Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was done. The last of his magic seeped into the floorboards he had been seated on all night, spreading from there into the citadel at large, infusing every part of the structure with everything that he had to give—and then some. Every last drop that he could squeeze out of himself had been poured into the thirsty stone and timber that made up the heart of Camelot, and it had lapped it up greedily. He was not sure that it would be enough, but it would have to do. It was all he could offer this place now. His last gift to Arthur.

He was not entirely sure what he had expected giving up his magic to feel like—he had not known he could do it at all until he tried, and he still could not say for sure if it would work as intended—but part of him had not fully expected to survive it. His magic had always been so much a part of him that being without it seemed like it ought to have been a death sentence.

He had gotten a taste of what it would be like to lose it when he faced the Dorocha, but while that had scared him more than anything else he could remember, he had known on some level that his magic had not been gone, just suppressed by the icy dread that accompanied the spirits and dampened all life it came into contact with. This felt different. He felt lighter, somehow—like a weight had been taken off his shoulders, relieving him of a destiny that had grown into far too heavy a burden. He felt…free. Weak and tired, but free.

Only moments after the last of the magic left him, the door to his right opened, letting the morning light pour in from the high windows of the Great Hall to cast a shadow against the wall he had been staring at unseeingly for the past… Well. All night, apparently.

“Merlin,” the shadow said.

With some effort, he managed to turn his head towards the owner of the shadow, blinking against the light as he looked up at Arthur. With the sun behind him, he seemed to be almost glowing, his hair crowned with gold—a portent of the real thing that would soon adorn his brow now that the old king was dead.

Long live the king.

“It’s a new day,” Arthur continued. His voice was level and solemn.

So it was. A new day. The dawn of a new era. A new life. It was time to see where it would take him. Getting off the floor was probably as good a start as any, and so Merlin staggered to his feet, wavering a little as he experienced the odd sensation of reaching out to steady himself with a limb that he had forgotten that he was now missing.

“You’ve been here all night?” It was phrased as a question, but Arthur did not look entirely surprised to find him here, and it was clear that he knew the answer already.

“I didn’t want you to feel that you were alone,” Merlin replied, inwardly adding, I didn’t want to leave your side until I knew that I’d still be alive come morning. His voice rasped in his throat, from lack of sleep or hydration, or perhaps something else entirely.

Arthur looked at him in silence for a few moments, then nodded and said, “You’re a loyal friend, Merlin.”

He sounded so sincere that Merlin almost doubted his convictions for a moment, but his resolve hardened when he remembered the reason Arthur had been shut up in the Great Hall all night, holding vigil for his late father, whom Merlin had killed. Yes, Gaius had probably been right about Morgana being responsible for the spell going wrong, and possibly right about Agravaine being the one who planted the amulet as well, but it was still Merlin who had failed to notice it and failed to counteract it.

He found that he could not meet Arthur’s eyes as he called him either friend or loyal in that moment—he would be using neither of those words if he knew what Merlin had done, or what he was about to do—and he swallowed around a lump in his throat as he cast his eyes down in shame.

Arthur did not seem to think his behaviour any odder than usual, for he simply turned around to close the door, looking through it one last time before sealing his father’s corpse in his temporary tomb with a dull thud as the door met the doorpost. The latch clicked into place with a finality that marked Uther’s reign as officially over.

Drawing a deep breath, Arthur turned back to Merlin. His shoulders were more relaxed and he no longer looked quite as sombre as his eyes swept over Merlin’s hunched frame and said, “You must be hungry.”

Was he? Maybe. Probably. His belly felt empty, but so did the rest of him. It did not seem terribly important at the moment, and he did not know that he could stomach any food anyway, so he just shrugged.

“I know I am,” said Arthur, and then he almost smiled. “Come on. You can make us some breakfast.”

He started walking towards the stairs, expecting Merlin to follow him, but he could not. Not anymore. A number of reasons held him back—he had gone over them all at great length during the night—and Arthur’s words were a demonstration of but one example among many. A rare invitation to break fast together, which Merlin would normally have treasured, but immediately followed by an expectation that he would just make food happen like he always did. Arthur could have said that they would get some other servant to bring breakfast up to his chambers, but no, every gesture of friendship must be followed by a reminder of their disparity in station—every compliment chased down by an insult, sometimes in jest, sometimes not.

Merlin understood. He did. He was a servant, after all, and Arthur was a prince—the king, now. This was just how things were. It was the path that destiny had mapped out for them. He had long since accepted this, and he supposed he should be grateful that Arthur was willing to think of a servant as a friend at all. And he was. He just wished that his friend and king did not also think of him as a fool.

Sure, Arthur had occasionally deigned to use the word wise when some piece of advice actually managed to get through to him, despite the filter through which he ran everything Merlin said—the filter woven by his preconceived notion that his servant lacked the skills necessary to do pretty much anything right, suffered from excessive paranoia, and was genuinely a bit dim. Having to fight his way through this filter to make himself heard was not only difficult, it was exhausting, and Merlin was so, so, so tired.

“Merlin?”

His gaze snapped up to where Arthur had paused a couple of steps into his ascent of the stairs, and he realised that he had made no reply nor moved an inch, instead falling into the same maudlin contemplations that had occupied him through the night as he emptied himself of his magic.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Are you coming?”

A part of Merlin wanted to, but then he imagined what the day would be like if he did abandon his plan and pretended that nothing was wrong, and then he imagined the next day, then the next, then all the ones to come after that—a future where nothing changed except for the crown adorning Arthur brow being a bit bigger and pointier than his old one. It made little difference when its authority would still be used to the same ends as when it sat on Uther’s head—and it would. Merlin had seen to that himself by killing Arthur’s father and turning him against magic forever. Destiny had placed its trust in the wrong person, it would seem.

“I can’t,” he croaked out, fixing his eyes somewhere around Arthur’s feet, fearing that looking him in the eye would break his resolve.

“What?”

“I— I need to see Gaius.”

One last time.

There was a brief silence, but Merlin did not dare look up to examine Arthur’s expression. Finally, Arthur said, “You do look a little peaky. Not the best time to get sick, what with all the upcoming coronation preparations.”

Merlin smothered a wry huff. Of course that was Arthur’s takeaway from this. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Yeah, well, just…get Gaius to check you out, all right?”

He wished that he could be certain that he was just imagining the hint of concern in Arthur’s voice because he wished for it to be there. That would have made this so much easier.

“I’ll speak to him,” Merlin promised, then bowed and said, “Goodbye, Your Majesty.”

Perhaps the choice of words was a bit suspicious, because when Merlin finally gathered the courage to glance up at Arthur, he found a puzzled frown on his face. He wanted to smoothen it out—to explain himself, or make some joke to make Arthur forget about the whole thing—but he knew that if he did not do this now, he never would.

And so he turned and walked away from his king—and from his destiny.

Chapter Text

Saying goodbye to Gaius had been much harder than leaving Arthur—partly because he had felt compelled to actually tell him that he was leaving instead of just sneaking out like a thief in the night. He owed him that much.

There had been arguments and counter arguments aplenty as the man he thought of as a father tried to convince him to stay, but he would not be swayed. He had made his decision.

What about your destiny? Arthur will need you more than ever now that he is king.

The Great Dragon said it was my destiny to protect him until he claimed his crown, and I did. Now it’s up to him to fulfil the rest of the prophecies—or not. Either way, it’s his choice alone. Everything I do to steer him in the right direction just makes things worse.

Packing his things had not been a lengthy task. He did not own much, and there was no point in bringing the bulky grimoire Gaius had gifted him all those years ago. With his magic gone, he would have no use for it.

You know how much trouble Arthur attracts; he will still need your protection.

I’ve already given him what I can; the citadel should keep him safe. I won’t be of any more use without my magic anyway.

Gaius had eventually stopped attempting to keep him from leaving, but it was clear that he remained unconvinced by Merlin’s arguments. Still, he had wrapped up some food for him to bring on his journey.

What do I tell him when he asks why you’ve gone? What do I tell Guinevere? Your friends among the knights?

Anything. The truth, even. It doesn’t matter anymore. Just…say goodbye for me, will you? Tell them— Tell them I’m sorry.

There had been tears in both their eyes as they embraced, and his mentor had held on to him for so long that he had almost started to worry that it was a ploy to make him stay, but eventually Gaius had let go and stepped away, surreptitiously wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his robe.

Safe travels, my boy. I pray we’ll see each other again before my time comes.

Me too. Farewell, Gaius, and thank you—for everything. I am sorry.

He had been walking for three, maybe four hours when he heard hoofbeats on the road behind him. It was hardly unexpected—this route saw its fair share of travellers and merchants now that winter had made way for early spring, and he had passed a goodly number already—but this horse was going faster than the others. He caught a glimpse of red as he glanced over his shoulder, and for a second all he could think was, He’s sent someone to drag me back in chains already.

He had hoped Gaius would have been judicious enough in his timing so as to allow Merlin the time needed to at least cross the border into Lot’s kingdom before telling anyone of his magic, but as soon as this thought struck him, he waved it away. Gaius was smarter than that. This was a coincidence. The rider clad in Pendragon red was likely just a random knight out on some business entirely unrelated to Merlin. If he kept his head down, he might not be recognised as the knight passed him, and if he was, there was no reason why his being on the road should be seen as particularly suspicious. He might not even be noticed at all.

He should have known that his rotten luck would not have simply dissipated along with his magic.

The horse slowed down as it caught up to him, and the knight called out, “Fancy meeting you here, Merlin! Going my way?”

Merlin’s head swivelled round as he recognised the voice. Gwaine.

His friend was looking down at him with his signature roguish grin as he let his horse fall into step with Merlin, who kept on walking.

“I told you: I’m running an errand for Gaius.”

The lie had left a bitter taste in his mouth when he had delivered it only hours ago, having been caught slipping out of the citadel by Gwaine. Merlin had not really expected him to even be conscious at such an early hour, let alone out and about. Perhaps he had been on his way home from the tavern, or wherever else he might have spent the night.

Gwaine nodded. “I remember. Going to the Forest of Brechffa for some rare herb or other, you said.”

“I did. I am.” The lie did not taste any better regurgitated.

“And I might have believed you, if you were heading south—you know, where the forest in question is? Seems we’re going somewhere else, though.”

Merlin considered lying again, but he could not quite bring himself to do it. Not to Gwaine. He did not have the energy or mental wherewithal to make up a better excuse anyway. “‘We?’” he asked instead.

“I’m going with you, naturally,” Gwaine grinned. “Can’t have you falling prey to a band of ruffians on the way, can we? You didn’t even bring a sword.”

I don’t need one, Merlin thought, then realised with a start that he did. He had left all his magic behind. He was utterly defenceless.

“I— You—” he stammered, dumbstruck for a moment as he processed both his newfound vulnerability and the fact that Gwaine had so easily seen through his lies that morning yet still wanted to help him. “You don’t even know where I’m going.”

“Ealdor, right?”

Merlin stopped dead in his tracks, and it took Gwaine a second to rein in his horse and come to a halt, but as soon as he did he dismounted and led the horse back a few paces, coming up to stand face to face with Merlin. His easygoing grin had turned into a tight smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

“Gaius told you.”

“You were being so shifty that I thought I’d better check with him, and imagine my surprise when he said you were not just going on a trip but actually leaving Camelot. Didn’t think I’d just let you go, did you?”

Anxiety rose in Merlin’s chest and wrapped its cold fingers around his throat as he choked out, “I’m not going back.”

“Not what I meant, my friend.” All mirth had fallen from Gwaine’s face, and he met Merlin’s eyes soberly. “I’m not letting you go alone. Hope you don’t mind the company. I’ve always found that two people shorten the road.”

Merlin exhaled shakily, his fears dispersing immediately, leaving only relief and somewhat bemused affection behind. “No,” he decided. “Not at all.”

Gwaine smiled again, less forced this time. “And a good thing too, since I would’ve insisted on coming along anyway. Now, get on the horse; you look like a stiff breeze could send you flying. I’ll walk.”

Merlin wanted to protest that it was unnecessary—that he had been prepared to make the journey on foot and that he did not want to make Gwaine walk when he was only going on this trip out of the goodness of his heart—but he really was knackered. Nothing like a couple of hours hiking to make your body remember that you did not sleep at all last night. He was also starting to feel the loss of his magic more keenly than before, leading him to suspect that he might unknowingly have been using it in the past to give himself a little more stamina than he had any right to expect from his lanky body to make it possible to keep up with all the trained knights he kept company with.

In his current state of exhaustion—physical and emotional—the kind offer almost brought tears to his eyes, and he had to clear his throat before he managed a hoarse, “Thank you.”

He must have looked positively awful, because Gwaine’s expression went through a series of emotions that flickered by much too quickly for Merlin’s tired mind to follow properly, and then suddenly he was stepping forward to wrap his arms around Merlin’s shoulders.

The embrace was logistically awkward due to Merlin’s knapsack and Gwaine’s hauberk, and being pressed up against cool mail was not the most comfortable thing in the world, but Merlin could not care less. Gwaine was there and he was still his friend and they were hugging and Merlin would not be making the journey alone. That was all that mattered at the moment.

A tear or two escaped as he buried his face in Gwaine’s hair, but his friend made no mention of his red eyes when they eventually parted. He just helped Merlin secure his knapsack to the saddle bags, which already looked to be packed to the brim and then some.

They resumed their journey with Gwaine leading the horse, allowing Merlin to relax in the saddle, almost to the point of dozing off. He might actually have done just that, because after a while his body jerked suddenly, returning him to full awareness just in time to realise that he was starting to tilt a little too far to one side.

Gwaine’s hand shot out to grab on to him just below the knee. “Woah there, dormouse. Do I need to tie you to the saddle?” he asked with a light chuckle.

Merlin blinked as he regained his balance, shaking his head. “No, I’m awake. Won’t happen again.”

“If you say so,” Gwaine said sceptically, not yet letting go of Merlin’s leg. “Still, might be best to make camp early this evening.”

“I’m fine. I’d like to reach the border as soon as possible.”

Gwaine huffed and patted Merlin on the thigh before returning his hand to the reins and tugging the horse into a walk again. “Arthur really fucked up this time, eh?” The levity in his voice was belied by the grim set of his jaw.

Merlin’s heart skipped a beat, but he forced himself to keep his voice level as he asked, “What do you mean?”

“Never thought I’d see the day you voluntarily let him out of your sight. If you of all people are leaving, he must have done something really stupid.” Gwaine glanced over his shoulder and threw a wink Merlin’s way. “You know, it’s not too late for us to turn around and go back to assassinate him instead.”

“He didn’t do anything. Not…anything out of the ordinary anyway.”

He tried to ignore the images that flashed through his mind of Arthur raising his sword against Merlin, with intent to kill. His father had just died. He didn’t know it was me, was what he tried to tell himself, but he could not entirely shut out the tiny voice that added, But would it have mattered to him if he had known?

“Just the last straw, then?” Gwaine asked, not sounding particularly convinced.

“I… Something like that. What did Gaius tell you?”

“Not much. Said you wanted to go home for reasons of your own. Seemed real broken up about it, though. Wasn’t hard to tell that it was a sudden decision, or you wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye.”

“I did say goodbye. You caught me leaving, remember?” Merlin muttered, but it was guilt rather than indignation that made him curl in on himself and avoid eye contact.

“That was more of a ‘see you later.’ You said you’d be back in a day or two.”

Merlin sighed and hung his head. “I’m…sorry. I wish I could have said goodbye properly.”

But if I had I might never have left.

Gwaine nodded and processed this silently for a second. “You don’t need to explain. You wanted to leave; that’s good enough for me. If it’s because of Arthur, I’m sure he deserved it. I’ll take your word for it, no questions asked.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Merlin swallowed. “I’ll tell you. Just…later.”

“Across the border?” Gwaine asked, and the wry lilt of his voice suggested that he might be thinking something along the same lines as Merlin.

Better to confess to treason after leaving the kingdom.

“Across the border,” Merlin agreed.

Chapter Text

They made camp late that evening, with Merlin urging them to press on far longer than Gwaine was entirely comfortable with, considering his friend’s obvious exhaustion. He had insisted that Merlin spend the majority of the journey in the saddle and resigned himself to walking. If the only price for keeping his friend from keeling over before they reached their destination was a few blisters, then Gwaine was only too glad to pay it.

Their exertion at least resulted in their crossing over into Lot’s kingdom before retiring for the night, just like Merlin had wanted, which might turn out to be for the best if whatever was weighing on him was truly bad enough to warrant fleeing the country. It had not escaped Gwaine’s notice how Merlin had kept on glancing nervously over his shoulder every other minute, as if expecting to spot pursuers at any moment, nor how far away from the trail he had led them before deeming it safe to set up camp.

Gwaine did not question any of it—not out loud, at least. He just followed Merlin’s lead, letting his friend collect firewood while he relieved the horse from pack and saddle before giving it a thorough brush down. When this was done, he was somewhat surprised to see that Merlin had not yet got the fire going. In fact, he realised that he had been hearing the repeated sound of flint hitting steel intermingled with muttered oaths for a good while now.

“Fire giving you trouble?” he asked, looking over at the firepit Merlin had constructed.

Merlin was frowning down at the implements in his hands like they had personally offended him. “Everything’s wet. Rained yesterday.”

“I’m sure you’ll get it to catch. I’ve yet to see conditions that could stop you from getting a nice fire going, even when patrolling in the most miserable weather.”

This seemed to be the wrong thing to say, because Merlin made no response and did not look at all encouraged, instead biting at his lip and hunching his shoulders as he struck the flint and steel together again with more force than strictly necessary.

There was a nagging feeling at the back of Gwaine’s mind telling him that something was even more wrong than he already suspected, but he decided against pushing the subject just yet. Instead, he made a show of putting the horse between himself and Merlin while he picked out its hoofs and checked it over for any injuries.

When he finally turned back to Merlin again, he found that there was still no fire, and that the flint and steel lay on the ground some paces away, as if thrown there in a fit of frustration. Merlin was sitting curled up with his elbows resting against his knees, his head hung low and his fingers burrowed into his hair. Gwaine could not see his expression, but he hardly needed to. The posture said it all, and it was starting to get properly concerning.

At a loss of what to say, he settled for acting instead. A quick rummage through the saddle bags produced his tinderbox, and with this in hand he approached the firepit, picking up the discarded flint and steel on the way. He took a seat beside Merlin on the bedroll that had placed on the ground as protection from the dewy ground and bumped their shoulders together, wordlessly holding out the box.

Merlin’s tense shoulders sagged, and he ran his hands down his face before taking the tinderbox with a strained smile. “Thanks. I…forgot to pack mine.”

Gwaine wanted to ask why that should have stopped someone like Merlin from starting a fire, but he bit his tongue. He had waited this long for Merlin to tell him; he could wait a little longer. Hopefully, the explanation he had been promised earlier today would clear the air on more than one topic.

He watched as Merlin gave the fire another go, and this time the sparks found purchase on the dry tinder, providing enough heat to catch the kindling on fire, and with the help of the steady stream of air Merlin was blowing at the base of the small flames it was just a matter of time before the bigger twigs and branches got going as well, despite the dampness of the wood.

Not until he saw proper flames reaching for the heavens did Gwaine get up again to finish setting up camp and bring out some food for them both. He did not bother unrolling his own bedroll as he planned to use it as a cushion when taking the watch later, so he just left it lying tied up beside the fire in favour of sitting down beside Merlin again to share their provisions.

It seemed like conquering the fire had brought some life back to Merlin, for he looked a little more relaxed as he dug into his food like a starving man. He probably was half starving; he had eaten very little when they stopped for rest and refreshments around midday, and he had the look about him of a man who had skipped breakfast. Gwaine, by contrast, took his time eating (for once). He was growing more worried for his friend by the minute and it was concerning enough to affect even his appetite.

Merlin must have noticed his uncharacteristic pensiveness, because after finishing his own food he sighed and shifted on the bedroll to sit facing Gwaine. “You have questions.”

“I do. Don’t need them all answered, though.”

Merlin observed him quietly for a few moments, then softly said, “I want to tell you. Ask me.”

Gwaine picked absentmindedly at the crust of the bread in his hands as he considered where to start, finally deciding on, “You say Arthur didn’t do anything, yet you behave like he’ll send riders after you to drag you back to Camelot. Why would he do that?”

A muscle twitched in Merlin’s jaw as he clenched his teeth, grinding them together for a moment before responding. “If Gaius tells him the truth, he’ll have no choice. It’s the done thing with traitors.”

“You? Betray Arthur? Sorry, I’m not buying it.”

“I’m reliably informed that killing the king is considered treason.”

Gwaine choked on a breadcrumb and pounded himself on the chest through the hacking and coughing. “Just to be clear,” he croaked out when he felt that he could safely speak without inhaling anything else, “when you say ‘the king,’ you mean the King of Camelot? Uther?” He did not need to ask if Merlin was serious, because when he made jokes about killing royalty—which he did often, the man worked for Arthur, after all—he usually had a long-suffering twinkle in his eye. That twinkle was conspicuously missing now.

“Yes.”

“They said an evil sorcerer did it.”

Merlin just pointedly raised an eyebrow. His expression was unperturbed, but Gwaine noted that his hands were clenched so tightly in his lap that his knuckles were turning white.

“Then there must be more to the story, because that doesn’t sound like you.”

Drawing a deep breath, Merlin shook his head and said, “It’s true, Gwaine. I was born with magic.” His carefully blank expression slipped, betraying his unease, and his voice trembled slightly as he delivered the confession.

Gwaine’s heart twinged as he realised that Merlin was casting nervous glances towards the sword he had placed a few paces away for easy access. He tried not to take it personally, but he could not help feeling a little hurt that Merlin would even consider that he might use it for anything other than defending them.

He made an effort to look as relaxed and amiable as possible as he said, “Wasn’t talking about the sorcery; I meant the ‘evil’ part. Can’t see you ever fitting that description.”

Merlin stared at him. “You…knew?”

“From the hour I met you. Plates and benches don’t just throw themselves across the room. I’d be a fool not to notice, even in the middle of a fight.”

“Arthur didn’t.”

“Case in point.”

That startled a laugh out of Merlin, even as he wiped at his watery eyes. “You’re right. He knows how to swing a sword, but he doesn’t have eyes in his neck like you.”

“Only way to survive as many tavern brawls as I have,” Gwaine grinned.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

He shrugged. “At first, because it wasn’t my business. And then… Guess I hoped you’d tell me yourself one day. And so you did, though I confess I’d not expected it to be in the same breath as revealing you killed Uther Pendragon. Dying to hear more about that, by the way.”

Merlin sobered instantly. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Didn’t think so. Why don’t you tell me what really happened?”

“Tried saving him, but Morgana had planted an amulet that turned my healing magic against him, killing him instead.”

“Yeah, that tracks.” Gwaine took a bite out of his roll, continuing speaking around the bread while chewing. “I’d ask why a born sorcerer would ever want to save that old dryshite, but you always did have more heart than sense—and that’s saying something, seeing as you’re the cleverest person I know.”

It was hard to tell in the dim light of the fire, but Merlin might have been blushing as he ducked his head and rubbed at his neck. “Really? I’m used to sentences like that ending with being called some variation on ‘idiot’.”

“Really. You’re brilliant. Arthur doesn’t know how lucky he is to have you.” When Merlin’s expression darkened again at this, Gwaine quietly added, “But he doesn’t anymore, does he? What happened? He catch you trying to heal Uther and chase you out of Camelot?”

Merlin shook his head. “Not exactly. He asked me to do it, only I was in disguise. He still doesn’t know it was me, unless Gaius has told him by now.”

“Gaius would never betray your trust like that.”

“I told him he could tell people the truth if he wanted. It doesn’t matter much anymore. I’m not going back.”

Merlin was back to curling in on himself again, arms wrapped around his legs and his chin resting on his knees. The hollows around his eyes were made deeper and darker by the flickering shadows cast by the fire. He looked so worn out and world-weary that Gwaine’s stomach twisted in sympathy, and he put his food aside to finish at some later point.

“You still haven’t told me why you’re leaving. Why you don’t want to come back.”

“Killed the king, weren’t you listening?”

“But Arthur doesn’t know that. You weren’t caught; nothing had to change.”

“Something had to change!” Merlin exclaimed with sudden vehemence. “I couldn’t take it anymore. I’ve been forced to hide who I am all these years while working three jobs between Gaius and Arthur and pulling all the weight in fulfilling our destiny. I’ve had to put up with everyone thinking I’m a fool because all my actual talents and accomplishments are punishable by death. Then the person I thought was the only one in Camelot besides Gaius who knew about my secret died because of me, and now I’ve turned Arthur against magic forever, failing everyone who’s ever put faith in my destiny to bring magic back to Albion!

“The only way for Arthur to truly know me is for me to flee the kingdom like a coward and let someone else tell him, because if I did it, he’d cut me down like he tried to last night, and this time I wouldn’t even be able to stop him because I gave up my bloody magic to make sure the prat wouldn’t die the second I let him fend for himself for once, and I— Now I’m just— just useless, and I don’t— I can’t—”

Merlin was almost hyperventilating at this point, and it hurt Gwaine more than he could say to see the tears rolling down his friend’s wan face as he listed all the things he had secretly been carrying on his too-thin shoulders. It was unbearable, and so Gwaine did the only thing he could do; he scooted closer to Merlin and drew him into his arms, holding him tight to his chest, quite intent on not letting go until Merlin knew that someone saw him for who he was and appreciated him for it.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, one hand clutching at the back of Merlin’s coat and the other cradling the nape of his neck. “I should’ve told you I knew—helped share the load. Especially with Lance gone.” There was no doubt in his mind that Lancelot must have been the confidante Merlin had mentioned.

“It was supposed to be me,” Merlin sobbed into his shoulder, dampening the red wool of his cloak. “He knew I was going to stop Arthur from sacrificing himself to the Cailleach and take his place myself. It was supposed to be me—I thought it was my destiny—but he snuck around me when I was distracted and went through the rift in my stead. It should’ve been me. He should still be here, not me!”

“No, Merlin!” Gwaine grabbed Merlin by the shoulders and held him at arm’s length so he could look him in the eye. “When I woke up and heard that Lancelot was gone—that a sacrifice was the only way to close the rift and that he’d done it in Arthur’s stead—I respected him for it and wondered if I would have had the guts to do something like that in his position. But hearing that he actually did it to stop you from going through? I could kiss him! Now I know that I would’ve done the same if the alternative was you throwing your life away for Arthur. You’ve been doing too much of that already, by the sound of it.”

Merlin looked absolutely stunned, shocked out of crying. His red-rimmed eyes flitted across Gwaine’s face, taking in his uncharacteristically grim expression. His own turned to something like wonder as he followed the tracks of tears leading down from Gwaine’s glistening eyes into the scruff of his beard.

“Gwaine…” he breathed, gaping for a moment before putting on a forced attempt at a cheeky grin—and a very poor one at that. “I never knew you cared.” It was obviously supposed to be a joke, but it struck a dissonant chord in Gwaine nonetheless.

“That’s my failing, then. You were my first real friend, and for a long time the only one. Everything I have I owe to you. My friends. My position. My life. I should have made it clearer what that means to me.”

“It was Arthur who made you a knight, not me.”

“Never would’ve followed him if it wasn’t for you. And he probably never would’ve thought me worthy of a knighthood if you hadn’t been there to make excuses for me and get me out of trouble with various innkeepers and the like.”

Merlin frowned. “He knighted you because you stood by him when Morgana attacked. You more than proved your mettle.”

“I still stayed for you, in the beginning. Then, somehow, the others turned out to tolerate me enough to become my friends too—thanks to your endorsement, no doubt—and the reasons to remain in Camelot instead of becoming a knight errant started piling up. But it started with you.”

“I’m…sorry. I didn’t realise.” Merlin sniffled, then reached up to lay a hand on Gwaine’s forearm. “For what it’s worth, I don’t tolerate you.”

Gwaine huffed and gave Merlin a playful shove, finally letting go of his shoulders. “Wow, thanks.”

“You know that’s not what I meant. You’re a good friend, Gwaine—one of the best I’ve ever had. I don’t tolerate you; I like you.”

“Stop, you’ll make me blush.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow that clearly said, Whatever is powerful enough to make you blush hasn’t been invented yet. Which was fair, but this actually came damn close. “I mean it. You’re the only one among my friends who actually tells me when you’re joking with me. I never really know with the others.”

Gwaine grinned. “And you’re the only one who never joins in when they play pranks on me. Sure but it’s nice to know that not all my friends think the pinnacle of humour is playing, ‘Hold Gwaine’s gloves above his head and watch him jump for them.’”

Merlin chuckled and shook his head. “Remember a month or so back when they played, ‘Kick Gwaine’s helmet around while he runs after it?’” He leaned closer conspiratorially. “I may have been responsible for Elyan ‘accidentally’ kicking it into Leon’s groin.”

“My hero!” Gwaine bowed his head and laid a hand over his heart. “It seems I owe you far more than I knew. My sword is yours.”

“You owe me nothing,” Merlin replied earnestly. “But I am glad you’re here. Not only for the company, but for your sword as well. I hadn’t considered how defenceless I am without my magic. I’m grateful for the escort.”

Right. Escort.

“Don’t know about ‘defenceless.’ You’re no knight, but you swing a sword better than any servant I’ve ever seen.”

“Guess watching you lot prancing around on the training field has rubbed off a bit.”

“Guess so, and a lucky thing too, if you’ve really lost your magic. How did that happen?”

Merlin shrugged glumly. “Sort of…left it behind in the citadel.”

That made very little sense to Gwaine, but he would be the first to admit that the inner workings of sorcery were beyond his ken, so he chose to take Merlin’s word for it. “Why’d you go and do that for?”

“Couldn’t just leave Arthur completely without magical protection. He’d be dead within the week.”

“Sounds like quite the sacrifice.” He could not quite bring himself to voice the follow-up question: You sure it was worth it?

Merlin seemed to hear it nonetheless, for a shadow fell across his face, and he worried at his lip before saying, “It was.” Whether this was in answer to the spoken question or the silent one was left open to interpretation. Only time would tell, Gwaine supposed.

“You should get some sleep; you’ve had quite the day.”

“That’s an understatement,” Merlin huffed, rubbing at his eyes wearily.

“G’wan, then. I’ll take the watch.”

“All right. Wake me when it’s my turn.”

Yeah, right, Gwaine thought, but nodded noncommittally. There was no reason to start an argument over who needed sleep more than whom. He would be damned if he let himself be talked into allowing Merlin to do any more self-sacrificing today.

Chapter Text

For the first time in a very long time, Merlin did not rise with the crow of the cock. Rather, he woke to much more pleasant birdsong accompanying the low susurrus of a gentle breeze rustling through the treetops above him, lit by a sun that had already climbed fairly high in the sky.

For a second, he was gripped by the fear that he was late, but this was soon exchanged for a general sense of subdued anxiety when he realised that he had nothing to be late for. No one would come shout at him for neglecting to bring Arthur his breakfast, and he was not on a patrol where he needed to actually make the breakfast before the knights woke up hungry and cranky.

In fact, there was a modest breakfast waiting for him right in front of his face. He pushed himself up on his elbow and blinked blearily at the piece of bread and the apple someone had placed on his bedroll. No, not someone. Gwaine. When more memories of the past day trickled into recollection, his slight frown melted into a fond smile as gratitude bloomed up anew in his chest. He rolled over, turning his back to the firepit to instead look to where Gwaine was sitting only a few paces away, situated between Merlin and the distant road as he kept watch.

Gwaine turned to face him when he heard Merlin stir and gave him a bright—if tired—grin. “Morning, dormouse.”

“You,” Merlin said pointedly, “did not wake me up for my watch.” He punctuated this by chucking the apple at Gwaine, who caught it easily before it could make impact.

“And you,” Gwaine replied with an even wider grin, “should not play with your food.” He got to his feet and trod over to Merlin, pressing the apple back into his hand. “Come on, eat up. Packed it for you specially.” He ruffled Merlin’s hair affectionately as he passed him, continuing on to go fiddle with their packs.

“Why specially?”

“They’re your favourites, aren’t they?” Gwaine shot back over his shoulder.

Merlin blinked, perplexed, and looked back and forth between his friend and the apple. “I— Yeah. Just…didn’t expect you to know that.”

“What can I say? I pay attention.”

“To my food preferences?”

“To you.”

Merlin had no idea why those two words brought more heat to his face than any of Gwaine’s numerous playful flirtations had over the past year. Perhaps it was because they were delivered so casually, almost absentmindedly, with none of the usual theatrics as the man’s focus was turned to rummaging through the saddlebags. Or perhaps it was because Merlin would swear up and down that the only other people alive who could have answered questions about his partiality to apples were Gaius and his mother. Possibly Gwen too; she was thoughtful like that. Arthur absolutely would not have a clue. He probably would not even be able to say with certainty if he had ever seen Merlin eat an apple.

He could not think of anything in the way of an appropriate response, so he took a bite from the fruit in lieu of talking. It seemed to him like it tasted sweeter than it had any right to. He ate it in silence while he watched Gwaine continue his search with mounting frustration expressed through a series of muttered expletives.

“Looking for your comb?” Merlin asked after some minutes of this.

“Mind-reading one of your powers, is it?”

“I don’t have any powers anymore.” The reminder stung, but he pushed down on the gnawing grief over the loss of his magic. “It’s just that you always comb your hair in the morning on patrols. It should be in the pouch on your belt.”

Gwaine got to his feet and twisted his torso to grab for the pouch, and, sure enough, he withdrew the comb in question a second later. He looked over at Merlin in amazement. “I’d forgotten I had put that on already. How the hell did you know it would be in there?”

