crushing hug with his uninjured arm. “Good to see you, old friend. You arrived in the nick of time.”

“They’re afraid of me,” Merlin whispered when Lancelot had released him.

“Afraid is a strong word,” Elyan said, grasping Merlin’s forearm. “Perhaps a healthy dose of respect for your abilities.”

“You forget that not everyone has seen your magic in action, Merlin,” Lancelot added. “And even as someone who has, might I add that that was quite the display of power.”

Merlin scratched the back of his neck sheepishly.

“I just did what I had to do.”

“And I am eternally grateful that you did,” Arthur said, slinging an arm around Merlin’s shoulders. “I will forever be in your debt.”

Merlin ached to press a kiss to Arthur’s cheek, but with so many prying eyes around, he refrained. “That is wholly unnecessary, sire.”

Something dark and heavy briefly fluttered down the bond that Merlin couldn’t decipher, and for a moment, Merlin wondered if Arthur might kiss him right here, right now.

But instead, he turned to the knights and soldiers.

“The war is over,” Arthur said. “Let us return to Camelot. Tonight, we rest. Tomorrow, we rejoice.”

With their arms looped around each other’s middles, Merlin and Arthur made their way back to the castle. The gates swung open to allow them inside, but before they could cross that threshold, Perceval asked what should be done with Morgana.

“Place her in the dungeon. Perhaps a few nights down there will soften her.”

“What, I can’t even have my old quarters?” Morgana taunted, and Merlin had half a mind to smack her.

But Arthur, pure-hearted Arthur, answered earnestly. “No. Those are reserved for family, and until you at least apologize for the attempts on my life and my crown and the lo—and Merlin, then you are nothing to me.”

Leon moved to take Morgana, but Arthur grasped his arm before he could. “Be sure to give her a cell with plenty of light, and do not let the guards starve her. She needs no further incentive to abandon her humanity.”

Aithusa flew over the wall and as the rest of their party passed through the gate, the people of Camelot greeted them with deep bows. Some bent at the waist with hands at their stomachs, and others pressed their foreheads into the dirt.

“Long live the king!” someone cried out.

Then another chimed in. “All hail King Arthur Pendragon!”

The chant spread like a chorus through the crowd until someone added, “All hail Court Sorcerer Merlin!”

Court Sorcerer.

Merlin cocked a brow at Arthur, who returned his sheepish smile from the battlefield.

Apparently, they had much to discuss because when the bloody hell had Arthur had time to declare him not simple nobility, but Court Sorcerer? That was a promotion that Merlin wasn’t even entirely positive that he wanted. Up until this point, he’d maintained hope of fading back into the shadows of his normal life after all of this was over.

His thoughts were torn back to the present, though, at the sight of Gwen and Gaius in the crowd, both of whom were beaming and cheering louder than the rest.

Tears welled in Merlin’s eyes and his knees threatened to buckle. He couldn’t quite fathom that this kingdom, the people he’d sworn would never accept him, were now cheering for him as vehemently as their king.

Merlin’s chest ached, and Arthur tightened his grip around his waist, his thumb softly stroking along his ribs to keep him grounded.

As the knights steered Morgana to the dungeons, she began to thrash and scream. Her high pitch shattered the illusion of triumph and celebration.

“How dare you bow to him! No royal blood runs through his veins! He’s nothing but a peasant. A worthless servant!”

“A worthless servant who just wiped the floor with you,” Gwaine remarked as he yanked her through the crowd and into the dungeons.

With the late hour, no one fancied a celebratory meal. Instead, the knights and soldiers retired to their quarters.

Merlin was grateful for a reprieve from the public eye and quickly set about heating a bath with salts for their sore bodies, lighting the hearth to warm their drafty chambers, and conjuring up stew and half-stale bread from the kitchen so they wouldn’t have to ring for George.

After eating their fill, they bathed in silence. Despite the tension permeating the air and their bond—not too dissimilar to the way the air thickened just before lightning struck—they still traded the soaps back and forth. Merlin could hardly stop himself from scrubbing the dirt from the missed spot between Arthur’s shoulder blades and digging his fingers into the taut muscles.

Arthur’s gasp heated Merlin in an entirely new way, and he turned his back to keep the evidence of his physical attraction hidden. Not that it had done much good, though, because Arthur reached up and lathered shampoo into Merlin’s hair and the fingertips rasping along his scalp was borderline euphoric. He wanted to grasp Arthur’s wrist and drag his fingers elsewhere, but Merlin clamped down on the ridiculous notion. Just because Arthur had kissed him did not mean that he was ready—or extending a willingly invitation—to bed him.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, pain thick in his voice. “Who did that to you?”

“Did what?”

Arthur drew long lines across Merlin’s back. “Your scars. You have so many.”

Merlin exhaled around the knot that had formed in his gut as he prepared to expose yet another truth he’d kept hidden from Arthur for so long.  

“I collected them over the course of my years in your service. Each was earned in the pursuit of my destiny, and I regret none of them.”

Arthur traced each scar across Merlin’s back with his lips, pressing kisses into his skin. Merlin shuddered at the contact and scrambled out of the bath the second his hair was clean.

He evaporated the moisture from his skin with a single word before tugging on a fresh pair of soft trousers and a tunic meant for lounging.

“What, no wine?” Arthur remarked as he toweled off his hair, still dripping from the steaming bath.

“There really is no pleasing you, is there?” Merlin rolled his eyes but summoned the bottle of wine anyway. A semi-dry red from the royal pantry because while Merlin loved sweet wines, Arthur preferred only the barest of sweetness, and this was at least an attempt at a compromise.

Arthur wrapped the towel around his waist, leaving his upper body completely bare and practically glowing pink from the bath, then poured two goblets for them both.

“Whatever salts you added were a wonderful touch.”

Merlin drank greedily, hoping the wine would sooth his anxious nerves, but it didn’t. It only seemed to heighten both his anxiety and his exhaustion. That knot in his gut might as well have become an island for how much it isolated him from his king.

Arthur crossed his arms and leaned his back close to the hearth.

“Are you ready to discuss what’s on your mind, or shall we continue to tread lightly until morning?” Arthur asked, not unkindly.

Merlin swallowed and gestured to Arthur’s window where the square waited below. The people had all returned to their homes and left Aithusa to curl up in her usual spot like Camelot’s very own guard-dragon.

“Court Sorcerer, huh?”

“What of it, Merlin?” Arthur asked indignantly. “I know you’ve had your reservations in the past, but—”

“Yes!” Merlin snapped. “I have, and yet you dismissed my concerns and barreled forth regardless. Did you even pause to consider that my fears were not unfounded? I understand that it was necessary to establish me as nobility while this enchantment still tethers us, but I am the furthest thing from fit to hold such a position.”

 Arthur exhaled slowly. “At least we both agree on that.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Merlin, have you seen the latest construction project? Camelot now has a brand-new entrance into the castle walls, courtesy of you.”

Merlin flushed, but that knot wrenched in his gut like a twisting of a knife. Even if it had been accidental, it didn’t change the fact that it had happened. That there had likely been archers perched in the walls that had been injured or possibly worse. That his actions had rendered Camelot even more vulnerable in a time of war.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” Merlin said quietly. “I was just trying to protect you.”

“And I, you!” Arthur said. “Think what might have happened if I had not appointed you Court Sorcerer. The council likely would’ve called for imprisonment, or perhaps even death for such destruction!”

Arthur had a point, but Merlin was not about to admit that.

“But you never asked,” Merlin insisted, abandoning his wine and pushing away from the window. “The people of Camelot, they still fear magic. You have no way of knowing if they’ll accept me or turn against you because of me and your involvement with magic.”

“It was a calculated risk that I was willing to take.”

Merlin scoffed. “Right. Because historically, your calculations have paid off so spectacularly.”

Arthur’s jaw slackened. “What is that supposed to mean.”

“Your battle to the death with Queen Annis’ appointed soldier? That was a calculated risk, but you would have lost if not for me. Morgana had enchanted your sword, and had I not intervened—a variable for which you had not accounted—then you would have been dead! This kingdom would have fallen into the hands of Morgana, or worse!”

Arthur set his goblet down and pointed directly at Merlin.

“You’ve gone too far, this time, Merlin. You have no right—”

“As you had no right to appoint me Court Sorcerer!” Merlin said, both his anger and the heat of the fire drawing him closer to his king. “You didn’t even know that my magic would return. You made a decision about my life without consulting me, and you had no way of knowing whether or not it would even be necessary.”

The hard edge of rage in Arthur’s eyes softened and his hand fell slack against his side.

“But I did.”

“No.” Merlin was close enough that the temptation to reach out and shake the king for not making sense crept in. “You didn’t. Even I didn’t know if my magic would return until the last minutes in that cave.”

“But I knew,” Arthur said, somehow managing to be both stern and gentle at the same time, and it drew Merlin up short.

“I don’t understand.”

“I knew your magic would return because I never would’ve rested. You don’t need magic to be whole, Merlin, I love you with or without it, but for fucks sake, I would have gone to the ends of the earth to restore your powers if it meant you feeling even an inkling more like yourself.”

Merlin’s breath caught in his throat and all of his roiling anger came to a screeching halt.

“You—love me?”

Arthur didn’t hesitate. “With my entire being.”

Merlin expected doubt to creep up on him, but it didn’t. Not when Arthur had spoken so readily, so easily, as if he’d been holding the words in and they’d simply slipped out of their own volition.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispered his name like he might a prayer or a small spell. He couldn’t quite catch his breath. Heat coursed through him, as if a fever had caught beneath his skin and was simmering in his blood, coiling through him and tethering at the base of his spine. Except—no, it wasn’t tethered there. His own feelings were being reflected back to him through the tether.

Between their argument and his confession, Arthur’s chest was heaving, too, and his darkened eyes dipped to examine Merlin’s lips.

Merlin found himself frozen in place. He wanted to kiss his king, he wanted to tell him exactly how he felt, he wanted to do any number of dirty, filthy things to him, and all of them bottlenecked in his brain until his feet were rooted to the floor and his hands hung immobile at his sides.

And then Arthur was there. He grasped Merlin’s belt and hauled him in, fingers digging into Merlin’s waist for purchase. Merlin lost his balance and leaned wholly on his king as their lips met in a slide of heat unmatched by all but the flames flickering in the hearth.

Merlin ran his hands down the heated, damp skin of his king’s back. He traced the lines of muscle and the freedom to touch him—to touch his king like this—was so impossibly good that a groan rumbled through his chest and up his throat. Arthur swallowed it, licking the inside of his mouth with a possessive fervor that Merlin found intoxicating.

He followed Arthur’s lead, letting him guide them in this dance of tongues and teeth and lips on throats until the heat simmering in his blood was so overwhelming that he had to do something with it. He needed more. He needed to show Arthur precisely how much he loved him.

