Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Merlin is so gone for Arthur. For years now, in fact. It would be embarrassing, if he wasn’t almost completely sure Arthur felt something for him too.

Well. Almost almost completely sure. Because he’s touchy. There’s just no way around it. When Merlin isn’t ruffling his hair, Arthur is grabbing him by the shoulder, guiding him by the elbow. But then, Merlin can count on one hand the number of times they’ve hugged. If Arthur liked him, wouldn’t he hug him more? He certainly hugs the other knights.

He loves me, he loves me not.

This back-and-forth is what keeps his confession on the tip of his tongue. It’s hard to do, hard to swallow an I Love You so big it could eclipse the moon.

“Merlin!” Arthur yells out to him, startling him, which of course only makes the prince chuckle. “Are you coming or not?”

Merlin hates hunting. He doesn’t see the point in it at all. But, well, Arthur is going. So obviously, Merlin is too. And who else would scare off all the animals and annoy Arthur all day?

Arthur’s hunting party has become pretty hand-selected, and only their friends join them. It’s nice to blow off some steam from training—and chores, in Merlin’s case—and they never decline the invitation.

Gwaine is always extra loud too, though, so Merlin thinks privately he’s just there for the company, and not for the deer.

“Of course,” Merlin answers with a smirk. “How could you survive without me?” Arthur rolls his eyes but responds only by mounting his horse, turning to make sure Merlin gets on his own okay.

He loves me, he loves me not.

They go deep into the forest, following Leon’s lead. Sometimes Arthur is in the mood to take charge, but usually when it’s just Leon, Percy, and Gwaine, he prefers to follow, laughing and enjoying the day.

“And so I tell Gwaine—”

“That is not true!”

“Are you calling me a liar?!”

Arthur and Merlin exchange glances at Percy’s story, and Arthur wrinkles his nose. Merlin laughs, and he could swear that Arthur glanced down at his lips for a moment too long.

He loves me, he loves me not.

“Shhh,” Leon holds up a hand, and the group quiets, excited eyes searching for game. But as Merlin groans in complaint, Leon continues, “Quiet, Merlin.”

His tone is serious and somewhat foreboding, and Merlin shuts up and follows his gaze. It takes him a minute to spot them, but when he does, his blood runs cold. Arrows. Dozens upon dozens of them, hidden in foliage on taller hills, pointed directly at them.

“Run,” Leon commands, and in sync they cue their horses to flee. They’re fast, of course, but the arrows are faster, and Gwaine’s horse is hit before they’ve put any significant distance between themselves and the attackers.

Percival stops, returns to his side, moves to help Gwaine up from under his fallen horse when suddenly he too screams out and drops unwillingly to the ground.

The attackers—bandits, assassins, who cares—get closer, giving up the high ground for a cleaner shot. There’s too many of them. Far, far too many.

They’re all ‘miraculously’ missing Arthur, but that’s because Merlin has had years of time to polish protection spells into it. Arrow repellent, as it were. But Leon is kneeling over a Percy who seems to be bleeding badly, and even now that they’re all off their horses and hiding behind the thicker trees, Merlin knows it’s only a matter of time. It’s not until Arthur rushes to Leon’s side, and Merlin watches in slow motion as an arrow flies right for his head. It’s in that horrible moment that Merlin realizes he has to intervene.

He has to intervene in a big way, the kind he’s never dared before.

That’s when all the arrows freeze mid-air. Arthur turns, slowly, because the lack of onslaught happened not gradually but unnaturally and all at once. It’s a simple enough spell, but Merlin has never done it with this many objects at once before and he isn’t entirely sure what to do next. He doesn’t want Arthur to think him a killer, but they hurt Gwaine, and Percy, and he can’t let them get away.

In the end he decides to use the vines and roots of the trees as makeshift ropes and cuffs, and snaps each floating, frozen arrow in half for good measure.

The forest drags the newfound prisoners to them, knocking them out so that not a single one escapes, and Merlin is about to rush for Percy when he sees Arthur’s face.