“What can I say? I pay attention to you too,” Merlin said. The fond smile tugging at his lips made his words come out a touch more suggestive than he had, perhaps, intended, but it was not as if it was not true. “It’s how I know you’re also partial to apples—among other things.”

“Keep talking like that and you really will make me blush,” chuckled Gwaine, giving him a quick wink before taking the comb to his hair and starting the project of brushing out the road dust and taming any tangles accumulated throughout the past day of travelling.

Merlin just huffed in amusement. That was more like the performative flirting he was used to hearing Gwaine throw around at anything walking on two legs. It was comfortingly familiar in a world that had been completely turned on its head.

“Why have you packed so much stuff anyway?” he asked as a way to distract himself from paying too much attention to Gwaine, or, more specifically, the drape of his luscious hair as the comb ran through it.

He had always liked Gwaine’s hair. It suited him. Hm. Perhaps he should tell him as much, if only to see if that would be enough to actually make him blush. He was starting to suspect that a genuine compliment would do far more to redden Gwaine’s cheeks than even the most ribald of jokes or stories.

“Asked Percival to tell everyone I’d gone hunting to cope with the tragic loss of our dear king.”

“That explains the crossbow, but you look like you’re going on a pilgrimage to the furthermost corner of the world.”

Gwaine shot him a strangely shifty look before saying, “Some of it is for you.”

“Me?”

“Gaius gave me some things he realised too late that he wanted to send with you.”

“Oh. Like what?”

Gwaine placed the comb back in the pouch and went to rummage through their stuff again. When he returned, he was holding a large, round, leather case in his hands.

“No, that’s— That’s Gaius’ medicine bag. Why would he give me that?”

“He wanted you to be able to practise your trade—to provide for yourself and your mother.”

Merlin shook his head in incomprehension. “But I’m not a physician.”

“He thought you might say that, so he told me to tell you that you’ve learned more from him than you think, and that those skills will be appreciated out here. He also sent you some books on physicking to help.”

“Books? But— I don’t—” He swallowed down the lump in his throat. “This is too rich a gift. You should take it all back to Gaius when you return to Camelot.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

“Gwaine—”

“Merlin.” Gwaine crouched down in front of him, placing the medicine bag on the ground between them. “He’d be heartbroken if you refused the gift. He wants to take care of you the only way he still can, and he sees great promise in you. As do I.” He placed a comforting hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “All right?”

Merlin cast his eyes down, trying to find a distraction to stop himself from tearing up again. He made himself focus on the tiny dewdrops on the blades of grass at Gwaine’s feet, then on the stitching on the medicine bag, then on a piece of red thread stuck to Gwaine’s knee which must have shed from his cloak, though the garment in question was currently stowed away as the weather was unseasonably clement this morning.

After some moments of this, he found that his voice was steady enough to say, “All right,” without breaking.

“Good.” Gwaine’s hand squeezed Merlin’s shoulder once before giving it a pat as he stood up again. “Now finish your breakfast. I let you have quite the lie-in; we should get moving if we want to reach Ealdor before dark.”

As Merlin watched Gwaine get started on readying the horse for departure, he privately thought that he was not in such a rush to get home anymore. Yes, he longed to see his mother, but reaching their destination also meant saying goodbye to Gwaine—possibly forever. He found that he did not care for that idea at all.

Chapter Text

Merlin was more energetic and in significantly higher spirits during the second stretch of their journey, making the sleepless night Gwaine had spent keeping watch entirely worth it. His friend still looked a little worn out, but his smiles came easier now and Gwaine no longer had to worry that he would fall asleep and slip out of the saddle if there was too long a lull in their conversation. In fact, they both walked most of the time, sparing the slender palfrey the extra load, seeing as it was already burdened by their overfull packs.

They generally spoke about happier things too, mostly avoiding the subject of why exactly they were out here, but at one point Gwaine asked what Merlin had meant about his “destiny”, which had immediately brought the mood down. He had tried to backtrack and change the subject when he saw Merlin’s face fall, but his friend had insisted that he wanted to tell him, and so Gwaine had received some dizzying revelations about dragons and druids and prophecies about the future of a magical, united Albion that Merlin and Arthur were apparently fated to bring about.

It was a lot to take in, and even more to carry on one’s shoulders, he would imagine. What must Merlin have felt like bearing the weight of that destiny for all these years, without being able to fully share the knowledge of it with the person it most concerned, forced to operate to fulfil it only from the shadows and through subterfuge? And to then have to hear Arthur swear to a renewed belief that magic was pure evil and that he would forever strive to uphold his father’s persecution of sorcerers—people like Merlin, who had given him years and years of faithful service in the hope that Arthur would turn out to be all that the prophecies promised… He could hardly be blamed for finally giving up the fight.

“For what it’s worth,” Gwaine had told Merlin, “I agree with you. You’ve gone above and beyond to do your part, and if Arthur is too boneheaded to ever change his ways and fulfil the rest of it, then it just proves that the prophecies were wrong from the start. You’ve done what you can. It’s more than enough.”

Merlin had nodded and given Gwaine a shaky but genuine smile as he said, “Thank you, old friend.”

It was becoming increasingly clear that Merlin was in much less of a hurry than he had been the previous day. Not once had he berated Gwaine for waking him so late—only for tricking him out of his watch—and when they had stopped a while around midday, it almost felt like Merlin had been dragging his feet a little before finally agreeing that it was time to get moving again.

Gwaine could only guess as to why, but if it was what his hopeful thinking suggested it might be, then he felt both flattered and ashamed that he had not yet summoned the courage to tell Merlin the full truth of why he was there. Oh well. It would not be long now until he would be forced to reveal it and face the consequences of his gamble, for good or ill.

“It’ll get dark soon,” Merlin remarked eventually, a full two hours before Gwaine estimated the light would actually become too dim for comfortable travel.

“Sure,” he replied, choosing to see where Merlin was going with this.

“Might be best to make camp.”

Gwaine could not resist asking, “How much further to Ealdor?” even though he knew they could not be more than an hour and a half away, at most.

“It’s…some distance yet. But we’ll get there tomorrow.” It was truly impressive how Merlin had survived so long at Camelot, considering what a bad liar he was. “Come on, I know a good fishing spot nearby. We might catch dinner!”

Gwaine needed no convincing, and he gladly followed behind Merlin as he led them into the woods, taking responsibility for caring for the horse and setting up camp when they reached the stream while Merlin whittled himself a spear and got to work providing for them. By the time the fish was caught, cooked, and consumed, dusk had fallen over them, and Gwaine was glad for the warmth and light of the fire.

“You’re good at this,” he commented as they finished their meal, using a bone from the fish to pick at a bit of food still stuck in his teeth.

Merlin hummed and stretched out on his back on his bedroll, looking sated and content. “Mm, turned out pretty good even with our limited supply of seasoning.”

“I meant the fishing, but aye, the cooking too. It was always a treat to be on patrol with you. None of the knights can cook to save their lives.”

Merlin laughed. “Don’t I know it.”

“I’m surprised that someone who hates hunting so much is such a proficient fisherman.”

“I don’t know, it feels different somehow. Definitely helps that I don’t have to lug around Arthur’s equipment all over the forest.” He sobered a little, but was still smiling as he said, “I used to go fishing all the time with my mate Will. It was great fun, and I got pretty good at it, though I used to be even better when I still had my magic.”

“Use it to spell the fish right out of the water, did you?”

“No!” Merlin ripped out a handful of grass and threw it at Gwaine, though very little of it actually made its way over to where he was lounging on his own bedroll a pace or two further along the circumference of the firepit. “That would be cheating. I just…felt more attuned to nature when I had my magic—like I could feel the flow of the currents in the water and the movement of the fish. I’d stand there and let my senses sink into the earth and the water until I felt like I was one with the world, and then I’d just know when it was time to strike.”

His expression was soft and wistful as he looked up at the stars glimmering beyond the treetops, joined in their brilliance by the sparks swirling up from the fire. Gwaine found that he could not care less for the pretty light show, preferring instead to watch the dance of shadow and light upon Merlin’s face.

“It sounds nice.”

Merlin let his head fall to the side to face him. The flames of the fire were reflected in his eyes in a way reminiscent of the few times Gwaine had managed to glimpse them as Merlin got a little too careless in casting a spell in the heat of battle. “It was.”

Gwaine made no comment on the use of the past tense, electing instead to lighten the mood. “But I’d say it still seems a wee bit like cheating.”

More grass was thrown his way. “And I say that it was a sacred communion between man and nature.”

“I defer to your expertise,” Gwaine laughed. “You must know a lot about these parts of the woods if you used to ‘become one’ with them. Get many bandits ‘round here?”

“Almost none, especially not after rumour spread that Ealdor is well defended.”

Gwaine did not have to ask what Merlin meant by that—even he had heard the rumour of Ealdor’s triumph against a gang of brigands a few years back. Well, not a rumour, exactly—a first-hand account, rather, seeing as the story had featured heavily in Merlin’s campaign to convince Gwaine that Arthur was “not like other nobles.”

“Grand so, then I’ll risk getting out of my mail. I’ve lived in this stuff for two days; I’ll not sleep in it if I can help it.” He wasted no time in slipping off the mail coif before moving on to unbuckle his belt.

“What would Arthur say about you letting your guard down in unfamiliar terrain?”

“It’s hardly unfamiliar. You grew up here and I’m well-travelled. Besides, Arthur isn’t here, is he?”

The corners of Merlin’s mouth twitched downwards almost imperceptibly. “No. He’s not.”

Gwaine silently cursed himself for reminding Merlin of this fact, even if he had been the one to bring up Arthur’s name in the first place. Hoping to brush past the subject, he tugged lightly at the neckline of his hauberk and asked, “Help us out of this, would you? It’s a pain to get off by myself and my hair always snags on something.”

“Of course.”

Merlin got to his feet, as did Gwaine, and through their combined efforts he was freed of the mail with minimal fuss or hair pulling. He would expect nothing less from Merlin, who was well practised at dealing with armour after all these years of serving Arthur.

“Who would’ve thought that all I had to do to get you to undress me was asking nicely?” he quipped, running his hands through his hair to smoothen it back into place.

Merlin scoffed and bent down to collect the coif before heading over towards their pack to store the mail away out of reach of the evening dew. “I wouldn’t expect you nobles to know that ‘asking nicely’ is actually the key to most things in life.”

Gwaine gasped in mock offence. “How dare you lump me in with that lot?”

“You’re literally noble twice over, Gwaine.”

“Don’t remind me,” he sighed, melodramatically slumping down onto his bedroll, a hand over his heart. “It’s a true tragedy, so it is.”

Merlin laughed. “I know, it’s hilarious.” He finished putting the mail away and asked, “You want your cloak?”

“Please.”

As Merlin sorted through their pack, Gwaine rolled his shoulders and stretched his back out, relieved to be free of the weight of the mail after days of wearing it. Travelling had been much lighter business back when he had been too penniless to afford proper armour. He was so absorbed in the pain-pleasure of stretching his neck and kneading at his shoulders that he did not notice Merlin coming back until something was thrown into his lap.

“What’s this?”

Gwaine looked down to see a piece of red cloth embroidered with a golden dragon.

Ah.

“The Pendragon crest?” he said sheepishly.

“I can see that. Shouldn’t it be on your cloak?” Merlin held up the cloak in question, which sported a faint shadow in the shape of a shield where the appliquéd patch had shielded the fabric from the bleaching rays of the sun—until Gwaine had carefully unpicked the seams during his watch last night, that was.

“We’re in Lot’s lands now. He may not be at outright war with Camelot, but he’ll not take kindly to seeing her knights traipse over the border as they please.”

Merlin raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “And just removing the crest is going to make the signature red cloak of a knight of Camelot less conspicuous?”

Gwaine shrugged, picking at some dirt under his fingernails to avoid eye-contact. “I’ll have it dyed over.”

“Dyed— What? You’ll make the ride back to Camelot tomorrow in a day! There’s no need to go to all this effort to travel incognito. You didn’t even need to wear your cloak today!” When Gwaine made no response to this nor looked up, Merlin sucked in a sharp breath and asked tentatively, “You…are going back tomorrow? Aren’t you?”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” He shook his head with a mirthless smile. “But I guess that’s up to you.”

“I don’t— You—” Merlin fell silent for a moment, then dropped to his knees beside him on the bedroll. “You want to stay…in Ealdor?”

Gwaine risked a glance at Merlin’s expression, finding a mixture of shock, incomprehension, and what he dearly hoped was affection. “If you’d have me. I know it’s another mouth to feed, and I’m not exactly an experienced farmer, but I could be put to use. I’ve got my strength to offer, I’m a fair hunter, I’ve picked up some practical skills taking sundry jobs throughout my years of roaming, and I could lend my sword if needed.”

“It’s not a question of usefulness.” Merlin laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Gwaine, you’re needed in Camelot.”

“They have plenty of knights. Granted, none as gifted or handsome as myself, but they’ll make do.”

“You can’t just leave. You swore fealty to Arthur.”

“Fealty can be forfeited,” Gwaine muttered darkly.

“I told you, he didn’t actually do anything,” Merlin protested.

“He raised his sword at you!”

“He didn’t know it was me!”

“I don’t care!” Gwaine shifted on the bedroll to face Merlin properly, unfortunately shaking off the hand on his shoulder in doing so. “If he had hurt you, it would matter not a jot to me if he thought you were Morgana herself!”

“But he didn’t hurt me.”

“You say that, but the look in your eyes these past days—longer, even—tells another story.”

Merlin clenched his jaw, his lips thinning, and looked down at his lap where his hands were clutching at the red wool of the cloak. His throat worked in silence for a moment, then he swallowed and said, “I have my reasons for leaving. You have reasons to stay.”

“One less now.”

“But many remain. Percival, Elyan, Leon. Your knighthood.”

“I don’t want it. I’ll miss the lads, but if Arthur would truly count you among his enemies if he knew the truth, then he is not the man I thought he was, and I can no longer serve him in good conscience.” Gwaine sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “If even you have given up hope that he’ll see sense anytime soon, then I fear it’s only a matter of time before he gives an order that forces me to make a choice between selling my soul or openly rebelling anyway. Better to leave before it has to come to that.” He laughed wryly. “You know, life was much easier before you came along and made me a man of conviction. Very inconvenient things, these scruples, I’ll have you know.”

“What are you talking about? You were always a man of conviction, Gwaine, or you would have pulled rank instead of letting yourself be banished by Uther. One of the most scrupulous men I’ve ever met, really.”

“If you say so. Either way, there you have it: the reason that I’ve packed like I’m moving to the other side of the isles. Even if you don’t want me hanging around in Ealdor, I’m not sure I’ll be going back to Camelot either.”

Merlin put the cloak aside and laid a hand on Gwaine’s knee. “It’s not that I don’t want you there—quite the opposite! I just don’t want to see you throw away your entire life just because I’m…too tired to remain in Camelot.”

“You gave me that life.”

“I don’t want you following me because you think you owe me something either.”

“That’s not why.”

“Then why, Gwaine?” Merlin pleaded, his hand tightening around Gwaine’s knee. “Why abandon everything you’ve worked so hard for at the drop of a hat? Why this blind faith in my judgement?”

Gwaine chewed at the inside of his cheek as he debated the wisdom of giving a fully honest answer, but he was already in deep, and Merlin had a kind heart. He just had to trust that the truth would not be too off-putting.

“Before all this, did you follow Arthur just out of duty?” he asked after some consideration.

Merlin looked confused. “No?”

“Just because of your destiny?”

“Maybe at first, but no.”

“Just out of…friendship?”

“I don’t—” His expression closed off a little. “We weren’t—”

“No need to lie—not to me. Was it just duty, destiny and friendship, or was there something more?”

A range of warring emotions flickered across Merlin’s face. “Something more,” he finally confessed. “On my part.”

Gwaine nodded and hung his head with a self-deprecating smile. “Then you understand.”

A long silence stretched between them, during which Gwaine could hear nothing but the crackling of the fire and the pounding of his own lovelorn heart. He kept his gaze trained on the crumpled, embroidered patch in his lap, restlessly picking at the loose remains of the stitching along the edges as he waited for Merlin’s verdict, trying to keep his emotions in check before they could run away on him and do something foolish—like develop false hope, for example.

After an indeterminable period of time, Merlin’s hand swam into view as he reached out and placed his fingertips under Gwaine’s chin, gently tilting his head up. His face was closer than before—his head ducked to bring them to a level—and his eyes were dark and glistening and full of wonder as he breathed out, “Gwaine…”

Gwaine felt his breath catch in his chest as he realised that his friend kept leaning closer, and his heart skipped a beat when Merlin’s eyes fell to his lips. The hand slid from his chin to instead cup his cheek, and only moments later, Merlin’s mouth was on his, gently pressing their lips together in a soft kiss that stole the arrested breath right out of his body. By the time he had sufficiently recovered from the surprise to start thinking about actually kissing back, it was already over, and as Merlin pulled away, Gwaine swayed forward slightly, chasing his lips before he regained his balance and righted himself.

He realised that his eyes had slid shut and opened them again, blinking dazedly as his eyes tried to refocus on Merlin, who he found had not drawn back all that far—no more than a hand’s breadth, in fact. His hand still lingered on Gwaine’s cheek.

Merlin wet his lips before murmuring, “Did you mean something like that?”

“Yes,” Gwaine replied hoarsely. “Something like that.”

A smile tugged at Merlin’s plush mouth, and if Gwaine had been able to tear his gaze from it, he would have seen the happy crinkling of blue eyes that were nevertheless a little misty as Merlin chuckled and said, “Looks like I actually can make you blush. Good to know.”

Then he was kissing Gwaine again, and nothing else was said for a long while. There was only the warm press of lips and the slick slide of tongues as Merlin let him lick into the heat of his mouth, drawing him in closer than Gwaine had dared think he would ever be permitted. He had hoped, yes—and wanted and yearned—but after all this time he had not thought it likely that anything would ever actually come of it. Merlin had always seemed so…busy. With Arthur. And destiny, apparently.

That actually explained a lot, in hindsight. All those invitations to spend time with the lads at the tavern that had been declined with a shifty expression, a bad excuse, and sometimes a pointed look that seemed to silently communicate something to Lancelot, which had always made Gwaine feel vaguely jealous of the man (though he had not been entirely sure of what). Maybe it had not been mere excuses to get out of socialising, but a genuine lack of time between all his duties, mundane and magical alike. Merlin had certainly seemed to have a good time whenever he actually did have time to go out with them.

As their kissing grew gradually more heated, all thoughts of the past slipped out of Gwaine’s mind, and he focused in on the sensations of the present, letting himself simply enjoy the warmth of Merlin’s body, which was now perched on his lap, his knees bracketing Gwaine’s hips—and when exactly had that happened? No. It did not matter. All that mattered was that Merlin’s hands were caressing his cheeks, petting at his beard, and combing through his hair, pulling him impossibly deeper into his kisses. All that was important was that Gwaine was finally allowed to touch him in return—to cradle the back of that slender neck with his sword-callused hands, to run his fingers along the curve of those adorably prominent ears, to wrap his arms around that narrow waist which felt almost designed for the specific purpose of fitting into his embrace…

Gwaine lost himself in these sensations for a time, but he was brought back to reality when he felt Merlin’s hands move to pick at the ties of his gambeson, and he forced himself to draw back a little to ask, “Merlin, what are you doing?”

Merlin raised an eyebrow. “What do you think I’m doing?” His fingers kept fiddling with the laces, but did not move on to the next set.

Making a mistake, the most cynical part of Gwaine’s mind supplied, but he pushed it down as far as he could and said instead, “I meant why?”

Merlin’s eyebrow climbed ever higher. “Because I want to?” He faltered a little, sounding less sure as he asked, “Don’t you?”

“Merlin…” Gwaine laid a hand over Merlin’s restless fingers, stilling them by pressing them to his chest. “I’ve wanted this since the moment I first saw you, but I’ll not bed a man in your current state.”

Looking somewhere between confused and wanton, Merlin said, “I thought my current state was rather the point.” He ground his hips downward, dragging said “state” against Gwaine’s corresponding one.

Stifling a low groan, Gwaine moved his hands to still Merlin’s hips instead. “You’re crying,” he clarified.

“Am I?” Merlin’s hand flew up to touch his cheek. “Oh.” He looked at the trace of wetness on his fingertips in vague surprise. “I am. Or I was. But they’re not bad tears. I just— It’s been a while. Being held like this again… It feels nice. Overwhelmingly so, but in a good way.”

Gwaine wished his nagging doubts would let him believe this wholeheartedly, but alas. “Merlin… I care too much about you to watch you fall into the arms of the first available alternative after leaving Camelot—after leaving…him. That’s not what I want this to be.” The words hurt to get out, but he could not leave them unsaid.

“This is not about Arthur,” Merlin protested, hackles rising.

“You sure about that?”

“It’s not.” Merlin searched his expression, and whatever he read in it seemed to make him lower his defences again, because he ducked his head, seeking eye-contact. “Gwaine. I never had any illusions about Arthur ever returning the kind of feelings I once had for him. I made my peace with that long before I thought about leaving Camelot—long before I even met you. I put those feelings aside ages ago.” He wound his arms loosely around Gwaine’s neck and sighed softly. “This is about us, I promise. Just you and me.” He tipped his head forward to lean their foreheads together. “All right?”

Gwaine exhaled, forcing himself to both listen to and believe what Merlin was telling him. After all, was he not here because of his implicit trust in Merlin’s judgement? Should not that judgement also extend to himself?

“All right,” he whispered, letting his arms drift up to encircle Merlin’s waist again. “Still, let’s just…slow down some?”

“Anything you want.” Merlin nudged their noses together, then pressed a brief kiss to his lips. “Speaking of, you really wanted me from the moment you met me?”

A startled chuckle escaped Gwaine, and he looked up at Merlin with a grin. “I don’t know how to break it to you, but you’re quite the vision, my wee dormouse.”

Merlin wrinkled his nose. “I’ve always thought of myself as gangly, more than anything else.”

“No, no. Slender. Elfin.”

“I’ll take it,” Merlin laughed. “You know you could have said something.”

“My dear, oblivious friend, I’ve flirted with you on a near-daily basis for over a year now. Forgive me for thinking it wasn’t working.”

“Oh, it worked, all right—from day one.”

“Really?” Gwaine could not keep a hint of disbelief from colouring his words.

“Oh yeah! I was completely taken by you and your easy charm and perfect hair and reckless chivalry. But more importantly, you were kind to me, asking me questions about myself—about my dad… I liked you. Remember how hard I tried to convince you to stay—to tell Uther you weren’t a commoner so he’d pardon you?”

Gwaine blinked dumbly before exclaiming, “Then why didn’t you say something?”

Merlin huffed. “I figured out soon enough you were like that with everyone and tried to put it out of my mind—mostly unsuccessfully. I had no reason to think I was special.”

“Merlin, love, you have no idea how special you are. And I am not like this with everyone. I’ll not deny that I throw a fair bit of casual flirtation around—it’s a good way to get both into and out of trouble, and great fun even when it doesn’t lead to anything—but you have been getting the genuine article.”

“Well, how was I supposed to tell the difference?! You know you have to explain when you’re joking with me.”

“I didn’t think I had to explain when I was serious.”

Merlin shook his head in exasperation, but it seemed to be directed at himself, not Gwaine. “Apparently you do.” He chuckled wryly. “Looks like you should take back what you said about me being the cleverest person you know.”

“Never. You forget that all my other friends are knights. Sure but they’ve been smacked around the head one too many times in both battle and training to be worthy contenders for the title. Besides, the most foolish thing you’ve done to my knowledge is throw your lot in with a ne’er-do-well like me, and I can hardly complain about that.”

“Believe me, this may be the most sensible thing I’ve done in my life.”

Merlin’s smile was outmatched in sweetness only by the kiss that followed it—a kiss that tasted all the sweeter for knowing that it actually meant something to Merlin. That was enough to almost bring tears to Gwaine’s eyes this time, and he soon had to break the kiss to breathe through the emotion, wrapping his arms tightly around the wonder that was Merlin and burying his face in the crook of his neck.

“Does this mean you’ll let me stay with you in Ealdor?” His quiet question was further muffled by being spoken into the neckerchief he had so often imagined ridding Merlin off to gain access to that swan-like neck.

“I’m not letting you do anything,” Merlin murmured, pressing a soft kiss into his hair. “I’m asking you. Stay with me?”

Gwaine’s heart swelled with affection, and he burrowed deeper still into Merlin’s embrace. “Always,” he whispered. “Always.”

Chapter Text

For the second day in a row, Merlin woke to the sound of birdsong, but this time there was something else that contributed to rousing him, namely the soft caress of fingers playing with his hair. It was so relaxing that it took a good couple of minutes before he drifted close enough to the surface of consciousness to recall the events of yesterday and thus figure out to what—or rather to whom—he owed this unusually pleasant awakening.

He had not been able to pull the same trick as Gwaine had the night before where he had simply neglected to wake Merlin for a change of watch, because the man in question had woken up of his own accord in the middle of the night to go relieve himself and had insisted on taking over the watch when he returned, not taking no for an answer.

Merlin had been tired enough from a long day of travelling, fishing and emotional revelations that he had not put up much of a fight, even though he felt guilty about Gwaine missing out on another full night of sleep when he had stayed up all last night. At least there would be ample opportunity for them both to sleep undisturbed once they reached Ealdor. Thus, they had switched places, with Merlin curling up on the newly vacated bedroll and falling asleep with the top of his head pressed against Gwaine’s thigh.

He woke up in much the same position to find Gwaine looking down at him with unbridled affection as he gently carded his fingers through Merlin’s hair. “Wakey wakey, dormouse,” he said when he saw Merlin’s eyes crack open. His hand wandered down to cup Merlin’s cheek, his thumb sweeping gently over a sharp cheekbone.

“Morning, night owl,” Merlin murmured in return, letting his eyes flutter closed again. “I could get used to waking up like this. Much better than the racket Gaius makes as he prepares breakfast.” He reached up to loosely wrap his hand around Gwaine’s wrist, tilting his head to press a kiss to his palm, still half in disbelief that this was something he could just do now.

“There are certainly worse ways to start your day,” agreed Gwaine.

“Seems we’re starting it late again.”

“Can you blame me for not wanting to disturb such a pretty sight as this?” The tips of Gwaine’s fingers trailed across Merlin’s cheek down to his mouth, where they ghosted over his lips in a feather-light touch. “The morning light becomes you. And that’s me giving you the come-on, in case it wasn’t clear.”

Merlin snorted and sat up, stretching the stiffness of sleep out of his limbs. “I think I got it this time.” He shuffled closer to Gwaine and pulled him into a deep, leisurely kiss that made his entire body feel all tingly. “That’s me giving you a sign it’s still working, by the by,” he murmured as they parted, eyes still stuck on Gwaine’s lips, which split into a grin.

“Aren’t I a lucky bastard?”

“I know I am.” Merlin’s smile grew soft and sincere as he said, “I’m glad you’re here, Gwaine. Of all the people in Camelot who could’ve come running after me for whatever reason, I’m glad it was you.”

He had not anticipated anyone to follow him for any purpose besides dragging him back, nor had he expected that Gwaine’s intention would be to stay by his side, and he had especially not presumed to imagine that his reason for staying could be love. If only he had realised sooner that Gwaine’s feelings for him ran this deep…

Gwaine looked genuinely touched by Merlin’s words, but he nevertheless put on a roguish grin and asked, “Are you saying that last night wouldn’t have ended in necking if it had been Percival who had come to escort you?”

“No, could you imagine?” Merlin laughed.

“Not only can I imagine it, I’d pay to see it.” Gwaine winked, sending a rush of heat to Merlin’s cheeks. “Although, I’m a selfish man… On second thought, I think I’d rather keep that privilege to myself, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m all yours,” Merlin said earnestly and kissed him again.

He had been telling the truth when he said that he had been charmed from the moment they met, but he really had not thought that he was meant to be taking Gwaine’s advances seriously, even feeling a little foolish at times for entertaining the thought that someone that suave and good-looking could actually be interested in little old Merlin. And Gwaine had put so much emphasis on their being friends, which he had taken as a hint not to read anything more into his naturally flirty demeanour.

Apparently, Merlin was an idiot. Looking back on it, Gwaine had always been rather more intense about their friendship than, say, Lancelot, who had been a very, very good friend but had not really done things like gazing deeply into Merlin’s eyes while professing that he was crossing the Perilous Lands and fighting wyverns just for his sake. Perhaps that should have tipped him off a bit earlier.

It did not matter much now, he supposed. What was important was that they had sorted things out in the end, and now Merlin was free to act on the impulses he had tried to repress during the past year and change of having Gwaine around for more than the occasional adventure beyond Camelot’s borders. He had gotten reasonably skilled at it after all his practice at ignoring his impossible feelings for Arthur, but now that Gwaine had gone and confessed that there had never been a need to keep his desires to himself, he could cut loose the restraints on his feelings and let himself examine them to their full extent for the first time.

What he found upon closer inspection was the overwhelming churning of a whirlpool of searing desire and fierce affection that had obviously only grown in intensity by his trying not to acknowledge his emotional and physical attraction to Gwaine, and now every touch felt like a brand upon his skin, every kiss stoked the flames of passion to unprecedented heights, and every tender word made his heart swell to near bursting.

He wanted more acutely than ever before, and this time he knew both what it was that he wanted and that he was actually allowed to have it for once in his life—just not all of it quite yet. If Gwaine wanted to take things slow, then Merlin would slow down. He could not say that he had expected such a request, but he could not entirely fault Gwaine’s reasoning. These past days had been intense—to say the least—and, in hindsight, Merlin’s emotional state last night had not, perhaps, been conducive to taking things much further. The desire to do so had not lessened after sleeping on it, however, but he could wait. He was good at waiting.

Merlin’s mood as they broke their fast was brighter than it had been in weeks, despite the occasional reminder of why they were out here all alone, and Gwaine seemed to be likewise in high spirits, cracking jokes and flirting like there was no tomorrow.

“So, how much further is it really to Ealdor?” he asked after they had eaten.

Merlin coloured as he realised that his little subterfuge had not gone unnoticed. “Just over an hour by foot,” he admitted sheepishly.

“And why exactly did you deem it impossible for us to get there in the two hours of light we had left yesterday?”

Taking in Gwaine’s impish grin, Merlin decided that this was one of those times when there was no need to actually tell him that he was being teased, and he huffed and tried to keep a smile of his own from slipping out as he said, “If you’re hoping to trick me into confessing to stalling because I wanted to delay you leaving, then you’ll have to try a lot harder.”

“I think you just did,” Gwaine smirked and bounded to his feet. “I’m flattered to be the object of such a wily plan.” He headed over to their pack, picking at the ties to his gambeson as he walked.

“Shut up,” Merlin muttered, but there was no heat in it, only fondness. “How was I supposed to know you weren’t going anywhere?”

Gwaine’s smile softened. “Nowhere but wherever you’re headed.” He shrugged out of the gambeson, which was followed by pulling his tunic off as well.

“What are you doing?” Merlin asked, automatically averting his eyes before realising with a thrill that there was no need to do so.

“I’m about to meet your mother, am I not?” Gwaine said, pulling out a washcloth from a saddle bag before walking in the direction of the nearby stream. “I want to make a good first impression. We’ve been on the road for two days.”

“She’s going to love you,” Merlin said distractedly, his attention half consumed by the dance of muscles in Gwaine’s back as he bent over to free himself of his footwear.

Gwaine shot a look back at him. “You sure?”

“She loves everyone who likes me. I’m starting to suspect you might fall under that category.”

“So I do,” laughed Gwaine, rolling up the legs of his breeches. He then stepped into the water, which only reached his mid-calf in this part of the stream. “Oh, fuck, but that’s cold!”

Merlin watched on with a smile on his face as Gwaine braved the frigid water by bending down to plunge his head under the surface, giving his hair a thorough scrub. Now that was dedication. You could not pay Merlin to dunk his head in a stream at this time of year—especially not with another hour of travel awaiting him afterwards.

Gwaine popped back up for air, gasping as he wrung the water from his dripping locks. “Gods above and below and sideways,” he swore, grabbing blindly for the washcloth he had stuck into his waistband while he waded back towards dry land. “Makes you miss the warm baths in Camelot, that does.”

“I certainly don’t miss lugging the water for those baths up the stairs,” Merlin muttered, but he found it difficult to dwell on those memories when faced with the much more alluring sight of a shirtless Gwaine drying his hair.

Stray drops of water fell to his shoulders and trailed down delectably defined muscles that flexed as he scrubbed at his hair with the washcloth. Merlin’s eyes followed the path of the water with great appreciation as it wound from his broad shoulders, over firm pectorals and down a trim waist before finally disappearing into the waistband of his breeches, dampening the fabric there and making Merlin wish the weather had been warm enough to allow for a proper bath, if only to tempt Gwaine into removing the last of his clothes.

“No, I don’t suppose you would.” Gwaine bent down to wet the cloth properly in the stream, moving on to give his torso a good scouring, which was not exactly a less enticing sight. “Copper piece for your thoughts?”

“Hm?”

“See something you like, is that it?”

Merlin’s eyes snapped up to meet Gwaine’s, which were crinkled in flirtatious amusement as he looked down at him, clearly aware of his appreciation. “Perhaps.” He wet his lips. “I may have been thinking of all those training sessions where I had to sit on the sidelines and pretend not to look when you inevitably removed your tunic to cool off. Just realised I don’t have to pretend anymore.”

“I may have been motivated more by the hope of you looking than any actual overheating,” Gwaine confessed. “Glad to hear my scheming wasn’t for nothing.”

“You are shameless.”