To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur didn’t resist as Merlin pushed and directed them until he was shoving Arthur’s back against the stone wall of his chambers. His king merely chuckled, his chest rumbling with the motion, and Merlin had the distinct sensation that Arthur—who was always in control, who always had to be the strongest, who always had to make the hard decisions—reveled in allowing someone he trusted to take the lead.

Merlin filed that thought away for another day because tonight was not the time to explore such matters beyond surface level. Tonight, his desire for Arthur had become a fundamental need. Merlin pressed Arthur into the wall with another fierce, searing kiss before he reeled back.

Arthur was beautiful. His hair mussed and eyes half-lidded with desire. The skin around his lips reddened from the intensity of their kisses. Merlin pinned his king to the wall, pressing kisses below the shell of his ear, in the hollow of his collar bone, at the base of his throat. He sucked Arthur’s nipple into his mouth and roguishly dragged the edge of his teeth over the bud. Arthur burrowed his hands into Merlin’s hair and his back arched off the stone ever so slightly, but Merlin made sure to catch his eye. He held the king’s gaze as he carefully dropped to his knees.

Arthur inhaled sharply, a wave of nerves cresting through the bond. Merlin braced his hands on Arthur’s hips and dipped his fingers just below the towel slung there before plying a kiss to his heated, bare skin.

“I’ve never known my king to shy away from worship.”

Arthur blushed a deep, comprehensive red that spread all the way from his cheeks into his chest. 

“I—I’m not—” Arthur stammered. 

Merlin relished in managing to fluster his king, so he pressed a kiss on his other hip and sank his fingers into the flesh of Arthur’s left buttock. 

“I need an enthusiastic yes, your highness. Anything else won’t do.”

“Yes,” Arthur exhaled. “Dear god, yes, it’s just—” He gasped as Merlin bit him. “I’ve never done this with—”

“A servant?” Merlin asked quietly. 

“A man.”

Merlin smiled then, confident and slow. “You’re in luck then, because I have.”

In one swift motion, Merlin freed the towel.

He’d seen Arthur naked hundreds of times. Always in passing, brief glances with the same air of casualty as the knights walked around half nude after trainings in the heat of the summer. 

But this… this was entirely uncharted waters, and Merlin rocked back on his heels to savor this moment. Arthur’s cock had swelled and was on the verge of hardness. His king was as sculpted as the marble statues lining the castle’s corridors, and he might as well have been carved from a slab of pure gold for all the light he absorbed and reflected back into Merlin’s life.

Perfect.

Every inch of him was perfect. From the chorded muscles of his thighs to the padding around his middle to his strong, feathering jaw to his wanton expression.

“You’re perfect,” Merlin whispered, despite his fears of overinflating his king’s ego. “Utterly perfect.”

Merlin palmed him, coaxing until the king was bulging and pulsating in his hand.

“Please.” Arthur tightened his grip on Merlin’s hair, pulling ever so slightly at his scalp, and he couldn’t help but think how delectable that particular word was coming from his king.  

Merlin spiraled his thumb along the head of Arthur’s cock, collecting the droplet of precum that had sprouted there. Then he lifted his thumb to his mouth and sucked.

Damn. Even the heady, salty taste of him was perfect.

Arthur shivered. “Merlin, please—”

Not one to deny his king, especially when this was practically one of his fantasies come to life, Merlin licked from the base of his shaft all the way to the tip where he swirled his tongue around the plump head of his cock. Arthur shuddered and whatever words he’d been about to add morphed into a guttural moan.

Then, Merlin took the entirety of him into his mouth in one gulp. 

Arthur cried out and gripped Merlin’s hair. It was all he could do to remain focused on the task at hand because—evidently—the tether shared more physical sensations than mere pain. It also shared intoxicatingly euphoric sensations, too.

The tether wasn’t simply humming pleasantly with this contact, it was alive with potent energy akin to the lightning he’d summoned on the battlefield. Phantom warmth built within him. Merlin strained against his own trousers and found himself fighting not to come as he bobbed up and down on Arthur’s cock.

If the little tremors cascading through Arthur’s body were any indication, his king was rather enjoying his expert ministrations.

And come to think, Merlin had so much more to show Arthur.

Merlin spared half a thought to silently cast a quick spell that deactivated his gag reflex before drawing Arthur so deep into his throat that his eyes began to water.

Arthur swore, and Merlin grinned around the royal cock.

“If…” Arthur gasped. “If you keep doing that—” Merlin cupped Arthur’s balls, grazing the sensitive skin gently, and began to hum. His own orgasm was brimming beneath the surface, threatening to overwhelm him, but he reined his attention back to his king’s pleasure. “I’m gonna—”

Merlin swallowed around the length of him, and Arthur groaned, loud and throaty. He came with Merlin’s name on his lips, and Merlin’s own orgasm burst behind his eyes, surprising him with both intensity and the lack of touch. It was all he could do to keep Arthur in his mouth and swallow down every last drop as he rutted against his trousers, seeking purchase where there was none.

“Fucking hell,” Arthur exhaled when Merlin finally released him with a wet pop. The king sank to his knees, banding his arms around Merlin and taking them both to the floor.

With his entire being still ignited from pleasure, Merlin hardly registered the cold stones digging into his hips and back. Arthur stroked Merlin’s arms and back and kissed every available inch of him. Post-orgasm Arthur, as it turned out, was both possessive and clingy, and Merlin felt an immense sense of pride at having coaxed that from him.

This was a version of Arthur that almost no one else had seen.

This version of Arthur was private and vulnerable. He’d left his armor at the door and given a piece of himself over to Merlin. It was only fair that Merlin return the favor.

“If it wasn’t obvious,” Merlin whispered across the infinitesimal space between them, “I’m completely and utterly yours. I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since I first laid eyes on your arrogant, pompous ass in the court yard.”

Nothing but sheer elation resounded through the bond, and Arthur drew him in for a slow, comprehensive kiss. He ran his hands down Merlin’s arms and gripped his waist fiercely.

Arthur reeled back, as if startled to find that Merlin was still fully clothed, and his attention drifted to the noticeable wet spot in his trousers.

“Did you—”

Merlin nodded. “I think…” Under normal circumstances, he might have been embarrassed, but not with Arthur. There was nothing he couldn’t tell his king, not anymore, at least. “I think the tether allows us to share more than emotions.”

Arthur hummed and nuzzled into Merlin’s neck. “Shared orgasms. This enchantment is sounding more like a gift and less like a curse with each passing day.”

Merlin snorted his laughter and pressed a kiss to Arthur’s temple.

He highly doubted that Morgana—or anyone for that matter—had known such a thing would be an unintended consequence of the enchantment.

“Still.” Arthur stroked Merlin’s chest, his fingers dipping beneath the neckerchief and skimming his bare skin. “Doesn’t seem fair that you spent so much time taking care of me, and I haven’t even touched you, yet.”

“You don’t have to, Arthur, really.”

“I know… but I want to.”

The mere thought that Arthur wanted to touch him, that he wanted to bring him as much pleasure as Merlin had brought him, was enough to ignite a coil of heat in his gut once more. As much as Merlin craved the sight of Arthur’s lips wrapped around his cock, he was even more desperate to try something else.

“There is something else we could do,” Merlin suggested.

Arthur lifted a brow at that. “What did you have in mind?”

Merlin nipped at Arthur’s throat before hopping to his feet and hauling Arthur along with him. “Oh, I have so much to teach you.”

Arthur made quick work of Merlin’s clothes. He only fumbled with the belt once because his fingers were trembling, and Merlin brought his hand to his mouth, plying a kiss there.

Merlin propped himself up with pillows once he was stark naked and summoned a bottle of unscented oil from the cabinet of bathing tinctures. After coating his fingers with it liberally, Merlin spread his legs for Arthur.

The king’s lips parted in awe, and he crawled onto the bed beside Merlin for a better vantage point. The king watched with fascination at first and then, as Merlin sank a finger into himself, a devouring hunger. As if Arthur wanted to be the person who prompted such pleasurable noises from his sorcerer.

Merlin had just added a second finger, working himself open, when Arthur dropped both his royal seal and his golden fidget ring onto the bedside table with a clink.   

“May I?” Arthur asked hoarsely.

“If you’d like to.”

Despite how quietly and nervously, the question had come, Arthur confidently dripped the oil over his index and middle fingers and leaned over Merlin to leave a trail of kisses, hot and wet, across the expanse of his chest and lower stomach.

His brow scrunched in concentration as he replaced Merlin’s fingers with his own. He slipped a finger inside Merlin with a level of care that sent Merlin’s breath hitching because this—this level of intimacy—was unimaginable.

Arthur was not rough and brutish as Merlin had often fantasized, but gentle. He approached this with the same level of attentive care and precision that he afforded swordplay.

“It doesn’t… hurt?”

His heart fluttered that his king’s only concern was Merlin’s wellbeing, even now. “It burns a little at first, but it’s well worth it.”

“Just… tell me what to do.”

“So you really do like being ordered around,” Merlin teased, but then Arthur added a second finger and pressed so deep that they grazed that sensitive bundle of nerves inside him.

A groan escaped Merlin, raw and indelicate, and Arthur smirked.

“That,” Merlin gasped. “Do that again.”

Arthur obliged and began to get creative as he coaxed Merlin open, adjusting his movements based on Merlin’s reactions and the reflexive pleasure thrumming across their bond. He twisted his fingers and scissored them inside Merlin, but the angle wasn’t quite right and Arthur continued to merely skim his prostate instead of pressing directly on it the way Merlin needed. The teasing might have been accidental, but Merlin could hardly take another second of it. His skin was half-feverish with desire.

At Merlin’s instructions, Arthur added another finger and curled them inside of Merlin when they were at their deepest—precisely where Merlin wanted them. His cry of pleasure was echoed with Arthur’s own.

“What the hell was that?” His king panted but repeated the motion.

Merlin grasped Arthur’s wrist to still him. “Stop.”

“Why, is it—bad?” And in his lust-filled haze, it took Merlin too long to realize that Arthur was worried about being unsatisfactory. So Merlin drew Arthur in and mapped the inside of his mouth with his tongue.

“You couldn’t be bad at this if you tried,” Merlin reassured him. “It’s just—if you keep that up, I’ll come again, and I don’t want that. Not until I know what it feels like to have you inside of me.”

Arthur blushed, his cheeks a dark crimson, and removed his fingers. Merlin whimpered at the loss of him and managed to clarify, “If you want that, that is.”

Fierce desire rippled in Arthur’s deep blue eyes and echoed down their bond.

“I want nothing more than to share your body with you.”

Arthur kissed Merlin’s forehead and stroked the line of his cheek. Each touch was tender and meant to sooth but only further ignited the prickling sensation beneath Merlin’s skin. Then he wrapped his fingers around Merlin’s cock, and he couldn’t help but pump into Arthur’s fist.

“Arthur,” Merlin moaned. “I need you.”