It’s not that he hadn’t imagined a bad scenario of Arthur finding out. He had. Of course, he had. But more so that Arthur would send him away, or sack him, or…well. He supposed he didn’t have any scope of imagining that Arthur could look so horrified, and be looking at Merlin, at the same time.

There’s fear in his eyes but anger in his jaw and betrayal scattered somewhere in between. And for a moment Merlin worries Arthur might cry, but then his face hardens and he draws out his sword, taking two big steps toward Merlin and aiming it at him.

He loves me, he loves me not.

Merlin’s eyes go wide, and he stumbles back, away from the threat as Leon calls for Arthur. He sounds just as surprised as Merlin feels.

But Arthur doesn’t respond. Doesn’t lower the sword. Doesn’t even look at Leon, as though taking his eyes off of Merlin for even one moment would let him get away.

As if Merlin would run.

As if Merlin could ever leave Arthur’s side.

“You…You…” Arthur’s voice is raspy and sad and the sword is still pointed at him. “You’ve…committed crimes…against Camelot.” He sounds unsure, and with every word his sword is only shakier. Merlin shakes his head, and Gwaine, still trapped on the ground, shouts his disagreement. Arthur ignores him, but there are tears in his eyes now. Then he clears his throat, and steadies himself. Merlin knows this position, knows all of Arthur’s stances. This is what he looks like before he attacks.

“Sorcerer.” He says, voice steadier.

“I’m not,” Merlin answers, words broken and begging. “I’m not.”

“I just saw it!”

“I was born with it!” Merlin is probably crying now, but he can’t feel it, can’t feel anything but grief.

He loves me not.

“Please, Arthur, I,” Merlin hiccups, “I was born like this. And I use it for you, Arthur, only for you. For the good of Camelot.”

He hears, distantly, worlds away, his friends agreeing, defending him. But the sword stays pointed at him, the edge only a step or two away.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin admits, because he is. Because he thought…he thought…his head drops, and he stares at the fall leaves beneath his feet. “I’m sorry.”

When he looks up again, the sword is lowered—still white-knuckled, still at Arthur’s side, not in its holster—but lowered, at least.

Moments pass. Silence and wind and heartbreak.

“We will never speak of this again,” Arthur decides, voice far more steady than it had been. “This secret will die in this forest.”

Before Merlin can attempt to be relieved, Arthur takes three huge steps toward him, and he’s not tall enough to tower over Merlin but Gods, it’s foreboding.

“If you are exposed again,” Arthur says, and they both ignore the way his voice catches. “You will be killed.”

Merlin swallows, and the worst part is that he isn’t sure whether Arthur is being truthful or not.

Chapter Text

Inexplicably, Merlin stays. Inexplicably, Arthur lets him. Merlin gets to live in Camelot, and bring Arthur breakfast, and they don’t talk or laugh or touch anymore but it’s fine.

Merlin is fine.

Arthur is always tense, now, though. As if he’s waiting to be murdered. Funnily enough, Merlin finds himself waiting for the same thing.

The knights have been as supportive as they could be, Without Mentioning It. Percy’s wound healed fine, a shot in the thigh that missed the bone. On his last day at Gaius’ he stood and gave Merlin the biggest bear hug he’d ever received, and they both pretended he wasn’t crying. Leon clapped him on the shoulder one day in the halls, completely at random. Although perhaps he could see how distraught Merlin was. Gwaine’s remained exactly the same. Merlin is fairly sure he already knew, anyway.

But Arthur won’t look at him. Rarely speaks to him.

There is a moment, when Merlin is cleaning Arthur’s chambers, that he turns too quickly and catches Arthur staring at him. Arthur’s gaze falls right away, but. It happened.

Merlin doesn’t know if this is a good or bad thing.

“How—how is your day, Sire?” Merlin asks. There is no colloquialism between them, anymore. No pet names or banter. Merlin is scared to even call Arthur by his name. Scared to break whatever fragile state they’ve been left with.

He knows, of course, eventually it must break. How could it not? This tension certainly won’t disappear on its own, and there is little to no chance Arthur would ever willingly talk about it. So Merlin is stuck, refusing to leave Arthur’s side, even if tomorrow their eggshell peace shatters and Arthur orders his head on a stick.