“Hm, I’d call it being canny and resourceful.” Gwaine rinsed out the cloth in the stream before holding it out for Merlin. “Fancy a scrub yourself?”

He considered whether washing some of the grime and road dust off was really worth facing the chill of the early spring air and the even colder water, but he finally decided that it might be nice to change into a fresh tunic that did not smell as strongly of sweat and woodsmoke before making the last stretch of the journey home. He would keep his hair dry, though, thank you very much.

He got to his feet and walked over to Gwaine, taking the cloth from him only to immediately boop him on the nose with it. “Missed a spot.”

Gwaine just laughed and shook his head vigorously in revenge, sending a light spray of droplets flying onto Merlin from his still-damp hair, then he moved on to their packs to find some clean clothes while Merlin got to work on ridding himself of his own.

“Speaking of pretending,” Gwaine called over his shoulder, “is there going to be a lot of that in Ealdor?”

“How do you mean?”

“Just wondering how much of the truth you want to share with everyone—about your magic, why you came back, you and me… Rumour spreads quickly in wee villages.”

“I don’t have any magic to hide anymore,” Merlin replied, somewhat bitterly, yanking his neckerchief off a little more roughly than he had intended and letting it fall to the ground. “As for why I left Camelot… I don’t know. I’ll tell mother the truth, but the village? Might just say I missed home, or that Arthur got himself a better manservant when he became king. Can’t exactly tell people that I accidentally killed the old king with magic and got sick of blindly following my destiny.” His belt followed the way of the neckerchief.

“And us?”

Merlin looked over at Gwaine, his slight frown melting into a smile. “I don’t want to lie about that. Especially not to my mum—she’ll be fine with it, she caught me and Will, ahem, ‘practising’ kissing more than once as teens—but I don’t think we’ll need to hide from the rest of the village either. Before I was even born, Marchel—the finest webster in Ealdor or any of the surrounding villages—went away to sell her cloth at a market, and she came home with this woman Angharad in tow. No one questioned that they seemed to love each other as a husband and wife would. They live together to this day. They’re an adorable old couple.”

“Then I look forward to meeting them,” Gwaine said, seemingly reassured by the story. “And will I also get to meet this famous Will who taught you both fishing and kissing?” he asked as he pulled a fresh tunic over his head.

Merlin’s face fell. “No. I told you about the fight with Kanen’s men, right? He was the one who took an arrow for Arthur.” The first of many loved ones he had lost since leaving Ealdor for Camelot.

“I’m sorry.” Gwaine’s voice was earnest, and his expression conveyed more sympathy and comfort than any words of consolation ever could.

Arthur had told him he was sorry for his loss as well when Will died. Then, in practically the same breath, he had berated Merlin for keeping Will’s supposedly “dangerous” magic secret—magic he had not even had and which would have turned him into an enemy in Arthur’s eyes if he had learned of its (non-existent) existence at any point before Will had saved his life.

With practised effort, Merlin drove these maudlin memories out of his mind, nodding solemnly at Gwaine. “Thank you.”

When he received a nod in return, Merlin turned his attention back to the task of washing up, leaving Gwaine to his search for his belt. Not being a masochist like Gwaine, he settled for removing only his jacket and tunic, crouching by the waterline to wet the washcloth instead of wading in. He set to work without further ado, scrubbing himself down unceremoniously, almost glad for the chill of the water as it helped distract him from thinking too much of the past.

He mostly succeeded in this endeavour. Until he was served another reminder.

“Merlin?” Gwaine was standing just a pace or two behind him, though Merlin had not noticed him approaching. “How…did you get all those?”

Still kneeling by the stream, Merlin looked up over his shoulder to find that Gwaine was staring at his bare back. “What?”

“Those scars. You’ve got more of them than I do.”

Oh. Right. There was a reason he never removed his tunic in front of others if he could help it. He had grown so comfortable in Gwaine’s company that he had forgotten.

“They’re mostly scrapes.” From being magically flung into a few too many stone walls and the like, he did not add.

“Scrapes? You look like you’ve been impaled! What the hell did this to you?”

Gwaine pointed at something around his mid back, and Merlin had to stand up and contort himself to try to reach around and feel for what he was indicating. His fingers brushed over a shallow, circular crater with ragged edges just to the left of his spine, a little wider than his thumbnail in diameter. Ah. Yes. He remembered now.

“Serket sting from when Morgana and her sister left me tied up in the woods. The Great Dragon helped me heal it, but I guess it still left a scar.”

“You guess? You—” Gwaine interrupted himself with a strangled gasp when Merlin turned to face him fully. “Merlin.”

Looking down, Merlin realised that he had inadvertently revealed the starburst of scar tissue in the centre of his chest. That one, he had not forgotten. “Magic fireball, from Nimueh, High Priestess of the Old Religion,” he said flatly.

“What did you do to piss her off that bad?”

“The usual—saved Arthur’s life.” It was a little more complicated than that, but he had a strong suspicion that Gwaine’s nerves would not be soothed in the least if he heard the full story of the series of self-sacrifices that had ultimately resulted in the destruction of Nimueh. “Protecting that prat is dangerous work at times.”

“And who was protecting you through all this?” Gwaine asked, sounding horrified. “How are you even alive? This one alone looks like it should have killed you twice over!”

It felt like it did, he thought, his mind suddenly awash with memories of searing pain, the smell of burnt flesh and the sound of cracking ribs as he was lifted off his feet by the force of the impact of that fireball. After that, he remembered sheer agony, then nothing for a while, then suddenly he had opened his eyes and gotten to his feet, barely feeling the smouldering cavity in his chest as his whole world had narrowed down to the singular purpose of killing Nimueh. After that, he had been busy helping Gaius, and by the time they had reached Camelot and he finally had the chance to take a closer look at the wound, it had already scarred over somehow, the pain nothing more than a fleeting memory.

He had not…actually died, right? Of course, he had meant to, by offering his life for Arthur’s, and he had thought he would when the fire hit him. I’m happy to be your servant, till the day I die, he had said. But then he had not. And the next time he had been in mortal peril he had escaped death again, and again, and again. On and on it went, with him surviving nightmare after nightmare, and—

Oh. Back when he had thought that he would happily serve Arthur until his dying day, he had not actually expected that he would live this long, had he? Nor had he known how much heartache and loss and sacrifice his service would entail. Was this why it had felt almost like a relief to step up to offer himself up to the Cailleach? Why something like disappointment had mingled with his grief when Lancelot had denied him his long-awaited death? Had he, on some level, wanted to die—if only to escape the burden of his destiny the only way he could think of?

He was vaguely aware of Gwaine trying to communicate with him, but he was dumbstruck by the realisation that things had gotten that bad without him fully realising that destiny had demanded so much from him that he had felt that he had nothing more to offer but his death, which fate had denied him time and time again. How could he not have realised at the time that what he had done two days ago was tantamount to a suicide attempt? Giving up his magic had seemed like a win-win scenario: either he would just lose his magic and thus be freed from destiny, or he would lose his life also and achieve the same result.

When Gwaine had shown up, he had briefly forgotten just how despondent he had felt as he left Camelot, and everything that had happened between them since had distracted him from the despair that had driven him from the place that he had called home for the last five years, but now all that came crashing down on him again all at once, and he staggered under the weight of it.

And yet… Another realisation struck him as his vision finally allowed him to look beyond memory to see the present again, only to find that Gwaine was cradling his face tenderly between his hands, wiping away tears Merlin had not noticed falling.

I don’t want to die. I just want to…to rest, and then…then I want to live.

The sound of Gwaine’s voice trickled in through the slowly dissipating mists that had shrouded his consciousness, and he caught him saying something along the lines of, “I’m sorry…not my business…didn’t mean to…you’re all right…I’ve got you…”

With some effort, Merlin forced himself to relax, releasing the tension that had seized his body through a shuddering exhalation. As his shoulders slumped, he tipped his head forward to rest his brow against Gwaine’s furrowed one, hoping to reassure him that he was not responsible for Merlin’s tears, but rather for reminding him that the rut he had been stuck in for far too long was not all that life had to offer.

All he managed to say out loud, however, was a weary, “I want to go home.”

Gwaine’s hands fell to his shoulders—still bare, though Merlin had hardly noticed the chill until he felt the contrast of warm hands. The washcloth lay forgotten somewhere on the ground.

“Not…Camelot?” Gwaine asked tentatively, and Merlin shook his head lightly against his forehead. “All right. Let’s get you home to Ealdor, love.”

Chapter Text

The change in Merlin’s mood between when he had woken up that morning and when they got back on the road again was like night and day, and Gwaine cursed himself for ever bringing up the subject of Merlin’s scars. In hindsight, he should just have kept his big gob shut, but he had been so startled by the sight of them that he had forgotten himself.

Had it been just a few minor marks here and there, he would not have been that surprised—life was rough, especially for peasants, and he knew well enough that Merlin had gotten into plenty of scrapes on his adventures with Arthur and Gwaine alike—but the severity of some of the scars had shocked him. How Merlin was still walking around on his own two legs after having been so grievously wounded, Gwaine really could not say.

Still, he should have kept his peace. Even though he was repeatedly reassured that he had caused no offence, Merlin’s sunny disposition was replaced by fatigued pensiveness for the last leg of their journey, and the weather seemed to reflect this through the lead-grey clouds that gradually accumulated in the pale sky and dimmed the sun, though they were at least spared from rain.

It was not long before Ealdor came into view, and as they entered the village, Gwaine noted Merlin squaring his shoulders and putting on an attempt at a less melancholy expression. He greeted several people by name, all of whom looked pleasantly surprised to see him, but did not stop to converse with them any further. Instead, he led the way to a small cottage that looked much like all the other buildings in the village.

“This is it,” he murmured as they came to a halt.

“Nice place,” Gwaine commented, tying the horse’s reins to a fencepost.

“Really? We don’t even have a tavern.”

“Now you tell me? Oh well, guess that’ll be good for my reputation, at least.” He shot a playful grin at Merlin, receiving a faint smile in return, then started working on relieving the palfrey from the saddlebags.

“There’s always Engerd,” Merlin said, moving to help him, “but that’s a day and a half away by foot.”

“Ah, yes, Engerd.” Gwaine shook his head in fond remembrance. “I’ve been thrown out of many a tavern there.”

“They’ve only got two, not counting the inn.”

“Then I’ve been thrown out of every tavern in Engerd. And the inn.”

Merlin huffed quietly, but it was as good as a laugh in Gwaine’s ears after the glumness of the past hour or so, and he seemed slightly less on edge as they finished unloading their packs. As they approached the cottage, however, he tensed slightly, hesitating for a second before pushing the door open.

“Mother?” he called softly, stepping through the doorway and putting down the things he was carrying just inside.

Gwaine followed but lingered by the door so as not to intrude on the family reunion.

“Merlin?”

Across the room, a woman clad in a simple and well-worn dress turned around at the sound of their entrance. Her hair was covered, but a few dark curls were peeking out—the same colour as Merlin’s. When her eyes landed on her son, she hastily set down the basket of combed wool she was holding and went to embrace him, throwing her arms around his neck with a warm smile.

Merlin returned the hug with a quiet, “Hi, mum.”

“Welcome home, my boy.”

A quiet sob escaped Merlin and he dropped his head to his mother’s shoulder, tightening his arms around her. Her expression turned from surprised delight to one of concern as he trembled in her embrace, making no sign of letting go.

“Merlin? Are you all right?”

Gwaine could not see Merlin’s face, but he saw him nod mutely at first before then shaking his head. His mother’s brow was knit with worry as she looked questioningly over his shoulder at Gwaine, who could only wince apologetically in return.

He set down the rest of their things on the floor inside the door and said, “I’ll go ask around about stabling the horse. Let you two catch up.”

Before he could slip away, Merlin’s mother spoke up. “Talk to Ffoulke—two houses to the right, daffodils by the fence. Tell him Hunith sent you.”

He nodded gratefully and made his exit, leaving the little family to their emotional reunion. He felt somewhat guilty for leaving Merlin in his present condition, but if anyone knew how to comfort him it would be his mother, and there was every possibility that there were things he wished to explain to her which were not meant for Gwaine’s ears.

Hunith’s directions made Ffoulke easy to find, and Gwaine and his horse were soon led to a tiny barn at the outskirts of the village. Some time was spent haggling, though the mention of both Hunith and Merlin’s names was quite effective as a bartering tool, and the deal they reached was more than fair. Of course, if they were truly to stay in Ealdor indefinitely, keeping a horse at all was an unnecessary expense, but until such a time as Gwaine was entirely certain that they would not be forced to make a swift escape, he would rather spend the extra coin than sell the horse, though he knew it would fetch a handsome price.

He and Ffoulke spoke at length, even after the haggling was done—less because Gwaine wanted to give Merlin and Hunith more time to talk and more due to the fact that Ffoulke would. Not. Stop. Talking. He went on and on about how any friend of Hunith was a friend of his, and how that son of hers had surprised them all by turning up with a prince in tow to save the village from raiders and, sure, the boy had always been a queer little thing, getting into more trouble than should be possible for a slip of a thing like him, but he always did have a kind heart, I’ve always said so, and he more than proved his mettle in the skirmish, and wasn’t the loss of Matthew and William tragic? But think; how many of the children would not have died that winter for lack of food had they not stood up to Kanen?

The only saving grace was that Ffoulke was so fond of his own voice that he did not ask Gwaine too many questions (save for the rhetorical), and so he did not have to figure out an answer to who exactly he was and why he owned such a fine palfrey. A Knight of Camelot? Who knew how long he would be allowed to keep that title after forsaking his oath? A minor nobleman from Caerleon? No, he had not thought of himself as such for a very long time. An errant ne’er-do-well who had just so happened to fall in with Merlin? Well, that was as true as anything, he supposed. He did not much mind what they told the villagers, but he would prefer to let Merlin take the lead on choosing what version of the truth they were going with.

At long last, he managed to flee the rather one-sided conversation, leaving his horse in Ffoulke’s care while he retreated to Hunith’s cottage once more. As he entered it, he found that Hunith had started preparing what looked like a simple porridge over the fire in the hearth at the centre of the cottage. Merlin, who looked more composed and at ease again—though still wan and weary—was sitting at a bench by the fire, spinning wool from a distaff held in his left hand.

He lit up as he saw Gwaine return, shooting him a tired smile and lowering his tools to his lap. “Any luck with Ffoulke?” he asked. “I see your ears are still attached.”

“Barely,” Gwaine laughed. “But the horse is stabled, at least. He sends his regards to you both. Very long regards.”

Hunith smiled at this. “He is a good man…and a good talker, that cannot be denied.”

“I’m glad you’re back,” Merlin said. “Now I can introduce you properly. Gwaine, meet my mother, Hunith. Mother, this is Sir Gwaine.”

Gwaine grimaced. “Not so sure about the ‘Sir’ part, but I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Hunith.” He stepped up to her, and when she held out her hand in greeting, he took it and bowed his head to touch his lips to her knuckles. “It is a true honour to meet the woman responsible for raising such a remarkable man as Merlin.”

Beside them, Merlin rolled his eyes at the theatrical gallantry, but Hunith just smiled and pressed his hand warmly before releasing it. “I’m glad to meet you too. Thank you for bringing my son home safely. You’re a good friend.”

“He’s more than that, mum.” Merlin looked up at Gwaine with a soft expression. “He’s… You could say he’s the Angharad to my Marchel.”

Understanding dawned on Hunith as she looked between them. “I see. You are staying, then?”

Feeling a tad nervous all of a sudden, Gwaine said, “If it’s not an imposition. I can pay for the room and board, and—”

“You are not paying to live here,” Hunith protested, kindly but firmly. She then raised a hand to Gwaine’s cheek in an affectionate touch. “You’re family. Welcome to your new home, son.”

Emotion rose unbidden in Gwaine’s chest, and he had to exert himself not to sound too choked up as he said, “Thank you, Hunith.”

Unless one counted the brotherly bond between the Knights of the Round Table, he had not had a family in many, many years. He had never known his father, and his mother was long dead. All right, so he did, presumably, still have a sister somewhere out there, but there was a reason why he had left her behind in Caerleon after their mother died, namely that she hated his guts and disapproved of everything he had ever done in his entire life, so she hardly counted. Honestly, even Arthur and Morgana had a warmer sibling relationship than they did, so the prospect of being able to call someone as kind as Hunith family was a welcome change.

“Told you she’d love you,” Merlin said, his cheeks slightly tinged with pink as he beamed up at them.

Hunith chuckled and patted Gwaine on the cheek, then lowered her hand to gesture at the benches by the fire. “Come, have a seat. I’ll have some food ready for you soon. You must be in want of a warm meal after your journey.”

“I’ll not say no to that,” Gwaine said, sitting down on Merlin’s right side so as not to have a distaff periodically shoved in his face. “But I should tell you we ate very well when we made camp last night. Your son is a skilled fisherman, and an even better cook.”

“He’s exaggerating,” Merlin muttered modestly, taking up the spindle he had parked between his thighs and getting to work again.

Hunith shook her head as she stirred the cauldron. “I believe him. I taught you well.”

“You did.”

They fell into a comfortable silence after this, with Hunith pottering about as she prepared the food and Gwaine watching Merlin spin, torn between admiring the workmanship and the spinner himself. His deft fingers flicked the top of the spindle with practised ease, smoothly sending it into motion to twist the fibres he fed from the wool tied to the distaff into the steadily developing length of yarn—again and again and again until it was long enough to strain Merlin’s wingspan, whereupon he wound the yarn onto the slowly growing cop on the shaft of the spindle. Then the process was repeated, over and over.

It was strangely hypnotic, watching Merlin work. His quiet focus on his task was almost contagious, and Gwaine found that he lost track of time for a while as he admired the skilled movement of slender hands, twirling the spindle round and round. (Perhaps the ease with which he fell into this mesmerised state was partly due to the fact that he had only slept a handful of hours since leaving Camelot.) Not until Hunith announced that the food was ready and Merlin put away his project did Gwaine snap out of his reverie.

“You’re very good at that,” he commented as they moved to sit at the table. It was true; he might not be an expert in the field, but even he could tell that the yarn was exceptionally fine and even. “Fishing, cooking, spinning—is there nothing you can’t do?”

Merlin snorted. “Loads, which is why I spent so much of my adolescence doing things like this rather than contributing to stuff that required muscle, for obvious reasons.” He gestured vaguely towards his overall physique.

“I don’t know, you’ve filled out a bit since I first met you,” Gwaine murmured, bumping his shoulder against Merlin’s. It was true. He might have been a little distracted by the scars that morning, but it had not escaped his notice that the body hiding underneath Merlin’s tunic was not exactly scrawny. Slender and lean, yes, but relatively wiry (and very attractive).

“Maybe, but back then I was a twig, and trying to surreptitiously use magic to get the heavier work done got me into more trouble than it was worth.”

“So he used it for everything else, despite my telling him off,” Hunith laughed as she finished setting the table and took a seat on the bench opposite theirs.

Merlin shrugged sheepishly and admitted, “When I could get away with it.” He nodded towards the spinning tools he had left by the hearth. “I used to use my magic to keep the spindle turning steadily so I could use both my hands for drafting and just keep going continuously without having to stop the spindle when I was ready to wind on.”

“So more cheating is what I’m hearing,” Gwaine grinned.

“No, just resourcefulness. It was so much faster; we were probably Marchel’s biggest suppliers of yarn for her weaving. But I like doing it the mundane way too. It’s…soothing. Meditative.”

Gwaine nodded in understanding. It had been mesmerising just to watch.

Hunith chuckled and handed them each a bowl of porridge. “And it makes my son sit still for more than five minutes, which is a miracle in and of itself.”

They all laughed and started digging into their food. The meal they shared was a simple one, hardly up to the standards of the kitchens back in Camelot, but that had been beyond luxurious compared to what Gwaine had used to subsist on during his wandering days, and so was this, really. Hunith had even sweetened the porridge with a drizzle of honey and thrown in a handful of dried blueberries from last season.

The good company made the meal all the more enjoyable, and had not the shadow of their reason for being here still loomed quietly over their heads, he would have considered this one of the happiest days of his life. Well, it still qualified, actually. It was a joy to sit there with his thigh pressed against Merlin’s under the table, laughing together as they ate and exchanged stories, and as Gwaine got to know Hunith better he quickly grew to love her—which he had known he would the second he had seen her embrace her son like he was the most precious thing in the world (which, in Gwaine’s opinion, he was).

Completely effortlessly, Merlin and Hunith made him feel like he belonged here, effectively erasing his previous fears of being seen as an unwelcome intruder or a burden. Somehow, they made it feel like this could actually become his home.

Chapter Text

“Come in!” Marchel called from within her cottage.

Merlin opened the door he had just knocked on and entered. He was struck by a powerful wave of nostalgia as he stepped inside and was met by the familiar scent of wool and herbs, though he noticed that there had been some changes since his last visit. The cottage was a little less tidy, yet a fair bit emptier. Notably, much of the textile equipment that had lined the walls was missing. There were still bundles of herbs hanging to dry from the rafters, but they looked like they had been hanging there since last season, having accumulated some dust on the brittle leaves.

“Marchel? It’s Merlin.”

“Then the rumours are true! You’re back, and you finally deign to visit me!”

Marchel’s voice was coming from a bed half-hidden by a screen of woven reeds, and when Merlin rounded it he found her sitting in it, propped up against the wall with a pillow behind her back. In her lap lay what looked like some worn-out hose she must have been mending before he disturbed her. She looked older than he remembered, which should not be surprising seeing as he had not seen her in years, but those few years had really left their mark. She could not have been much older than Gaius, but now she looked like she had at least fifteen winters on him.

“I’ve only been back three days,” Merlin chuckled, happy to see the old woman again despite her playful chiding.

“Time is precious at my age. Here boy, pull up that stool and sit close to me. My eyes aren’t what they were.”

He obeyed, taking a seat by the head of the bed and setting Gaius’ medicine bag down on the floor beside him (he doubted he would ever stop thinking of it as belonging to his old mentor). “How have you been keeping?”

“Oh, one doesn’t like to complain, but I’ll admit these old bones are giving me trouble. I’ve long since had to pass my loom on to Edwen—you know, Llofan’s eldest—along with most of my tools, really. You’d think I’d been run over by a cart and its oxen the way I ache when there is the slightest chill in the air—or even when there’s not.”

“I know the feeling.”

“No, you don’t, but you will if you live to be my age, I’ll tell you that.”

“You’d be surprised,” Merlin muttered under his breath, calling to mind his experiences with ageing spells.

“What?” Marchel pointed to her ear. “You’ll have to speak up—the ears are going too.”

“I said I brought supplies,” he lied, patting the bag beside him. “Mother told me of your pains, so I prepared some poultices for your joints.”

She peered at him curiously. “You’ve gone and become a healer, have you?”

“Not really, but I assisted Camelot’s Royal Physician when I had the time. I’ve picked up a few things, and he gave me some books and materials to help me along if my services would be needed out here.”

He was still not entirely certain about this idea of his taking up practising medicine as a trade when so much of the time he could have spent with Gaius had been eaten up by his chores as Arthur’s manservant, but he had whipped up enough of these poultices that he could do it in his sleep. They were in high demand among the elder population of Camelot—even Gaius himself used them at times.

“They will be, now that my Angie is no longer with us,” Marchel said ruefully. “There’s been no one to pass her things along to.”

A twinge of pain shot through Merlin’s chest at the reminder that he had returned home too late to see the old healer one last time. “Mother said Angharad died this winter?” he said gently.

“Aye. It was a cold one and her lungs gave out. All those herbs she gathered, and none of them could save her in the end. I wish sometimes she had been the sort of wisewoman she was rumoured to be. Maybe then she’d have managed to cling on a little longer and done the decent thing of letting me die before her so I’d not have to miss her. Terribly rude of her to go first, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes. Very impolite,” Merlin agreed with a wistful smile. “So it wasn’t true what they said, then? She wasn’t a druid?” He did not know why he asked, really. He had never believed the rumours as he had never sensed the slightest magical spark in Angharad, or he would have asked her about it a long time ago.

“Certainly not,” Marchel proclaimed firmly. “But I’ll tell you a secret.” She leaned closer conspiratorially. “She lived with them a while to learn from their healers. Never was able to pick up any of their mystical tricks, though. Not like some people around here, eh?”

Merlin froze for a second before realising what she must have meant. “Right. Like Will.”

“Oh, come now. Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes; they’re foggy enough already and yet I see more clearly than most. If young William was a sorcerer then I’m the Queen of Mercia. Anyone who believes he was the one to defeat Kanen’s men is a fool.”

Merlin swallowed. “Then who?”

She gave him a look that was sharp enough to pierce clean through him, despite the faint milky film that had crept over her left eye in old age. “Don’t lie to Auntie Mari, now. I always knew you were special, and so did Angie. She knew enough about druids to recognise the signs. You saved Ealdor, and I thank you for it.”

After floundering a little, Merlin finally managed to ask, “Why did you never mention it?”

“Same reason no one else around here who’s clever enough to realise who really summoned that wind goes around talking about it. The saying goes, ‘Speak well of your friend; of your enemy say nothing,’ but I’ll add to that, ‘Speak not too well of your friend, and their enemy will hear nothing.’ Neither the late King Cenred nor the new bugger treats folks like you kindly, and no one here wants you killed or exploited for saving the village.”

“That’s—” He cleared his throat and smiled shakily, reaching out to take Marchel’s wrinkled hand in his. “Thank you for keeping my secret.”

“Of course, my boy. Now that it’s out, you can tell me if you’ve put any magic tricks in those poultices of yours.” She eyed the medicine bag suspiciously.

“No. I— I’ve left my tricks behind. Couldn’t do anything if I tried. I’m afraid I’ll have to treat you with entirely mundane methods.”

“I’d tell you to save your powers for someone in more need of them anyway. I’m not long for this world, don’t waste your precious resources on little old me.”

“You look like you have some life left in you yet,” Merlin protested, mostly honestly. Marchel looked thinner, frailer and older than she ought to at her age, but she did not seem to suffer from any life-threatening ailments.

“It’s my heart.”

“Oh. What symptoms have you experienced?”

She shook her head and sighed. “It’s broken. When Angharad died I lost my other half, and my soul reaches for her even now. It’ll not be long now before it joins her on the other side of the veil, I can feel it. I don’t suppose your studies in the big city have revealed a cure for a broken heart?”

Merlin tried to suppress the sting of his own heart as he contemplated how to answer this. Despite all the talk of two halves of a whole and sides of coins that he had mistakenly believed in for some time, he was not sure it was fair to say that his heart had been broken back in Camelot. Rather, reality had chipped away at it, bit by bit, until what remained was a jagged, aching thing surrounded by debris. He had gotten used to that pain—had almost forgotten it was there at times, even as its sharp edges quietly wore on his nerves—but then something had come along and started gluing the pieces together again, smoothing out the rough surface and applying a soothing balm.

“Love,” he said, finally, a soft smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “New love goes a long way to mend a wounded heart.”

“A little too late for me,” Marchel said, but she smiled nonetheless. “You sound as if you speak from experience.”

“Perhaps.”

“Can it be? Is my favourite spinner no longer a spinster?”

Merlin chuckled. “I haven’t married, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“But you’ve brought someone home, haven’t you?” she asked, her smile widening to a cheeky grin. “Rumour has it there are now three residents in Hunith’s cottage.”

“Rumour spreads quickly, it seems. What else does it say?”

“That it’s a man of some affluence, that he is passing handsome, and that the shine of his hair rivals that of the fair folk. Rumour goes into quite a bit of detail regarding the hair, in fact.”

He burst out laughing at this. “Rumour has it right, for once. Gwaine’s hair is fantastic. He’d turn even your head.”

“There hasn’t been a man born who could achieve that,” she scoffed. “Still, you had better bring him round here so I can judge for myself.”

“Of course. I would’ve brought him today, but he got roped into helping Ffoulke repair the roof of the barn.”

“Poor soul. I hope for his sake he’s strong enough to survive spending that much time with that windbag.”

“I don’t doubt his strength—he’s a knight, you see—but I admit I fear for his patience. Although, Gwaine might be able to outtalk Ffoulke as long as he manages to get a word in edgewise in the first place.”

“Oh, it’s Sir Gwaine, is it?” Marchel asked, raising an eyebrow. “How you can talk so many nobles into getting out of their castles to slum it in our humble village, I’ll never understand.”

“I’m just that charming,” Merlin quipped. “And Gwaine’s not like most nobles; he’s lived the simple life before.” He bit his lip, then confessed, “I’m more concerned about the settled lifestyle. He used to roam before coming to Camelot, and while he seemed happy enough there this past year, that was in a bustling city and his duties as a knight provided ample opportunity for adventure. Here? Not so much.”

She patted his hand comfortingly. “If love be true, it will stay, not stray.”

“As much of a flirt as he can be, I’m not worried about him straying. I just don’t want him to…get bored, I guess.”

“You know, my Angie was a wanderer before we met, and she settled down just fine. Of course, I had my ways of making sure she was never bored, if you catch my meaning.”

Merlin stared at her blankly for a moment before the meaning was, indeed, caught. Heat rose in his cheeks and he buried his face in his hands to shut out the sight of a woman three times his age whom he had known since infancy wiggling her eyebrows in that way. “Gods,” he groaned. “You can’t just say things like that without warning.”

“On the contrary,” she laughed, “I’m old enough that I can say whatever I damn well please. It’s good advice, and you should take it. Often and enthusiastically.”

Oh no. I can’t introduce her to Gwaine; they’ll be insufferable together!

“Mari, we live with my mother!” Merlin protested, looking to the heavens for patience and trying to will his blush to recede. “We sleep on the floor, not ten paces from her bed!”

“Love will find a way,” she said sagely. “Trust me.”

“If I say I do, will you stop talking about it and let me apply the poultices I spent the whole morning preparing for you?”

“You drive a hard bargain, lad. Very well, then, have it your way.”

Chapter Text

They were only a week and a half into their stay in Ealdor, and it was already becoming clear to Merlin that he did not have much of a choice in whether or not he would become the village’s new healer. Ever since Marchel had spread the word about the wondrous poultices he had made her, he had been inundated with requests to treat various ailments, ranging from the trivial to afflictions Gaius himself could not have cured, and he did not have the heart to deny them.

Not that he could help everyone who came to him. He had actually been forced to explain to a man he had previously believed to have a fairly good head on his shoulders that no, not even the fancy physicians in the big cities had figured out a remedy that could grow a finger back. At first he had thought that this was one of the people who suspected that Merlin was the one who had saved Ealdor rather than Will and that he was asking him to use magic, but it soon came to light that he had simply heard a story about how smearing a special salve made from ground-up newts on the missing limb would grant the patient their ability to regenerate it. He had been crushed to learn that Gaius’ medical books mentioned nothing of the sort and that Merlin had no intention whatsoever to go find some newts to mash up to give it a go anyway, just in case it worked.

Putting aside the more ridiculous cases, Merlin found, to his surprise, that he actually knew more than he had thought he did, and that he was able to help most of his patients to some degree, even if he often had to consult his books to confirm his instincts. He even found that he enjoyed it. Perhaps Gaius’ faith in his ability to take up the trade was not entirely misplaced after all.

Though his mentor had been exceedingly generous in the supplies he had gifted him, there was only so much that had fit in the medicine bag, and Merlin quickly realised that the supply would soon run out if he was planning on plying his trade for any prolonged period of time. He would have to start building his own stock of herbs and tonics and possibly even make a trip to Engerd at some point to source some of the rarer and more exotic substances.

At least he had access to much of the necessary equipment thanks to the late Angharad, whose things had been gathering dust since her death. Marchel was overjoyed to get to pass them on to Merlin and insisted that he conducted much of his work from Angharad’s old workbench in their cottage. She said it reminded her of her lost love, and Merlin suspected that the company was not unwelcome either.

Gwaine often joined him there, acting half as Merlin’s assistant and half as Marchel’s nurse—though gossip partner was a more accurate title. He had been right in his suspicion that the two would get along like a house on fire, and they delighted in attempting to outdo one another by telling increasingly bawdy jokes until one of them finally managed to break Merlin and draw a laugh out of him from over by the workbench where he was trying to concentrate, thank you very much!

“I never should have let you two meet,” he told Gwaine one morning as they made their way through the woods in search of herbs to gather. “She’s a bad influence on you.”

Gwaine gasped theatrically. “Now, why would you say that about my second best friend in the whole wide world?”

“Because she taught you that bloody song.”

“Which one?”

“The one you’ve been singing all morning.”

“She said it’s a spinning song and that you loved it when she taught it to you as a wain.”

Merlin pursed his lips to suppress a smile. “She didn’t teach me the version with those lyrics.”

Gwaine laughed. “No, I imagine she didn’t.”

They went a blessed full minute in companionable silence before Gwaine started humming the song under his breath again, seemingly subconsciously. Merlin decided that keeping up conversation was likely to be the best way to escape the infernal thing, and so he asked, “Who’s your best best friend, if Marchel’s the second? Percival? Elyan?”

“That a joke?” Gwaine scoffed. When he saw that Merlin was serious he said, “It’s you, love. I thought we went over this?”

“Oh. Right. I guess I thought maybe I didn’t count now that I’m your, uh…”

“Fancy man?” he suggested with a wink.

Merlin chuckled. “If that’s what you want to call it, sure.”

Gwaine hung the empty basket he was carrying over his left arm so he could reach for Merlin’s hand with the other as they walked. “Whatever else you are to me, you’ll still be the best friend I’ve ever had. That’s not going to change.”

Merlin squeezed his hand, warmth blooming in his chest. “Likewise.” He shot Gwaine a coy smile and added, “I’m very much enjoying the ‘whatever else’ part, by the way.”