“Don’t rush your king.”

But Merlin tightened his grip in Arthur’s hair and yanked his head up from where he’d been suckling at his throat.

“I have spent years being patient and now that I’m this close? I don’t want to waste another second. Now, please, for the love of god, stop teasing and fuck me.”

Arthur swallowed roughly but nodded his agreement. “How do you want it?”

Merlin arranged them so that his knee was propped up in the crook of Arthur’s elbow and his back was lifted amongst plush pillows. His favorite position was from behind, but this first time, he wanted to watch Arthur’s expression.

Merlin gently guided Arthur’s length until they were lined up and then he let Arthur take the reins. Arthur pressed into him, slow and sure, and the sensation of being stretched and opened up—the feeling of Arthur’s cock buried deep inside of him—was entirely unparalleled.

When Arthur was all the way in, he paused, swearing and fighting to catch his breath, but that just wouldn’t do. Merlin grasped his ass to keep him that impossibly close and rolled his hips up into him.

“Fuck, Merlin.”

“I think that’s your job, highness.”

Arthur managed a half-hearted rueful glance that Merlin reveled in. Then Arthur set a rhythm, steadily drawing so far out that only the tip of his cock remained inside Merlin before sinking all the way in again. Merlin lifted his hips to meet him at every stroke. Thrust and retreat. Push and pull. Full and empty. Light and dark. A constant wave crashing against the shore. The moon setting with the rising sun.

This was so much more than simple sex. This was the melding of two opposing forces, the meeting of destinies, the two sides of a coin becoming one.

Merlin felt each thrust so deeply that his entire body began to hum with magic. The air was viscous with it and the very fabric of their beings had begun to stir in its wake.

Arthur pounded into him, harder and faster, and each stroke sent a wave of pleasure through him. He was close, so precariously close, and Arthur must have understood because he fisted Merlin’s cock once more and the duality of pleasure was overwhelming and perfect all at the same time.

He stroked him in time to the thrust of his hips. Once, twice, and the third time was his undoing.

Merlin’s orgasm cascaded through him, sending his entire body into a cycle of coiling and releasing. His stomach tightened as he arched off the pillows, his thighs convulsed, and his toes curled into the bedding. He burrowed his fingers into Arthur’s hip, almost hoping he might leave a bruise behind. His head tipped back against the headboard and magic burned behind his eyes even though he’d cast no spell.

The hearth blazed, extinguishing any cold lingering in drafty corners of the castle, and the candles’ flames expanded so wildly that it was a miracle the curtains didn’t catch fire.

His cry was muffled into Arthur’s palm as the king followed him over the edge into oblivion.

Arthur collapsed atop Merlin in a sweaty mess of limbs, and Merlin might as well have been boneless. He wanted nothing more than to remain under the weight of his king as little aftershocks of pleasure wracked his body for an indefinite stretch of time.

Eventually, Arthur found his lips and kissed him, slow and sweet.

“I love you, Merlin.”

Merlin swiped his tongue over Arthur’s cheek bone. “I know.”

Arthur bit Merlin’s throat, sending Merlin into a fit of squealing laughter.

“I love you, too.”

Merlin threaded their fingers together and wondered if their lives, their destinies, were always meant to be this entwined. If perhaps this thing between them had always been inevitable.

* * *

The castle woke slowly the following day.

Fog coated the entire castle and surrounding lands and it wasn’t until early afternoon that the sun succeeded in burning off that extra moisture. They grey day lent itself to the castle’s slow pace in the aftermath of battle.

For the first time since his magic had been stolen, Merlin had slept soundly, his sore and tender body wrapped in the king’s embrace.

They were indulging in a late breakfast when Merlin found Arthur studying him intently. They had both devoured an entire basket of fluffy white rolls and a plate of sausages and smoked ham before slowing down long enough to remember that tea and water existed.

“What is it, Arthur?”

“You’ve done that before?” Arthur asked quietly, his cheeks tinting pink. “With a man?”

Merlin drank heartily from his tea before answering. “Yes.”

“From Camelot?”

“I mean, he’s not from here, but he does reside here now.”

“Merlin.”

“Arthur.”

The king sighed heavily.

“If I tell you, my lord,” Merlin said, “it’ll only upset you.”

But a dark possessiveness had taken root in Arthur’s eyes and Merlin knew that there was no escaping this conversation without confessing the truth.

“Do I know him?”

“Very well, my lord.”

“Enough with the formal titles.”

“You seemed fond enough of it last night, highness.”

“Yes, except that now, it sounds much less like devotion and very much like a substitution for royal prat.”

“Your words, not mine.”

Arthur braced his hands against the table. “Merlin, please tell me.”

“I’ll tell you if you agree to tell me who you’ve shared a bed with in the past.”

Arthur considered those terms and nodded, apparently finding them agreeable.

“You must keep in mind that I have harbored feelings for you, Arthur, for years and believed them to be wholly unrequited. If I’d even had an inkling of hope that this was a possibility, then I never would have squandered my time with—”

“Tell me.”

Merlin couldn’t meet his gaze. “Gwaine.”

When the king had not moved a mere muscle, Merlin risked a glance at him. His jaw twitched and his nostrils flared. Arthur had loathed Gwaine at the start of their allyship, long before he’d become one of Camelot’s most important knights and then his friend.

“Would it be in poor taste if I ordered him to be burned at the stake?”

“Quite, my lord.” Merlin reached across the table to stroke his cheek. “Especially since there is no need. He and I never exchanged feelings, whereas I am unequivocally yours. Always have been. Always will be.”

Arthur exhaled and leaned into Merlin’s touch, pressing a kiss to his palm.

“You’re right. I know you’re right.”

“Your turn, love. What maidens have you stolen virtue from?”

Arthur winced. “On the eighteenth anniversary of my birth, my father paid several royal consorts to warm my bed. I’m not proud of it, but it wasn’t like I had many options for such outlets, either. Whoever I court, whoever I invite into my bed, the relationship can never be casual because it reflects not only on myself, but also on the kingdom. On the crown.”

That in itself was a heavy burden to bear, and doubt prickled at the edges of Merlin’s mind. Merlin was only nobility because of Arthur’s decree, but as Morgana had pointed out, he bore no royal blood. He was a mere servant, and Merlin couldn’t imagine how courting someone of such low rank—let alone a man—would reflect on the crown.

“And how do I measure up?” Merlin dared to ask.

Arthur swiped a thumb across the back of Merlin’s hand before raising it to his lips.

“You are everything I could have asked for and more, Merlin.”

The sentiment was earth-shattering. Merlin felt as though the ground had splintered beneath this feet and was reforming, fresh and new. The idea of publicly courting the king of Camelot was still unfathomable, but Arthur seemed so sure. His caress was so resolute that Merlin almost believed that future to be attainable.

Merlin was about to clear his throat to steer the conversation in a new direction, but Arthur beat him to it.

“I do have one question, though,” Arthur said, and Merlin nodded for him to continue. “Would you have gone through with it if I hadn’t intervened?”

Merlin knew immediately what his king was asking.

“I’m not sure, why?”

“Nothing. It’s just…” but Arthur released Merlin’s hand and crossed to the window where early afternoon light spilled through the stain glass.

Merlin joined him and rested a hand at the small of Arthur’s back as they watched the castle staff set up a banquet table outside so that Aithusa could partake in the revelry.

“Arthur, even if I had, would that have been the worst outcome?” Merlin asked gently. “Morgana has inflicted pain on so many people and so many of them were wholly undeserving of their fate. We’ve seen firsthand what keeping a prisoner alive without free will can do. Sparing her life was merciful, but if we cannot trust her not to harm more people, then she will remain locked away in that dungeon for the rest of her life. In the same vein that I have no regret for the scars I’ve gathered in the pursuit of my destiny, I would not have regretted taking her life.”

“Destiny… you mean protecting me?”

“Yes, Arthur. I do. You have to know by now that there are no limitations to what I will do for you. Hell, I would burn the world down if it meant keeping you safe, Arthur.”

But the words were not the balm Merlin meant them to be.

“If I’m honest, Merlin, that frightens me.”

Merlin’s gut plummeted and his heart clenched. “Sire?”

The expression on Arthur’s face, the hesitation resounding from the bond, said everything that his king could not. He was concerned that Merlin might follow in Morgana’s footsteps. That his dedication to protecting Arthur was too similar to Morgana’s relentless pursuit for power.

“I swear on my life, on yours, that I will never follow the same path as Morgana,” Merlin whispered to his king. “Do you want to know how I know?”

“How?”

“Because you are my balance.” Merlin stroked the soft skin of Arthur’s cheek. “Your goodness, your nobility that runs so much deeper than simple blood, is what keeps me in check. You, Arthur, are the light in the darkness, and I will never stop looking to you for guidance. If you want to keep Morgana alive, then we will find a way to do so.”

The crease between his brows and the tight lines around his jaw softened, and Arthur welcomed Merlin into his embrace. Merlin rested his cheek against Arthur’s and squinted against a flare of light as the sunshine illuminated the stolen crystal in the corner of their room.

“Wait, that’s it.” Merlin tore himself away from Arthur and paced the room as he considered the variety of outcomes.

“What’s it?”

“All Morgana wants is power, isn’t it?”

“More or less,” Arthur agreed.

“Then I have an idea. And it’s just crazy enough that it might just work.”

Chapter Text

Arthur

For the first time since Arthur could remember, Camelot was at peace.

A true, unshakeable peace.

The Saxons had not returned, and Arthur was confident that they would not dare as long as Merlin resided at court.

Before last night’s battle, Arthur had never witnessed such a terrifying display of power. The warm fluttering that usually translated down the bond that he’d come to associate with Merlin’s magic had infinitely multiplied. A forest fire had burned in his gut and set his body thrumming—as if Merlin’s magic had crafted a personal earthquake meant only for Arthur. 

Not once had Arthur felt that he was in danger. For all the raw power that Merlin displayed, he had never come close to losing control. Arthur was beginning to wonder if Merlin had merely scratched the surface of his real abilities. And if that were the case… who the hell needed a goddamn army when his sorcerer could harness power greater than any army combined?

For their celebration, the courtyard was adorned with braided vines and blossoming flowers. Fireflies danced around the decorations, adding a soft glow to the harsh light cast from torches and bonfire. Bouquets of wildflowers served as center pieces that were shoved unceremoniously aside when steaming platters of food were brought out from the kitchens and placed atop the banquet table.

Arthur rose to his feet, tugging Merlin up alongside him, and addressed the people of Camelot who had gathered together on this fine eve.

“Tonight, we honor those who fell in battle. Their deaths were honorable and shall never be forgotten. Tonight, we honor those who fought side by side against the Saxons. Those who were injured in the pursuit of protecting our great city. Every single man and woman who took up arms to protect Camelot was imperative to defeating Morgana. Unity of that measure laid the foundation for which we will build a new era in Camelot. An era of peace and prosperity. An era in which we need not concern ourselves with the enemy because they no longer pose a viable threat.”