“Fine,” Arthur answers, pretending to be busy at his desk. “And…and you?”

“Fine,” Merlin agrees. Arthur moves, too suddenly, too fast, and knocks the inkwell on his desk. Merlin is far, but not too far to catch it. It’s habit, really. Time slows, just barely, without him even thinking or meaning to, and in seconds he’s at Arthur’s side with the unbroken, unspilled inkwell.

For the first time, Arthur flinches. Genuinely flinches—he’s up, out of his chair and two steps away from Merlin in the blink of an eye, breathing heavy, eyes wide. Looks between Merlin, and the inkwell, and back again. Swallows. Merlin knows he didn’t actually see the magic, was slowed with everything else, but somehow he could tell. This time, he could tell. He’s never caught it before.

“I didn’t—” Merlin tries, but Arthur is shaking his head so profusely he cuts himself off.

“The stables…need cleaning,” Arthur’s voice is shaky and unsure. “And my armor. And the knights’. All of them.”

Merlin doesn’t know how to breathe.

“You can go,” Arthur pushes, firm. Merlin nods, small, just once. Then he backs away. He doesn’t turn, not completely, because what if this is the time Arthur’s sword pierces him? (It was never something he used to be afraid of before.) If he is to die by Arthur’s hand, he’d want to die looking at him, at least. He’d like for Arthur to be the last thing he sees. He’d like to say goodbye, even if it’s one-sided.

The problem with Camelot is that Merlin’s duties never really stop. Not even when he feels like his heart and soul are floating away. Not even when feels as though he’s barely even a person anymore. Not even when it’s been five days and Arthur can barely look him in the eye.

(Except, when his back is turned, Merlin could swear he feels Arthur’s eyes on him.)

There’s a feast—when is there not? And a witch in disguise tries to attack Uther, and by extension, as always, Arthur. And, oopsie, a “loose” chandelier happened to fall and maim her, a little.

And Arthur is safe. Except that he’s looking at Merlin like he’d just killed somebody, or burned all of Camelot, or turned against everything he’s ever stood for.

Arthur looks at him like they’re strangers.

Merlin supposes he’s not wrong. Not recently, at least.

No-one else seemed to notice it was his doing. He doesn’t understand how Arthur seems to catch him all the time, now, when he used to be so oblivious that Merlin could steal his sausages right in front of him.

And, oh, Merlin feels stricken suddenly remembering how Arthur began to not even bother with letting him steal them, usually openly giving him a few instead. It was a fairly recent development, but it was one that had made him feel so…loved. Merlin wonders if he’ll have to live the rest of his—possibly very short—life only remembering what that was like, knowing he can never have it again.

“Are you alright, Sire?” Merlin asks, later, as he’s changing him for the night. It’s a stupid question. In terms of them, at least. But Merlin is mostly asking about the attack, making sure the witch didn’t hurt him without Merlin noticing.

Arthur gives only a stiff nod. Merlin misses him. He’s right here, right in front of him, and yet Merlin misses him so dearly he can barely breathe.

Chapter Text

The worst happens when Merlin is polishing Arthur’s sword by the fire. The seasons have begun to turn, and the cold air is echoing through the castle. Lately, Merlin has stuck to remaining in the armory, but it’s so much cozier in the room, and he couldn’t risk casting a warming charm in a room that people might walk into. So by the fireplace in Arthur’s chambers he settles, the quiet wrapping around him like a blanket.

Gaius is worried. Gwen is worried. They keep asking him what’s bothering him. But Merlin can’t bring them peace of mind, couldn’t smile if he tried. Gwaine knows, and tries to adapt to this new version of Merlin. Leon and Percy do their best, he thinks, for knights sworn to be loyal to the crown, and sworn to silence, and also trying to be his friends all at once. Merlin doesn’t know how to comfort them, and a part of him doesn’t care. The weight on his shoulders is too heavy, a burden of prophecy that was always there but seemed easier to carry, before. Now the world feels unbalanced, existence exhausting, and yet he knows he can only continue on. Protect Arthur, serve his prince. He’ll survive, he supposes, because he has to. But Merlin stopped really living, the moment he found himself on the sharp side of Arthur’s sword.