He received a grin in return. “Likewise.” Gwaine’s thumb was rubbing softly over his knuckle.

“Still no regrets about running after me, then? You settling in in Ealdor all right?”

“Have I given the impression that I’m not?” Gwaine asked, looking puzzled.

“No, no. I just wanted to make sure it’s not too…dull for you,” Merlin hurried to reply. “You’re used to more action than grinding herbs and saving Ffoulke from falling off the barn roof if it’s an unusually exciting day.”

Gwaine stopped walking then, tugging Merlin to a halt as well by the hold on his hand. “You think I’ll get bored of staying here, is that it?”

Merlin shrugged, somewhat sheepishly. “I don’t know. Maybe eventually? You told me once you never stay in once place for long, and—”

“Not by choice.” Gwaine smiled, but there was not a trace of real mirth in it. “I wasn’t lying when I said people get tired of me. Wasn’t joking either. Not really.” He looked down at his feet, deliberating his next words. “The people of Ealdor, they… So far I’ve tricked them into believing I’m not a complete wastrel, and with your help I might actually pull off keeping it that way. We’re building a good life here; I don’t see myself tiring of it, and as long as you and the village don’t tire of me either, I’ll stay. I’m not likely to just…take off into the night, if that’s your thinking.”

Merlin’s heart clenched with sympathy as he put two and two together. In that moment, he felt like he finally understood just how deeply lonely Gwaine’s life must have been before he settled in Camelot, and how poignant that made the fact that he had left that hard-earned life behind for Merlin.

“That’s not what I was thinking,” he said, swallowing down the lump of emotion that had formed in his throat. “Not even remotely. I wasn’t about to suggest you might one day want to leave me in Ealdor.” He let his basket drop to the ground so he could raise the hand Gwaine was not already holding to touch his cheek. “I wanted to tell you that if you ever want to leave Ealdor, I’ll come with you.”

Gwaine blinked uncomprehendingly. “What? Really?”

“Really.”

“But you love Ealdor.”

“I love you. And I already left Ealdor once. I came back partly because I wanted to see my mother and partly because I couldn’t really think of anywhere else to go. I don’t know that I planned much further beyond just getting here—not until you asked to stay too. Now, I think you’re right; we’re building something good, but we could do that anywhere as long as we’re together.”

For a long moment, Gwaine just stared at him in stunned silence, then he cleared his throat and said, “Then I say we stay in Ealdor. Marchel would kill us if we just up and left.” This made Merlin chuckle, but before he could respond, Gwaine wet his lips and asked, “Would you mind at all repeating that earlier thing you said?”

“Which thing?”

“The bit where you said you love me.”

A smile slowly spread across Merlin’s face and his gaze dropped to Gwaine’s mouth as he murmured, “Said that part out loud, did I?” His eyes flickered up to meet Gwaine’s again. “I’m glad I did, because I meant it,” he said emphatically, “I love you.”

He truly did. He had loved Gwaine as a friend for over a year, and as soon as his poorly suppressed infatuation had been allowed to bloom unrestrained, those feelings had very quickly fused and turned into the same kind of love Gwaine had secretly been harbouring for him, spurred on by everything that had passed between them since leaving Camelot. He was pleased to find that he had no qualms whatsoever about saying the words out loud even though his realisation had been rather recent. He knew it was true, and he wanted Gwaine to know it.

Gwaine dropped his own basket and surged in to give him a kiss, brief but fervent. As they parted, he said, “It’s a good thing I know you’re a shite liar altogether, or I might’ve thought you were just trying to humour me. Say it again?”

Merlin slid his hand from Gwaine’s cheek to bury his fingers in the locks of hair curling down over the back of his neck, fixing him with an earnest look. “I love you, Gwaine—not because of fleeting fancy or a lapse in judgement, but for who you are and the things you do.” His other hand slipped out of Gwaine’s grip to trail up along his arm. “You’re kind and chivalrous and valiant, and yes, you may have a bit of a temper at times, but you use it to defend those in need of protection. Your humour can be coarse, but it makes me laugh and you always notice if it goes over my head. You’re the biggest flirt I’ve ever met, but you’re genuinely charming and repay loyalty with unflinching loyalty.” He wound his arms around Gwaine’s neck, stepping further into his personal space. “You always seem to know when I need cheering up and you offer me help before I’ve even admitted to myself that I could use some. You see me, and I love you for it. And I love everything I see in you. All of it.”

The quiet whimper that this profession wrung out of Gwaine was cut off when their mouths crashed together, and he wrapped his arms around Merlin’s waist, drawing him in close. He kissed like a starving man devouring a feast held in his honour, his tongue delving into Merlin’s mouth with hungry appreciation while his hands splayed possessively over his ribs, warm even through the fabric of his tunic. It was a kiss quite unlike any that they had shared since arriving in Ealdor, seeing as privacy was in scarce supply, and it lit a fire in Merlin’s belly that he would rather stoke than be forced to smother yet again.

The kiss was over far too soon for Merlin’s liking, but Gwaine drew back only far enough to look him in the eye, still holding him close. “You love me,” he said breathlessly, finally sounding like he believed not only that it was true but also that loving him was not a mistake on Merlin’s part—that he might actually be deserving of it.

“I do,” Merlin confirmed ardently.

Gwaine beamed at him with a dazzlingly becoming smile. “I love you too.”

“I know. Aren’t I a lucky bastard?”

Laughing happily, Gwaine tightened his arms around Merlin’s waist and lifted him off his feet, seemingly effortlessly, making him shriek in undignified but delighted surprise and cling on for dear life as Gwaine twirled them around a couple of turns before stopping to set him down.

“Oh, I forgot to mention that thing when listing all your winsome qualities,” Merlin huffed when his feet were firmly planted on the ground once more.

“What thing?”

“Your strength.” He let his hands fall from Gwaine’s shoulders to land on his upper arms, palming appreciatively at the firm muscles there. “I’m sure you get this all the time, but you’re quite the vision, my dear night owl. With or without your tunic on.”

“Might have heard it once or twice,” Gwaine grinned. “Means more coming from someone who doesn’t think it’s my only redeeming quality though.”

Merlin really did not know whether to laugh at the joke or feel sad on Gwaine’s behalf as he suspected that there was more than a grain of truth to it. He settled for leaving the subject alone for now, instead smiling and coquettishly fiddling with the front of Gwaine’s tunic, straightening the neckline and adjusting the laces—entirely unnecessarily, of course.

“Well then. Speaking as someone who sees nothing that warrants redemption in the first place, let me say that I’m enjoying getting to see you without that damn hauberk on for a change. Not that you didn’t look very stately in your full knightly regalia; it’s just a shame to hide a body like yours beneath all that mail and padding.”

“Mm, I bet you say that to all the knights.” Gwaine smiled in amusement, but his voice was low and seductive, and his hands had found purchase on Merlin’s hips.

“Not at all.” Merlin leaned in closer, bypassing the temptation of Gwaine’s mouth to instead brush his lips against the shell of his ear as he whispered, “You’re special.”

“Now who’s a flirt?” One of Gwaine’s hands tightened around his hip while the other drifted higher, slipping beneath the hem of his tunic to smooth over the skin of his lower back.

“I learned from the best.” He pressed a feather-light kiss to the point where Gwaine’s jaw met his ear, just beyond the scruff of his beard. “And I can assure you it’s the genuine article.”

A shiver ran through Gwaine as Merlin continued peppering teasing kisses down the length of his neck. “I taught you well, it seems. Maybe too well. Much more of the genuine article and our herb-picking plans will suffer a rather longer delay than they have already.” He emphasised this point by drawing Merlin even closer and lightly rolling their hips together, demonstrating the effect Merlin’s words and touches had on him.

Merlin gasped at the sensation of cloth dragging against his own rapidly hardening cock. “We’ll pick them on our way back. We passed the best spot a good while ago anyway.”

“You planned this,” Gwaine accused, sounding delighted. “That’s why you insisted on bringing food and a blanket—not because you thought we’d need all day just to find the herbs.”

“I planned…something,” Merlin confessed. “Some time alone, at the very least, though I may have had some ideas about what we could use it for. Unless you still want to wait?”

Gwaine slid his hands around to cup Merlin’s arse, using his grip to grind them together more firmly. “I think we’ve waited long enough,” he said, then he eagerly claimed Merlin’s mouth, swallowing the moans the friction elicited from him.

Merlin was beyond happy with this answer. He had been content to wait, of course, but this past week and a half had been frustrating, to say the least. It was challenging to live in such close quarters with Gwaine while knowing that he was allowed to touch and kiss him but seldom getting the chance to do it unobserved by either his mother or Marchel or any of the other villagers who were annoyingly ever-present. If they could have at least gotten a good snog in every now and then it might have relieved the tension somewhat, but the stolen kisses and lingering touches in passing that they had to settle for only served to ramp up the desire for more. It had gotten to the point that Merlin could hardly look at Gwaine without getting thoroughly distracted by thoughts of carding his fingers through that luscious mane of his or running his hands over the swell of muscles outlined through the fine linen of a tunic bordering on being indecently wide-open.

Finally presented with the opportunity to do just that, Merlin wasted no time in indulging in his fantasies, safe in the knowledge that no one would be barging in on them in this part of the forest. He sank his hands into Gwaine’s hair, alternating between combing through it and grasping at the locks in light tugs that wrung the most delicious groans out of Gwaine, muffled against Merlin’s lips.

Kissing Gwaine was always an intoxicating experience, and this was no exception. His beard was just long enough not to be too scratchy, but it still prickled tantalisingly against Merlin’s skin, heightening the sensation of their mouths moving together in a dance of lips and tongues and teeth, caressing and licking and nipping until Merlin was driven half-mad with desire.

He hardly noticed that he was being backed up towards a tree until he was pressed up against its trunk and a thigh slipped between his legs, slotting their hips together. As Gwaine started rocking against him, he broke the kiss and let his head fall back against the bark, panting for breath and moaning, “Gwaine…”

“All right, love?” Gwaine asked, even as he exploited the opening to duck his head and mouth at Merlin’s exposed neck. His hands left Merlin’s hips to start picking at the knot in his neckerchief.

“More than all right.” The red cloth was tugged away, baring his neck further, and Merlin angled his head slightly to the side in open invitation of his lover’s ministrations.

Gwaine sighed in contentment, nuzzling into the crook of Merlin’s neck. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to tear that damned thing off you,” he murmured, his beard tickling against the sensitive skin of Merlin’s throat as he spoke.

Merlin huffed breathlessly, dropping his own hands to work at the buckle of Gwaine’s belt. “Do you usually insult your partners’ fashion sense while undressing them?”

“You misunderstand me; it’s not that it looks bad, it’s just that it blocks the view of the most gorgeous neck in the five kingdoms, which is, quite frankly, criminal.” Gwaine followed this explanation by licking a stripe from the base of Merlin’s throat, along a tendon in his neck and all the way up to the lobe of his ear, which he caught between his teeth and bit down on just hard enough for it to sting pleasantly.

Despite the flare of arousal shooting through Merlin, he could not stop himself from wryly thinking, And does the severity of that crime rank above or below killing the King of Camelot with magic?

He pushed this thought aside, however, trying to focus on freeing Gwaine from his belt and the sword that hung from it. They were not expecting to run into any danger out here in the woods, but Gwaine was never more than ten paces away from his sword at any given time these days, and Merlin did not need to ask why. They had not heard so much as a rumour of any Camelot knights crossing over into Lot’s kingdom lately (which meant either that Gaius had not told Arthur the truth about Merlin or that Arthur was not willing to risk sending his men into hostile territory just to hunt him down), but neither of them had entirely let their guard down quite yet.

Still, Merlin felt more than safe enough out here to toss the sheathed sword to the ground along with its belt, and immediately upon doing so he let his hands wander up under Gwaine’s tunic, revelling in the feeling of warm skin and the shifting of muscles beneath his palms.

Gods, but how long had he not wanted to do this? How often had he not admired Gwaine’s prowess on the training field and tried not to pay too much attention to the allure of sweat-glistening skin? How many times had he not wanted to accept an invitation to join the knights at the tavern in the vain hope of leaving with Gwaine at the end of the night, but been to busy to make it or too oblivious to realise that it had been attainable the few times he had actually gone? How many nights had he not taken himself in hand to the fantasy of the two of them going on some quest alone and ending up much like this, rutting in the woods, too fired up with the thrill of adventure to keep their hands off each other?

Reality far surpassed fancy. Merlin was hardly an innocent, but he very rarely had time or opportunity to indulge in the pleasures of the flesh, and his imagination had fallen woefully short of how stirring the passionate kiss of a man he actually loved and was loved by in return could be, or how rousing he would find the tickling of a beard against the delicate skin of his neck as Gwaine sucked a mark into it where it could easily be concealed by his neckerchief.

It was heady and wonderful and increasingly not enough, so when Gwaine’s hands started working on the ties to Merlin’s breeches he nearly sighed in relief, but it turned into a gasp as strong fingers wrapped around his achingly hard cock, freeing it from the constraints of clothing. The first stroke of Gwaine’s hand made him release a breathy moan, and Merlin found his own hands sliding into Gwaine’s hair once more, this time to guide his head up from Merlin’s neck so he could kiss him again.

For a long moment, Merlin’s entire world narrowed down to solely encompass the sensations of his body reacting to Gwaine’s touches—the sword-calloused hand on his cock, the slide of their spit-slicked lips, the silky strands of hair between his fingers—but he was brought back to the present as Gwaine murmured, “Keep your hands where they are,” and fell to his knees.

He barely had time to register what was happening before Gwaine took him into his mouth, and the sight of the man kneeling before him did as much to punch the breath out of him as did the pleasure of sinking into that glorious, wet heat. His hands tightened reflexively in Gwaine’s hair—much to his lover’s enjoyment, made evident by the appreciative hum that sent tantalising vibrations through Merlin’s cock and made the heat in his belly flare into a positive inferno.

Very quickly, he realised that there was no way he would last long like this. It had been far too long since he had last gotten off with the help of anything but his hands and imagination, and Gwaine’s mouth was much too clever. He was quickly driven to the brink of madness by the glide of taut lips working up and down the length of him at a steady pace, accompanied by the practised swirl of that silver tongue that now wrapped around him to tease at the vein on the underside of his cock.

He had always imagined Gwaine would be good at this, but none of his fantasies could have prepared him for the real thing, nor for how much Gwaine would enjoy the act. The wantonness with which he swallowed Merlin down was as arousing as the sensation itself. He sucked cock as if it was his life’s purpose and seemed to take almost as much pleasure in it as he gave Merlin, judging by his flushed cheeks, heavy breathing and the blown pupils that Merlin glimpsed every so often when he gazed up at him through the lashes of heavy-lidded eyes.

“Gods, Gwaine…” he moaned, struggling to keep his own eyes open under the onslaught of sensation, yet reluctant to look away from such a wondrous sight.

This proved to be his undoing, because the vision of Gwaine on his knees with hollowed-out cheeks as he sucked and lapped at Merlin’s cock combined with meeting those lust-darkened, golden brown eyes that were brimming with ardent adoration was too much to take, and he tumbled over the edge with a strangled cry, spending himself down Gwaine’s thirsty throat. Not a drop was spilled as Gwaine milked him through his pleasure, greedily drinking down all that he had to give with a blissful expression.

Not until Merlin was completely wrung dry and started coming down from the high of his climax did Gwaine let his spent cock slip from his lips in favour of leaning his brow against Merlin’s hip and nuzzling into the crease of his thigh while he caught his breath. Merlin likewise let his head fall back and his eyes flutter closed, focusing on the gradually abating buzz of pleasure and the softness of Gwaine’s hair as he petted at it in an absent-minded attempt to smooth it out after having fisted his hands in it throughout the last couple of minutes. He was grateful for the tree at his back, for its support was the only thing keeping his trembling legs from collapsing beneath his weight.

“Almost two years, I’ve been wanting to do that,” Gwaine murmured after a moment, his voice slightly raspy. “Well worth the wait, so it was.”

“We should’ve been doing this from the start,” Merlin panted out in response. “Only problem is I’d never have let you leave Camelot if I’d known what I was missing out on.”

Gwaine huffed and glanced up at him with a cheeky grin. “Or perhaps I could’ve seduced you into leaving with me to join me in my vagrant lifestyle.”

A soft smile tugged at Merlin’s lips as he looked down at his lover. No, you couldn’t have, he thought privately. Not back then. But I wish you had. Out loud, he said, “Come here,” beckoning for him to rise.

With a last teasing brush of his lips against Merlin’s softening cock, Gwaine drew back and climbed to his feet, immediately getting pulled into a languid kiss. A salt-bitter taste lingered on his skilled tongue as a tantalising memento of the ecstasy it had elicited, and the hardness that strained against the cloth of his breeches reminded Merlin that he too had a two-year-long running fantasy that was finally within reach. A very similar fantasy to Gwaine’s, in fact.

Sparing only a moment to first tuck himself back into his breeches, Merlin laid his hands on his lover’s shoulders and gave him a gentle push to spin them around so it was Gwaine with his back pressed up against the tree instead. He tore his mouth away from Gwaine’s and let it trail across his bristly cheek, all the way to his ear.

“I think it’s about time I show you what you have been missing out on,” he whispered, his lips grazing the soft skin as he spoke, then he let his weak knees buckle and hit the ground, thrilled to finally realise one of many fantasies that had carried him through the lonesome nights in Camelot.

Gwaine grinned and buried his fingers in Merlin’s short hair. “Do your worst.”

“Oh no,” said Merlin with a smirk. “Only the very best for you, my love.” Then he got to work.

Chapter Text

The road to Ealdor was still familiar to Arthur even though years had passed since he last travelled by it. Now, like then, he travelled incognito and with a small entourage. It would not do for word to reach Lot that the new King of Camelot decided to steal over the border accompanied by his most trusted knights only three weeks after his accession to the throne. It would no doubt be seen as an act of aggression, or even misconstrued as reconnoitring for a full-scale invasion. It was, in fact, a rather bad idea to be here at all, but needs must.

They were fortunate enough not to run into more than the occasional traveller on their journey, and none who bore Lot’s colours. Cenred had never paid much attention to the outlying villages of his kingdom, and Lot seemed to be no different. Arthur stored this observation away for potential future use, should the shaky relations between their kingdoms ever devolve into outright conflict.

Dusk was slowly settling over the village as they reached it, though enough light remained that a handful of its inhabitants were still milling about, finishing up their chores before darkness descended fully. The arrival of four mounted men with mail peeking out from under their cloaks (none of them red) garnered some attention, and Arthur was quickly recognised. He smiled and nodded at those who waved or bowed their heads in respect but did not stop to speak to any of them. Perhaps there would be time later.

“I’ve never seen people so happy to see the king of a rival kingdom before,” Leon commented.

“I did save their village,” Arthur replied. Behind him, Elyan snorted, and he turned around to look at him. “What?”

“Sorry, sire. It’s just that Gwen told me the story, and it sounds like there was a little more to it than that.”

“All right, I suppose I can’t take all the credit,” Arthur admitted. “I helped save their village.” Privately he added, Though apparently it was sorcery that ultimately saved the day. Why Merlin’s friend had not stepped in sooner, he would never understand, but who could really fathom the mind of a sorcerer?

Percival chuckled. “You’ll have to tell me the story some day.”

“On the journey home, perhaps.”

“No, no,” Elyan protested. “My sister tells it best. We can ask her about it when we get back to Camelot.”

Arthur tuned out the chattering of his knights, his focus returning to the task at hand as Hunith’s cottage came into view. Someone was sitting on a bench outside it, sharpening an axe, though even at this distance Arthur could tell that the man’s attention was directed more towards the approaching company than the tools in his hands.

“Gwaine!” Percival happily exclaimed as he spotted him, and he spurred his horse on to pull ahead of the others, who kept their more leisurely pace and watched as Percival dismounted and hitched his horse to the fence outside the cottage before walking up to Gwaine, who rose to welcome him with a grin as they clasped arms.

The two exchanged a couple of quiet words while Arthur, Leon, and Elyan came to a halt and tended to their own horses. Elyan was the second person to come up to Gwaine to greet him, then Leon, and finally Arthur.

While the others had been received warmly, there was a coolness in Gwaine’s voice as he said, “Arthur,” and simply stood there, waiting for a response. It did not escape Arthur’s notice that he still held on to the axe and rested his other hand a little less than casually on the pommel of the sword in his belt, though he could not for the life of him guess why.

“Gwaine.” He searched for something to say, thrown out of kilter by the unexpected reception. “How goes the ‘hunting trip’?” he settled on after a moment, aiming to alleviate the strange tension in the air.

The corner of Gwaine’s mouth twitched, and he traded looks with Percival. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll catch something any day now.”

Arthur glanced between them, then dropped the act. “You could have just told me you were escorting Merlin, you know. If his condition is bad enough that you’ve stayed with him this long, he must have needed the assistance.”

Gwaine stared at him with a calculating expression, at length saying, “Aye, he did. He was in a bad way.”

“And now? How is he?”

“He’s…a little improved. Stable.”

Some of the worry that had been his constant companion these past weeks eased, but he did not feel like he could relax quite yet. “Can I see him?”

There was another pause as Gwaine considered this. “I’ll see if he feels up for it,” he said finally. He nodded towards the cottage. “Wait inside. Hunith is attending to him in the old healer’s hut. I’ll fetch him.”

“I can go to him.”

“No, he’ll come to you, if he has the strength for it.” Gwaine stepped away to open the door to Hunith’s cottage. “Go on. Oh, and leave your weapons outside.”

“What? Why?”

“You’ll see him unarmed or not at all.”

The inkling that something strange was going on grew stronger, and Arthur looked around at the rest of his entourage, who looked likewise puzzled, possibly with the exception of Percival, who looked more contemplative than bewildered. He sent a silent question to Leon but received only a shrug in return.

“Very well,” he said. He was not entirely comfortable relinquishing his weapons in enemy territory, but it was not like he was going to see Lot himself, it was just Merlin, which only made the request of an unarmed meeting all the more bewildering. Still, he unsheathed the dagger in his belt and handed it over to Leon for safekeeping. His sword was still strapped to the saddle. “Satisfied?” he asked Gwaine. “Or do you want to pat me down as well?”

Gwaine did not take the bait to make a joke about patting any particular body parts or something equally crude, proving that something definitely was wrong. He did not even smile as he jerked his head towards the open door and said, “In you get. I’ll speak to Merlin.”

With a last glance back at his knights, who stayed outside by unspoken agreement, Arthur entered the cottage. It was just as small and cramped as he remembered it, if not more so now that there was evidence of three people living there. Feeling too restless to settle, he strolled around the room, taking note of what had changed since he was last there. It was much the same, but there were some items strewn around which he recognised as belonging to Merlin and Gwaine. His attention caught on a book lying on the table and he experienced a sinking feeling in his stomach as he opened it and realised that it was a book on medicine.

There was soon a slight commotion outside which sounded like the knights greeting someone, and Arthur turned to face the door, bracing himself for whatever sight would meet him as it opened, which it did after a minute or so of waiting. In stepped Merlin, looking a bit pale but walking steadily on his own legs. Gwaine followed close behind him, stopping in the doorway, still with his hand on his sword.

Merlin also lingered fairly close to the door. Drawing a deep breath, he looked up, meeting Arthur’s eyes for the first time as he said, “Arthur.” His voice was studiously neutral and level, but Arthur knew him well enough to discern a hint of nervousness in it.

“Merlin!” The relief that swept over Arthur at finding Merlin in so much haler a state than he had feared was powerful enough to make him forget the strangeness of the whole situation, and before he knew it he was crossing the room and throwing his arms around Merlin’s shoulders, pulling him in for a hug with a giddy laugh.

Merlin was stiff in his arms, making no move to return the embrace, and as Arthur registered this he also noticed that Gwaine’s fingers were now wrapped around the hilt of his sword, though he had not moved from his post. The uncanny feeling returned in force, and Arthur released his manservant and stepped back.

Merlin looked absolutely perplexed, staring at Arthur with his mouth half agape. “What…was that?” he asked.

“Just…good to see you’re still breathing,” Arthur replied lamely, trying to regain some dignity.

Merlin’s eyebrows rose impossibly higher. “What?” He looked over his shoulder at Gwaine, who shrugged, though there was a hint of a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“You barely look sick anymore.”

“Because I’m…not?”

“Oh.” He blinked and let his gaze sweep over Merlin again. There was more colour in his complexion now than when he had entered the cottage, and if anything he actually looked far less sickly than he used to on any given day back in Camelot. “I’m glad, if a little surprised to see you this recuperated.”

“Recuperated?” Merlin studied Arthur with a furrowed brow, then slowly said, “Arthur, I was never sick. Not…exactly, anyway.”

What?

“Gwaine said you were being tended to in the old healer’s hut.”

“My mother was helping me brew a potion? Since I’m the new healer?” He threw another quizzical glance at Gwaine, who had relaxed his grip on his sword a tad but still eyed Arthur with inexplicable suspicion.

“Would you like me to stay?” he asked Merlin.

Merlin sighed wearily and ran a hand across his eyes. “Might be better to do this alone.”

“If you’re sure. You need only call if you change your mind.”

“Thank you.”

Gwaine met Arthur’s eyes, grimly adding, “I’ll be right outside. Only a second away.”

“Okay…?”

Gwaine glanced at Merlin again, some unspoken communication passing between them. He nodded solemnly, then turned and addressed the other knights, who were curiously trying to catch a glimpse of the proceedings inside over his shoulders. “All right, off with you, you eavesdropping rascals. Go tend to your horses or something.”

As the door closed behind Gwaine, Arthur finally asked the question that had been nagging at the back of his mind for three weeks now. “What the hell is going on?” He also felt that he should add, “Why are you here if you’re not sick? And why does Gwaine look at me like he wants to chop my head off?”

“Why would you think I was sick?” Merlin deflected.

“You told me you were sick, and next I heard you had left the city to be with your mother!”

“No, you told me I looked sick. I never said I was.”

“You didn’t say you weren’t! And when I asked Gaius where you were, he made it sound like you’d snuck off to spend what time you had left hiding in a hole like a dying cat!”

“He actually said I was dying?”

Arthur faltered. “I— Well, no, not in so many words, but he was so vague that I had to read between the lines, going on about ‘finding rest’ and ‘laying down burdens.’ The point is, I wasn’t sure you’d still be alive when I got here.”

Merlin pursed his lips and crossed his arms over his chest. “Took you long enough to come check on me if you were actually that worried about not getting here in time.”

“I had a coronation to plan, which you missed, by the by. I’m king now, I can’t just drop everything to run into hostile territory after my useless manservant when he randomly decides to skip town!”

Merlin’s hands were clamped around his upper arms, seemingly tightly enough to bruise and his voice trembled as he asked, “Then why are you here at all, Arthur? Why did you risk coming here if I’m so useless?”

Whatever jibe Arthur had been about to shoot back died on his tongue as he was taken aback by the sight of tears forming in Merlin’s eyes, and once again he had the feeling that there was something bigger going on that he still could not make sense of. He floundered, grasping for anything to say that would stop those tears from falling and allow them to get back on track and sort this convoluted misunderstanding out once and for all. Maybe the truth would suffice.

“I came because you’re the only friend I have and I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

Unfortunately, this seemed to have the opposite of the intended effect, because the tears welled over the edge and rolled down Merlin’s cheeks. Even more surprisingly, he actually scoffed and looked away, wiping at his face as he said, “Right. I’m sure.”

Confusion mixed with anger at having this rare moment of honest vulnerability met with dismissal, and Arthur exclaimed, “What else do you want me to say? It’s true. Now maybe you could tell me why you’re here, if not to see your mother again before you die!”

Merlin stared at him in silence for some time before deflating and slumping down on a bench by the hearth, rubbing the tears out of his eyes. “Gods, this is a mess. Gaius should have just told you the truth.”

“And what’s the truth?”

Merlin looked up at him with so fatigued an expression as to make Arthur wonder that he even managed to hold himself upright. “Sit down, Arthur.”

“You’re giving me orders now?” he replied half-heartedly, mostly out of old habit.

“Will you just…do as you’re told for once in your life?” Merlin sighed, leaning his arms heavily against his knees.

Arthur did, for once in his life, do as he was told and took a seat on the opposite side of the hearth. Then he waited for Merlin to say something.

After some deliberation, Merlin finally spoke. “I didn’t leave because I thought I was dying. But I wasn’t planning on returning either. I left…for a lot of reasons, but mainly because I— I was tired.” He let out a shuddering exhale and hung his head, looking like it had taken all his strength to admit something so simple. “Arthur…I was so tired.”

“I don’t understand. You quit and moved away instead of asking for a day off?”

A wet chuckle burst out of Merlin. “Like you would have granted me one if I had asked.” He sniffled. “It wouldn’t have helped anyway. There’s no such thing as a day off in Camelot. Not for me. I needed a real change, and I finally realised that I would never get one if I stayed.”

Arthur stared at him in incomprehension. “Merlin, if your workload was too heavy you could have said as much. We could have restructured your duties and—”

“Arthur, I complained about my workload plenty, and every time I did, you retaliated by calling me lazy and giving me even more chores.”

“No, I d—” He interrupted himself, realising that there might be some truth to the accusation. “Oh. I’m…sorry. I guess I didn’t think you were serious.”

“You never do,” muttered Merlin, barely audibly.

“I wish you’d told me it was this bad instead of just…stealing away like a thief in the night.”

That was what really hurt, Arthur realised. He was rapidly coming to understand that he shared some fault in this situation, but he could not help feeling like he too was a wounded party. First his father was murdered, then the very next morning his truest friend abandoned him.

He looked down at his feet and fiddled with his mother’s ring as he gathered courage to put words to his feelings. “I wish— I thought we were friends. I thought…that you cared enough about me to at least say goodbye properly. I guess I was wrong.”

A glance up at Merlin revealed that he had gone slack-jawed. “I didn’t care? Me?” A startled laugh escaped him, and his voice took on a near hysterical tone as he exclaimed, “Arthur, I cared so much about you that it almost killed me! I loved you! And that’s the problem. I couldn’t tell you I wanted to leave because you would have tried talking me out of it, and you would have succeeded. I was barely able to say goodbye to Gaius for fear that he would convince me to stay.”

It was Arthur’s turn to gape as he processed this. One word especially stuck in his mind and would not leave, though he felt a little stupid as he asked, “When you say ‘loved’…?”

Merlin huffed wryly. “Yes. I was in love with you. Do keep up.” His tone of voice suggested that this was something barely worthy of note and that it should somehow have been obvious to Arthur, which it very much was not.

He found himself scouring his memories of these past years for any signs that should have tipped him off. Years of their professional relationship seamlessly turning into something more like friendship, despite their difference in station. Years of Merlin displaying a level of servitude that would, in hindsight, be more accurately called devotion.

Sacking him had never really been an option, despite his truly appallingly poor skills at housekeeping and assisting on hunts without scaring off all the prey within a league’s radius. And why not? Because where else would Arthur have found a servant willing to deliberately drink poison for him? Who else would have lied to the king to let Arthur sneak off with a girl, even when it repeatedly got him thrown in the stocks? Who else would tell Arthur what he needed to hear even when the truth was hard to accept? Who else would actually listen to Arthur airing his frustrations about the pressure the crown put him under and somehow give the impression that he could relate to it, offering comfort through advice or a hand on his shoulder or a soft smile, or—

Oh gods. Was he in love with Merlin?!

He abruptly shook himself out of this preposterous line of thinking before his overwhelmed mind could trick him into thinking it was true. He loved Gwen—sweet, thoughtful Gwen, who…was the only other person who shared most of those same traits that he admired in Merlin. No. No. That meant nothing. The whole idea was ridiculous. Best not to give it another second’s thought.

Realising that he had been silent for some time, he fumbled for a response. “I’m…with Guinevere,” was the best he could come up with.

Well done, Arthur. Smooth.

Merlin actually snorted then. “And I’m with Gwaine. Believe me, having unrequited feelings for you was the least of my problems.”

Gwaine?!

Arthur was about to give voice to his scandalised surprise, but he stopped himself as he thought better of it. It sort of made sense, in a strange, vaguely disturbing way. It certainly explained why Gwaine was suddenly acting like he would draw steel if Arthur so much as looked at Merlin wrong, let alone laid a hand on him. Well, almost explained. He still was not sure why Gwaine would think that this was something he might do.

“That’s— Right. So that’s not part of why you left?”

“No, I would’ve been long gone if I couldn’t handle that.” Merlin bit his lip and looked off to the side, restlessly wringing his hands as he quietly said, “I could live just fine with the fact that you didn’t love me. What hurt…was knowing that you don’t respect me.”

“Hang on!” Arthur protested. “What do you mean I don’t respect you? When do I ever show you disrespect?”

“Right now, Arthur!” Merlin exclaimed, exasperation writ clear in his expression. “That face you’re making, your tone of voice, the immediate dismissal of my feelings! What is that if not disrespect?”

“I’m just asking a question!”

“Ask it nicer! Every day in Camelot is like this! I express an opinion and you dismiss it. I try to warn you about something and you call me paranoid. I try to give you advice and you disregard it—”

“That’s not true—”

“—I breathe in your general direction and you throw something at me, or call me stupid, or useless, or a coward.”

“Those are just jokes! Horseplay! It’s not like I mean it!”

“Don’t you, Arthur?! Because I. Can’t. Tell!” Merlin’s voice rose in volume until he was almost shouting the last word, a tearful, frantic look in his eyes.