Applause broke out amongst the crowd, loud and overwhelming, and Arthur felt Merlin flinch through the bond. Arthur eased closer and wrapped his fingers around Merlin’s wrist, hidden behind their legs so no one else could see the subtle comfort. After last night, he could barely stand to be apart from him. Any distance between them at all felt like leagues. He itched to be in constant contact with him, to feel the smooth expanse of skin beneath his fingertips.

The bond hummed happily, and Arthur fought the smile threatening to break out in response. When the applause had quieted, he raised his goblet with his free hand.

“Tonight, we feast!”

The crowd roared and stomped their feet; others banged their fists against their tables. Aithusa exhaled fire into the darkening sky, an echo of the still blazing bonfire that she had lit hours before.

Arthur did give into the sweet temptation of a smile, then, sharing the expression with Merlin as he tightened his grip on the sorcerer.

Even as the revelry celebrating the ringing in of a new era for Camelot stretched into the early hours of the morning, the entertainers and dancers who had gathered from across the lands showed no signs of exhaustion. Their feet continued to drum across the cobblestone and the singers religiously filled their lungs with fresh oxygen between each belted syllable.

Arthur reached for his wine, only to discover that a droplet remained in his goblet. With Merlin deep in conversation with Gaius, he casually switched their goblets and was in the midst of a large gulp when the sorcerer piped up, “Oi, did you just steal my wine?”

Arthur set the goblet down a little too hard.

“Technically, it’s the royal wine, so it was mine to begin with.”

Merlin raised his hand and a ring of gold banished the brilliant blue of his eyes. With the same level of ease that Merlin had mended the outer walls of Camelot, the pitcher of wine floated out of a stunned servant’s grasp and tipped to pour wine into the empty goblet.

“All you had to do was ask, love.”

Heat flooded into Arthur’s cheeks that had nothing to do with the crackling bonfires.

“Perhaps our highness has had enough?” Gwaine stumbled out of the crowd that had gathered behind the banquet table, nearly falling into the half-empty platters of food before catching himself smoothly with a single hand braced atop Merlin’s chair.

The heat drained from Arthur’s cheeks and settled in his gut, wrenching it tightly.

“Perhaps you should mind your own business,” Arthur snapped. He slipped a leg under Merlin’s heavy wooden chair and dragged it closer to his own.

Gwaine’s brows shot up, disappearing beneath the long hair covering his forehead. With a hearty laugh, he reached into the crowd and dragged Elyan out.

“I believe you owe me a purse of coins, good sir.” Gwaine gestured to the arm that Arthur had secured protectively around Merlin’s waist.  

Elyan brightened, his eyes sparkling and his jaw hanging open, before he grasped Perceval by the shoulders and leapt in the air, crying, “Finally!”

Lancelot poked his head out of the crowd, but Leon merely crossed his arms over his chest with a knowing smirk. “About damn time.”

Arthur might have grumbled except for the way that Merlin leaned into him, his hand resting atop Arthur’s knee beneath the table and stroking softly. And because, while his friends were teasing, there wasn’t an ounce of jealousy or malice among them. They were high-fiving and clapping each other—and Arthur and Merlin—on the back in celebration.

Maybe Morgana had been right.

Arthur really was the last to know his own feelings.

“Pray tell, where is your wife?” Merlin asked Lancelot.

The knight tipped his head toward the castle. “The dungeons, last I heard. Said something about wanting to take a plate of food to Morgana.”  

Panic spiked through Arthur, and Merlin went rigid in the circle of his arm.

“Morgana?” Arthur asked.

“You let her go alone?” Leon demanded.

“If you think I let my wife do anything, then you clearly don’t know her.”

Arthur and the knights chuckled, but the laughter fizzled. Even without her magic and bars of steel separating them, Morgana would not hesitate to wield her vicious, cruel tongue. Arthur followed the tension down the bond where Merlin must have reached the same conclusion.

Leon’s smile was the first to fall. Arthur exchanged a tense glance with Merlin, which quickly reversed Lancelot’s boisterous spirits. All at once, the knights lurched through the crowd and hurried across the courtyard and into the dungeons.

Before rounding the corner into the row of cells, Merlin flung out a hand to stop them. The knights had picked up so much speed that they barreled into each other and would have knocked Merlin over if Arthur hadn’t shifted his weight to brace the force of them against his back. Merlin rolled his eyes at the chaotic cluster—which was not helped by Gwaine’s hiccup—but couldn’t hide his budding smile and lifted a finger to his lips.

Gwen’s voice filled the cavernous space.

“Do not forget, Lady Morgana, that there are those of us who cared for you long before you became an enemy to Camelot.”

“Do not expect me to return your affections,” Morgana snapped. “You were only ever my lady in waiting.”

“Don’t say only.” Though Gwen’s voice was wrought with emotions, it did not wave or falter. “I was your lady in waiting, of course I was, but I was your friend, first. I have missed you with every passing day. I know that you believe yourself to no longer be the same person but—”

“Because I am not!” Arthur could imagine with all too-perfect clarity the vicious expression on Morgana’s face. The curl of her lip as she barred her teeth. “I killed her. She was weak and pathetic and scared. I slaughtered her so that I could become who I am today.”

Gwen sighed. “Perhaps your speech would dissuade a lesser acquaintance, but know this, my lady: I am not giving up on you.”

“Perhaps,” Morgana mocked, “you should save yourself the heart ache. Everyone else has.”

The words echoed through the dim chamber illuminated only with the flickering torches that lined the walls.

As Gwen drew near their hidden alcove, Lancelot pushed to the front of their group.

“Are you all right?” He smoothed the hair from her face and stroked her tear-stained cheek.

“Not particularly,” Gwen answered before addressing Merlin. “I’m not sure I can get through to her.”

Merlin squeezed her hand. “I’m not sure any of us can, but you were brave for trying.”

Even after his friends departed the dungeon in favor of the celebrations, Arthur was still rooted to the spot. The adrenaline had burned through the wine in his blood, and he was torn between the urge to berate Morgana for lashing out at quite possibly the only friend she had left in the world and the urge to leave before he did anything he might regret.

Merlin’s plan for Morgana was foolproof. But, at the end of the day, it would only work if Morgana wanted it to. At this rate, Arthur was convinced that she would rather rot in that cell for the rest of her life.

* * *

Arthur supposed he should be nervous for today’s Council Meeting, but he wasn’t. He welcomed the morning with ease. He bathed in steaming water in and studied the way the kaleidoscope of stain-glass colors cascading through the window played across the expanse of Merlin’s skin. Arthur lathered soap and across the muscles of Merlin’s back and reveled in the small noises it elicited from Merlin.

He pressed kisses to the dips in Merlin’s shoulder, and that was all it took for Merlin to grind against him. After that first night together, they hadn’t gone long without the urge resurfacing, and this was no exception. Arthur couldn’t help but indulge in Merlin’s body. The lingering euphoria that reverberated through the bond afterward was borderline addictive.

Afterward, as they held each other in the still-steaming water, Merlin whispered a few words beneath his breath, and the water that had sloshed outside the bath evaporated.

It wasn’t until Arthur was fully dressed and sipping tea that his nerves began to crackle. Because despite the decadent smile playing across Merlin’s lips, he was packing a bag and humming without a care in the world.

The satchel was much too large for any ordinary adventure, and they weren’t set to embark on their journey across the lands for a few more days. No, the clothes that Merlin stuffed inside it were not for travel. They were for everyday use.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Packing,” Merlin said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Planning a trip somewhere?”

“Of course. As soon as the tether is severed, I plan to run as far from Camelot as possible.”

Arthur didn’t even realize that he’d dropped his mug until it shattered on the floor. He could scarcely breathe because despite Merlin’s teasing tone, it was not that long ago that he had been determined to leave Camelot permanently.

But Merlin couldn’t leave.

His absence would render the halls empty, the castle lifeless, and Arthur’s chambers into a prison of loneliness. His chest tightened and his next breath was too shallow.

The bond must have betrayed his distress because Merlin discarded the satchel and crossed the room to Arthur. He gently tugged him away from the broken pottery and skimmed up and down Arthur’s arms before coming to rest at the base of his throat, hovering just over his heart.

“I was joking, love. You’re a fool if you think I could ever abandon you.”

Arthur drew back, forcing physical space between them where he felt the emotional distance.

“Then I’m a fool.”

Merlin inhaled sharply. “Arthur, I’m not packing to leave. I’m packing because I can’t reasonably reside in the king’s quarters forever. Once the tether is severed, we won’t be required to spend every single night together.”

The words struck Arthur like a blow to the gut, radiating nausea through him.

“So, you would not spend the night with me if it was not a requirement?”

Merlin’s lips parted. “Of course I would. If it was up to me, we’d never leave your goddamn bed,” he said with a half-feral sparkle in his eye. “It’s not—”

“Then what?”

“We might act as though we’re courting, but we’re not. We could never, and you know precisely why.”

Arthur did know why. Merlin was not only a previous servant, not only a magic user but a man, too. Same sex partnerships were not uncommon in Camelot. Those couples simply did not marry, though their commitment and loyalty to each other was understood. Such partnerships were certainly not the norm and if nobility—let along the king—engaged in one, it could only be in secret. Behind closed doors where no one could see them.  

Usually, there was a marriage. A façade built on smoke and mirrors. An advantageous union with a noble woman who could provide a unified front for the kingdom. Which would reduce Merlin to little more than a paramour. When Arthur considered the reality of that—a loveless marriage with Merlin hiding in the shadows as he had done for so many years—his stomach churned. He was suddenly glad he hadn’t gotten around to eating breakfast because it would’ve made an unsightly reappearance.

Surely, if the kingdom could accept a dragon, if they could accept that not all magic was born of evil, then they could accept the king and his male partner who made him unfathomably happy.

“I don’t want things to change between us.”

Merlin softened his gaze. “But they must, my lord. You know that as well as I.”

The formal title was a slap to the face. All of that closeness they’d harbored nights ago when they’d shared more than just a bed had evaporated in the light of day.

Reaching for Merlin now felt akin to grasping at delicate threads that frayed and dissolved the tighter he clung to them.

“Merlin, I—”

A knock interrupted them. The summons for the council meeting Arthur had requested. He shut his eyes and tried to wrestle his mind back to the task at hand. His duty and his land came before any personal turmoil.

Merlin whispered a spell. The mug reformed and sat whole and abandoned on the table, as if nothing had ever happened. If only it were possible to mend everything in life with such ease.

Merlin

The air in the council chambers was so charged that Merlin could have sworn that a lightning strike was imminent. Even though Arthur was within arm’s reach, the tether was drawn taut as if one of them had stepped outside its bounds.