It wasn’t even the sword, was it? It was the look. The disgust. The betrayal. Merlin knows hatred of sorcery is ingrained into Arthur, but hatred of Merlin? He’d never thought…

But it doesn’t matter. That’s what happened. There’s no changing it now. There’s only living with the consequences.

Arthur walks in sometime in the afternoon, Merlin having lost track of time in his thoughts. Arthur stops in the doorway, surprised to find Merlin…around. He hasn’t been. Not by Arthur’s request, but. It was implied.

“Oh,” Arthur breathes, surprised. Merlin watches horribly as his hand goes automatically to the handle of the spare sword attached at his side. His fingers barely graze the hilt, but it happened. Something in Merlin hardens at the action.

What does he think? Hate Merlin for what he is, fine. Makes sense, he supposes, after everything. But to think he would hurt Arthur? To be afraid of him? To be reassured with a weapon? Really?

“Hi,” Arthur says eventually, quietly. Fearfully, Merlin thinks.

“Hi.”

“I…” Arthur takes a deep breath, steadies himself. “I understand why you did…what you did…in the forest. On. The hunting trip.”

Merlin wonders if he looks as slack jawed as he feels. They’re addressing it? Is this an apology? Forgiveness? Anything, he prays. He’ll take anything.

“Oh.”

“I meant my warning,” Arthur continues, and Merlin notices how sunken his shoulders are, how tired he looks. Merlin wishes he knew how to comfort him. “The law…they’ll want to have you killed, if you’re found out.”

Merlin wants to ask if the ‘they’ he’s referring to includes Arthur himself. But in the end, he’s too afraid to know the definitive answer. Especially when he’s spent all his time believing it to be so.

“You have to stop using it, Merlin. It’s too…” Arthur swallows, looks down at his feet, shudders, a bit. “It’s too risky.”

Merlin scoffs, a quiet disbelief rising in his throat before he can stop it. The action has Arthur snapping his head back up to him.

“You’d die a hundred times over. You’ve no idea how often…” Merlin trails off, afraid to offer Arthur more reason to hate him. Too afraid to confess just how often he’d used his curse.

“It’s not worth the risk,” Arthur insists softly, though not at all gentle. Merlin shakes his head.

“That’s not your choice to make.”

“And you think it’s yours?”

“You certainly never noticed before!” Merlin half exclaims, weak in his aching throat.

“Only because I never thought to look,” Arthur insists, a surprising anger behind his words. Although perhaps it’s not surprising at all, really.

He loves me, he loves me not.

“Look,” Arthur says in a sigh, after an uncomfortable silence has gone on too long. “I won’t sack you, I’ll move on from this. But I need…” He trails off, struggles with himself. “I need you to go back to being you. I can’t live in this any longer.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Arthur sighs, twisting the band on his finger absentmindedly.

“The tip-toeing, the formality. It’s impossible to forget what happened if you keep reminding me.”

Forget. But not forgive.

Well. Merlin will take what he can get, he supposes.

“Okay.” Merlin pauses, prays, then says, in almost a question, “Prat?”

A tiny smile crosses Arthur’s face, imperceptible to anyone but Merlin’s trained eyes.

“Shut up, Merlin.” His voice isn’t fond, not like it used to be, but it’s not nearly as strained either.

He loves me, he loves me not.

Chapter Text

Things are back to a horrible, warped version of their old normal. Merlin tries his best not to use his magic, not for anything. He feels it, tight and shivering beneath his skin, but there’s nothing to be done. If this is Arthur’s condition, Merlin will do his best to bend to it. Of course, he won’t hesitate to disobey if it means saving Arthur’s life, but that’s a given.

Color starts to return to Merlin’s face. Gwen and Gwaine look a little less worried. Merlin still has trouble breathing around Arthur, but he gets better at hiding it. It’s not so bad, he convinces himself. He can live with this.