“What do you mean you can’t tell? It’s—”

“Don’t say it’s obvious! Maybe it should be, but to me it really isn’t.” He shook his head wearily. “I don’t know if there’s something wrong with me or if your sense of humour is just that rubbish, but half the time I have no idea if you’re joking.”

“But we joke all the time. You make them too.”

“Well, yeah, when I start it it’s easier to tell if you’re going along with it or not, but when I forget to have your clothes mended and you threaten to put me in the stocks for it, I have no way of knowing if you’re serious or not, because I have ended up in the stocks on a number of occasions! It’s…exhausting to constantly be trying to figure out whether or not you’re just pretending to be angry or annoyed with me when that seems to be the default.”

A myriad of confusing, shameful feelings swirled through Arthur’s mind as he tried to look at the issue from Merlin’s point of view and re-examine their rapport in light of this revelation. He did not like what he found.

He swallowed and looked down at his feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise. Is it…truly that difficult being my friend?”

Merlin’s voice softened as he said, “Arthur, it’s not just you. I have this issue with almost everyone, even when the jokes aren’t about insulting me; you just…make a lot of them. I don’t know why I’ll catch on to one joke and then completely miss the next—that’s just how it is. One of the things I love most about Gwaine is that he notices when I don’t get something and makes sure to point it out to me.”

“Oh.”

“I’m not saying all this just to make you feel bad, Arthur,” Merlin sighed. “I’m not even angry—not really. Just…tired and frustrated. I know you care, deep down, and I am sorry I left without saying goodbye, especially while you were grieving. I just couldn’t bear staying any longer.”

Arthur nodded, mind still reeling but grateful for the apology. “Camelot hasn’t been the same without you,” he confessed.

“I’m sure your chambers are tidier,” Merlin quipped.

“Yeah,” Arthur laughed weakly. “Too tidy, if anything. My substitute manservant is a stickler for procedure and seriously boring. I just don’t know how to explain to him that waking up to a perfectly clean room with breakfast waiting to be served in bed is rather unsettling when I’m used to being blinded by the curtains being pulled away seconds before finding myself dragged bodily out of bed and forcibly fed a squashed roll of bread while I’m still lying in the dust.”

Merlin shot him a cheeky grin at that. “Wow, sounds like your previous servant was a right terror.”

“He was. But…I miss him. Especially with all the weird stuff going on lately.”

“Weird stuff?” Merlin asked, frowning.

Where to even begin?

“There have been…strange happenings in Camelot—in the citadel, more specifically.”

“Strange how?”

“Things moving on their own if someone’s about to trip over them. Fireplaces lighting themselves when someone enters a room. Servants being pushed out of the way of runaway carts by an invisible force. People are getting nervous and crying sorcery, but we have found no actionable evidence whatsoever.”

“That’s…certainly odd,” Merlin mused.

“The oddest thing of all is what’s going on with my uncle.”

“What about him?”

Arthur considered how best to phrase this. “He’s…a toad.”

Merlin raised his eyebrows. “I’m not sure I disagree, but I’m surprised you would call Agravaine that.”

“No, I mean he’s actually been turned into a toad. We think. You left just before it was discovered, but that same morning Agravaine’s servant found a toad crawling around within his sleep clothes in his bed, with no other trace of him.”

A laugh burst out of Merlin, quickly muffled by his hand as he tried to quell it.

“It’s not funny.”

“Sorry. No. Of course not. Terribly serious.” Merlin’s professed remorse was betrayed by his tightly pursed lips and crinkling eyes. “He’s been a toad for three weeks?”

“Yes. We’ve had to put him in Gaius’ old leech tank to keep him from roaming around the castle and getting himself killed.”

Another stifled noise escaped Merlin, and his voice was strangled as he said, “Right. That’s…awful. Not funny at all.”

“It is a little funny,” Arthur admitted, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the gravity of the situation. “He looks so grumpy. Still, I could use his advice, now more than ever.”

“Gaius couldn’t fix him?”

“No, but he thinks it might be connected to all the other incidents.”

“Any theories as to the source?”

“Gaius says it could be any number of things—that he can’t be sure. But…”

“You have a guess?” Merlin asked quietly.

Arthur opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, then said, “It might be stupid, but…” He cleared his throat. “What if…it’s my father?”

Merlin appeared to be taken aback by this. “Your father?”

“What if his spirit is haunting the castle? It all started the day after his death, and everything save Agravaine’s transformation has been of a benign, helpful nature—as unsettling as it is. What if he’s…watching over us from beyond the grave?”

For an unbearably long moment Merlin just stared at him, dumbstruck, and Arthur was beginning to feel a bit idiotic for sharing his theory—which even he could admit bore the hallmarks of wishful thinking—but then something changed subtly in Merlin’s expression. It became more guarded, somehow. Less open. Had not this whole conversation been about how Arthur should be more perceptive of Merlin’s feelings, he might have missed it, but, as it was, he was primed to notice that Merlin’s smile was decidedly strained when next he spoke.

“It’s a nice thought.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “You don’t think it’s him.”

“I’m no expert on ghosts.”

“But you don’t think this is about ghosts.” The unease in Merlin’s bearing confirmed Arthur’s suspicions, and he felt certain in his accusation as he said, “You know something.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. Leave it.”

“Merlin, this concerns the safety of my people. If you know anything about what’s going on in the citadel—anything at all, no matter how trivial—then tell me. Please.”

Merlin’s resistance visibly dwindled in the face of Arthur’s sincere plea, and it was replaced by something like fear. “Arthur… You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“It has. It very much has. But…you deserve the truth.” Merlin worried at his lip, then rose abruptly and started to pace slowly back and forth. “What I’m about to say… It may implicate someone who has done nothing wrong but keep a secret. You must promise me that they will not be punished for it.”

Arthur frowned. “If you’re worried that I’ll be angry that you didn’t tell me earlier—”

“I ask not for myself. Please, Arthur. This is someone who has always been loyal to Camelot above all else. I will say nothing if they will get in trouble for it. You must promise me.”

He nodded slowly. “If they have truly done no harm, then I will seek no retribution for keeping a secret. This I swear.”

Merlin exhaled shakily in relief, yet he still seemed terrified. He ceased moving and opened his mouth, only to then close it again and resume his pacing. After a couple of these false starts, he finally stilled and said, “It’s not a ghost. It’s magic.”

“I can see why a sorcerer would try to rid me of my most trusted advisor, but that doesn’t explain everything else. Why would they be helping out around the castle?”

“Not all those who wield magic are enemies of Camelot, Arthur. Not all of them are evil.”

“Experience says otherwise,” Arthur muttered darkly. “They resent our laws, and magic corrupts.”

“No. Power can corrupt, be it magical or otherwise, and I don’t see you giving up your crown for fear that it will turn you evil.” There was a tremor in Merlin’s voice, yet he squared his shoulders and carried on. “I know who laid the spell on the citadel, and they were born with their magic, with no say in it. It was part of them their whole life, and I would like to believe that even after all those years they still used it only with the best intentions. Despite being forced to keep their abilities hidden by the laws of Camelot, they devoted themself to the protection of the kingdom and its people, and first and foremost to you, Arthur. They never meant you any harm. I swear it.”

Merlin grew more and more distraught as he spoke, and Arthur grew more and more uneasy. If Merlin was this defensive of the sorcerer, then he must care a great deal about them, meaning that they were his friend. Arthur was fairly certain he knew all of Merlin’s friends, because they were his friends too. He did not like this. Not one bit.

“Who are they?” he asked, mentally going through the list of likely suspects. Gaius would be the obvious option, having practised magic openly in the past, but somehow he had the feeling that this was not who Merlin was talking about. He outright refused to consider that it might be Gwen, despite the accusations his father had levelled against her in the past. One of the knights, then? Surely not Gwaine? No, all this had started after he and Merlin left Camelot.

Merlin drew a steadying breath, then another, and finally he whispered, “Me.”

So unexpected was the confession that it took a while to even register as one, and Arthur found himself saying, “Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin.”

Merlin looked absolutely crestfallen at this reaction, and tears stained his cheeks anew. “I’m serious. I’m a—” His voice broke. “I was… The whole time I was in your service, I had magic. And I used it for you, Arthur. To keep you safe. To protect Camelot.”

Arthur could discern no signs of dishonesty in his friend, yet it was too ludicrous a suggestion to believe. “If you’re just saying this to cover for whoever did place that spell, you—”

“It was me! I know you still think I’m a incompetent, blithering simpleton, but I couldn’t exactly tell you that my real strengths lay in magic.”

“Merlin,” Arthur said firmly, “You are not a sorcerer. I would know.”

You can’t be. You mustn’t be!

“Arthur…”

He rose from the bench, dragging a hand down his face as he tried to keep his emotions in check. “Prove it, then,” he said, fixing Merlin with a grim stare as he delivered the challenge. “If you’re really a sorcerer, show me some magic.”

Merlin’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “I can’t. I gave it up. I couldn’t stay in Camelot, but I couldn’t leave you unprotected either. That’s what my magic was for—to make sure you survived to become the great king you are destined to be. I gave away all of my magic to make sure you would be safe even in my absence, and it sounds like it’s working, albeit in unintended ways. If you don’t believe me, ask Gaius. He’s the one who kept my secret.”

This was not real. It could not be real. He did not accept it as real, and so it was not. Merlin must still be trying to cover for the real sorcerer by taking the blame, just like he had done for Gwen that one time she was accused of healing her father with magic.

“I’m leaving,” he decided and started walking towards the door. “When I return on the morrow, I suggest you tell me the truth.”

“Wait, Arthur!”

A hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, halting him before he could reach the door. Instinctually, he wrenched his arm out of the hold, but he did turn back to Merlin, who looked almost sick with how pale and trembling he was, but still there was a gleam of determination in his watery eyes.

“I can prove it! I can’t show you any magic, but I can prove that I’ve used it in the past.”

Arthur wished nothing more than for Merlin not to be able to prove any such thing, yet he gave him a jerky nod to go ahead.

“I was the old sorcerer who tried to heal your father—and I really did try. In the charcoal maker’s hut I pretended to live in, you broke a pot. How could I know that if I was outside?”

“I— You could have heard the crash.”

“Fine. But how would I know that you let me ride on your back on the way to your father?”

He shook his head. “No. No, that’s— No.”

“The first time you met me in that disguise—when I tried to divert blame from Gwen for supposedly casting a love spell on you—you told me I looked familiar. You recognised my eyes. Arthur, you know it was me.”

Merlin’s voice was barely audible through the deafening rush of blood in his ears, and Arthur’s own voice was weak—almost winded—as he squeezed out, “No. The sorcerer, he killed him. You—” His breath caught in his breast as the last defences of denial crumbled and reality came crashing down on him. “You…killed him?”

“I tried to save him. Morgana had planted an amulet turning my healing magic against him. Ask Gaius! I tried to save him, like I had successfully done before. Please, Arthur. If you take anything away from this, let it be that.”

His vision swam, making it hard to focus his eyes on anything, but he felt Merlin reach for his arm again at that last, desperate plea. He staggered back, away from the touch. Away from Merlin. Away from the sorcerer who had lied to his face for half a decade.

“Don’t. Don’t touch me,” he rasped, backing up towards the door.

When he felt his back collide with it, he turned and grasped clumsily for the handle and tumbled out of the cottage. He hardly heard the pained, “Arthur!” coming from inside, hardly noticed Gwaine shouldering past him to get to Merlin, hardly saw the knights standing by the horses some distance away, staring at the spectacle. He just stumbled towards the edge of the forest surrounding the village, as quickly as his shaky legs would carry him, his mind filled only with the need to get away.

Chapter Text

The pale moonlight was just bright enough to let Gwaine traverse the woods without stumbling over too many roots as he made his way towards his destination, which was marked by the light of a small campfire. It was late enough that no one but whoever had the first watch should be awake, and he was pleased to find the unmistakable silhouette of Percival standing guard between the company and Ealdor.

He made no effort to approach particularly quietly, deeming it better to announce his presence and even going so far as to imitate the bird call the knights commonly used to communicate their position. It had its intended effect, because he saw Percival’s posture relax even before he was close enough to be visually recognised.

He was met by a smile and an outstretched arm, which he gratefully clasped, relieved to still be treated as a friend. It would seem whatever Arthur had told his entourage after his conversation with Merlin had not, at least, marked Gwaine as an enemy to be cut down at sight.

“Percy, old friend.” He greeted him with a warm grin, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the slumbering knights around the campfire. “You left without a goodbye. I’m heartbroken.”

“Well, when the king wanders off into the woods looking like he’s had enough drink to knock out an army despite being sober, it’s best to follow.”

“Quite right. Anyone could be lurking in wait for him. Lot’s men. Bandits. Rogue knights, even.”

“Mhm. Armed ones, by the look of it.” Percival looked pointedly at the sword at his hip.

“Oh, this old thing? Never go anywhere without it.” He patted the pommel affectionately. “But I guess I could be persuaded to part with it briefly, if it would grant me an audience with the king.”

Percival hesitated. “You sure that’s a good idea? He’s…out of sorts.” He jerked his head towards the trunk of a fallen tree a little ways away. The glint of mail betrayed the shadowy figure sitting upon it, hunched over with his back turned to the camp.

“That’s exactly why he needs a talking to from someone who’s not afraid to put things a bit more bluntly than our dear Merlin.”

“Could you hear what they were talking about?”

“Most of it. ‘Course, I already knew the gist of things beforehand.”

“And? Arthur wouldn’t tell us what’s going on. He just told us to set up camp and leave him alone.”

Gwaine grimaced. “Sorry, mate. Not my secrets to share.” Percival nodded in understanding, though he was obviously disappointed to miss out on the gossip. “Now, is giving up my sword enough for you to let me through?”

“I think we both know you don’t need a sword to take down Arthur, especially not in his present condition.”

“Percy, you flatterer you.” Gwaine batted his eyelashes coquettishly, then sobered. “Then I’ll add my word that I’ll not throw the first punch to the bargain, however much he might deserve it.”

“Didn’t think you would.” Percival stepped aside and Gwaine drew his sword and handed it over to him, but when he moved to pass him, Percival reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, halting him momentarily. “Before you go… Are you doing well? Are you…happy out here?”

A bright, genuine smile spread over Gwaine’s face. “Happier than ever. Truly.”

“You told Merlin, I take it…?”

“Aye. Turns out there was no need to procrastinate after all.”

The hand on his shoulder tightened affectionately. “I’m glad. You have been missed. Both of you.”

“As have you, my friend.”

With a last nod at one another they parted, and Gwaine trudged off to join Arthur on the log.

“Say, what is a pretty princess like you doing out in the dark, scary woods at this hour?” he asked, taking a seat just out of easy reach.

“I’m not in the mood for your japes,” Arthur muttered darkly, not even bothering to look up from the ring he was restlessly twirling round and round on his finger.

“Then I’ll cut to the chase and tell you what I came here to say. I trust it’ll be serious enough for you. You are not the victim here.”

Arthur flinched at that, glancing up at Gwaine. “Did you not hear the part where he confessed to killing my father?”

“No, I must have missed that bit. I did hear him describe how he risked life and limb to try to save him, though.”

“You don’t honestly believe that rubbish about an amulet?”

“Sure I do. You don’t honestly believe that Merlin of all people would kill your father in cold blood?”

Arthur deflated some and rubbed his hands down his face wearily. “I— I don’t know what to believe anymore. How can I trust a word he says when he has been lying to me since the moment we met?”

Gwaine shrugged. “It’s simple, you just do it. It’s Merlin.”

“Easy for you to say. You obviously knew about the magic already.”

“Aye, I may have known from day one, but only because I have eyes in my head and figured it out on my own. Never told him I knew, stupidly enough, and he didn’t tell me himself until after we left. So you see, he kept secrets from me as well, yet here we are, playing house in domestic bliss. He lied to everyone, because he had to if he wanted to keep his head. You’re not special.”

Arthur gave him a half-hearted glare out of the corner of his eye but then asked, hesitantly, “You really agreed to join him out here despite knowing that he did not trust you enough to tell you the truth? It never made you doubt his feelings for you?”

“You’ve got it all backwards,” Gwaine huffed. “He didn’t tell me he was leaving either; I just figured that out too and ran after him. At the time, I didn’t even dare hope he might have any feelings for me—thought he was too hung up on you. It’s he who had to be convinced to let me stay.”

For a long moment, Arthur just stared at him in stunned silence. Then he blinked dumbly and asked, “You abandoned Camelot for a man you thought was in love with someone else, who had lied to you throughout your entire acquaintance, and who was going to leave you behind without a word of where he was going?”

Gwaine shrugged. “That about sums it up.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s Merlin. Because none of those things take away from the fact that he is the kindest, bravest, most loyal and selfless person I’ve ever met. Because I love him. Because I stayed in Camelot for him to begin with, even thinking that he’d never care for me the same way I did him.”

A muscle twitched in Arthur’s clenched jaw as he mulled this over, but there was more weariness than anger in his eyes. “You do recall you made an oath when you were knighted? An oath which you broke by leaving Camelot with the sorcerer who…was involved in the death of your king?”

Gwaine rolled his eyes. “I also remember that oath saying something about defending the innocent at all costs, showing mercy and standing up to injustice. I figure protecting Merlin from laws that would see him burn falls under that definition. Your laws. Am I going to have to stop you from trying to enforce them? Because I will.”

“You don’t think I’m actually planning to put Merlin on a pyre, do you?” Arthur exclaimed, sounding scandalised.

“Are you not? Haven’t you made an oath to uphold the laws of Camelot? To vanquish her enemies? Even if you can pull your head out of your arse long enough to realise that Merlin tried to use his magic to save your father—even if you accept that he’s only ever used it to help you—don’t you believe that just having magic makes him evil by default and that he should be put to death for being born with it, as the laws state?”

“I— I don’t—”

“Putting aside your bruised feelings about him not turning himself in for what he could only assume would be execution, do you, in your heart of hearts, think Merlin is evil?”

The phrasing of the question seemed to blindside Arthur, as if it had not even occurred to him before now that this was why Merlin might not have told him about the magic sooner. At length, he swallowed and shook his head. “Did you know he once drank poison for me? He thought it’d kill him, and he still drank it, just to stop me from doing it. We’d barely known each other two months.”

A familiar lump of lead settled in Gwaine’s stomach, as it always did whenever he heard of yet another way Merlin had almost died because of his damned self-sacrificial tendencies. “Wish I could say it surprises me. Did you know he was planning on giving his life to stop the Dorocha?”

“He volunteered to take my place, but I talked him out of it. It should have been me—not him, not Lancelot. If I hadn’t been knocked out by whatever that was—”

“Gods, you two really are two of a kind, aren’t you?” Gwaine sighed. “He used those exact same words about Lancelot sneaking past him. Merlin’s the one who knocked you out. You talked him out of fuck all.”

Arthur’s mouth clacked closed, and he looked off into the middle distance as he processed this, repeatedly clenching and relaxing his fists. After some time, he hung his head and rubbed at his temples. “I don’t understand him. I don’t understand why a sorcerer would go to such lengths to protect the son of the man who tried to eradicate his kind. Did he hope to manipulate me into changing the laws once I became king? But then why would he be so eager to die for me before he succeeded?”

Exercising some truly impressive self-restraint, Gwaine just about managed to stop himself from giving Arthur a clip round the ear to knock some sense into him. “Manipu—? Fuck’s sake… Of course he hoped you’d change the bleeding laws! That’s a given! Apparently there are all these ancient prophecies about you two being destined to work together to bring peace to a united Albion and bring magic back to the land—prophecies which have been doing his head in, if you ask me—but the only reason he put any stock in them was because he saw something in you that made him think you could actually become the greatest king Albion has ever known, or whatever bollocks those stories call you. After seeing you going off your nut like this just because of a little magic, I’m not sure I credit them myself, I’ll be honest.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You’re saying he only stuck around to fulfil a prophecy?”

Gwaine actually did give him a smack to the back of the head then, and it was a testament to Arthur’s bewilderment that he only stared at his assailant instead of paying back in kind.

“No, you numpty! I’m saying he might’ve given you a chance because of prophecy, but he stuck around because he loves you! If anything, destiny is why he left!”

“He said he left because he was tired.”

“Sure he is. Tired of carrying the fate of Albion on his shoulders. Tired of trying to live up to the expectation the whole magical community apparently has of him being their saviour. Tired of repeatedly betraying his own kind by protecting the old king from harm just so you wouldn’t lose your precious, genocidal da. Tired of running after you to make sure you don’t get yourself killed, all while you heap abuse on him because no one ever taught you how friendship’s supposed to work! Tired enough to be disappointed that he didn’t get to sacrifice himself at the Isle of the Blessed!”

Gwaine realised that he had jumped to his feet at some point while ranting, and though he had remembered to keep his voice relatively low to (hopefully) avoid waking the sleeping knights, he could see that Percival was looking over at them with interest. He drew a deep breath in an attempt to compose himself and ran a hand through his hair before turning back to Arthur, who was still looking up at him with a dumbstruck expression.

“You know, he thinks he’s failed in his destiny? He thinks he’s let down everyone who ever put faith in him—that in failing to save your father he’s turned you against magic forever. But I’ll tell you what really kills me. It’s that what he was most heartbroken about was how he thought this meant he would never be able to reveal himself to you and let you know him fully—that you’d always think of him as an incompetent fool rather than a valued friend and ally—because the alternative was being seen as the enemy and be put to death for the trouble of letting you know that you owe him your life a hundred times over and that he has given up everything for you. Not for destiny, for you!”

“Is that what he believes? That I’d have him killed?”

“You already tried. You know how many times these past weeks he’s woken up from a nightmare about you raising your sword to cut him down in Uther’s chambers?”

“I didn’t know it was him!”

“Would it have made a difference? Because Merlin isn’t sure it would. You still have the chance to prove him wrong. I suggest you take it.” Without waiting for a response, Gwaine turned on his heel and started walking back towards Percival. “I’ve got to get back before he wakes up. Who knows what fresh nightmares may be waiting in store for him after today.”

“Gwaine!”

He paid Arthur no heed, knowing that nothing good would come from further talking after letting himself get this worked up. He could only hope he had not hurt his cause already by pushing Arthur too far.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to hit him,” Percival said with a raised eyebrow that made him look more amused than affronted. There was no telling how much of the conversation he had been able to pick up from over at his post.

“Haven’t you heard?” Gwaine muttered gruffly, snatching his sword out of his friend’s hand and sheathing it again. “I’m an oathbreaker.”

With an apologetic pat to Percival’s arm to make up for his foul mood, Gwaine stalked back through the woods towards Ealdor, hoping that he had not been gone long enough to be missed.

Chapter Text

By the time dawn crept up on Ealdor the day following Arthur’s arrival, Merlin had scraped together perhaps three or four hours of sleep in total—generously estimated. At one point, he had been woken by the faint creaking of the door and realised with a start that the bedroll beside him was unoccupied, but before his mind had had time to work itself into too much of a panic, the identity of the person sneaking into the cottage had been betrayed by a dull thud and a muffled curse as Gwaine had hit his knee on the edge of a bench in the dark—the same one he had walked into a dozen times before even in daylight as a result of his habit of impatiently cutting corners as he moved about.

Merlin had feigned sleep as Gwaine had lain down beside him and carefully wrapped his arm around his waist as if he had never left. It was not like it was hard to guess where he had been, and Merlin decided that he really did not want to know how that little trip had gone until morning. Or possibly ever.

Unfortunately, morning did eventually come, and with it the ordeal of having to face his mother’s pitying looks and all-too-kind attempts at comforting him, as well as Gwaine’s restless glances towards the door as they broke their fast. He told Merlin that he did not think Arthur had any intention of having him killed, but that he could not say for sure whether he wished to pursue any other legal retribution. He offered to run away with Merlin instead of waiting to find out, but Merlin quickly shot down that suggestion. He was tired of running—tired of not knowing what Arthur would do with the truth.

He did not have to wait long before finally finding out, yet the two hours that passed between dawn and the anticipated knock on the door seemed like an eternity. At the sound, Gwaine moved to answer the door, but Hunith beat him to it, holding up a hand indicating that she had it under control. Merlin and Gwaine stood back at the far end of the cottage while Hunith opened the door to greet her guests.

“Your Majesty,” she said and gave a polite curtsy. “And Sir…Leon, isn’t it?”

Leon’s voice drifted in through the door, proving her correct. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Hunith. It is good to see you again. I am sorry to have intruded on your hospitality in your absence yesterday.”

“Any friend of my son is welcome in my home. I hope it is in that capacity that you are here today as well.”

There was a pause that was just a little too long for Merlin’s heart not to sink in his chest before he heard Arthur reply, “As my business with him goes beyond the personal, I am afraid I must speak to him in the role of king. However…I mean him no harm. I hope that is enough for you to allow me entrance.”

Hunith looked over at Merlin, who nodded. “Very well. Come in, Your Majesty.” She stepped aside.

Arthur entered the cottage, closely followed by Leon, and Hunith closed the door behind them before returning to Merlin’s side. They stood like this in awkward silence for some time—Leon and Arthur hovering near the door and Merlin standing at the other end of the room, his mother on his left and Gwaine on his right. He could not help noticing that their visitors were unarmed, and he might have let this hearten him, had Arthur not been studiously avoiding eye contact.

“Merlin.”

“Arthur.” He was surprised his voice came out as evenly as it did.

Another beat of silence, then Arthur said, “I thought, perhaps, we might discuss yesterday’s…revelations in private?”

Is that why you brought Leon? Merlin thought, but said, “Anything you have to say to me you can say in front of my family.” He could practically feel Gwaine preen at his side to be included in this category, which warmed his heart enough to allow it to start beating again, albeit erratically. “After all, your business here is official, isn’t it?”

Arthur shifted his weight from foot to foot, still not looking him in the eye. “Right.” He cleared his throat. “I have come to ask that you return to Camelot and lift the spell on the citadel. Do this, and you will be pardoned for the crimes you have confessed to.”

Merlin blinked. That was…not quite what he had expected to hear. “And then what?”

“Then…you may return to work for Gaius, if you so wish. Or take up some other trade in the city, if that suits you better.”

It did not pass him by that his old position as Arthur’s manservant did not appear to still be on the table. But to be with Gaius again… A part of him desperately wanted to agree, but he found that he could say nothing but, “No.”

Arthur looked up then, meeting his eyes briefly before moving his gaze to a point in the air somewhere around a foot above Merlin’s shoulder. “You can, of course, return here if you no longer wish to stay in Camelot after lifting the spell.” Was it Merlin’s imagination, or did he seem just the tiniest bit disappointed?

“No.”

“What do you mean ‘no?’ If you’re trying to bargain for a better deal—”

“No. I’m saying I’m not doing it. I’m not coming back, and I’m not undoing what I did.”

This finally made Arthur look at him properly—or, rather, stare. “What? Why?”

Merlin squared his shoulders, drawing as much strength as he could from the steadying presence of his family, trusting that they would understand and support his choice. “For one thing, I don’t know if I can undo it. Perhaps you weren’t listening when I told you I don’t have any magic to use anymore? But even if the magic turned out to let me reabsorb it, I wouldn’t want to do it. It’s not mine to use anymore.”

This was not entirely true. Some days he felt the loss of his magic like a missing limb, leaving him weak and aching in its absence. It was frustrating to be so limited by physical constraints, unable to affect the world around him through anything other than his body, be it to defend himself or light a fire or spin yarn or heal the sick. Sometimes it felt like he had lost what made him him, like part of his soul had gone with the magic. But he also felt free. Free from responsibility, free from impossible choices, free from destiny.

“Merlin, I can’t very well go around trying to uphold the laws of Camelot while myself living in a magical castle! You have to take it back. It’s not like you have to use it just because you have it. In fact, I’d very much prefer that you didn’t, what with the aforementioned laws!”

Anger swelled within Merlin at Arthur’s demonstration of how utterly deficient his understanding of magic was for a man who presumed to regulate it through legislation. “I cannot live like that, Arthur. With power like mine, it would eat me up from the inside out until it lashed out uncontrollably, just like Morgana’s did. And knowing our destiny, it would be a matter of weeks or days before I was forced to choose between breaking the law and your trust by using it or allowing someone to get hurt again.”

It was readily apparent that Arthur either could not fully wrap his head around this or did not believe him. “Then take it back and return here, or go anywhere else where you can use it! Just as long as you take it!”

“And leave you defenceless from magical attacks? No. I will not apologise for keeping you safe the only way I still can. My magic was given to me to use for you and this damned destiny, and I’ve left it in your care. Do what you will with it; find another sorcerer to try to get rid of it if you wish, but know that it might spell your doom to remove the protection it offers.”

“Protection? You’ve turned Agravaine into a toad! How is that protecting me?!”

“I didn’t do it on purpose. I just instructed the magic not to let anyone with ill intent move freely throughout the citadel. If he turned into a toad the second it took effect, I think that speaks for itself.”

Arthur took a step forward, fury in his eyes. “You dare accuse my uncle of treason? You?!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Merlin noted Gwaine putting his hand on the hilt of his sword, and he reached out to lay a calming hand on his arm to stay him from doing something monumentally inadvisable.

“Arthur, it gives me no pleasure to level accusations against those you love, and I know you have no reason to trust me anymore, but be careful around Agravaine. Gaius has reason to suspect that he might have dealings with Morgana.”

“I will not hear another word out of your mouth against him!”

“Then ask Gaius when you get back!”

“When we get back.”

“No.”

“That’s an order! Do I have to remind you I’m your king?”

Gwaine took half a step forward then, sporting a goading grin. His hand still rested causally on his sword. “Do I have to remind you that none of us were born in Camelot?”

Merlin’s hand tightened around Gwaine’s arm as an uncomfortable-looking Leon also stepped forward, just far enough to mark any further advances as unwelcome. Arthur, meanwhile, appeared dumbstruck by the sheer audacity of Gwaine’s cockiness, or perhaps by the realisation that he was, indeed, standing on foreign land in front of three people who were not born subjects of Camelot.

Merlin cleared his throat, disrupting the tense standoff. “Arthur. I have made my decision. As long as magic is outlawed in Camelot and your part of our destiny remains unfulfilled, I will not willingly return.” There was a slight tremor in his voice as he continued, “You can accept that, or you can drag me back in chains, but I suspect nothing would stop Gwaine from making you go through him to do it.”

“Damn right,” Gwaine said.

“You—!” Arthur started, but he was interrupted by Hunith.

“And through me,” she stated calmly, drawing the attention of everyone in the room as she stepped forward and linked her arm with Merlin’s. “Though I do not think it will come to that. You have a good heart, Arthur Pendragon; all of Ealdor can bear witness to it. I know you will make the right decision.”

Those gentle words appeared to cut straight through Arthur’s anger and bravado, making him falter and flounder, his eyes flitting between her and Merlin as he clenched his fists and swallowed. “I cannot leave here without a way of turning my uncle human again,” he said through gritted teeth.

“The magic is centred on the citadel; he may turn back if you simply take him outside it,” Merlin suggested, though he had no idea if that was actually how it worked.

“And the magic itself? Can someone else remove it?”

“Perhaps, if they are powerful enough. Or maybe it will eventually fade on its own without anyone there to feed it. I truly do not know.”

Arthur nodded grimly. “Then we have nothing further to say to each other.” He turned and made for the door.

Merlin could not stop a choked off, “Arthur…” from slipping out, and he felt his mother pull him closer to her in comfort.

Stopping with his hand on the door handle, Arthur half-turned his head towards them, but kept his eyes cast down as he said, “Just one more thing, Merlin: consider yourself banished from Camelot.”

He found he could not bring himself to make any protest against this. It hurt—it hurt deeply—but it could have been so, so much worse, and so he kept his silence as he watched Arthur walk out of his life, just like he himself had done three weeks earlier.

Gwaine, however, followed Arthur and Leon out of the cottage, tauntingly calling after them, “What about me? You’re not going to let Merlin have all the fun, are you?”

“That goes without saying,” came the curt reply.

“Grand so, just like old times, eh?”

Hunith squeezed Merlin’s arm and murmured, “Oh, my son… I am sorry.”

He closed his eyes with a shuddering exhalation, a bone-deep weariness settling over him. “I should never have told him the truth. He was better off not knowing.”

“No, Merlin. I know that I have cautioned you against revealing yourself all your life, but I believe you needed to get the secret off your chest, and if what you say is true, Arthur needs to know that his uncle cannot be trusted, hard as it may be for him to accept it. It was very brave of you to tell him.”

Tears stung behind his eyelids, and he drew a breath to make a response but was interrupted by the realisation that there was one last thing he ought to share with Arthur. His eyes flew open and with an apologetic look at his mother he drew his arm out of her grip and rushed outside, brushing past Gwaine, who was watching the small company of knights mount their horses with feigned nonchalance.

“Arthur, wait!”

To his relief, Arthur looked back at Merlin instead of spurring on his horse as he had been about to, but he said nothing as their eyes met. He just waited for Merlin to say his piece.

“When you get your uncle back, ask him if he’s ever heard of someone named Emrys. If he says no, he’s lying. If he says yes, ask him how he came across a name known only to friends of the Old Religion. Gaius can tell you what it means.”

There was a slight furrow in Arthur’s brow as he considered this, and finally he gave Merlin the slightest nod before turning away and urging his horse into an amble, setting off for the westward paths that would lead him home to Camelot.

The other knights quickly followed. Leon, ever the professional, glanced at Merlin and Gwaine with a deliberately neutral expression as he followed his king. Elyan looked rather confused as he passed them and lifted a hand in an uncertain wave, making Merlin wonder if Arthur had told anyone but Leon what was actually going on.

Percival lingered at the back of the group, shooting them a remorseful smile and asking Merlin, “You keep that one out of trouble, yeah?” He jerked his head in Gwaine’s direction.