It was a constant irritant that muddled Merlin’s thoughts and clouded his judgement. The urge to reach beneath the table and touch Arthur was nearly irresistible, but he steeled himself and instead clenched his hands into fists.

The council spent a majority of the time debating whether or not Morgana deserved a fair trial. One of the old farts, Lord Devon, Merlin thought his name might be, had suggested that if Morgana was punished, then Merlin should be as well. After all, he was responsible for the breach in the castle wall and the subsequent deaths.

Wherever Arthur had allowed his mind to wander to, this accusation from Lord Devon seemed to snap the king out of his reverie. His brilliant blue eyes narrowed in on the old man, the lethal gaze of a hawk who had spotted its prey.

“A wall that has already been mended,” Arthur stated flatly.

It had been Merlin’s first point of order—to fix that which he had broken.

Lord Devon scowled. “That does not negate the lives that were lost.”

Merlin’s breath caught in his throat because, in some twisted way, Lord Devon had a point. He’d inquired about the names of the four innocent archers who were posted atop that section of the wall and had not managed to evacuate in time, and Leon had supplied them. Merlin had churned them over and over in his mind and wished that his miscalculation had not been fatal. With Arthur’s help, Merlin had sent funds and royal baked goods to their families along with an apology letter. It wasn’t much, but it helped Merlin sleep at night.

“While those lives lost were indeed tragic,” Arthur said, “Merlin’s actions were in defense of the kingdom. His appointment as Court Sorcerer grants him amnesty. Ultimately, his actions shortened the length of the war and saved far more lives than he took.”

“Temporary,” Lord Devon muttered.

“Sorry?” Arthur demanded. Merlin prickled with irritation that only partly belonged to him. This idiotic noble was wearing Arthur’s patience thin, and if he wasn’t careful, he might receive the full brunt of Arthur’s royal rage.

Lord Devon cleared his throat. “You appointed Merlin as temporary Court Sorcerer.”

“What a wonderful segue into our next topic of discussion,” Arthur said.

“But sire, we have not yet decided Lady Morgana’s fate.”

“You may not have decided, but I have.” Arthur extended a hand and a servant came forward with an empty chair, setting it down beside Arthur’s own. “Lady Morgana will be extended a courtesy that my father never afforded her. A choice.”

A murmur resounded through the council that this was not severe enough.

“I fear that Morgana will remain a threat,” said another elderly man that Merlin recognized from Uther’s era. One that had watched as Morgana grew into her powers and as the fear of what Uther might do if he ever discovered the truth lured her into the arms of evil.

“My solution for that is my next and final point of order. I wish to permanently entrench my otherwise temporary, emergency decree of both Court Sorcerer, Merlin, and his amnesty.”

Red flooded Lord Devon’s plump cheeks. “Permanently? Sire, you couldn’t possibly—”

“Not only could I possibly do that, but it is absolutely within my power to do so. Merlin will reside at my side, as Court Sorcerer, for as long as he so chooses. He is otherwise released from his previous duties as my servant and will henceforth be responsible for educating and training those who can wield magic and wish to learn within our kingdom.”

Cries of outrage echoed through the hall.

“But sire!”

“That would require legalizing magic!”

“But your father—”

Arthur rose to silence them, his chair scraping against the tile.

“If I have not already made this abundantly clear, I am not my father. With all due respect for the man that secured Camelot and its future generations, his laws were born from a time of strife and war. One that we no longer need fight. Magic has never been our enemy. No one would blame the sharp edge of a sword for cutting when it is in fact the wielder who dealt the blow. In the right hands, magic has the potential to unify our people and thrust our kingdom into an entirely new era of peace.”

In the reigning silence, Arthur returned to his seat.

Merlin beamed at his king and nudged Arthur’s knee with his own. Even the barest of contact was a breath of fresh air, an anchor in the tumultuous seas of antiquated opinions.

Lord Devon slammed his palms atop the table as he hauled his bulbous form to his feet. He aimed an accusatory finger at Merlin, so close to his chest that Merlin had to fight the urge to bat it away.

“Clearly, you have enchanted King Arthur!” Then he addressed the rest of the council—ignoring the knights who were growing increasingly agitated with each passing second. “Merlin has warped the king’s mind, his memory, and demanded this unquestioning loyalty. We cannot allow this motion to pass. Otherwise, I fear that we may forever lose Camelot as we know it.”

Merlin’s breath came shallow and his chest ached. This was his nightmare. He had never once assumed that lifting the ban on magic would be as smooth as Arthur had promised, but this was—unfathomable.

“Sit down, you blithering idiot.” The voice shattered the silence, but it wasn’t Arthur or any of the knights that had spoken. It was Gaius. His chin held high and his eyes blazed with a mixture of determination and rage. This wasn’t just the healer that had taken Merlin under his wing without hesitation. This was the man who had been forced to hide his true nature, to turn his back on his friends and loved ones all in the name of peace. This was a man who was no longer willing to sacrifice everything to keep a fragile sliver of peace intact.

“Magic has been integral to the world since the very beginning. The ban that Uther initiated could not stop magic any more than time could be halted. With all due respect to our late king, Uther Pendragon was a fool to believe that he could smother magic by erasing history.”

Lord Devon huffed. “A fool? How dare—”

But Merlin was tired of the interruptions. He wished Lord Devon would simply shut his mouth so that they could finish a goddamn thought in peace. The burn behind his eyes was brief, and then Lord Devon’s mouth snapped shut. His eyes blew wide with terror and the muscles in his thick jaw feathered as the old man tried—and failed—to open his mouth.

Gwaine and Percival snickered across the table, silenced only by Merlin’s glare and Leon’s swift kick beneath the round table.

Gaius, though, merely forged onward as if nothing had happened.

“Magic is as unstoppable as the raging river and as common-found as droplets of rain descending upon the land. Unlike fire that leaves destruction in its wake, water offers us life itself. It cannot be separated from life and progress, in the same manner that magic cannot.”

The man beside Lord Devon, another elder from Uther’s time who Merlin had always found sensible and soft spoken, laced his fingers together atop the table.

“After Merlin’s demonstration of power during the battle with Morgana, I certainly have a greater appreciation for how magic can aid Camelot as a powerful nation, but I do not see how magic could propel this kingdom into the future. Or why should the title of Court Sorcerer should be bestowed on Merlin and not another sorcerer?”

“By all means,” Arthur said in a lethal quiet, “bring forth any which you believe might better suit this kingdom than Merlin. I’m quite confident that no one you could scrounge up from the depths of this kingdom is capable of besting my sorcerer.”

The elderly man paled but relented.

Lord Devon squirmed in his seat, his cheeks bright red. Despite the lord’s grating, irritating voice, Merlin supposed he needed to lift the enchantment before he choked on his own spit. With half a thought, Merlin released the binding.

The man gasped and sputtered and only just managed to catch himself before crumpling forward on the round table. He rubbed at his jaw and glared at Merlin.

“Was that truly necessary?”

“Are you?” Lancelot mumbled.

“What was that?” Lord Devon demanded, but the knight merely descended into a coughing fit and Elyan patted him on the back repeatedly. “My earlier point still stands. Merlin possesses no noble blood and therefore can stake no claim to such a title.”

Arthur turned the full weight of the royal glare on Lord Devon. “Not all who are worthy possess noble blood, and not all those who are in possession of noble blood are worthy.”

If Lord Devon’s thin mouth pinched even thinner, it would disappear from existence.  

“Perhaps, your highness would not be so entranced if he were not sharing your bed like a common whore.”

The blood in Merlin’s veins solidified into ice. He hadn’t believed their arrangement to be common knowledge. He had anticipated attacks on his own person, but certainly not the king. This was precisely why Merlin had begun packing his bag this morning. He’d wanted to spare Arthur this humiliation, this dishonor.

Metal scraped against metal as the knights reached for their weapons, their leather gloves squeaking as they gripped their hilts. Merlin wanted to tell them not to bother. That his dignity wasn’t worth their effort. But the words caught in his throat, thick and heavy and unwilling to tumble forth.

His veins quickly thawed with a raging fire that ran deeper and hotter than his own. The rage of a king who had been too long disrespected and underestimated. The ire of a king whose tolerance had officially expired.

“If you ever speak to the man I’m courting like that again, I will have your head.” The heat had leeched from Arthur’s voice. The lethal quiet with which he spoke was somehow more terrifying than his wrath. “Unlike my father, I care little for the traditions of old and do not subscribe to the belief that the inkling of royal blood you possess should absolve you of your impertinence.”

Lord Devon sputtered. “Courting? You are courting this man?”

Merlin couldn’t discern if Lord Devon was more flustered over Merlin being a man, a sorcerer, or peasant born. Though, he supposed it hardly mattered.

Merlin was dizzy with the reality of what Arthur had just done. This was beyond Merlin’s wildest dreams. It must be a vision conjured by some unearthly fever. He must be bed ridden in Gaius’ chambers a breath from death.

Arthur raised Merlin’s hand to his mouth. The press of hot lips sent the spinning, off-kilter word shrieking to a halt so suddenly that Merlin couldn’t quite catch his breath.

“Indeed. And if any one of you has an issue with that, then I encourage you to take your leave. I have every intention of spending the rest of my life with this man, and if you find that unacceptable, then I no longer require your council.”

Arthur had chosen him. He had publicly declared that Merlin was not just vital to the court, to the kingdom, but to Arthur himself on the most personal level.

Pride swelled in Merlin’s chest.

Lord Devon stood, his chair clattering against the tile.

“This is an outrage! We cannot allow the court of Camelot to be thus tainted with such insolence.”

“Might I suggest that you are the only one who feels that way, Lord Devon?” Leon gestured to the other knights and their hands ready and waiting atop their weapons. “You should accept King Arthur’s offer and leave whilst you are still able.”

The threat was subtle, but effective.

“I have never been so disrespected.”

“And neither have I,” Arthur snapped. “Leave this Court and know that your return is not welcome. Your title shall remain intact, but only out of courtesy.”

Lord Devon wasn’t even to the door before he rounded on them once more. “The court and the kingdom will suffer without my council!”

“I very much doubt that,” Arthur said before turning to the nobility—mostly wives of knights and other council members—permitted to attend the meetings. “Gwen, would you be so kind as to join us at the round table?”

Gwen straightened in her seat. “Sire?”

“Please do us the honor of joining this council. I would greatly appreciate your much needed perspective and wisdom.”

Lord Devon’s eyes bulged, and Merlin wondered if the pulsing vein in his temple might burst. Guards half-restrained, half-escorted Lord Devon from the council chambers as Gwen sank into the wooden council chair.

“While the ways of old have informed our present, they hold no bearing on our future. I have a vision for Camelot, but I cannot achieve it alone. Nor can it be achieved with the shackles of bigotry weighing us down.”

Arthur pinned Merlin in place with his gaze. He was caught up in the riptide of those brilliant blue eyes that were as deep and relentless as the rising tide. He couldn’t have looked away even if he’d wanted to.