Of course, their fragile truce is broken within a few days. An assassin, Merlin guesses, sneaks into the castle walls. Merlin works to hide this from Arthur, tries desperately to solve it without his knowing. But Arthur catches him in the act, and once again those eyes, hurt and betrayed, return.

And something in Merlin snaps. He thinks, perhaps, it’s because his magic is wound too tightly, grabbing at the chance to have an outlet.

“What?!” He snaps.

“Nothing,” Arthur mutters, but he backs away a step.

“No. Go on. Say it,” Merlin is so frustrated, so disappointed, so heartbroken. He can’t help it. Why does he have to feel so squished? Why does he have to be so small?

He loves me not. Not as is.

“Nothing,” Arthur insists, but Merlin catches the fear in his eyes.

“No. You’ve only pretended to forgive me. But you hate me. Admit it.”

“No, I don’t—” he starts, tries, but Merlin cuts him off, taking several quick steps toward him. Arthur backs up, a bit, instinctively, and Merlin nearly growls.

“You don’t trust me. After everything, you’re afraid.”

“That is not true. You’re not like them,” Arthur answers defensively. Merlin scoffs.

“There’s a them, huh?” Of course there is. Arthur hates magic. Arthur hates him.

“You know what I mean! You’re not that kind of sorcerer, you said so yourself!”

“The kind that needs to be hunted? The kind that needs to be killed?” Merlin questions, angry in the worst sort of way. Arthur sighs. “So, you’re afraid of me. Admit it. You think I might turn against you. You think I might turn evil, like Morgana, don’t you?” Merlin stands to his full height, eyes glowing without meaning to. “I thought we were friends!”

“You are my servant! And you have broken Camelot’s laws!”

“I knew it,” Merlin mutters. “Just when I thought you might actually care about me.”

Arthur’s wide eyes soften in surprise, but Merlin just shakes his head.

“I don’t know how to protect you, like this,” Arthur says softly.

“Forget it. Formalities and uncomfortable silences are better than your shit lies,” Merlin decides aloud. And Merlin stomps away. He makes himself scarce in Arthur’s presence after that.

Chapter Text

Eventually, of course, reality catches up with them. The attackers from the forest turn out to be led by one very dangerous assassin. From what Merlin gathers, he’s willing to trade information for his freedom, and oh, does he have the best gossip of them all.

The world comes crashing down one day during training. Merlin is standing off to the side, as he always is, staring at his shoes, the way he never used to, when Uther comes storming out onto the field. The knights barely have time to bow before Uther is shouting commands—

“Seize the boy! He’s a sorcerer!” The moment the words fly from his mouth, Merlin’s gaze flicks, horrified, betrayed, to Arthur, but his best friend—former?—looks just as surprised and afraid as Merlin is.

“No, no, Father, there has been a mistake, I’m sure!” Arthur rushes forward.

“Restrain my son!”

Three of Uther’s knight’s split off from circling around Merlin to attack Arthur. Anyone who jumps to his aid is disarmed. It’s an unfair fight. Calculated, planned, plotted. Arthur is held by four knights in total, no matter how he struggles to be free of them.

“See how Arthur defends you?” Uther rants, spitting at Merlin. “Your spell and trickery will dissipate on your death, sorcerer.”

Merlin hangs his head, heartbroken and feeling more exposed than perhaps he ever has.

“Merlin, defend yourself!” Arthur shouts, and Merlin sees the swords from the disarmed knights lying nearby.

But what would be the point? He’d escape Camelot, but then what? Watch from afar forever? Return to his mother, having lost everything? He would have left everything on this field, with Arthur, either way.

Merlin gives his friend a wry smile. “You know I’m no good with swords.”

“Merlin, defend yourself, however you must.”

Merlin blinks at him. The request doesn’t make any sense. Arthur had threatened to kill him last time, and that was for saving his life. Surely Merlin won’t escape punishment this time, especially not when it would include purposefully harming his father.