Merlin blinked himself out of the foggy daze that was threatening to descend on him and made a poor attempt at a smile of his own. “I’ll do my best,” he promised.

“Oi, I resent that,” Gwaine protested. “I’ve worked hard to get into the trouble I’m currently in, I’ll have you know!”

Percival laughed. “Take heart; something tells me we’ve not seen the last of each other. Until then.” With this, he set off after the others, leaving Gwaine and a slightly bemused Merlin in his wake.

“Since when is Percival all…wise and sensitive?” he wondered aloud.

Gwaine chuckled and threw an arm around Merlin’s shoulder. “Well, they do say the heart is the biggest muscle, and he certainly excels in that area…”

“No they don’t, and if they do I have the anatomy book to prove them wrong,” Merlin muttered, but let himself be guided back inside.

That night, Merlin found himself facing the prospect of another round of sleepless tossing and turning, unable as he was to keep his mind off the events of the morning. Long after his mother’s soft snoring had started up at the other end of the cottage, Merlin was still staring up at the rafters, mulling over everything that had passed between him and Arthur since his arrival the night before.

“Want to share some of those loud thoughts of yours?” Gwaine murmured after some time, making Merlin realise that he had never actually heard his breathing even out into the telltale rhythm of sleep.

He swallowed around the lump that had lingered in his throat throughout the day and whispered, “Have I made a terrible mistake? Should I have just gone with him and tried to take back the magic?”

“No,” Gwaine replied, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. “You’ve seemed happier out here than I’ve seen you in…ever, really. If you’d returned, you would’ve just gotten sucked into that destiny bollocks again and gone right back to wearing yourself out.”

A tear or two escaped the corners of his eyes as Merlin tipped his head to the side to look at Gwaine, or at least at the silhouette of him, which was all that was really visible in the darkness. “I could’ve just done it and come back out here afterwards. We could still have had this life without me getting you banished for it.”

“No, you couldn’t have,” Gwaine said seriously. “You couldn’t have left Arthur without protection. You don’t have it in you.” There was no judgement in his voice, and Merlin found himself almost wishing there had been, irrationally enough. But Gwaine was just stating a fact, because he knew Merlin. “Besides, I’m starting a collection.”

“Of what?”

“Kings who have personally banished me from their kingdoms. I’ve got three already—four if you count Uther twice, since he sort of double-banished me. Think I can reach five before winter?”

Merlin could not stop a wet laugh from bursting free from his tight chest, and he clasped his hand over his mouth before it could wake his mother. “You are ridiculous,” he whispered once he was in control of himself again.

“You love me,” was Gwaine’s response, and Merlin could hear the smile in his voice as he reached out and touched his cheek, brushing away a stray tear.

“I do. There’s no one I’d rather be banished with.”

“Me neither.” Gwaine rolled closer to press a soft kiss to Merlin’s lips, then wrapped an arm around his waist, encouraging him to snuggle up closer together on their bedrolls. “G’wan and try to get some sleep. Now that we no longer need to wonder if we’re in trouble with Camelot, we can refocus our energy towards figuring out which king we’re pissing off next.”

Merlin huffed and found himself a comfortable spot on Gwaine’s chest to rest his head against, tucking himself snugly under his chin. “Let’s not make it Lot. Marchel might stage a coup if you get banished from Ealdor.”

“And she’d succeed. She’d make a fierce queen. Now, go to sleep, my wee dormouse.”

“Only if you do too, night owl.”

“Deal.”

Despite his earlier insomnia, it was not long before he sank into a drowsy haze, lulled to sleep by Gwaine’s steady heartbeat and the sense of safety that came with being wrapped up in his lover’s strong embrace.

Chapter Text

The days following Arthur’s visit to Ealdor were difficult for Merlin, that much was readily apparent to anyone who shared even a passing acquaintance with him—so, in other words, the entire village. There were rumours abound, theorising about why the King of Camelot had graced their little village with his presence again after all these years and why he had seemed so upset and why they had camped in the forest instead of taking advantage of Ealdor’s hospitality and why Merlin was so gloomy after the king and all those handsome knights had left.

When asked, Merlin’s answer to all these questions was usually something along the lines of, “He was disappointed I didn’t want to go back to Camelot with him. Yes, really. Now open wide, stretch out your tongue, and say, ‘Aah.’”

Gwaine tended to respond with some variation on, “All of Camelot is in mourning for having lost their two handsomest bachelors all at once. It’s a true tragedy, so it is,” while in the privacy of his own mind thanking whatever gods might be listening that no one had overheard anything incriminating enough to clue them into either their banishment or Merlin’s magic—or lack thereof. Nothing good could come of such rumours, especially if they should spread beyond the village.

To Gwaine’s immense relief, Merlin did slowly but surely recuperate from the emotional blow of the royal visit, and within a week or so he was more or less returned to the state he had been in before Arthur came and soured the mood. He still tired more quickly than he had back in the days when Gwaine had first met him, but he was in good spirits most of the time, with only the occasional pensive episode. There was even a sort of…lightness to him that had not been there before his confrontation with Arthur. If Gwaine had to guess, having everything out in the open and knowing that they were banished was actually easier for Merlin to bear than the uncertainty of waiting around to see what punishment—if any—he would receive for the role he had played in Uther’s death.

Gwaine also found it easier to relax now that the back of his mind was not as preoccupied with the thought of Arthur sending some of his less sympathetic knights to drag them home for trial. Not that he had ever truly worried about him doing something as extreme as having Merlin executed. Despite the blow his opinion of Arthur had taken after all this, he still knew, deep down, that the new king would never be as bad as his father. Still, anyone who could not see the injustice in banishing Merlin of all people was not worth serving, and so he might as well be banished himself. His only regret was that the sentence meant he might never see his friends among the knights again, but perhaps Percival was right. Perhaps fate would bring them together once more, for good or ill.

Even with the paranoia of persecution alleviated, Gwaine did what he could to keep up the training regimen he had grown used to as a knight. Keeping in shape was not really an issue as he was taking on more and more physically demanding chores around the village, but he was loath to let his skills with a sword grow rusty, and so he took the time when he could spare it to go through the exercises that could be done by his lonesome.

He did not have to train alone for all that long, however, for one day Merlin joined him on the field—dressed in a hauberk and gambeson that turned out to have belonged to his late friend Will’s even later father—and asked Gwaine to train him in the art of the sword now that he could no longer defend himself with magic. Gwaine was more than happy to comply, of course, and though he was hardly what he would consider a good teacher, Merlin was a diligent enough student to make up for his defects as a tutor. It was clear that he had picked up a great deal from watching Arthur train the knights; they just needed to work on teaching his body how to apply that knowledge.

Seeing Gwaine train with Merlin emboldened some of the younger residents of the village to also approach him, begging to be allowed in on the lessons, citing a desire to be able to defend their home and be better prepared should they one day be unlucky enough to be rounded up into Lot’s army, and that was how Gwaine learned that, for a village that small, Ealdor sure was unusually well stocked with weaponry—spoils of war from defeating Kanen’s men, apparently.

From his roaming days, he was used to being viewed with suspicion for carrying around a sword when passing through remote settlements like this, but the people of Ealdor had been empowered and battle-hardened under Arthur’s brief leadership and were rather proud to now have a resident knight, though some of the more crotchety elders did sometimes mutter about him and Merlin being troublemakers who would fill the younglings’ heads with foolishly romantic notions of adventure. Even so, this was still leagues better than the sort of reputation he usually earned before ending up having to move on from somewhere, so no complaints there.

All in all, Ealdor was beginning to properly feel like home, and this, in combination with the abating paranoia, eventually made Gwaine feel secure enough to suggest selling his horse. Merlin asked him if he was sure about this approximately three million times before finally agreeing to make a trip to the market in Engerd. Clearly, he understood that giving up his horse held some significance for Gwaine, who had always made it a priority to have a good steed at hand throughout his adventuring days to allow for expeditious travelling and swift escapes. Now, however, it was just an unnecessary drain on time and resources to keep a horse like a knight’s palfrey fed and exercised, and Gwaine found himself strangely excited to be in a position where his priorities were so much changed.

Still, it felt like the end of an era when he handed the reins over and walked away from the deal, his purse a good deal heavier (though perhaps not quite so heavy as it could have been if they had been willing to make the longer journey to a town with a bigger market). Even though they were technically travelling at the moment, this was the moment that it truly hit him that he was no longer Gwaine the Wandering Adventurer or Gwaine the Rogue Knight. Now he was Gwaine the Settled Man. Gwaine, you know, our Merlin’s fella.

It felt strange for all of two minutes before he spotted Merlin in the throng of people at the market, but as soon as he laid eyes on him—the entire reason behind his new way of life—it just felt right. The smile on his face no doubt made him look ridiculously besotted as he made his way over to where Merlin was finishing up bargaining over the gold thread Hunith had so carefully unpicked from the Pendragon crest from his cloak so that they might sell it.

“You’re stunning when you haggle,” Gwaine murmured in Merlin’s ear, having quietly sidled up behind him as he stowed away the money from his sale.

Merlin, to his credit, did not jump—a sharp intake of breath the only sign that he had been surprised at all. He turned around with a poorly suppressed smile and a raised eyebrow. “That might be the most nonsensical compliment you’ve given me to date.”

“Nonsensical? Not at all. You get this look of assertive determination in your eyes. Is it such a wonder that would get a man’s blood rushing?”

“Hm, but rushing to where?” Merlin mused, giving Gwaine a look that he could only describe as sultry.

“Now who’s been spending too much time with Marchel?” he laughed.

“No, you can’t put that one on her. In this case it’s purely your own terrible influence that is to blame.”

“Then perhaps you ought to be spending less time with me.”

“Probably,” Merlin huffed, his eyes crinkling in amusement.

“Or…” Gwaine lowered his voice and leaned in close again. “Perhaps I could influence you to let me splurge on a room of our own at the inn tonight instead of sleeping in the common room again?”

Now there was something he genuinely missed about his life in Camelot specifically: his own room. Four walls, a comfortable bed, a door that locked—the whole package. He adored Hunith and her cottage—their home—but there was something to be said for privacy as well.

“I might be persuaded…” There was a faint dusting of pink on Merlin’s cheeks, and his eyes fell to Gwaine’s lips and lingered there for a good couple of seconds until they were reminded of their surroundings by someone in the crowd barging past them, none too gently. The moment having been broken, he grabbed Gwaine’s arm and pulled him over to a nearby market stall. “Speaking of splurging, what do you think of this fabric for your new cloak?”

Gwaine reached out to have a feel at the fabric Merlin was indicating—good, sturdy cloth made from wool dyed a rather fetching shade of darkish moss green. “Very nice, but wasn’t the point of selling my old one that we’d get some money out of the rich colour instead of ruining it by dyeing it over? Might want to go with a cheaper colour for the replacement if we want to turn a good profit. I don’t mind much, as long as it keeps me warm.”

Merlin smiled and bumped their shoulders together. “You know, you’re not nearly as vain as people think. Save for when it comes to your hair.”

“Maybe I just know that I’m handsome enough to look great in anything.”

“Never mind, then; I take it all back.”

“Too late! You’re looking at Gwaine, the least vain and most modest man in the five kingdoms. I’ll wear the badge of humility with immense pride.”

“Not at all contradictory,” Merlin laughed. “Come on, Your Humbleness, let’s go for the green; I like the colour on you. Brings out your eyes. We’ll still make a decent profit.”

“Well, if it’s to please you, then how can I say no?”

It was not just a joke, and he was sure Merlin knew as much. As soon as he had managed to wrap his head around the fact that Gwaine did actually fancy him, the realisation must have soon followed that he would also do pretty much anything for Merlin if he batted his eyelashes at him—such as committing treason and upending his whole life to follow him into exile, for example. That ought to have been a bit of a giveaway.

“I guess we’re not exactly hurting for coin, anyway,” Gwaine continued. “Especially not after selling the horse, and certainly not if I can find someone to take a bit of jewellery off my hands for a fair price.”

Merlin frowned in confusion, then his eyes dropped to Gwaine’s neck and his eyes widened. “You’re not—?”

“No, never.” Gwaine lifted his hand to touch his father’s ring and the pendant that he had worn on a chain ever since his mother died and passed it on to him. “Didn’t say it was my jewellery.”

“Then whose?”

“Morgana’s.”

“What?!” Merlin exclaimed, then lowered his voice as people turned to look for the source of the noise. “Why do you have Morgana’s jewellery?”

“Did you know her rooms were left untouched after her hasty departure from Camelot? That included her jewellery box. Seemed a shame to just let it sit there, collecting dust.”

“So you just stole it?” Merlin sputtered.

“Sure, I snuck in there just before leaving Camelot. Thought we could use the extra funds. Look at it as reparations for…well, everything she’s done to you, really.”

Merlin stared at him silently for long enough that he started worrying that he might disapprove of Gwaine acting like a common thief. Merlin did have a strong sense of right and wrong, after all; it was not impossible that he would see this as dishonourable conduct, and perhaps he should have mentioned it sooner, and—

His fears were abruptly alleviated when Merlin burst out laughing. Then he laughed some more, and some more, and a while longer after that, until he was practically bent in half and Gwaine was starting to get concerned about his getting enough air.

“Oh, that’s fantastic!” he wheezed. “Why didn’t I think of that?” He straightened up, his shoulders still shaking with suppressed laughter. “I could have stolen so much stuff before leaving! Hell, I could probably have broken into the bloody vaults without anyone noticing!”

“You should’ve,” chuckled Gwaine. “I’d say you’re owed a treasure chest or two for going above and beyond in your service all these years. Can’t believe you didn’t even steal a horse for the journey home.”

“Me either.” Merlin grinned and ducked in for a quick kiss. “We are absolutely buying the green cloth and we are most definitely getting our own room tonight. Let’s live a little at Morgana’s expense.”

Gwaine needed no further convincing.

Chapter Text

A few days before Beltane, Marchel seized the opportunity to speak with Merlin in private when Hunith took a break from helping out with some tincture preparations and returned to her own cottage to get started on dinner. Gwaine was yet to return from his work out in the fields, and so Merlin and Marchel had her home to themselves.

“Here, lad. Put that away and come sit with me a moment,” Marchel said, waving towards the stool near the bed wherein she was propped up as usual, seldom having the energy to move about for any extended periods of time.

Merlin finished up what he was doing and wiped his hands on a cloth before leaving the workbench by the window to walk across the room to the bed. It was a familiar trek by now, considering how much time he spent in the home of the old webster. These days he was more often assisted in his physicking by Hunith than Gwaine, however, as the demand for his strength steadily grew as the farming cycle progressed. Merlin’s skills were also in fairly high demand, with people coming into Ealdor all the way from the more remote farmsteads—and even neighbouring villages—as rumour spread that they had a proper physician. He was almost starting to feel like one.

“Anything the matter, Mari?” he asked as he took a seat beside her. “Can I give you anything for your joints?”

“You’ve given me enough, dear boy. It’s time I gave you something.”

She retrieved an object hidden beneath her pillow and pressed it into his hands. It proved to be a good length of tablet-woven ribbon, around two inches in width. The base colour of the wool was a rich green, intricately patterned with near-golden yellow in a swirling, vine-like motif.

“It’s beautiful. You wove this?”

“Aye, five years ago, from the finest yarn you ever spun for me. I had the strangest feeling that it was meant to be turned into something special and returned to you.”

Something gave Merlin much the same feeling, except… “It’s not actually meant for me, though, is it? I think…I’m also meant to pass it on?”

A pleased smile spread across Marchel’s face. “Very astute. It was intended to be a betrothal gift for you to give to the lucky lass or lad worthy enough to win your heart. I had Hunith help me dye the yarn, so you may say it’s a present from us both. I meant to give it to you afore you left for Camelot, but something told me the time was not quite right then. But now…”

Merlin coloured. “You think I should give it to Gwaine.”

“Don’t you?”

Of course, who else?

“It is his colour, but… Well, it’s still early days…” he mumbled, ducking his head in a poor attempt at hiding the shy smile playing on his lips as he stroked his fingers reverently over the fine wool.

“When you know, you know,” Marchel stated matter-of-factly. “I started weaving one just like it for my Angharad the minute I brought her home. We used it as the ribbon in our handfasting ceremony, and she wore it as a girdle every day of her life after that, though I had to make many repairs to it and even replace it entirely once or twice over the years.” She patted the white and blue girdle currently tied around her own waist—a rather familiar one, Merlin realised upon closer inspection. “This is the last iteration. It survived her, and soon I’ll get to return it to her in the next life.”

The flush of his cheeks deepened as he imagined the green band wrapped around his and Gwaine’s hands, tying them together in body and spirit. Quickly dispelling the alluring daydream, he cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Wear and tear shouldn’t be an issue with this one, if my instincts serve me. Who enchanted it?”

“Enchanted? It’s not enchanted.”

“I’m certain it is. I can sense it.” It was obvious to him that the slight tingle in his fingertips as they smoothed over the band had nothing to do with the wool being prickly (which it was not; the worsted yarn truly was some of his finest work).

“I thought you had left your tricks behind?”

“I have. I guess I’m just a little sensitive to it still.”

“Well I haven’t magicked it, nor do I expect your mother did as she dyed it. If we’re in search of someone to blame, I suggest we look to the spinner himself. Are you sure you did not put a little extra something into it?”

Merlin’s brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of this. Sure, he had often used magic to spin, but he could not remember ever trying to make the yarn itself magical. What else could it be though? It was not like Marchel could have—

“Oh!” he exclaimed, suddenly struck by a thought. Seeing Marchel’s raised eyebrow, he explained, “In some of the books on magic that I’ve read, they speak of craftsmanship as a form of magic in and of itself. A skilled artisan might unwittingly produce a work so fine that it takes on some magical quality even if they themselves have no particular aptitude for sorcery. Similarly, even a middling craftsman could conceivably put so much feeling into crafting something that their intention is imbued in the object. A smith forging a blade for his son to carry for protection as he ventures out into the world for the first time, or a seamstress stitching a cowl for her sickly daughter, hoping it will keep her warm through the bitter winters to come, or—”

“Or a young sorcerer daydreaming of finding adventure and possibly even love in the big city as he spins some of his last yarn before setting out on the journey?” Marchel suggested with twinkling eyes.

He smiled. “Maybe. And a mother dyeing said yarn so a meddling old webster can weave a betrothal gift from it for her son.”

“Quite right!” she cackled. “So what does it do, then, if it’s actually magical?”

Merlin looked down at the band again, tracing the pattern with his thumb as he considered the question. He could feel the faint thrumming of magic permeating every fibre, but without being able to reach out with his own magic to investigate it, he could not be sure of its nature. He got a sense of durability from it, yes, but it was very common for magical artefacts to be difficult or impossible to destroy by mundane means, so that told him very little. There was pure love radiating from it as well. Perhaps that was why it had felt so right when Marchel suggested it go to Gwaine.

“I don’t know,” he said, finally. “Guess that depends on the intentions we each put into it. I’m sure I was dreaming of all sorts of things—finding safety, somewhere I belonged, someone who understood me—but I cannot speak for you or my mother.”

“I suppose I was hoping that you’d find someone to give it to who would always be there to care for you, strengthen you and stand by you—a lasting union. I’m sure your mother had similar things in mind.”

His heart swelling with affection for Marchel, Merlin felt a little choked up even as he chuckled and said, “Sounds more like it should be a charm for finding your true love than something to give them once they’re found.”

“Sounds like you have found them.”

She was not wrong. Gwaine understood and cared for him like no one else in this world, save his mother and Gaius. He had already proven that he would stand by Merlin through thick and thin, and he was certainly up to the task of keeping him safe. As for strengthening him, Gwaine was Strength, according to the Fisher King and the Keeper of the Bridge. Merlin had never fully understood what they had meant by that, but it was starting to make more sense now.

Gwaine had lent him the strength to finish the journey to Ealdor without losing conviction and turning back. He often felt like he had left his Courage behind when he left Camelot—cowardly choosing to run away from his destiny, from revealing his magic, from facing the consequences of everything he had done—but with Gwaine by his side he had found the strength to not only tell Arthur the truth but to refuse the offer to return and go back to the life that had been wearing him thin. Yes, Gwaine was his strength.

He smiled and tenderly pressed the band to his lips, murmuring, “Yeah. I think I have.”

He then had to repeat himself, much louder, when Marchel pointed to her dodgy ear and said, “What? Speak up, lad!”

Chapter Text

Marchel passed away only days before Beltane, slipping away peacefully where she sat on the bench outside her cottage, enjoying the sunshine. Merlin was convinced that she had known it was about to happen, telling Gwaine that she had spoken to him in private the day before and given him something, though he would not reveal what.

“Soon. I think the right time to tell you will come very soon,” was Merlin’s enigmatic answer when asked.

Merlin’s secretive gift was not the only thing she had left him, however—or, rather, left them. According to the elders of the village, her last wish was for her cottage to go to Merlin and Gwaine so that they might have a home of their own.

As emotionally overwhelming as Gwaine found this bequest, it made perfect sense from a practical point of view. It was where the previous healer had lived and conducted her business, and the cottage was outfitted not only with the equipment necessary for Merlin to keep practising the trade but also a garden full of medicinal herbs (which he had already helped tend to over the course of the spring).

Practicality aside, Gwaine had never inherited anything but some trinkets and his uselessly noble blood before this, and it was beyond touching to be included in the will of someone to whom he had no familial obligations.

In truth, Marchel’s passing hit Gwaine harder than he would have expected it to. He knew death. People died all the time. His father. His mother. Drinking buddies. Fellow knights. But with the exception of Lancelot, it had been a long time since he had lost someone he had truly cared about, or—perhaps more accurately—someone who had truly cared for him. Though he had known the old woman but a month and a half, she had quickly become very dear to him, and she had practically adopted him as the grandson she never had (which might have had something to do with the fact that she had never had children either). Kindred spirits, Merlin called them, though often with a theatrical sigh and a roll of his eyes, and usually prompted by a particularly atrocious display of their shared humour.

Moving their stuff into Marchel’s cottage felt strange, like he expected her to suddenly pop up to grumble about them cluttering up her space and moving around the furniture without her say-so, but of course she did not. He wondered how long it would take for him to stop thinking she would be there to greet him every time he entered the cottage, and how long it would be before his mind adjusted to calling it home when he had just gotten used to thinking of Hunith’s place like that.

Marchel’s— Their cottage had a distinct advantage over Hunith’s, however, namely a bed of their own. It was not nearly as comfortable as his old one back in Camelot, but it was wide enough for two and beat a bedroll on the floor by a mile. What was more, they now had privacy. Not that they really felt up to exploiting that fact during their first couple of days of living there, what with the funeral and the move and the funeral and the reorganisation of the space and the funeral and the helping out with the preparations for the upcoming Beltane celebrations—and, oh, did he mention the funeral?—putting a bit of a damper on things.

On the day of Beltane, however, Gwaine was determined not to let his grief stop him from enjoying the festivities. They constituted a break from most manual labour, and it was hard not to be affected by the infectious gaiety that suffused the entire village as everyone came together to revel.

Merlin seemed to be pulling it off, though. He had been in fairly high spirits at the beginning of the day, but as it progressed he grew more and more solemn, and by the time dusk fell and the bonfires had been lit he looked positively wistful as he gazed into the dancing flames.

Gwaine finally managed to escape the conversation he had been snared into on his way back from fetching some drinks and made his way over to his brooding love, taking a seat beside Merlin on the log by one of the fires that he had been occupying for a good while.

“Your mead, honey,” he said, holding out one of the cups.

“You are truly a paragon of wit.” Merlin’s fingers brushed against Gwaine’s as he took the drink from him, lingering a little longer than necessary. His eyes flicked up to Gwaine’s hair and the corner of his previously downturned mouth twitched in amusement. “Another one?”

Gwaine chuckled and raised his hand to pluck a flower from behind his ear. “Courtesy of your wan with the blue dress, what’s-her-name.” He nodded in the direction of the girl he had just been talking to as he stuck the flower into Merlin’s hair instead, where it was in good company.

“Tudwen.”

“That’s the one. Isn’t it nice of her to add to your collection?”

Merlin snorted. “Oh yes, I’m sure all of these were intended for me.” He bumped his shoulder against Gwaine’s playfully. “It’s starting to look like you’ll have broken the heart of every maiden in the village before the night is through, and likely a lad or two as well.”

“One would think they’d have realised by now that you are the only one I’ll be going home with at the end of the night. Not all of them can have failed to notice the worst-kept not-secret in all of Ealdor. Sure but we’ve moved in together twice since getting here; I don’t know how much more obvious we can make it.”

Merlin looked at him with a queer look in his eyes, seemingly contemplative. There was a slight flush to his cheeks as he murmured, “I may have a few ideas. This, to start with.” He leaned in to press a soft, unhurried kiss to Gwaine’s lips for all the village to see (if they happened to be looking their way instead of being busy chatting or drinking or dancing or snogging).

“Now there’s an idea I can get behind,” Gwaine said as they parted, a bright smile on his face. He stole another kiss before shuffling even closer on the log and wrapping his arm around Merlin’s waist.

As Gwaine took a swig from his mead, Merlin leaned into his side and returned his gaze to the bonfire. His expression grew more pensive again, and he rubbed his thumb absently along the rim of the cup he was cradling in his hands, still untouched. His mind seemed miles away.

“Come on, what’s got you down?” Gwaine finally asked after some time of this. He had a feeling there was something other than Marchel’s recent passing weighing on his lover’s mind today. “Missing the grand celebrations at Camelot?”

Merlin blinked and returned to the present. “No. If anything, celebrating Beltane in the city made me miss doing it out in the countryside like this. It’s just…” He craned his neck, looking around to see if anyone was within earshot before quietly saying, “It’s the magic. Beltane used to feel like… It’s indescribable, really. Nature seemed to be vibrating with power, infusing every living thing with thrumming energy. I never felt so connected to my magic and the world as I did then—never felt so alive. And now…”

“Now it’s gone.”

“Not entirely. I mean, I can still feel…something. Maybe only because I know where to look for it. I just can’t connect to it. The magic is still out there, all around us, but it’s like watching the falling snow through a window, unable to touch it or feel the chill. It’s not mine to use anymore. It’s no longer a part of me.”

Gwaine tightened his arm around Merlin. “You miss it.”

“I do.” Merlin rested his head against Gwaine’s shoulder, turning his face into the crook of his neck and sighing, his voice fragile as he repeated it. “Gods help me, I do.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Gwaine asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to try to get it back? If you sent a message to Arthur, telling him you’ll take the deal—”

Merlin shook his head, his chin rubbing lightly against Gwaine’s collarbone. “No. I won’t— I can’t… Even if I could live with leaving Camelot unprotected—even if I returned here immediately afterwards—I just know that our lives would be thrown into chaos again. You have no idea how refreshing it is to have gone a whole month and a half without a single druid sending me a cryptic message, or a witch raising an undead army, or me being the only one to realise that there’s a monster in disguise walking around the place. I haven’t slept this well in years, knowing that there won’t be a fresh disaster waiting for me to fix it when I wake up in the morning.” He paused, then murmured, “And yet…”

“And yet?”

Merlin drew back a little, though not away from the embrace. Ducking his head sheepishly, he said, “I sort of…miss it too? Not the mortal peril or moral dilemmas or hiding my powers, but the excitement of the less lethal quests, the challenge of outwitting whatever fae creature was causing trouble that week, researching new spells, helping people, testing the limits of my magic… I don’t know, it feels stupid to complain about missing it when I know I’d be worn out in a second if I dove back in.”

“Nothing strange about missing adventure, love,” Gwaine said with a grin, nudging Merlin’s leg with his knee. “It has a tendency to seem like more fun after the fact than when you’re stuck in the middle of it, though I’ll admit that sometimes it’s a romp all around, even if it takes it out of you.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Sure, much the same way I miss the Rising Sun—as good fun, but it would probably have gotten me killed sooner rather than later.”

“From drink or murder by innkeeper?” Merlin chuckled.

“Oh, the latter, I’m sure.”

“You know, sometimes I wonder if you didn’t get yourself banished just to get out of paying off your debts at the Rising Sun. How you managed to save any money at all to take with you when we left is a mystery, let alone as much as you did.”

Gwaine gasped melodramatically. “I have never been so insulted in all my life! I’ll have you know I haven’t spent my coin in a tavern in years!”

“Oh, I have to hear where this blatant lie is going.”

“It’s the truth!” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “The trick is to figure out how to spend someone else’s coin. That’s half the fun of going to the tavern at all—challenging yourself to see how much drink you can scrape together through nothing but wagers and flirtation and what have you. I’ve been at it for ages.”

Merlin stared at him with his mouth half agape. “Are you serious? You really haven’t paid for your own drinks in years?”

Gwaine winked. “Why do you think I get into so much trouble? Only broke my streak when we went to Engerd to make sure there was no risk of getting kicked out before we could make use of that room. I’d say it was worth it.”

“I appreciate the sacrifice,” Merlin laughed. “Clearly, I should have joined you at the tavern more often back in Camelot, if only to observe the master at work.”

“Ah, but then how would I have been able to tear myself from flirting with you instead of someone who might actually buy me a drink.”

“I’m sure you could have squeezed a few tankards out of me.”

“I wouldn’t have had the heart. Besides, you weren’t even buying yourself drinks half the time. I assumed either that Arthur didn’t pay you what you were worth or that you sent all the money back here.”

Merlin shrugged. “It was more that it was a bad idea. I have to be careful with drink, what with the magic. That’d be a particularly stupid reason to be found out.”

“Ah, should’ve guessed. So how does it feel to finally be able to celebrate Beltane in the manner of us ordinary mortals?”

The question was received with a confused frown, but when Gwaine nodded to the cup of mead Merlin was yet to take a single sip from realisation seemed to dawn on him. “Oh, you’re right! I’ve been pacing myself out of pure habit, but that’s not an issue anymore, is it?”

“Every cloud has a silver lining.”

Merlin deliberated the drink in his hand. “Let’s make the most of it.” He raised his cup and said, “To Beltane and letting loose…and to Marchel.”

“To Marchel,” Gwaine repeated, knocking their cups together. “Sláinte!”

Chapter Text

There were lightweights, and then there was Merlin. “Magic or not, don’t let him drink too much,” Hunith had warned Gwaine after the first cup of mead had turned Merlin giggly, and he had quickly realised that her concerns were not unfounded. Merlin was one of those people who got a wee bit tipsy just from sniffing the brew, and Gwaine could only imagine how quickly the man would have found himself absolutely buggered if he had made a habit of indulging in drink while in possession of magic.

Although the risk of Merlin getting burned for sorcery was significantly reduced these days, there was still a chance of him accidentally setting fire to himself by tripping into a bonfire, and so Gwaine took it upon himself to ensure that Merlin’s first inebriated Beltane celebration remained enjoyably so, thereby also (hopefully) preventing the next morning from making him wish he were dead. Gwaine had the suspicion that more than one villager would benefit from Merlin feeling alive enough to whip up some of Gaius’ miraculous hangover cure come daybreak.

Keeping Merlin on the right side of fluthered was, all in all, a fairly easy task. He turned out to be a happy, affectionate drunk and surprisingly pliable compared to his normally headstrong disposition. All Gwaine really had to do was pluck his drink right out of his hands and replace it with a cup of water every so often and then wait an appropriate amount of time before giving back whatever alcoholic beverage he had been drinking—primarily mead or cider.

The real challenge was actually keeping Merlin from the bonfires—not that he was truly in danger of falling in, but he was drawn to them like a moth and would sometimes wander off in the middle of a conversation just to get a bit closer to the flames. At first Gwaine thought he was just cold, but they kept ending up there even after they had brought out their cloaks to combat the evening chill. Merlin eventually explained that this was where the faint sense of magic he could still pick up on was at its strongest, and that it was a comforting feeling.

“I’ve always liked fire,” Merlin confessed at one point so late into the night as to more properly be called morning, long after Hunith had retired to her cottage and left her son solely in Gwaine’s care. “It’s fascinating. Alluring. Primal.”

They were once again camped by one of the bonfires with Merlin’s blue cloak spread out beneath them on the ground. Gwaine was resting his back against a log while Merlin sat between his legs, leaning back against his chest. The new, green cloak was wrapped around them both, and they were perfectly warm and cozy within their cocoon—so comfortable, in fact, that they were well on their way to sobriety, seeing as neither of them had been inclined to leave their little nest to refill their drinks in quite some time.

Gwaine laughed. “You realise you sound like an arsonist?”

Merlin pinched his thigh lightly. “Not like that. I meant…that my magic likes it. Liked it. It’s so elemental. So easy to channel and manipulate. It has an energy of its own.”

“Mhm,” Gwaine hummed, affectionately nuzzling into the hair behind Merlin’s ear. Most of the flowers he had stuck into the raven locks over the course of the night had fallen out by now. “I’m sure that makes sense if you’re a warlock.”

“It does. But I wonder if it’s more than that—if maybe it has something to do with me being a—” He glanced around and lowered his voice even further even though none of the few people who were still out celebrating were close enough to hear them, especially not over the crackling of the bonfire, which was burning considerably lower now than at the beginning of the night but still radiated plenty of heat. “—you know, a Dragonlord. Maybe they’re just more connected to, um, fiery magic?”

Gwaine did know. Merlin had told both him and Hunith of his reunion with his long-lost father, and of its abrupt end. “Thought you said that meant you could control dragons, not breathe fire yourself.”

“Breathing fire is really not that difficult; a child could learn that spell,” Merlin said dismissively.

“Again, if you say so,” Gwaine chuckled, tightening his arms around Merlin’s waist and drawing him closer to his chest. “What about the controlling dragons bit? Does that count as magic? Can you still do it?”