“All those in support, say ‘aye.’”

Gaius and Leon were the first to speak, their voices reverberating through the hall. Then Perceval and Gwaine and Lancelot and Elyan. Affirmatives echoed around the table, one after another. Not a single soul opposed the king and his precedent.

Just like that, the council was no longer an event that Merlin had to endure, but instead, a discussion amongst his closest friends. It had happened slowly, Merlin realized. Slowly but surely, the court—and the castle itself—had become safe. He no longer watched over his shoulder as he walked the halls. He no longer had to hold his breath with the council. Technically speaking, he no longer had to worry about an endearing nickname slipping out, either. Arthur had seen to that.

The rest of the council filed out, leaving Merlin and Arthur alone in the hall.

“Thank you,” Merlin whispered.

“Don’t thank me, Merlin.” Arthur ran a hand through his hair. “Not for that.”

Something crackled across the tether that Merlin couldn’t quite parse. Something unsteady and uncertain. It wasn’t aimed at Merlin directly, but it certainly encompassed him.

Merlin worried at his lip and reached for his king, who leaned into the touch readily. As if he had never been uncertain about Merlin a day in his life.

“If this were another time, if another king sat atop that throne, this day would have ended with me strapped to a burning pyre,” Merlin said. “So, yes, I dare say you deserve my gratitude.”

Arthur hummed and nuzzled into Merlin’s temple.

“I made you a promise, Merlin. One that I intend to keep.”

Merlin knew precisely the promise and despite the conviction with which the king spoke, the likes of which rang true across the tether, Merlin still struggled to comprehend the lengths to which Arthur would go to keep him safe.

Perhaps that was the key, then. Arthur would keep Merlin safe, and Merlin would keep Arthur safe. A perpetual cycle that either would rather die than disrupt.

Merlin leaned forward to capture the king’s lips. The kiss was warm and soft and steady, and everything that he ever could have asked for.

“One last problem to solve.” Merlin leaned his forehead against Arthur’s, breathing in the scent of him.

“The bond?”

“Ah, so two problems.”

Arthur

The sapphire gown crafted of the finest velvet and gold thread lay discarded in the corner of Morgana’s cell. She was huddled in the corner with her arms wrapped around herself. Despite the warm spring day, the barren dungeons retained no heat. Her skin was raised with little bumps, but she didn’t so much as shiver. Four trays of hearty bread and cheese were left untouched.

“Is your intention to starve to death?”

“Tell me, dear brother, what use is carrying on when I have no kingdom, no loyalty, no friends, no family, no dragon, and worst of all, no magic.”

Merlin stepped forward, the toes of his new calf-skin boots brushing against the worn and rusting bars. Now that he’d been regularly using Arthur’s quality soaps, his hair was shining even in the dim light of the dungeon, and Arthur knew precisely how soft it felt beneath his fingers.

“It’s an uneasy feeling, isn’t it?” Merlin asked.

“It feels wrong,” Morgana whispered, almost to herself. Perhaps she really had lost her will to fight, then. “It feels like… like I’m missing…”

“A limb,” Merlin offered.

“Like missing a limb,” she agreed. “Do you consider us even now, Emrys?”

The sorcerer clenched his fists, and Arthur felt the heat simmering behind Merlin’s eyes like it was his own, but he kept it in check. No tendril of magic sprouted forth.

“I don’t know that we will ever be even, Morgana,” Merlin said.

Morgana clawed at the walls of her dungeon to haul herself to her feet. Her legs trembled and she swayed, but she stood tall and proud. The black line of makeup beneath her eyes had bled into patches that adorned her pale skin like bruises.

“Let us not forget that this feud began with you,” Morgana snapped, reclaiming some of her fire. “You were the first to make an attempt on my life.”  

“Do not pretend that my actions were not in response to your enchantment meant to lull all of Camelot into an eternal slumber. That is the difference between us, Morgana. I have always done what is necessary to save the people of Camelot, but even from the beginning, you had no consideration for innocent people.”

Morgana scoffed. “Do not pretend that you claim to be among them.”

“I carry my fair share of deaths, but each one was made in defense of my life, or the life of my king. Even my attempt on your life served that end.”

“No, your attempt to poison me was utterly selfish. If you had confided in me about your abilities, I would have felt so much less alone. But no, you left me to believe that you were powerless.”

“I did not know who I could trust,” Merlin admitted, and Arthur felt the cold pang of despair and remorse shiver through the bond.

“Now you never will.”

“Is that so? Even when I am prepared to restore your magic?”

Morgana squinted at him. “At what cost?”

“Too little, in my opinion,” Merlin said. “You must assist me in discovering sorcerers and training them in the art of healing. You must reside within Camelot and not partake in any treasonous activity. Your abilities will not be restored immediately, but after you have demonstrated your usefulness to Camelot and your lasting change of heart.”

“And?” Morgana asked. 

“And, you must forfeit any rights to the throne.”

She scoffed. “I will do no such thing.”

Merlin pocketed the crystal. “Suit yourself, but the alternative is… less than ideal.”

“Which is?”

Arthur stepped forward now because, while the former offer would be Merlin’s responsibility, the repercussions of this would weigh on Arthur’s shoulders. “You will be henceforth banished from Camelot, and if you should ever return, you will be slain on sight.”

Morgana laughed, hollow and confident. “You are welcome to try.”

“Oh, it would not be a matter of trying,” Arthur said. “If you chose that path, your magic will remain in Merlin’s custody for the remainder of your life.”

Her humor slipped into gaping horror. “Those are my choices? Imprisonment with my magic or banishment without it.”

When neither of them said anything, Morgana slumped against the wall and slid down it until her head was cradled in her hands. She looked so young, so small, and Arthur’s heart ached.

Merlin brushed his shoulder against Arthur’s, and a wave of comfort washed through him.

“Would it really be so bad to remain in Camelot?” Arthur asked. “You would have Gwen and Aithusa to keep you company.” It felt too great a risk to include himself in that list.

“They loathe me,” Morgana mumbled into her hands. “I’ve turned them all against me.”

“If you truly believe that, then you do not know either of them.” Arthur nearly left it at that, but the next words leapt from his tongue before he could stop them. “Morgana, you claim to have no family left, and yet, you cannot refrain from calling me brother.”

Her head snapped up, then. “You speak as though that is a title that should be held in high regard. Any relative of mine is doomed to abandon me.”

“Your father did not abandon you, Morgana.”

“No, but he died and left me in the hands of Uther. That alone disqualifies him from innocence.”

Silence stretched as taut as the tether.

“C’mon,” Merlin said, reaching for his king. “Let us allow her time to consider her options.”

Arthur felt the tug of Merlin, both in the grasp of his fingers and then in the gentle tug of the tether, but his feet were rooted to the hard cellar ground.

“Do not forget that I was the first in this castle to love you,” Arthur whispered. “And of the two of us, I was not the one who left.”

With that, Arthur left his sister alone with the bleak reality of her actions.

* * *

Sleep refused to claim Arthur. The worry clattering through his mind made sure of that.

Merlin, evidently, was not afflicted with such worry. The deep breaths and steady rise and fall of his chest as he slept were the only thing keeping Arthur from tearing his hair out.

With each passing moment, he became even more acutely aware of the slippage of time. They had a long journey ahead of them tomorrow—after consulting Gwen, she’d agreed that Morgana was not likely to provide them an answer before they left for the mountains in Asgorath—and Arthur needed to be prepared.

He had no idea what to expect. While he was no stranger to that and while he trusted Merlin to handle that which Arthur could not, he couldn’t seem to breathe around the prospect of tomorrow.  

Because after tomorrow, he would be alone again. As he always had been.

He had known that this time—this bond—would eventually come to an end, and yet, Arthur couldn’t help but dread being parted from Merlin. Before he had arrived in Camelot and inserted himself in Arthur’s life, Arthur had been remarkably alone.

Though technically he never had been—he was constantly surrounded by royal guards, Morgana had resided down the hall, and his father’s presence had made the entire castle seem smaller—he’d never had a friend like Merlin before. One he could tell everything to. One he could rely on because he was always there before Arthur even had to ask. One that listened and trusted him.

This bond that Morgana had brought to life had only deepened their connection.

Merlin and the elder dragon were so convinced that they were two sides of the same coin, but Arthur disagreed.

Merlin was his mirror. The only person who understood him with perfect clarity, who not only bore witness to each flaw and imperfection, but adorned each one with love and acceptance. In the same breath that Merlin challenged Arthur, he also held space for him to become a better version of himself. 

Arthur feared the entirely new brand of loneliness that would inevitably come for him when the spell was broken. He couldn’t help, either, the nagging worry that their connection would fizzle. That the tether had not intertwined them permanently, irreversibly, but instead had burned like a fuse and all that would be left at the end of this was a pile of ash where there had once been friendship and fondness and love. 

Arthur distracted himself with carting his fingers through Merlin’s hair as he resigned himself to the fact that in the face of resounding uncertainty, he would know no rest.

Merlin

The twin peaks of Asgorath were still trapped in early spring. The brisk air was thin, and it took more breaths than normal to fill Merlin’s lungs.

The strange forest was dense and thick with vegetation that Merlin didn’t recognize. Unlike Camelot, these trees stretched higher toward the sun and their branches didn’t begin until several meters above their heads. The trunks spanned the same length as a horse, and the forest floor was coated in a layer of fuzzy green moss that dampened their footfalls as they advanced.

In theory, this should have been easy, but in reality, finding a cave entrance that the naked eye couldn’t spot was proving to be a nearly impossible task. Despite Aithusa’s very helpful suggestion that she could simply burn the entire forest to reveal the cave, Merlin had been adamant on finding another way.

And while he had, it was taking a small eternity.

Merlin reached out with his magic, searching for that telltale sign of an enchantment. He would feel it in his gut before he spotted it, but he could only search so far at once. He couldn’t scan the entire forest and pinpoint it, so it had turned into a slow, steady march.

As Merlin paused to evaluate the next stretch of forest, Arthur huffed an irate exhale.

“Are you well, my lord?”

“Quite.” Arthur’s lips were drawn into a thin line.

The sun was already low in the sky and they hadn’t eaten anything since their departure from Camelot in the early hours of the morning.

“Let’s stop for water and sustenance.” Merlin inhaled sharply, preparing to whistle to catch Aithusa’s attention. She’d started out trudging alongside them, but had made far too much noise and ruckus in enemy lands. This was supposed to be a covert operation, and at least if she was in the sky, she could move stealthily among the puffy white clouds.

“I am not a child, Merlin. I don’t require you to regularly feed and water me.”

Merlin blinked because—historically—that hadn’t always been true.

“Hey,” Merlin whispered as he reached for his king. “What’s troubling you?”

Arthur ripped out of Merlin’s hold. “Nothing.”