“Why?” Merlin asks, even as Uther draws closer, because he can’t help it. “Just to see the pyre?” Merlin shakes his head, eyes falling on the knights that had fought for him—there’s at least fifteen being restrained—then at Uther once more. “I’d rather die by his hand than yours, Arthur.”

“Then so you shall,” Uther decrees, and lunges.

“NO!”

Merlin doesn’t see Arthur escape, cannot understand how he reaches them in time, but he does, and shoves Merlin out of the way, falling to the ground on top of him.

The rest of the knights use his bravery and strength as a push for their own, and a fight begins once again not so easily finished as more of the knights turn for Arthur’s cause.

“How dare you!” Uther begins shouting, a long tirade of insults that Arthur doesn’t seem to hear.

“You really thought I would kill you?” Arthur whispers, still on top of Merlin. He must realize that for however long he is like this, Merlin is about as safe as he could get. What he doesn’t realize is that this is the first time they’ve been this close since the forest, and it’s very hard for Merlin to recover from the whiplash.

“You pointed a sword at me,” Merlin answers dumbly.

“Because I’ve known you for four years and suddenly you could do magic!”

“You pointed a sword at me.”

Arthur closes his eyes in a sigh, and when he opens them, they’re teary.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He pauses, like he’s debating something. Then, “I was afraid.”

“Of me?”

“Yes. I’ve never been afraid of you before.”

“But you have to know I would never do anything to harm you, or Camelot,” Merlin insists, desperate.

“Well, yes, Merlin, I know that, you idiot.” Merlin glares at him, and Arthur smiles, just enough that his right dimple comes out, and Merlin could kiss it from relief. He hadn’t seen Arthur truly smile all this time.

“A little help here, anytime, princess!” They hear Gwaine shout, and, oh, yeah, everyone’s still fighting.

“I hated magic one hunting trip ago.” Arthur admits in a whisper, ignoring him.

“And now?” Merlin asks softly, his chest filled with hope, hope, hope.

He loves me, he loves me not.

“And now I think that if my father had killed you, I would have taken the throne early.”

“Oh,” Merlin says.

“Did you know your eyes have little golden specks in them? They flash this beautiful gold fully when you’re doing magic, but they’re always there…” Arthur trails off. Merlin’s eyes go wide and Arthur is on his chest still and can he hear Merlin’s heart thumping against his ribs?

He loves me, he loves me not.

Then Arthur’s lips are on his, and it’s so quick that by the time Merlin registers it, Arthur is already up, joined in on the fighting, a circle of his friends surrounding Merlin on the ground.

He loves me, he loves me not.

He loves me, he loves me not.

He loves me, he loves me not.

So Merlin rushes upright, and slows down every opposing knight. Those on his team step back, amazed.

“You could do this the whole time? And you let us do all the heavy lifting?”

“Now, this is too easy. It’s cheating!”

“Please, you were dueling Francis. That’s like battling a confused child anyway!”

“What do we do?” Leon asks Arthur. Arthur looks to Merlin.

“I don’t know. I don’t know how to make him understand.”

“That you’re not under a spell?” Merlin jokes, but it falls flat.

“That magic can be beautiful and good.”

“About time,” Gwaine grumbles, rolling his eyes.

“He might not,” Merlin warns. Arthur looks down.

“I know.”

In the end, they can’t change his mind. He’s an old dog used to old tricks. So Arthur asks him to erase Uther’s mind, start fresh. It’s a long day. Merlin has to do each of Uther’s knights, too, and the tattle-tale in the dungeons. By the end of it, he’s exhausted, and those who remember resolve to use sneakery as long as necessary to keep Merlin, and magic-users, safe.

It’s a bandage on a still-bleeding wound, but it’s their only idea.

But when Merlin helps Arthur ready for bed, and Arthur is close, close, close, Merlin can finally breathe again. And Arthur kisses him, again, but slow this time. Unhurried and utterly important. An apology and forgiveness and a confession wrapped up all in one. And when Arthur grabs Merlin’s wrist and asks him to stay, he does. So overall, it’s the best day of Merlin’s life.

He loves me, he loves me not.

He loves me.