Merlin stiffened slightly in his embrace. “Oh, gods. I hadn’t even thought of that. I have no idea.”

“Any way to find out?”

“Short of attempting to call for Kilgharrah to see if he’ll hear and obey? Not sure. And I’m not doing that.” He relaxed again and giggled softly. “Oh, he’d give me such a scolding! ‘Young warlock, you cannot abandon your destiny! The fate of Albion lies in the balance! Blah blah blah, Arthur. Blah blah blah, prophecy.’ I wouldn’t mind procrastinating having that conversation a while longer. Don’t you go tattling to him either.”

“I give you my solemn word that I won’t seek out a great fire-breathing dragon just to tell on you.”

“Good. I suppose if I ever stumble upon a wyvern I could test if my power still works. It kept them off our backs in the Perilous Lands.”

“And if it doesn’t you’ll just have to fight a pissed-off wyvern without either draconic powers or regular magic. Happy days.”

Merlin craned his neck around to give Gwaine a cheeky smile. “Ah, but I happen to know a knight in shining armour who has slain wyverns for me before. I have every faith he’d come to my aid again if necessary.”

“Always,” Gwaine replied earnestly and bent his head to taste that smile. Merlin’s lips tasted of honey and apples and Beltane carnality. “Wyverns or no wyverns, every day with you is an adventure.” One of his hands wandered up from Merlin’s stomach to smooth over his chest.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm. Today, for example, you’ve given me a taste of the novel experience of being the more responsible drinker out of the two of us. It’s pure bizarre, like.”

Merlin’s responding laugh turned a little breathless as Gwaine’s thumb swept over his nipple. “You were drinking too.”

“Just enough to keep myself slightly less drunk than you were at any given time.” He gave in to the temptation to pinch lightly at the nipple through the fabric of the tunic, teasing at it so it stiffened under his touch.

A quiet gasp preceded Merlin’s protest. “You had twice as much as I did, you lying scoundrel.”

“Precisely. That’s how much of a lightweight you are.” He brought his lips close to Merlin’s ear and murmured, “But I must say that you’re adorable when you’re drunk.”

Pressed together as they were, he could feel the hitch in Merlin’s breath. “And what am I now that I’m no longer particularly drunk?”

Gwaine chuckled and nipped at Merlin’s earlobe. “Angling for a compliment.”

“You’ve found me out. I’ll have to be more subtle next time.”

“No need, I’ll give you one for free—as soon as I’m able to choose one among the myriad of options you so readily inspire.” He let his left hand steal beneath the hem of Merlin’s tunic, seeking out the warmth of his skin.

Merlin melted further into his embrace, leaning heavily against Gwaine’s chest. “Never knew you to be one for indecision.”

“Only for vitally important things like this. What if I went with handsome, only to then realise I should have said ravishing? Might have ruined the mood entirely.”

“Oh, yes,” Merlin huffed. “If you’d said something that insulting I would probably have stormed off and left you to Tudwen’s desperate attempts to charm you into a bush.” One of his hands came up to cover Gwaine’s right one where it still rested against his chest, while the other one kept its hold on the cloak that shielded their furtive touches from view, securing it from slipping open.

“Good thing I thought twice, then,” Gwaine said, hiding his grin in Merlin’s hair. “How do we feel about gorgeous?”

“Hm. Bit pedestrian.”

He pressed a kiss behind Merlin’s ear. “Enchanting, then?”

“Implies I still have magic.”

He dropped a kiss to the nape of a pale neck. “Pulchritudinous?”

“Too pretentious.”

A kiss grazed the fluttering pulse point on the side of Merlin’s throat. “Beguiling?”

“Getting closer.”

Gwaine’s hand abandoned the strip of skin just above the waistline of Merlin’s breeches, moving lower to ghost over the outline of his hardening cock where it was starting to strain against the confines of his clothes. “Exquisite.”

“Gwaine…” Merlin gasped, their fingers interlacing over his chest.

“Sounds like we have a winner.”

“You are aware we’re in public?” Merlin whispered, but he made no move to shake off Gwaine’s hand or escape his embrace. In fact, his hips twitched as if barely resisting bucking up into the touch.

“So we are,” Gwaine murmured, his lips and beard brushing against Merlin’s neck as he spoke. “But it’s Beltane. Anyone still out here is either blind drunk, passed out in a cabbage patch, or themselves busy doing something inadvisable in a shrubbery with someone they wouldn’t be caught dead with at any other time of year. No one will notice me doing this.” The next stroke of his hand was a little firmer.

Merlin stifled a moan, letting his legs fall open further beneath the cover of the cloak. As he shifted, his backside intentionally rubbed against the evidence of Gwaine’s own arousal, which he must have felt pressing against his back for some time now. “Does Beltane always get you this worked up?”

“There is a certain something in the air, isn’t there?” Gwaine mused, delighting in the heaving of Merlin’s breath as it grew increasingly ragged with each languid caress of his teasing hand. “I may not be able to feel this magic energy you talk of, but there’s still a sense of shared excitement—the pulse of life quickening in your veins, making you want to do something foolish. Something indulgent.”

“That’s m— Oh! —more or less what the magic feels like too.”

“Hmm, maybe I’m naturally sensitive to magic as well, then.”

“Or just naturally randy.” Merlin’s jibe was punished by a sharp pinch of his nipple. “Gwaine!” he hissed, arching his back in pleasure.

“How dare you accuse me of true things?” Gwaine chuckled, grinding the heel of his hand against Merlin’s groin insistently enough that it drew a quiet, mewling sound from him that he could not entirely muffle. “Gods, do you have any idea how frustrating it was to celebrate in Camelot last year? My first Beltane feast in a castle, with a proper banquet and everything, yet all the food and entertainment in the world couldn’t make me keep my eyes off you for more than a minute at a time. All that charged exhilaration in the air as half the castle paired off and snuck away with each other, and I could do nothing but watch you disappear after Arthur to tuck him in and tell him a bedtime story at the end of the feast, when what I really wanted was to pull you into some hidden alcove and have my wicked way with you.”

“You could have had me,” Merlin panted, “if you’d found me afterwards. I was looking too.”

The thought had Gwaine groaning and wriggling his hips against Merlin’s backside in search of even the faintest friction to take the edge off his arousal. “I should’ve. Should’ve gone right after you and lurked outside his chambers until you came out. Better yet, I should’ve stormed right in there and swept you away, leaving the precious princess to figure out how to get into his bedclothes by himself for once.”

“I doubt you had to spend the night entirely alone. I’m sure you found someone else to sweep off their feet in my stead.”

“Oh, I did. Daughter of a visiting nobleman, in fact. Tall, willowy, pale, raven hair—the spitting image of you save for some glaring anatomical differences. Still, with an unhealthy dose of creative imagination I could almost pretend that the furrow I ploughed that night was yours.”

Merlin cursed and dropped his hand to still the one Gwaine was rubbing him off with, and for a split second he worried that he had said something a bit too lurid (or, quite honestly, something painting him in rather too pathetic a light), but his fears were quickly allayed when Merlin just squeezed his wrist firmly and said, his voice strangled, “Tonight, you could be having the real thing, in our own bed. Don’t make me spoil the fun before we get there.”

A lecherous grin spread across Gwaine’s face. “Then take me home, love.”

The wobbling in their gait on the way back to their cottage had less to do with any remaining alcohol in their systems than the struggle of keeping their hands off one another and doing their best not to bump into any fences when they inevitably failed and tried to kiss each other senseless whilst walking. It was a miracle that they ended up at the cottage at all—and the right one at that.

No sooner had they stumbled inside than Merlin tossed his bunched-up cloak carelessly to the floor and pressed Gwaine up against the door, only a second after it had closed behind them.

“Gods, Merlin…” Gwaine groaned as he rolled their hips together, finally giving his aching cock him some blessed relief. They got stuck there for some time, rutting together and tugging ineffectively at their clothing. “Not that I’m, ah, complaining,” he eventually managed to pant out between fervid kisses, “but wasn’t the point that we were going to take advantage of having our very own bed in our very own cottage?”

“Oh, yes.” With obvious reluctance, Merlin tore himself away from Gwaine, unpinning him from the door. Surprisingly, he did not then move towards the bed, but to the opposite side of the room, where he started to rummage through the cabinet that housed the various tools and medicines necessary to practise his trade.

Seeing as they had failed to undress any further than losing their cloaks and belts, Gwaine took the time to rid himself of his tunic before sidling up behind Merlin, wrapping his arms around his lover’s torso so he could work at the knot in his neckerchief, all while rubbing his crotch against that pert bottom he so loved to pinch and fondle.

“What are we looking for?” he murmured into Merlin’s ear.

“Glass jar. Label says, uh, ‘something-something oil, internal application’. Should be here somewhere.”

Ah.

“Well, then, let me help with the search.” He slipped the neckerchief off Merlin’s neck, resisting the temptation to give the exposed skin a taste in favour of instead stepping away to light a candle, giving them the chance to actually be able to read the labels on the collection of jars and bottles and vials.

“Good call,” Merlin commented, throwing a grateful glance over his shoulder. It became even more appreciative when his eyes caught on Gwaine’s bare chest, lingering there for a moment before he turned back to his task.

Gwaine joined him at the cabinet, leaving the shelves to Merlin while he started pulling out the numerous drawers to have a peek inside, but as expected they contained items more along the lines of bandages and tools than salves and ointments. He was vaguely acquainted with the contents of the cabinet, having watched Merlin at work and occasionally been asked to retrieve something from it, but it was entirely Merlin’s domain and he had strict orders not to move things around within it because there was apparently a system—not that this system seemed to be of much help at the moment.

He was about to give up on the drawers, reasoning that the oil must be hiding somewhere on the cluttered shelves above, but some instinct had him reaching for the knob of a drawer near the very bottom of the cabinet. He did not know what drew him to it, nor what he expected to find within, but somehow he just knew there was something in there that ought to be brought out into the open.

He sank to one knee and opened the drawer, and a warm frisson of something ran through him as his fingers closed around the object it contained. Looking up at Merlin he asked, “What’s this?”

At the very same time, Merlin said, “Found it,” and when he looked down at Gwaine he almost dropped the jar he had just pulled from the shelves. Luckily, their combat training was beginning to yield results, because his reflexes were quick enough to catch it again as it started to slip from his grip, and he put it safely back on a shelf before turning back to Gwaine, looking strangely nervous as he said, “That’s…the gift Marchel gave me a few days ago.”

Gwaine looked down at the colourful coil of woollen ribbon in his hand, feeling his heart twinge at the reminder of the old woman. “She wove this?” Now that he thought about it, it did very much remind him of the girdle Marchel had always worn, which she had once told him she had originally woven for Angharad. That one had been blue and white with a geometric pattern while this was green with curling, golden-yellow vines. It was beautiful.

“Yes. And, um, mother dyed the yarn. And I spun it. Not in that order. Obviously.”

“When did you have time for that?”

“Oh, years ago, before I first left Ealdor. Marchel said the time wasn’t right to give it to me until now, though.”

He nodded as he tried to process why this felt like the only natural answer and why exactly there was something else taking shape in his mind that felt just as unequivocally True. “It’s…not for you, though, is it?” he asked, doing his best to put the strange feeling into words.

Merlin’s eyes widened a hair. “You can feel that?”

“I… Yes. Don’t ask me how. It just feels obvious.”

It feels like it’s mine, he thought, but dared not say it for fear of sounding presumptuous.

Merlin stared at him silently for long enough that Gwaine became aware that he was still kneeling in front of him as if frozen in the middle of a proposal or something, but before he could make his body move and get up from the floor, Merlin sank to his knees to meet him at his level instead. He looked vaguely terrified, yet determined.

“Maybe you are naturally sensitive to magic, after all.”

“It’s magic?”

“Yeah. None of us meant to enchant it, but it just sort of…happened, I guess. And, er, full disclosure: I don’t actually know what it does, but I do know what it is.” Merlin paused, as if waiting for a follow-up question, but Gwaine just waited with uncharacteristic patience for him to elaborate, which he did after drawing a deep breath. “It’s…supposed to be a betrothal gift. Not from Marchel to me! Not that you would have thought that— Never mind. It’s— She meant for me to give it to, uh, someone special when I found them.”

Gwaine’s lips formed a silent oh, and he was torn between embarrassment over having thought it might have been meant for him and even deeper embarrassment that his heart was presumptuous enough to still feel like it was. Nevertheless, he cleared his throat and held out the coil for Merlin, saying, “Better hold on to it, then.” There was a sense of loss as the band left his hands, and his fingertips tingled slightly with residual magic for several seconds afterwards.

Merlin solemnly studied his expression for a long moment, then he nodded and returned the band to its drawer. “You’re probably right,” he said, and though Gwaine could not entirely decipher his carefully neutral tone of voice, the words made his heart sink. “Oh! But speaking of gifts, there was something I wanted to give you.”

Merlin’s hand floated over the knobs of the drawers as if he was trying to remember which was the right one. Finally, it landed on the same drawer he had just closed, and he pulled the band right back out again and turned back to Gwaine with a twinkle in his eye and an affectionate smile.

“Now, this is something Marchel made for me, with some help from my mother. I’m meant to give it to someone very special—someone who understands me and cares for me, who gives me a sense of safety and belonging, and who lends me strength. Someone who will always stand by me, through thick and thin. Marchel believed that someone to be you, Gwaine.”

Gwaine’s mouth had gradually fallen open in surprise as Merlin spoke, and now he closed it and swallowed, his voice coming out a tad choked as he forced himself to ask, “And…what do you believe?”

It was not that he still had trouble believing that Merlin loved him, but the idea of anyone considering him marriage material was frankly outlandish—even Merlin with his big heart or Marchel, who he knew had adored him (but whose personal taste in men was non-existent, therefore rendering her judgement questionable).

Merlin’s smile softened further. “I know it’s you. I told you: you’re special to me.” When Gwaine gave no response to this except more dumbstruck staring, his confidence seemed to falter slightly and he added, “I mean— I know it hasn’t been that long, but the timing just felt right, somehow. Obviously, there’s no rush to jump into anything until you— Or ever, of course, if you don’t—”

Gwaine silenced Merlin by pulling him in by the front of his tunic and crashing their mouths together in an impassioned kiss while practically crawling into his lap. The arousal that had withered somewhat during the unexpected turn their conversation had taken flared back up with a vengeance as he did his level best to devour his lover’s mouth in an attempt to express everything words were too inadequate to convey.

As Merlin’s arms wound around his waist in a tight embrace, the ribbon in his hand pressed against Gwaine’s skin once more, and it sent a subtle jolt of energy through him that awoke the curiosity of the tiny portion of his brain still capable of registering anything beyond touch, warmth, love, Merlin. Figuring out the mysterious power of the band was not even close to the top of his list of priorities at the moment, though—number one being tearing Merlin’s tunic off him to gain access to more skin.

It was regrettable that undressing Merlin meant breaking the kiss, but sacrifices had to be made, and he reluctantly drew back a little as Merlin raised his arms to help him wrestle the garment over his head. Merlin exploited the respite to look up at Gwaine with big, hopeful eyes and say, “Is that a yes?”

Gwaine could not help a cheeky, “You haven’t technically asked me yet, love.” He stole another kiss, then leant back on Merlin’s lap, making a show out of waiting for the formal question, the effect no doubt spoiled somewhat by his besotted smile.

Merlin shook his head fondly. He placed his left hand on Gwaine’s hip, while his right snaked up in the scant space between them to press the coiled ribbon against his chest, right over his heart. “Gwaine. My love. My strength. Will you marry me? You’ll get a surprise enchanted artefact out of it, if nothing else.”

Gwaine laughed heartily, near giddy with elation. “Only if you’ll marry me too.” He raised his hands to the nape of his neck to undo the clasp of his necklace, slipping his father’s ring off the chain before putting it back around his neck. “I’ve nothing particularly magical to offer, but I’ll throw a family heirloom into the deal. A band for a band, if you will.”

“I will,” Merlin replied earnestly, beaming up at him with enough love and devotion in his expression to steal Gwaine’s breath away.

Without breaking eye contact, he unfurled the ribbon and started wrapping it around Gwaine’s waist. It was long enough to encircle his trim abdomen twice, with plenty of length left to tie the ends together in the front. A shiver ran through him as Merlin finished up the knot at his stomach despite the band itself feeling almost unnaturally warm against his skin, prickling with some undefined power that was hard to pinpoint but which gave him the vague impressions of love, protection, safety, mine.

With just as much ceremonious gravity, Gwaine then took Merlin by his left wrist and lifted his hand, holding it steady between them as he slowly slipped his father’s wedding band onto Merlin’s ring finger. It slid into place like it had been made for him, and combined with the sensation of rightness that had settled over Gwaine at having the band tied around his waist, he spared a brief thought wondering to what extent they had really managed to leave destiny behind.

However much it felt to him like this was Meant To Be, seeing the ring he had carried around his neck for so many years sit gleaming on Merlin’s finger was almost surreal, and he found it hard to tear his eyes from the sight as he rubbed his thumb over the smooth metal. He had never really thought he would see the day that he found someone to give it to—someone who would be willing to commit to putting up with him indefinitely—partly because it simply seemed like a rather far-fetched idea and partly because he had assumed he would get himself killed long before anything of the sort could even happen. He should probably start thinking twice about jumping into fights with impossible odds in future; he had a great deal more to live for these days.

“You all right?” Merlin murmured, gently stroking his free hand along Gwaine’s spine, brushing over the girdle at each pass.

Gwaine blinked, realising as he did so that his eyes were a bit misty. “Oh, grand,” he hurried to say, finally looking away from the ring. “Better than grand. Just basking in the fact that I somehow managed to get betrothed without the dagger of an outraged father at my back, threatening to skewer my kidney if I didn’t pop the question.”

Merlin laughed and let his head fall forward, resting his brow against Gwaine’s collarbone. “I could go wake my mother and have her bring a knife if you want the full experience.”

“But I haven’t even gotten you with child yet!”

“I think you may find that difficult to achieve,” Merlin chuckled and pressed a kiss to Gwaine’s chest.

He grinned and climbed off Merlin’s lap, getting to his feet. “Hm, but not for lack of trying, if I have it my way.”

Merlin grabbed the hand Gwaine held out for him and let himself be tugged up and off the floor as well. He then hooked a finger into the girdle and stepped in close enough to whisper into his ear, “You can have me any way you want.”

“Then let’s get back to the original plan,” Gwaine decided, wasting no time in sliding his hands down the back of Merlin’s thighs and hoisting him up by them, barely waiting for him to wrap his legs around his waist for balance before carrying him in the direction of the bed.

“Wait! Wait!” Merlin laughed. “The oil!”

With a dramatic huff of pretend frustration, Gwaine changed course and walked them back to the cabinet, letting Merlin reach out and grab the jar before turning back towards the bed again, joining in with Merlin’s infectious laughter as he stumbled around various pieces of furniture that were dead set on tripping them up on the way.

Eventually, his shins hit the side of the bed and they toppled onto it in a sprawl of limbs, giggling in much the same way as all the other couples that had snuck off for a quick Beltane tumble throughout the festivities. Gwaine briefly wondered if the night might have resulted in any other betrothals, but he was quickly distracted by the self-appointed task of mapping out as much of Merlin’s torso as possible with his mouth while still moving steadily downwards.

As he reached the waistband of the breeches, he exchanged his mouth for his hands, kneeling between Merlin’s legs as he made quick work of the laces and unceremoniously shoved the breeches halfway down milky-white thighs. He could not resist diving down for a taste of Merlin’s cock before finishing undressing him. How could he, with it displayed so temptingly, plump and weeping against Merlin’s stomach?

Merlin’s last bout of giggling turned into deep moans as Gwaine took him into his mouth, and his hands flew reflexively into his hair, half to help keep it out of Gwaine’s face and half to have something to hold onto. Oh, and a third half because he knew very well that Gwaine loved it.

It was not long before he used the grip on his hair to pull him off his cock, though, panting out, “Enough teasing. You’ve been driving me crazy all night; now get on with it.”

“As you wish,” Gwaine grinned, then set to work ridding them of the last of their clothing with relative efficiency, save for the occasional setback that had him grumbling about, Who the hell thought it was a good idea to put this many buckles on a pair of boots?! Then, finally—finally—they were both bare as the day they were born. Well…almost.

“You can take that off, you know,” Merlin commented as Gwaine climbed back onto the bed after kicking off his own boots and breeches.

“Never, if I can help it,” Gwaine vowed, entirely uncaring if he looked completely daft wearing a girdle without a thread of other clothing on him, “and certainly not before properly bedding my newly betrothed.”

He settled between Merlin’s legs again, taking the opportunity to admire the view of his lover laid out before him, flushed with anticipation. Even in the dim glow of the candle on the other side of the room and the faint light heralding the rapidly encroaching dawn outside their tiny windows, Merlin’s beauty was plain to see.

“Pass us the oil; there’s a love.”

Merlin hurried to comply, uncorking the jar before handing it to Gwaine, who gave his fingers a generous coating of oil and then set it aside on the stool that currently doubled as a bedside table. Merlin let his legs fall wider open, offering himself up unblushingly, and who was Gwaine to refuse? His slick fingers found their way to the cleft of Merlin’s arse, rubbing oil into the puckered skin around his hole, encircling it a few times before he slipped the tip of a finger beyond the tightly furled entrance.

With an encouraging noise, Merlin pulled Gwaine down for a kiss, licking into his mouth even as he wriggled his hips to urge the finger to delve deeper. Gwaine happily obliged, slowly pressing in until he could go no further, whereupon he retrievied his finger in just as slow a drag against Merlin’s insides.

“What did I say about teasing?” Merlin complained against his mouth.

Gwaine chuckled. “Impatient. Done this before, have you?”

“Couple of times. Feels like a lifetime ago, but not so long that I don’t know that speeding things up a little won’t break me.”

“Point taken,” Gwaine conceded with a grin, allowing himself to go a little faster on the next plunge, and faster still after that.

Seemingly satisfied that Gwaine was, indeed, getting a move on, Merlin recaptured his mouth. His kisses grew increasingly heated and sloppy as Gwaine opened him up, adding a second finger, then a third. By the time he deemed him stretched enough to take him, Merlin was more panting against his lips than properly kissing him, writhing enticingly beneath him and bucking his hips desperately each time the fingers grazed over that one particular spot within him.

“Gwaine—” he whined, interrupting himself with a sharp gasp when Gwaine curled his fingers and rubbed down a bit more intently on that very spot.

“‘Get on with it?’” Gwaine guessed.

“Was going to— Ah! —say, ‘I love you,’ but yes, that too.”

Overcome with affection, Gwaine buried his face in the crook of Merlin’s neck, pressing a tender kiss to his warm skin and breathing in his scent deeply in an attempt to collect himself. “Anything you want, pet. Anything at all.”

“Just want you,” Merlin murmured softly, but the tender profession was soon followed by a somewhat more pointed, “Preferably now.”

With a fond laugh, Gwaine let his fingers slip free and pushed himself up to his knees so he could retrieve a bit more oil. Merlin watched on with heavy-lidded eyes as Gwaine gave his achingly hard prick a few strokes to slick himself up, carefully avoiding soiling the precious girdle around his waist.

“Like this?” he asked, leaning over Merlin again to line himself up with his entrance.

“Yes. Want to see you.”

Gwaine wholeheartedly agreed. He did not think he could have torn his eyes from Merlin’s as he pushed inside him, even had their cottage been suddenly invaded by a flock of wyverns. As it was, there was nothing to distract him from the sensation of Merlin’s body eagerly letting him in with the warmest of welcomes as he slid into the slick heat, nor from the quiet sounds escaping Merlin as he adjusted to the feeling of being filled, nor the sight of his fluttering lashes as he gazed up at Gwaine with pure adoration in his glimmering eyes.

After a whole night of surreptitious touching and flirting and kissing and rutting and getting betrothed somewhere along the way, this onslaught of sensation nearly proved Gwaine’s undoing before he had the chance to make much of it, but through the power of determination and the aid of a few deep breaths, he managed to reach such a state of composure as to allow him to actually start moving again without risking making this the briefest fuck of his long and illustrious career.

The pace he set as he did so was, by necessity, slow at first, but Merlin issued no complaints. His impatience appeared to have dissipated the moment Gwaine had bottomed out inside him, and he now seemed more than content with letting his hands roam unhurriedly over Gwaine’s body, smoothing over the swell of his buttocks, running along the girdle at his waist, trailing up the shifting muscles in his back, and burrowing into his hair to tug him down into a languid kiss that muffled the soft sighs and moans that the gentle rocking of their bodies drew from them both.

“Gods, Merlin…” Gwaine eventually whispered into the kiss. “You feel…”

“Yeah…”

Letting his lips wander across a sharp cheekbone and over to brush along a prominent ear, Gwaine murmured, “Dreamt of this for so long. Can’t begin to count the times I’ve imagined you under me like this—or vice versa. I’m not picky.”

Merlin’s hands tightened in Gwaine’s hair, making his scalp tingle pleasantly. “Mm, we’ll get to that too.”

“That a promise?” Gwaine asked, his thrusts stuttering in their rhythm at the thought of Merlin taking him this way in return.

“Oh yes. Sooner rather than later, now that we have our own place.”

That had been the crux of the matter, really. The only reason for it taking them this long to lie together in this particular manner was the distinct lack of privacy that came with sharing a cottage with Hunith. They had not (yet) been quite so desperate as to go this far during their occasional trysts out in the woods. There were some parts of the human body that you simply did not want to risk exposing to things like bark and ants if you had a choice.

Their trip to Engerd might have been a good opportunity, seeing as they had paid extra for a room of their own, had it not been for the fact that they both had to get up early the next morning to spend more than a day walking home. No, as much as Gwaine had looked forward to this, waiting a bit to be able to do it in a cottage of their own—and on the night of their betrothal to boot—far surpassed the alternatives.

“I’ll take you up on that,” Gwaine said, punctuating his pledge with a sharp nip at Merlin’s earlobe.

Merlin arched up against him with a gasp that turned into a low groan as the slight shift in angle heightened the pleasure of the drag of Gwaine’s cock within him. “Oh… Right there…”

Slipping an arm under the small of Merlin’s back for support, Gwaine rolled his hips a little more firmly and was rewarded with the most delicious sounds known to man as Merlin rocked back against him with a hint of renewed urgency. From there on, there was very little conversation as they lost themselves in one another, writhing and rutting. The few words uttered were gasped iterations of the other’s name or breathless expletives, and everything else dissolved into wordless cries and moans.

Merlin came with Gwaine’s name on his lips, clinging so tightly to him that it was a wonder his nails did not draw blood, and Gwaine was not long to follow, finally allowing himself the release he had been craving all night. He spent himself deep within Merlin—his friend come lover come betrothed—and it was in his warm embrace that he collapsed and eventually drifted off after a perfunctory clean-up, sinking into a restful slumber filled with dreams of promises and kisses and bonfires—all tied together with a green ribbon.

Chapter Text

Merlin wiped the sweat from his brow as he peered down at the parchment before him, squinting in the rapidly dimming light. In theory, he welcomed the setting of the sun as it promised at least a brief respite from the midsummer heat, but it also meant that he would have to choose between finishing the letter he was writing by candlelight, braving the even hotter temperatures of the outdoors to better exploit the last rays of sunshine, or giving up on writing entirely for the evening.

He was still procrastinating deciding on a course of action when Gwaine entered their cottage. Without looking up, Merlin said, “Good timing. I thought I knew how to spell your name, but Gaius used two different spellings in the same letter—neither of which matches mine—so now I’m unsure. How do you spell it?”

“I try not to,” came Gwaine’s absent-minded reply, and Merlin looked over to find that he was focused on wrapping his sword belt around his waist. He sounded slightly winded.

“What’s going on?” Merlin asked with a concerned frown, putting down his quill. Gwaine had stopped lugging around his sword everywhere he went not long after Arthur’s visit over two months ago, and after Beltane he had exchanged his leather belt for the woven girdle he had been proudly displaying ever since.

“We’ve got company.” Gwaine fastened the belt buckle with a firm tug.

“Bad company?”

“Not sure, could be nothing. I was out weeding the fields when I spotted a glint of mail. Couldn’t identify the riders at that distance, but there looked to be two of them, approaching from the west. They should be entering the village right about now.”

Merlin spared a glance at his own sword—or Will’s father’s sword, as he still thought of it—which was propped up against the wall by the side of the door just like Gwaine’s had been, but he decided to at least try to catch a glimpse of the supposedly armoured visitors before taking up arms himself.

He cracked the door open to have a peek and was forced to raise a hand to shield his eyes as he was looking directly westward into the setting sun. When his eyes adjusted, he was able to pick out two riders: a man wearing a hauberk but no identifying colours, and a woman dressed in a simple tunic and breeches. It took a second for his brain to catch up to what he was seeing through his squinting, but when he recognised the visitors, his face lit up with a smile.

“It’s Gwen! And Elyan!”

Gwaine visibly relaxed, presumably coming to the same conclusion as Merlin: if Gwen was here, then Elyan was probably not out on official business. “Grand so. Probably won’t be needing this, then,” he said, patting his sword, but he did not remove it before following Merlin, who was already halfway out the door.

Gwen and Elyan were just hitching their horses to Hunith’s fence at the other side of the village when Merlin saw his mother coming out to greet them—Gwen with a hug and Elyan with a polite curtsy. They exchanged a few words, then Hunith pointed in the direction of their cottage, and their visitors turned to look their way.

As soon as Gwen spotted them approaching she took off running towards them, leaving her brother in the dust. Merlin found his own footsteps speeding up as well, and they met somewhere midway with Gwen throwing her arms around his neck and he wrapping his around her waist, lifting her up and spinning her around, half out of giddiness and half to make sure the momentum of their collision had somewhere to go.

“It’s good to see you,” he said as he set her down.

She only clung on tighter, though she had to stand on her tiptoes to do so. “You too. I’m sorry we couldn’t come sooner.”

Merlin sent a welcoming smile to Elyan over her shoulder. He walked up to them at a much more dignified pace and greeted Merlin with a smile of his own and Gwaine by amicably clasping hands.

“Not joining us in exile, I hope,” Gwaine quipped.

“No, just a social call. Thought we’d pop over for a couple of days,” came Elyan’s reply, but Merlin was only listening to them with half an ear, focusing his attention on Gwen and the increasingly difficult task of keeping his eyes from prickling with tears.

Gwen’s hold on him had still not eased up in the least, and after a few more moments he cleared his throat and jokingly asked, “Are you ever going to let go of me?”

Gwen’s answer was preceded by a quiet sniffle. “No. No, I don’t think so.”

Any control he had over his emotions snapped at hearing the tremor in her voice, and his barely held-back tears spilled over as he pulled her closer still and buried his face in the crook of her neck. Hopefully, she would not mind a tear or two soaking into her hair and tunic.

“I missed you,” he whispered, his voice barely carrying through the three words without wavering.

“And I you. Camelot isn’t the same without you.” She sniffled again, louder and wetter this time. “I was so worried. You just disappeared, and we thought maybe you were sick, and then when you didn’t come back with Arthur— When he told me— Oh, Merlin…”

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I should have said goodbye; it was cowardly, I know, I—”

“No, Merlin!” Gwen loosened her grip and drew back a little, but her hands lingered on his shoulders as she met his eyes, her own just as tearful as his. “From what Gaius has told me, leaving Camelot might just have been the bravest thing you ever did.”

He blinked in confusion. “What?”

“Merlin…” Gwen raised a hand to his cheek, wiping away a tear. “Before you left… I could tell you were unhappy—that you were tired. Ever since La—” Her voice broke, and she exhaled shakily before composing herself and continuing, “You were different after we lost Lancelot, but even before that you started to seem worn out. Gaius has told me stories of what you’ve been doing to keep Camelot safe—of your destiny—and I don’t know how you’ve borne it all these years. I can’t even begin to imagine the pressure you’ve been under, carrying a weight that should never have been yours to shoulder, especially not alone. Choosing to put down that burden before it could break you entirely…that shows real courage. Believe me, I know how difficult it can be to put yourself first, as do I know it was high time that you did so for once.”

He just stared at her, entirely perplexed. He had rather thought of this whole situation as a result of his having already broken, not as a preventative measure. It baffled him to hear Gwen speak of running away from his responsibilities as…well, as the responsible thing to do.

“I don’t— I abandoned Camelot—abandoned you.”

“You left, but you hardly abandoned us. Every day, I feel your presence in the citadel. I didn’t understand it at first, but when Arthur told me that it was your magic it suddenly made sense. I’ve never felt safer. You deserve to feel the same, and to rest. Knowing your limits is not a weakness, Merlin.”

He did not know what to say to this, and, in the absence of his reply, Gwaine stepped in and laid a warm hand on his back, saying, “She’s right, you know.”

Merlin could only nod mutely as he looked between the two pairs of caring, brown eyes—three, if you counted Elyan, who hovered a few paces away, a touch more awkwardly but still regarding Merlin with nothing but friendliness.

Gwen turned her attention to Gwaine, moving to lay her hands on his shoulders and place a kiss on his cheek. “It’s good to see you too, Gwaine. I’m so glad Merlin is not alone out here—apart from Hunith, of course.”

“It is my pleasure and privilege to make sure he doesn’t get a moment’s peace,” said Gwaine, kissing her cheek in return.

Elyan laughed and finally joined the group, holding out his hand for Merlin to shake. “I’m sure. I don’t know how you’ve managed to put up with his chattering for three whole months. You’re a stronger man than me, Merlin.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think he’s not the one putting up with me?” he asked, half in jest and half in earnest defence of Gwaine. “I believe I claimed the title of Camelot’s reigning prattle-basket long before Gwaine came along.”