But the bond said otherwise. That same turmoil had returned that Merlin had felt after the council meeting. An instability, an uncertainty so persistent that it seemed to eclipse everything else. It festered and rubbed like a saddle sore until it became a fragile frustration.

Merlin hurried to catch up with his king and block his path.

“Do not forget that I can feel you, too.”

At his sides, Arthur balled his fists until his knuckles paled. “I just… hate this.”

“So do I. I know this is far from easy, and we may have to find a spot to camp for the night, but we knew that was a possibility. It will all be worth it in the end.”

The sparkle that normally adorned the king’s eyes had faded. The blue was lackluster and dull, as if Arthur was seeing without really seeing. But the king nodded, regardless. His smile was brief and forced as he pushed farther into the forest.

He barely made it a few steps before stuttering to a halt and studying the forest floor. His voice was so quiet that Merlin strained to hear him.

“What if it isn’t?”

“I don’t understand.”

“If we can’t find this cave, then… what’s the harm in just leaving the bond intact?”

Merlin’s jaw slackened. “The harm? The harm in never being able to be in separate rooms? Or how about the fact that if one of us is injured, so is the other?”

Something burned in Arthur’s eyes then, evaporating the hazy sheen.

“Has it really been that awful, then? Being tethered to me this whole time?”

Merlin had to physically shut his jaw before striding across the forest floor to frame Arthur’s face between his hands.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispered his name like a caress. “You know that it hasn’t. I am hopelessly, irreversibly in love with you, and I don’t think we would have ever seen each other the way we do now without this enchantment.”

Arthur’s bottom lip trembled and his chest reverberated around his inhale, but at least this time he didn’t pull away from Merlin.

“That,” he said. “Right there. That’s what worries me.”

“What?”

“That things will go back to how they were before. That our love for each other was never real. That once the tether is gone, our love will be lost.”  

Merlin’s throat tightened and his chest pinched. Arthur’s worry must have cracked open some deep-seated anxiety buried beneath his own ribs because the ground seemed to shift beneath his feet. He knew the sky above him was blue and that the low-hanging sun was filtering through the clouds, but he could no longer feel the breeze across his face or the chill permeating the forest air.

He could only hold on that might tighter to Arthur, but even that felt akin to gripping shards of broken glass. The harder he clutched, the more it hurt. The more blood slickened his fingers and made it that much more impossible to hold on to.

And maybe that was precisely what Arthur was—a dream too good to come true.

One that he was not destined to keep.

After all, the prophecies had spoken of how their destinies were intertwined, but none of them specified for what length of time. Perhaps their time had passed. Or was rapidly running out.

But Merlin couldn’t let them both surrender to that fear.

He had to be the one to stand brave in the face of the unknown.

“That’s not how magic works,” Merlin lied. “It can’t force someone to feel something for another person that they didn’t already. Tether or not, you, Arthur Pendragon, are the love of my life and nothing—not even magic itself—could ever change how I feel about you.”

Merlin spoke each word with as much conviction as he could muster because—damn it—he would force the laws of nature to bend to his will if it meant he got to keep his king.   

Arthur grasped Merlin’s collar and hauled him into a kiss. It was rough and ravenous, and Merlin craved it. He let Arthur guide him until his back was pressed against a tree.

Arthur slid his knee between Merlin’s legs to pin him in place. The hard feel of him drudged up a whimper from deep in his throat. A plea for him to not stop, to never stop, and Arthur happily obliged. He slipped his tongue past the seam of Merlin’s lips as he mapped out Merlin’s body, perhaps intent on memorizing every inch that he could reach.

Merlin wished he could suspend time and capture this moment, stay here forever with his king. Even if he could slow time, he couldn’t reasonably hold time hostage. They had to move forward. They had to break through the unknown into whatever was next for them.

Though no amount of this—of feeling Arthur hot and pliable beneath his fingertips—would ever satiate Merlin, he gently pressed at Arthur’s chest to dislodge him. Arthur lingered with one last kiss, nipping at his bottom lip, before leaning heavily against Merlin.

“We should keep looking—”

“Merlin,” Arthur murmured, his breath ghosting over Merlin’s half-frozen cheek. “Without you, I would never have known what love truly is. I may wear the crown and sit atop a throne, but knowing you? Loving you? Sharing pieces of myself with you? Those are the best things I have ever done with my life.”

Merlin’s chest threatened to crack open once again, but this time to make room for the heart swelling beneath his ribs. He’d dreamt of Arthur regaling him with sweet declarations of love, but hearing the truth so readily while feeling the reality of Arthur beneath his palms… it filled him with an unspeakable joy.

“Arthur…”

“I just needed you to know.” Even as Arthur pressed a kiss to the crown of Merlin’s head, the silence said what neither of them could. That Arthur needed Merlin to know in case he didn’t feel the same when all of this was said and done.

“We should carry on,” Merlin said. “The daylight will not last long.”  

* * *

A cluster of trees surrounded their camp that was nestled along the side of a ridge. He stared through the branches at the stars so far above them and wished that they could lend him answers. But they merely blinked at him, as if to say that the answers were right in front of him, if only he dared to see them.

So Merlin tightened his hold around Arthur and let the king anchor him as he shut his eyes.

Strands of magic intertwined across the open sky and wove together like spiderwebs between the branches of trees, carrying those threads deep, deep into the ground where burrowing roots were entangled with even more lines of magic emanating from the earth itself.

Merlin followed those threads back to his own body, where they expanded out to connect him not just to everything else—but to Aithusa and Arthur, too. One as brilliant and golden as the sun stretched out between Merlin and Aithusa. A representation of their bond they’d fostered over the past few weeks that had originated long ago.

He stroked that tether as fondly and gently as he might the top of her head, and even in the depths of sleep, Aithusa murmured a soft noise of contentment, of home. It was the same noise that Merlin had made the first time he’d fallen asleep in Arthur’s arms.

Then Merlin turned inward once more and traced the multitude of bonds between the king and himself. Despite their abundance and radiance, they were nothing more than a chaotic bundle tangled together from the moment they’d met.

No, long before that. One of the strands was crimson. It stretched further than all the rest. All the way back to the moment of Merlin’s birth.

As Kilgharrah had said, their destinies had always been intertwined.

Merlin basked in the knowledge that nothing could alter that fate. He strummed the starlight bond that was interwoven with the other threads connecting them.

Arthur stirred, his nose tucking into the hollow of Merlin’s throat, and Merlin relented. He didn’t dare wake the king who had barely slept these past few nights. Let him rest comfortable in the knowledge that he was safe within Merlin’s warded camp and that nothing so trivial as an enchantment from Morgana could alter the course of the universe.

Merlin laid awake until dawn broke. Except, dawn didn’t really break, did it? The light never came all at once. It appeared gradually, slowly banishing the darkness until it was confined in its own realm once again and stealing away the brilliance of the stars and the moon.

“Are you all right?” Arthur asked when he woke, disoriented and with his mess of golden locks chaotically tumbling into his eyes.

Merlin kissed his cheek before rising to retrieve food from Aithusa’s saddle bags.

“I’m fine.”

“The bags under your eyes beg to differ.”

“If you continue to insult my appearance, then you’re not getting any of this fresh baked bread,” Merlin threatened. The rolls were fluffy and small enough that they could be shoved into his mouth whole.

“Don’t you dare!” Arthur scrambled to his feet and nearly wrestled Merlin to the ground.

Laughter bubbled up in Merlin’s chest as he levitated the rolls just out of reach. In the end, it was Aithusa who emerged victorious. She simply snatched them from thin air and gulped them down—cloth packaging and all—before belching a ring of fire.

They all descended into a fit of laughter, and Merlin clung to his king even while his side cramped and spasmed.

This, Merlin thought dizzily, was what it must be like to have a family. As he steeled himself for the day, he wished along the fading stars that he would get to keep them.

* * *

After eating the remains of their food, hard cheese and dried beef, Aithusa took flight and Merlin and Arthur set out on the path that wound between the snow-capped mountain peaks.

Merlin searched high and low for even a whiff of magic, but it wasn’t until the sun was high in the sky that his gut finally twinged.

An enchantment.

An extremely well-hidden enchantment, however. It bent and warped his perception to such an extreme that when Merlin opened his eyes, nothing appeared as it seemed. He vaguely knew that the cave should be situated in the slope of mountain on their right, but he couldn’t pinpoint precisely where.

“Did you find something?”

“I… am not certain.”

“That means yes,” Arthur said. “Where is it?”

“That’s what I’m uncertain about.”

“I thought the whole plan was for you to find it by sensing the magic.”

“That was the plan, yes, but it doesn’t always work like that—”

“Yes, yes, I understand, Merlin. Magic has laws, I just don’t know what they are,” Arthur mocked.

Merlin pinched Arthur’s left buttock as they carried on. “It has to be in this section before the next bend.”

Merlin ran his hands along the dirt and vegetation, hoping to find any sign of the cave entrance. He even summoned Aithusa to aid their search, but the closer they came to it, the stronger the concealment became.

Arthur sighed and leaned a palm against a cluster of boulders. “This is impossible.”

“It’s not impossible,” Merlin said. “We will find a way.”

Aithusa trilled a suggestion, and Merlin aimed an accusatory finger at her. “Without burning the forest down.”

The dragon’s head dropped as she conceded.

“What the hell?” Arthur yanked his arm away from the boulders.

“What’s wrong?”

Arthur squinted up at the clear sky. “I thought it was raining for a second, but…”

Merlin grasped his hands, and sure enough, they were speckled with water. Which meant that Arthur had been leaning against the cave entrance.

“This is it. This has to be the cave.”

“Merlin, that’s a pile of boulders.”

“Is it?” Merlin asked, cocking an eyebrow at his king.

Aithusa nudged them both out of the way and exhaled along the unsuspecting boulders. The red and orange flames were nothing like the burst of heat that sweltered the battlefield and instead were soft and gentle, like the flames Aithusa had once used to set the hearth ablaze when she was still small enough to fit in Arthur’s chambers.

The shifting pressure in the atmosphere had Merlin’s ears popping almost painfully. Then, the boulders eroded into the mouth of a cave.

“I swear,” Arthur muttered, “this had better be the last cave I set foot in for the rest of my sodding life.”

Merlin plied a kiss along his temple. “At least there won’t be any Wilddeoren in there.”

“You can’t really know that, not for certain.”

“And yet, I do.” Though Merlin was no longer talking about hypothetical flesh-eating vermin.

The waterfall misted Merlin’s face as he peered inside, where the sunlight bled through the entrance to illuminate runes carved into the walls. The presence of ancient magic sent a tingle up Merlin’s spine. It was achingly familiar—the kind of magic so entrenched in the elements that it could no sooner be removed than the mountain could sprout legs and walk to Camelot.

Arthur reached for his hand, their fingers as intwined as their hearts, as they stepped into the abyss side by side. 

As the darkness swallowed them, the thrumming energy saturated the air and lifted the hairs along the nape of Merlin’s neck. The floor was slick, but Merlin braced a hand against the slimy wall to guide them toward the dim, flickering light at the end of the tunnel.

The waterfall’s roar drowned out everything else by the time they reached it.

Merlin squeezed Arthur’s hand and swiped his thumb along the jumping pulse at his wrist in a silent warning that he was about to begin.

Unraveling a powerful enchantment required equally powerful magic.

Merlin would need to lean on the strength of the elements surrounding them. He surrendered his hold on Arthur so that he could use both hands to catch some of the crashing water. It pooled into his palms, and he splashed water across his own face, first. The icy droplets ran down his shirt and permeated his skin and muscle, chilling him to the bone. Then, he did the same for Arthur, who inhaled sharply at the sensation, but braved the cold all the same.

Merlin savored one last glimpse of Arthur, disheveled from flying and a night on the forest floor, his golden hair limp with water draped across his forehead. The little light that spilled through the waterfall illuminated the depth within his eyes. Merlin sent one last prayer into the universe in the hopes that someone, anyone, might hear.

“I love you,” Merlin mouthed, the sound lost to the thunderous waterfall.

“I know,” Arthur returned with a wink.

Merlin shot him a withering expression but couldn’t smother his smile. A fluttering warmth spread throughout his chest—a mere echo of what Arthur must be feeling—and that alone gave Merlin the courage to begin.

He let his eyes fall shut and tapped into the energy radiating from the walls and the mist. The ancient words were heavy on his tongue and left his teeth coated in a gritty, abrasive film.

Heat burned behind Merlin’s eyes hotter than he’d ever known it. He’d meant to simply channel the energy to disrupt the enchantment, but he was absorbing all of it. Taking it on as his own. It felt akin to standing in the path of Aithusa’s flame.

Arthur took Merlin’s hand once again, binding them together in the swirling chaos of energy and life and lawlessness.

Each word became more difficult to speak into existence, but Merlin pushed onward until the last syllable finally left his lips. Until the spell was complete.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

And then the world exploded.

The burst of energy ripped Merlin and Arthur apart, scattering them into the dark confines of the cave. Merlin’s head slammed against something so hard that stars burst behind his eyes and his head swam. He forced himself to his hands and knees anyway.

Silence resounded throughout the cave.

The waterfall had stopped flowing. Each droplet of water was suspended in air, frozen in time. He hadn’t meant to do that. Hadn’t meant to stop—

The earth shuddered. The cave was about to collapse on top of them.

Merlin reached for Arthur at the same moment that Arthur reached for him, but they only managed to interlock hands before another wave of tremors sent them sprawling once more. They clung to each other, fingers digging into the other’s hands and wrists.

A spell to keep the cave aloft sat ready to leap from Merlin’s lips—but he didn’t need it.

It wasn’t the earth that was trembling.

But Merlin and Arthur themselves.

Not bodily, either. Merlin’s hands were steady as he clung to the most precious person in the world. The tremors emanated from his inner world. The one that displayed all of his magical ties in such a brilliant array of colors and textures and dimensions.

He watched in horror as each one of those tethers began to disintegrate. First, his connection to the earth and the sky. Then the sun and the moon. The rivers and lakes. The forests and the rising tide of the sea. Each star in the midnight sky winked out.

Every tether that connected him to the world—to each morsel of nature and life—began to crumble. His world shattered and reformed again and again with each loss, and he could scarcely tell what was up from down until all that was left—the only thing tying Merlin to life itself—was his connection to Arthur.

Until even that succumbed to the decay.

* * *

With nothing left to tether him to his physical form, Merlin was propelled from his body. The very essence of him expanded and contracted until he was one of the twinkling stars resting in the sky.

From this vantage point, he could see everything and nothing all at once.

He had no idea that there was so much world outside of Camelot. That the oceans were so vast and the land so green, so brilliant.

The earth itself began to spin on its own axis, the sun and the moon dancing in its orbit before slowing once more. Evidently, time had rewound.

Winged shadows dotted the oceans that soared through the sky like birds. Except they were far too large to be birds—they were dragons. Thousands moved in herds and crafted intricate nests that reminded him of human civilizations. Within one of the colonies, Merlin found a dragon with radiant golden scales and wondered how it was possible that all but two of these creatures had been slaughtered.

Time leapt forward, and it was the dragons themselves that showed humans how to tap into the mystery of magic. How to capture that energy for themselves and channel it.

As civilizations were built brick by brick, stone by stone, the number of dragons began to dwindle. He watched the rise of Camelot and the subsequent fall of the age of dragons.

The fall of magic itself.

Time continued to churn. Humans tamed the wilderness and then ripped into the earth for minerals. With the ways of magic and the age of dragons long forgotten, they harnessed power similar to lightning and converted it into energy. Steaming boats began to move as quickly across the harbor and sea as Aithusa could fly in the sky. Buildings began to stretch higher and higher into the sky—taller than any mountain peak Merlin had ever witnessed. Royalty and the lineage of nobility was all but lost in favor of a workforce fit to support the exponentially growing population.

Merlin had no concept of how much time had passed, but the world had become unrecognizable. Dozens of centuries must have transpired before his eyes.

One city in particular was a forest of buildings so tall they practically scraped the sky. It was no longer England, but a continent that Merlin didn’t recognize on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. 

As if tugged by a tether at his middle, a shop reeled him in. Merlin’s consciousness plummeted until he was standing on the street and peering inside a window the size of a wall. Inside, customers sipped mugs and enjoyed baked delicacies. Some chatted with friends, others had books on their laps, and some stared at metallic rectangular objects with moving images that he couldn’t quite comprehend. 

There, among the people, was Merlin. His black hair peppered with grey was short along the sides and longer on top, where a lock of it curled across his forehead. He appeared no older than fifty, yet he had to have been well over a thousand years old. 

Always, Balinor had said. Perhaps he had well and truly meant that. 

Merlin would live forever. He would surpass every single relative, every friend, every loved one. Aithusa was the only one who stood a chance at becoming a constant companion, but this world harbored no space for magic, let alone dragons. 

Merlin couldn’t fathom a thousand years of loneliness. A thousand years without his mother and Gaius and the knights. A thousand years without Arthur.

His heart ached as if he’d been run through with a sword and his body was fighting for breath and survival. 

This couldn’t be his future. This had to be some version of the future, but that didn’t mean that he was destined to follow this path. Merlin couldn’t be the last sorcerer and the last dragon lord. It had to be a mistake—

A broad-shouldered man in a fitted crimson V-neck set a steaming cup in front of Merlin. He ran a hand along Merlin’s jaw and pressed a kiss to his temple before setting his own mug down and sliding into the chair beside him. 

“Arthur.”

His name slipped out of its own accord because the man who had joined him was no stranger. Nor was he just any man. He was the King of Camelot. His own gray hairs were much better hidden in his golden hair, but the strong set of his jaw and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes spoke to the years that had passed. 

Which meant that Arthur was the same age as Merlin. That he had not perished and left Merlin alone for those thousand years, but resided by his side the entire time. They had watched the world grow and adapt far beyond their years. 

“Arthur!” He called again, unable to help himself. 

The Arthur inside turned toward the window. He could have been looking at anything on the street, but Merlin could have sworn that he caught a spark of recognition in those eyes. Even without a body, even displaced from his own time, Arthur still knew him. 

“Merlin?”

As the Merlin beside him cocked a confused brow, the shop began to fade. 

“No, wait, Arthur!”

The chairs, the drapes, the customers all melted and disintegrated until they became nothing but colors that formed tangible threads once more. The same threads that molded Merlin’s connections to the world. All of them were wholly intact. All but the starlight thread, where all that remained was an echo of light. A shadowed silhouette spread across the back of his eyelids after he’d stared at the sun too long.

“Merlin!”

He sought the voice, following the reverberations it left along the threads. The sweet sound of Arthur calling his name summoned Merlin back to his body.

“Merlin!” 

He sank into his fingers and toes first. Sensation cascaded through him until he felt the press of Arthur’s knees framing his hips and the vice grip the king had on his arms. Merlin’s breath came last. Air filled his lungs and his eyes flicked open to Arthur shaking violently him.

“Arthur.”

Tears magnified Arthur’s eyes. “I thought—I thought you—”

Merlin cradled his cheek, relishing in the impossibly soft feel of him.

“No, love, I’m here. I’m right here.” Merlin sat up, drawing Arthur into his arms. “I swear I will never leave you for as long as I live.”

Arthur’s fists balled in the back of his shirt. His arms were wonderfully tight, and a sob nearly bubbled up in Merlin’s chest with relief.

The restriction of the tether had finally lifted, but that open line of communication between them had evaporated, leaving an emptiness in its wake that Merlin couldn’t quite explain.

It was what he’d seen, though, that haunted him. The vision had been so real, so tangible, and yet, he had no explanation for it. No conceivable way of molding reality to match it.

Merlin held on to Arthur as firmly as Arthur held him until the emotions had run their course. Arthur was the first on his feet, tugging Merlin up alongside him.

“Did it work?”

“Oh ye of little faith.” When Arthur huffed, Merlin said, “but there is one way to test it.”

Merlin was about to suggest that when they were outside the cave, they each walk in opposite directions until they were outside the bounds of the tether.

But Arthur had a different idea. He promptly pinched Merlin’s buttock. Merlin yelped and lurched forward.

“Ha!” Arthur shouted. “I didn’t feel a thing!”

Merlin rubbed his behind and glared. “Shame.”

They followed the cave out into the light, where the sun was beginning to set and Aithusa was wearing a whole in the mossy ground from pacing.

She cried out when she spotted them and headbutted them both until they scritched behind her horns and assured her that they were fine. That they could go home again, now.

Merlin and Aithusa worked together to restore the enchantment that concealed the cave. He would document their finding, but keep the record hidden. This place was far too powerful for just anyone to stumble upon.

Before they began the flight back to Camelot, Arthur looped his arms around Merlin from behind and rested his chin on Merlin’s shoulder.

“It’s over,” Arthur whispered. “It’s finally over.”

Merlin’s concern that their connection would dissolve had evaporated. Because while the tether no longer existed, the past few weeks had left their own mark.

In the same way that their friendship had created threads that wove together over the years, this experience had crafted its own. And this one was even more intertwined than the rest. It wasn’t the bright crimson of love or the cool blue of Arthur’s eyes. But transparent because, for the first time, there was nothing and everything between them.

They saw each other for precisely what they were with perfect clarity. 

They might be two halves of the same coin, but Merlin had been thinking about it all wrong. He had always imagined that they were destined to face apart their entire lives. That one could only shine if the other was hiding in shadow. Yet, he’d missed the more important message.

They were two halves of the same whole. They completed each other.

And together, there was nothing that they couldn’t do.

“On the contrary, my love, it’s just begun.”