“You may have met your match in him, though.”

Gwaine grinned and slipped his hand into Merlin’s. “A match made in heaven, wouldn’t you say, love?”

“Mm… I could listen to you chatter all day.”

“Admit it, it’s just because you like my accent.” Gwaine leaned in closer to the others and conspiratorially half-whispered, “He likes how I say his name. Don’t you, Merrrlin?”

Only prolonged exposure to Gwaine’s flirting kept Merlin from blushing at the salacious wink that accompanied the question and the way his lover’s tongue deliberately curled around the syllables of his name. He could not deny that he was rather fond of the way it sounded when spoken in the soft lilt of Gwaine’s voice, always brimming with affection… All right, so maybe he was blushing a little.

Elyan looked between them. “So, uh, this—” He made a vague gesture in their general direction. “—is really a thing, then? Wasn’t sure if Percy was joking or not.”

“Don’t look so surprised,” said Gwen, smiling knowingly.

Gwaine laughed. “Oh, it’s a thing, all right.” He raised their clasped hands and angled them so the ring on Merlin’s finger would show better, all while patting the girdle around his waist with his other hand.

Gwen’s eyes grew comically wide as they jumped between the ring and Gwaine’s necklace, clearly making the connection instantly.

“What was that about looking surprised?” Merlin asked with a chuckle.

“I— Yes, but I didn’t know—! You’re married?!” she gasped.

“Betrothed. We’ll probably tie the knot next Beltane. It’s tradition around here to wait a year.”

Gwaine slung an arm around Merlin’s shoulders. “And doing it on Beltane means there’ll be a feast being arranged anyway; saves you a tidy sum, that does.”

Merlin scoffed and rolled his eyes fondly. “Ever the romantic.”

“You’ve been engaged a month and a half already?!” asked Gwen.

Elyan gave a low whistle. “You sure move fast.”

“When you know, you know,” Merlin said with a light shrug, echoing Marchel’s words. He felt Gwaine squeeze his shoulder in response.

“What my brother means to say is: congratulations! We’re so happy for you!”

“Right. Yes, that. What she said.”

Gwaine laughed and gave Elyan’s arm a friendly slap. “Ta very much. Now, why don’t you and I go see to the horses; let these two catch up.” He released Merlin to instead put his hand on Elyan’s shoulder, starting to herd him back towards Hunith’s cottage. Looking over his shoulder, he told Merlin, “I’ll get them stabled with Ffoulke and tell Hunith to expect two more mouths for dinner. You can give Gwen a tour of the castle in the meantime.”

Merlin nodded, and he and Gwen turned to head over to their home. She laid her hand in the crook of his elbow as they walked and said, “You really do make a lovely couple. You’re good for each other—I’ve always thought so—and I’m not surprised in the least that coming out here finally brought you two together.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Definitely. I saw how you behaved around each other back in Camelot. Don’t forget that I’ve experienced being at the receiving end of Gwaine’s habitual flirting, and I could tell that the way he looked at you was something else entirely.”

“That makes one of us,” Merlin laughed. “He practically had to knock me over the head with it before I caught on.”

“That’s hardly surprising either,” she muttered good-naturedly. “You always were oblivious in that department.”

“Why would you say that?” When she just raised an eyebrow at him, he asked, “Have I missed other people flirting with me?”

Eyebrows climbing higher still, she blurted out, “Merlin, I literally kissed you during your first year in Camelot!”

“You—! But that was—! I thought you were just relieved I was alive!” He stopped walking abruptly. “Do you mean to tell me that you…liked me?!”

Gwen was blushing furiously by then and she tugged him into moving again as an excuse to not look him in the eye. “Do you think I go around kissing just anyone?”

“No, but—! You never did it again, and you never brought it up either, so I thought—”

“Well, neither did you! I figured you just weren’t interested in a repeat performance.”

“I don’t know, I might have been,” Merlin confessed, his own cheeks burning as well. “But I guess it was for the best that I was too dense to add two and two together. This way, we both get to marry into nobility—not that I’ll get a title out of it, with Gwaine being disgraced and all, but you will become the queen you’re obviously destined to be. When can we expect to hear rumours of a royal wedding?”

She hesitated, growing a little more solemn. “I…don’t know. We have not spoken much of it lately. Now that he is king, Arthur has been so busy, and Agravaine’s deceit hit him hard, and then there’s you…”

“Me? I hope I haven’t done anything to come between you two? Has my spell—”

“It’s not what you did, Merlin; it’s Arthur’s reaction to it. I was…a bit cross with him for a while.”

Merlin blinked in surprise, but before he could ask her to clarify, he realised that they had reached their destination. He opened the door for Gwen and bid her take a seat on the bench by the small hearth in the middle of the room, leaving the door open to let in some light.

“What happened?” he asked gently.

She looked a bit confused by this. “What do you mean, ‘what happened?’ Merlin, he banished you!”

“Well, yes, but…I broke the law. It would have been within his right to execute me. Banishment’s not so bad, considering. And I had already left, anyway. It doesn’t really make much of a difference, does it?”

“It does to me,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “You are the closest friend I have in all the world, and once I would have said that the same went for Arthur and you. It saddens me to see him throw it all away over this—to see the hatred his father instilled in him triumph over your friendship.”

Merlin bit the inside of his lip and lowered his gaze to their clasped hands in Gwen’s lap. “He hates me, then?”

She softened. “No. I don’t think he could ever bring himself to hate you. He was angry when he returned from Ealdor, and it took a long time to draw the full story out of him, but now…” She sighed and rubbed her thumb in gentle circles over his skin. “Now I think he’s just…sad. If anything, I’d say that is what gives me hope that he will come around, eventually.”

“About me or magic?” he asked quietly.

“You? Most likely. Magic? Maybe… He has long since ordered an end to the investigation into the magic protecting the citadel, telling the council that the search of its source has proven futile and that it is obviously benevolent, so why waste more resources on it?”

“He didn’t tell them it was me?”

“Merlin, he hasn’t even told them that you and Gwaine are banished. As far as anyone knows—save those of us who sat at the Round Table with him—you just decided to move back home, and Gwaine wanted to go with you. Honestly, you two could probably just walk right into the citadel and no one would bat an eye, let alone arrest you.”

“But— Why?”

She shrugged. “Because telling them you’re banished would mean telling them why. If you asked Arthur, he’d probably say that he doesn’t want people to know their king was duped into letting a sorcerer live at the very heart of Camelot for years, but if you ask me… I believe he doesn’t want anyone to think ill of you, or maybe even expose you to danger by making your magic public knowledge. He has met often with Gaius and must have heard as many stories of how you’ve helped him over the years as I have by now.”

Merlin swallowed down the lump in his throat as well as a faint feeling of hope that he could not afford to entertain. Instead, he chose to attempt to steer the conversation in a different direction by saying, “Gaius will likely have told him that Morgana must not hear word that I am—was—a sorcerer, or she might realise that I am also the one she knows as Emrys who has been thwarting her all this time. Even if she knew I don’t have my magic anymore, she’d probably hunt me down in the hope that killing me will lift the protection on the citadel, or just to exact her revenge on me for what I’ve done in the past. I would be powerless to stop her.”

Gwen squeezed his hand tighter. “We won’t let that happen. Everyone who knows can be trusted to guard your secret with their lives. But…”

“But what?”

“Wouldn’t you be safer in the citadel?”

“Gwen—”

“I know Arthur said that you can only come back if you lift the spell, and I understand why you don’t want to do that—I really do—but I could talk to him, maybe convince him to let you stay anyway? We could argue that it’s to keep you safe from Morgana.”

He shook his head morosely. “I can’t. I swore to him that I would not willingly return until the ban on magic was lifted, and I stand by it.”

She looked disappointed, but nodded and said earnestly, “I understand. I think taking a stand like that is admirable, really; I just wish it did not mean putting yourself in danger.”

There was a twinge of guilt in Merlin’s heart as he realised that Gwen must think that his choice was supposed to be a noble stance to show solidarity with his fellow magic users. Perhaps it was, partially, but when he had made the vow it had been with escaping the weight of his destiny primarily in mind. Until magic was permitted in Camelot once more, he could not be certain that he would not be dragged into the currents of fate again, whether or not he got his magic back.

Naturally, he did not much like the idea of going back and, like Gaius, live as an exception to the rule as long as he swore off magic and promised to stand by and watch the continued persecution of his kin without protest, but he was just as motivated by the fact that the mere thought of jumping back into his old way of life still exhausted him. He had told Gwaine that he missed certain elements of it, and that was true, but he simply was not strong enough to bear it anymore. Part of him wished he were—hoped that he would eventually regain that strength, even—but he feared it was impossible—that the fatigue would be permanent.

Unwilling to delve deeper into these uncomfortable thoughts at the moment, he changed the subject, saying, “I’m sorry I never told you I had magic.”

“Well, of course you didn’t. Why would you?” She said this so matter-of-factly that it took Merlin aback.

“You’re not upset that I hid it from you, despite our friendship?”

“How could I blame you for that?” she asked with a kind smile. “You had no way of knowing how I would react. I can’t pretend that growing up in Uther’s Camelot did not teach me to be wary of sorcery, and for a while I believed that my father would still be alive if it was not for magic, but now I know better. Now I understand that it was Uther’s laws that took him from me and magic that bought me the time I did get with him. Your magic. Gaius told me it was you who healed him from that plague.”

“And you almost paid the price for it.”

“But you saved me too. You even tried to give your own life for mine. I can’t imagine the courage it would take to stand in front of Uther and his council and confess to sorcery.”

“Would’ve gotten away with it too if Arthur hadn’t been so thick that even a blatant admission wasn’t enough to convince him I was a warlock,” he muttered wryly.

Gwen chuckled. “I think in this one case we should be grateful that he was. I couldn’t have borne it if you had been executed for saving my father’s life.”

“There are worse reasons to risk your life.”

“But that’s my point. Telling me of your magic would have been a huge risk. Even I don’t know how I would have taken it, even if I hope that I would have been wise enough to realise that if you of all people had it, then that was definitive proof that magic could not be purely evil. You’re the best person I know.” Merlin ducked his head, unable to keep from wondering how many of the less flattering stories Gaius had neglected to tell her, but she raised a hand to his cheek and made him face her again. “You are,” she insisted, “and if Arthur won’t say it yet, then I will: thank you, Merlin, for all that you have done for Camelot—for me, and for everyone I care about. Thank you.”

Feeling himself starting to tear up again, he leaned in and drew her into a hug, wrapping his arms around her a touch awkwardly thanks to their positions on the bench. The slight discomfort hardly registered, however, drowned out as it was by the emotions those two simple words brought to the surface. All too rarely had he heard them from anyone but Gaius, and it affected him more deeply than he would have thought possible.

“You’re welcome,” he whispered into her shoulder. “You’re so very welcome.”

Chapter Text

“You’ve kept sharp,” Elyan commented as they entered the cottage to wash up after the day’s bout of training. “I had hoped to at least go even in our matches now that you’ve exchanged the sword for the plough.”

“Even?” Gwaine laughed. “Catch yourself on! I’d take you three out of five times with one foot in the grave. Even Merlin beat you today.”

“Once! And only because you conveniently forgot to tell me you’ve been tutoring him, you sneaky bugger!”

“Come now, you know very well that underestimating any opponent is done at your own peril. Merlin used the element of surprise to his advantage and won fair and square—and looked damn good doing it too.”

Elyan put away the sword belt he had just unbuckled and glanced over at Gwaine. “You’re really gone on him, huh?”

“Aye, what’s not to like? Pretty as the day is long, the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever known, and an even bigger—”

Elyan clapped his hands over his ears. “All right! Thank you!”

“—set of ears, like an uncommonly attractive dormouse.”

Lowering his hands again, Elyan rolled his eyes at Gwaine’s teasing grin and said, “You don’t need to convince me Merlin is great; not after everything he’s done for me and my family. I just meant that I never took you for the type to…settle, I suppose. If you’d told me three months ago that you were about to move to a tiny village to get married and become a farmer, I would’ve asked how many taverns you had just drunk dry.”

Gwaine shrugged and leaned his hip against Merlin’s workbench. “Sure look, it was a bit of a surprise for me too, but I’d known a good while that wherever Merlin went I would follow. Did I expect it to be here? ‘Course not, I didn’t think he’d ever be able to tear himself away from Camelot, but it’s for the best that he did. Did I think I’d end up tending fields rather than prematurely pushing up daisies in one? Fuck no, but I never imagined I’d be convinced to accept a knighthood either. As for getting married… Well, a boy can have dreams, can’t he?” He batted his eyes theatrically at Elyan, who chuckled. “It’s not that I thought monogamy wasn’t for me until I met him, it’s just hard to find the time for proper courting when you’re always on the move, like. Doesn’t much lend itself to commitment.”

And, of course, long-term relationships required finding someone who was willing to stay around you for more than a couple of tumbles in the hay just as much as the other way around.

Elyan considered this, then nodded. “Fair enough, I know what that life is like. I’ll admit, you do seem different out here. I don’t know… Happier? More relaxed? I would have thought you’d be climbing the walls this far removed from any action—or climbing the trees, I guess.”

“Honestly? Life out here is more stimulating than I’d expected. There’s always something needs doing, you get to use your hands for more than holding a sword, and you feel like you’ve done some good when you’re done. Between you and me, Camelot could get bloody dull sometimes, outside of training and the odd quest. Even weeding is more exciting than some of the patrols we’ve been on—not to mention all the waiting around in between.”

“You seemed content enough to spend that time skirt-chasing at the tavern.”

Gwaine grimaced. “Well, what else was there to do? Loiter about the castle all day, chatting up stuffy nobles who only outwardly accepted us as knights in order to suck up to Arthur? I’d take the company at the tavern over that any day, but even that can get old. Don’t think I knew myself how much my hands itched to do something worthwhile until we got out here. Think I might’ve been less restless back in Camelot if being a knight was more like a trade instead of just hobnobbing around interspersed with the occasional patrol or fight. If it hadn’t been for Merlin and our little band of brothers making it endurable, I might even have left sooner.”

There was a look of reevaluation in Elyan’s eyes as he processed this. “You’re a bit of an enigma, aren’t you, Sir Gwaine? I thought I had you pegged, but it seems there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

“Thought I was just the drunken jester I made out to be, did you?” Gwaine asked with a wry smile.

“Maybe a bit,” Elyan admitted apologetically.

“Most people do. Even I did, for a while.”

“Still, I’m sorry I didn’t look deeper. You’re my friend, Gwaine, and a good man. We miss you in Camelot, but I’m glad that you seem to have found some sort of peace out here.”

Plastering on a broad grin to conceal how touched he really was by Elyan’s words, Gwaine gave him a friendly slap on the arm and said, “No harm done. You can make it up to me by helping me get out of this mail. Merlin usually gives me a hand, seeing as he has a vested interest in me not losing any of these luscious locks to the rivets.”

Elyan laughed and conversation stalled for a time while they assisted each other in removing their hauberks.

“How are things going back in Camelot?” Gwaine asked once they were free of their mail and started unpicking the ties of their gambesons. “Is Agravaine really still a toad?”

“Yeah. After they took him out of the citadel to turn him human so Arthur could ask his little trick question, they dragged him inside again and put him in his tank when he turned back into a toad. I don’t think Arthur really knows what to do with him. All he has on him is that he lied about hearing someone’s name, and that’s hardly enough to have someone hanged as a traitor. Unless he can uncover any other evidence of Agravaine being league with Morgana, there’s not much else he can do than keep him imprisoned, save for letting him go and having him followed to see if he seeks her out.”

“And that would basically mean handing over a valuable ally to her, free of charge, even if he can’t operate from within the castle anymore,” Gwaine concluded.

“Precisely.”

“Well, fuck.” Gwaine scratched at the scruff of his beard contemplatively. “It’s times like these that I’m glad I’m not the king. Can’t believe Merlin used to have to deal with the same dilemmas without even being able to talk about it.”

“Poor sod.”

“How’s Arthur coping with all this?”

Elyan shot him an exasperated look as he shrugged out of his gambeson. “Moping. Tries to pretend he’s not, of course, but he’s got the look of a kicked puppy when he thinks no one’s watching. He’s growing more suspicious too, after Agravaine. If he can’t even trust family, who can he trust?”

“Paranoid?”

“Maybe not that, exactly, but more tight-lipped regarding everything from patrol routes to emotions—not that he was ever the type to bare his heart over a pint.”

“That’s an understatement,” snorted Gwaine. “What about Gwen? Think he’ll actually get around to proposing?”

“He’d better,” Elyan muttered. “If he’s been leading my sister on all these years… But I think he will. She’s one of few confidantes that he still lets in as closely as before. As hesitant to trust as he’s become, he knows she could never betray him.”

“And do you think she’ll say yes? She’s upset with him about this whole banishment debacle, is she not?”

“Yeah, but she loves him. Besides, she thinks she can change him, you know? I don’t think she’ll turn him down over something she thinks she can get him to reconsider in the future. She has a lot of faith in him—we all do, even if most of our band is in your corner when it comes to how Arthur’s handled the whole…Merlin thing.”

Gwaine huffed. “Much appreciated.”

The topic turned to lighter things while they finished washing up, scrubbing the worst of the sweat off before changing into fresh tunics. They had just finished when Merlin and Gwen returned to the cottage—Merlin having been called away early from training to tend to a patient, whereupon Gwen had decided to accompany him.

The cloudy expression on his betrothed’s face was an answer in itself, but Gwaine still asked, “No improvement?”

“No, she’s worsening.” Merlin sank down on a bench by the unlit fireplace, running a hand through his hair.

Gwen sat down close beside him, a comforting presence. She met her brother’s eyes and explained, “An infection of the lungs. The poor child is only five winters old.”

“She won’t see her sixth,” Merlin sighed.

“It’s hopeless, then?” Elyan asked.

Merlin nodded morosely, but switched to shaking it halfway through. “It’s just…so stupid. As I am now, I can’t save her, even though I know the exact incantation that would make the medicine potent enough to drive the sickness from her body. It’s not even a very tricky one, but I don’t have the power to do it anymore, and because of that a child will die.”

Gwaine moved to sit beside Elyan on the bench opposite Merlin and Gwen, softly saying, “If the poor wain dies, it’ll be because of the sickness, not you.”

“And yet, if I had my magic, she would live.”

“Merlin,” Gwen laid a hand on his shoulder, “your magic is still doing good. You may not be able to save this girl, but even in your absence, you have saved lives in Camelot. So many accidents in the citadel have been averted by your magic, not to mention the protection it has given us from our enemies.”

“Still… I don’t like feeling this powerless.”

Elyan frowned. “Couldn’t you just…relearn it or something?”

“I didn’t learn it in the first place; I was born with it.” Merlin sighed and looked down at his fidgeting hands. “Besides, even if I was prepared to deal with all that having magic again would entail, I don’t think I could use it without taking back that which I gave away. I think part of what made the attempt to leave my magic in the citadel actually work was the fact that it was a sacrifice; the Old Religion likes that sort of thing. If I had thought I could give it away and then go learn how to wield it all over again, the sacrifice would not have been as potent, and the spell might not have stuck.”

The siblings exchanged looks of mild confusion, but it made a certain kind of sense to Gwaine. Merlin had explained the role intent served when it came to magic when he had asked how the girdle had ended up being enchanted.

His hand drifted to the band wrapped around his waist at the thought, and as he fiddled with the ends hanging down from the knot, his fingertips tingled with that familiar, faint energy that made it impossible for him to doubt that it was truly imbued with magic. They still had not determined exactly what power it held—unless being surprisingly durable and dirt repellent was the full extent of it. He supposed it was nice enough to know that he could keep wearing it even while doing the dirtier chores around the village without worrying about soiling it, but he still had the notion that there was more to it than that. He could feel it.

Oh. Oh!

He sat up a bit straighter and said, “What if I learn?”

Merlin looked up at him. “What?”

“What if I learn magic? You have good reason not to take yours back, but I don’t have a destiny. Why not teach me some magic, if you think I could be of help that way?”

“I don’t— No one is untouched by destiny, Gwaine.”

“Maybe, but I’m not part of any pesky prophecies. Destiny has put no demands on me; what does it matter to the gods whether or not I have magic?”

Merlin stared at him with a furrowed brow. “I’m…not sure that’s strictly true,” he said slowly, and Gwaine got the distinct impression that there was a story hiding behind the words. He made a mental note to ask about it later. “But even if you learning magic doesn’t invite divine interference, sorcery still has a tendency to attract trouble. Lot is no kinder to my kind than Cenred was—worse even, since it was a sorcerer who killed the old king. I don’t want to see you be accused of practising magic and get captured by slavers or dragged off by Lot’s men to let the king decide whether to execute you or try to break you so he can exploit your magic for his own purposes.”

There was a trace of real fear in Merlin’s eyes which made Gwaine choose his words with care. “I hear you, I do, but I am no stranger to risk and I’ve dealt with slavers and kings before. I admit I’m no longer as keen on jumping into fights of the ‘impossible odds’ variety as I might have been when we first met, but I still went into knighthood knowing that it meant putting my life on the line every so often. Nothing worthwhile is completely free from risk.”

Merlin bit his lip, casting his eyes down. “I’m not sure this is worth it, though.”

“Learning how to save a life? How could it not be?”

“It’s just… Gaius discouraged me from using magic on our patients for a reason. It’s risky. Things can go wrong, and it’s easy to attract suspicion. Look at Gwen, I almost got her killed because I cured her father of a plague everyone believed to be invariably fatal.”

“And I ended up thanking you for it, didn’t I?” Gwen said, taking his hand in hers.

“As did I,” Elyan added with a grateful nod.

“I got lucky that time.”

“So we’ll be careful,” said Gwaine, jumping back into the argument. “We only use it in case of emergency, and only if we’re absolutely sure no one will notice—not even the patient. I can be discreet.”

Elyan snorted.

“I can!” insisted Gwaine, glaring at him before turning back to Merlin. “I’m good at keeping secrets that matter. I’ve done it before.”

“I know you have,” Merlin conceded solemnly.

Gwen regarded them with curiosity, but she did not interrogate them on what secrets they might mean, instead saying, “I don’t think it’s such a bad idea, especially if you could teach him some defensive spells too. I don’t like the thought of you two being sitting ducks out here if Morgana does decide to go after you, for whatever reason.”

Gwaine nodded in agreement, but Merlin looked more sceptical. “Having magic would only make Gwaine more of a target.”

“You know what else makes me a target?” he responded. “Jumping in between you and her spells, which I’d be doing anyway, magic or no magic. Sure would prefer having a secret weapon in my arsenal, should that happen.”

“I know I would,” said Elyan.

“And I,” agreed Gwen.

“I— You—!” Merlin sputtered, looking between his three opponents, clearly coming to the conclusion that he was outnumbered. “All of you ganging up on me just isn’t fair,” he grumbled, crossing his arms petulantly.

Gwaine laughed. “You just don’t like realising that you’re not the voice of reason for once.”

“How dare you accuse me of true things?” asked Merlin, unable to completely conceal the fond twitch of his lips as he parroted Gwaine’s old joke.

His grin widening, Gwaine asked, “Does that mean you’re giving in?”

Merlin sighed theatrically and unfolded his arms. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to try, but if you’re expecting to be able to go toe-to-toe with Morgana any time soon, you need to manage your expectations better. Her innate power is strong, and it will only have grown under Morgause’s tutelage. I suspect someone taking up the craft with no inherent abilities could spend a lifetime learning and still not catch up to her.”

“You can be outmatched in strength and skill and still win the fight if you’ve got your wits and the element of surprise,” Gwaine said, winking at Elyan. “Isn’t that right, Sir Knight?”

Elyan just glowered at him while Gwen and Merlin snickered.

“You’re still getting ahead of yourself,” Merlin told Gwaine. “I don’t have first-hand experience with learning to use magic, only controlling it. Everything I know about starting from scratch is stuff I skimmed past in books, and they contradicted each other more often than not. We don’t even know for certain that you can learn magic. Not everyone has the aptitude for it.”

“You yourself suggested I might be naturally sensitive to magic.”

Merlin’s eyes flickered down to Gwaine’s girdle. “Might have been a fluke. Maybe it just does that to people.” He did not seem particularly convinced by his own rebuttal.

“You said Marchel and Hunith hadn’t noticed anything strange about it.”

“Well, Marchel felt that it was special in some way, but no, they didn’t quite feel what you do.”

“We can test it, can’t we?” Without waiting for an answer, Gwaine pulled at one of the ends of the girdle to unfurl the looped knot, thus extending the length of the loose end. He did not unwrap it further, still preferring to keep it around his person as much as physically possible, which made changing clothes and washing a bit of a challenge, to be honest. Apart from the emotional significance it carried, he just felt…naked without it. Vulnerable, somehow. Even holding part of the band out towards Elyan for inspection felt a bit uncomfortable, but needs must. “Here, touch it.”

Elyan’s eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. “What? Why?”

“Just touch it and tell us what you feel.”

“All right…?” He reached out and held the end of the girdle between his fingertips. “Uh, it’s…soft? Good quality?”

“Does it feel warm?”

“It’s midsummer, everything is warm, and it’s been on your sweaty body.”

“No tingling?”

Elyan narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “This isn’t a prank, is it? Please tell me you haven’t rubbed parsnip sap or something on it to give me a rash.”

“Now there’s an idea,” grinned Gwaine. “But sadly not.”

“You don’t feel anything on the more emotional plane either?” Merlin asked, leaning forward in his seat, starting to seem more invested.

“It…looks nice? Pretty colours? Mate, I really don’t know what I’m supposed to be feeling here.”

Gwaine exchanged a pointed look with Merlin, then he rose from the bench and walked around the hearth to hold the band out to Gwen. She did not need to be prompted to have a feel, though she seemed somewhat bemused. However, as she stroked her fingers along the swirling pattern of the weave, her expression turned a bit more thoughtful, and she hummed quietly.

“I can’t say I feel any of this warmth or tingling you speak of, but there’s something… Just a shadow of a feeling, really. It feels…” She closed her eyes in concentration. “I think it reminds me of you, Merlin. It’s not as strong as the feeling I get from your magic in the citadel. If you hadn’t asked about it I don’t know if I would have even noticed it.”

“Great.” Gwaine moved on to Merlin. “Now you go.”

Merlin looked up at him with a cocked eyebrow. “You know what I can feel.”

“Humour me so I don’t look off my nut in front of our friends, will you, love?”

“Fine.” Merlin reached for the girdle, tenderly running it through his fingers. “It tingles with energy and it’s warm with the thrum of magic.”

“And?”

“I can sense my own influence, but there’s a bit of Marchel in there too and just a touch of my mother. And it feels like there’s more of you in it with every day that passes.”

“Aaand…?” Gwaine pressed on, wiggling his eyebrows.

“And shut up!” Merlin grumbled, blushing as he released the band and gave Gwaine’s hip a playful shove.

Gwaine grinned and mouthed the word, “Love,” when the others looked to him in confusion. It was a bit of an understatement, but it described the broad strokes of the emotion imbued in the band.

Gwen gave him an amused smile. “I definitely did not feel all of that.”

“Case in point!” Gwaine said smugly as he tied up the girdle and took his seat beside Elyan again.

“I feel like I’m missing something here,” Elyan said. “Is the ribbon magic? What’s the story there?”

“Good question—one I’m sure Merlin would love to answer. Then, afterwards, I can tell you how it ties into our engagement story.”

“Oh! I want to hear that!” Gwen exclaimed eagerly.

Merlin’s blush deepened. “Maybe not all of it, Gwaine?”

“Hm, I guess I could be persuaded to leave out a wee bit of context…for a price.”

“Gwaine.”

“All I’m asking for is the admittance that I’m obviously magically attuned to some degree, and a promise to let me have a go at a spell or two.”

Merlin buried his head in his hands and groaned, but there was a hint of laughter in his voice as he said, “Fine!”

Chapter Text

Gwaine’s magic lessons were going… Well, they were going. Merlin was not sure exactly what he had expected from them, but it was probably something simultaneously less and more than what they actually resulted in. He had known, of course, that the chance of Gwaine mastering sorcery to the degree necessary to cure a lung infection in time to save his patient was vanishingly low, yet losing the little girl still came as a disappointment to teacher and pupil alike. But, unfortunate as that was, it was only to be expected.

What Merlin had not expected was for Gwaine to succeed in lighting a candle with magic on his third try, nor had he expected him to then fail to do so again for a whole consecutive week of lessons. He wished he knew more about the process of learning magic so he could soothe Gwaine’s frustrations as he tried over and over again, squeezing in practice whenever the work around the village allowed him the time but hardly getting any results.

If only Merlin could have written to Gaius for advice, but he dared not put his questions in writing for fear that either his letter or Gaius’ reply would be intercepted by the wrong person, and their letters were few and far apart already as parchment was costly and finding someone who had business taking them to Camelot was rare unless one went by the way of Engerd. Gaius obviously shared his concerns about letters falling into the wrong hands, because the sparse correspondence Merlin had received since settling in Ealdor was full of vague formulations and covert allusions to potentially interesting incidents in Camelot, half of which ended up being undecipherable.

About two weeks after Gwen and Elyan’s visit, they had a minor breakthrough in their lessons. It struck Merlin that he had been turning to fire magic in search of easy beginner spells since that was the element he had always found easiest to manipulate, but there was no real reason that this should be true for Gwaine. Prompted by this insight, Merlin took the lessons in a different direction, exploring the other elements as well in an attempt to find something that resonated more with Gwaine. He was sure he had never seen a more beautiful sight than his betrothed in the moment that he succeeded in levitating a small pebble, the brightness of his smile rivalled only by the golden glow in his eyes.

Things flowed a little smoother from there on out, but Merlin could tell that Gwaine was impatient with the pace of his progress. He was only partially mollified by Merlin’s reassurances that, judging by what little he remembered from his reading, he was now improving at a perfectly normal rate. Of course, with the assistance of a more experienced tutor, he could likely have progressed even faster, but, alas, he was stuck being taught by someone who no longer had any magic of his own and who had been a massive anomaly back when he did.

They did, eventually, make some attempts at healing spells, but a month and a half into their lessons, Gwaine had only progressed to the point that he had managed to soothe the sting of a scrape Merlin had gotten from tripping during training and breaking his fall with his hands. His magic had actually also been of some help lifting the dirt from the superficial wound, but it had not been able to heal the grazed skin.

They took the opportunity to practise some less discreet spells when they journeyed into Engerd again to restock Merlin’s medical supplies as well as some general necessities—the last trip they were likely to have time for before the impending harvest season. They made camp a good distance from the beaten path to avoid detection, both on the way there and on the return journey, and Merlin set about teaching Gwaine a few tricks he had not deemed safe or practical to attempt within the privacy of their cottage.

Gwaine was far from able to replicate everything Merlin tried to walk him through, but he did make headway with a small handful of spells. By the time they had broken their fast and packed up their camp to brave the last stretch of their journey home, he had successfully manipulated the forest floor to create a small divot in the ground—not a particularly flashy spell by any means, but enough to potentially trip up an opponent in a fight—and made a couple of roots and vines rise from the forest floor—a trick Merlin had oftentimes deployed to the same end during bandit attacks and the like.

Merlin’s attempt to teach him one of his favourite ways of disarming someone (namely heating their blade to the point of burning them) had only resulted in a pleasant warmth that would make the hilt of Gwaine’s sword a nice source of heat on a chilly day, but it was a start. Metal, it would seem, was at least adjacent to the earth-related spells that Gwaine had had most luck with so far.

“Well, I’ll not be melting swords anytime soon,” Gwaine said as they made their way back to the trail that would take them back to Ealdor, “but at least I could make a living as a travelling gleeman.” He held his hands out and spoke an incantation that made three pebbles dance above his palms in a mimicry of juggling.

“Your precision is getting impressive,” Merlin praised him, then laughed when Gwaine blushed and ducked his head, resulting in his losing control over the pebbles and sending them flying into the forest to be lost in the undergrowth. Genuine compliments truly were the surest way to fluster his betrothed.

“I’m sure you could do that before you even learned to crawl.”

“Perhaps. But I looked nowhere near as good doing it.”

Gwaine laughed. “You flatter me.” He grabbed Merlin by the arm to stop him in his tracks so he could swoop in for a kiss. “And flattery will get you everywhere.”

“I am shocked to hear it,” Merlin said sarcastically, but his smile was soft as he leaned in for a second kiss as well as a third before adjusting the straps of the knapsack slung over his back and pushing past Gwaine on the narrow game path. “Come on, we should get moving.” When Gwaine stopped him again with a hand on his elbow, he looked back with a raised eyebrow. “We’ve dawdled long enough alrea—”

Gwaine held a finger in front of his mouth, then made some sort of hand gesture that Merlin was sure he would have understood if he had bothered paying attention to that part of the knightly training in Camelot. Realisation soon dawned on him, however, when faint voices drifted over from the direction of the main road they were approaching.

“—faster than that. Faster, I said!”

“You try walking faster with knees like mine!”

“You talk back again, and we’ll find out whether I can bring myself to strike an old lady. I’ll give you a hint: it wouldn’t be the first time.”

Merlin met Gwaine’s eyes and by unspoken agreement they both crouched a bit lower and carefully started making their way in the direction of the voices as quietly as possible.

Before long, they found a dense thicket to hide behind as they spied on the small party walking along the trail—three men and an old woman, all on foot. One of the men wore mail while the others were equipped only with reinforced leather vests by way of armour, though all were armed with swords. The woman looked a little worse for wear, with dirt staining her skirts and her greying hair doing its best to escape her braid. Her hands were clapped in irons in front of her.

Merlin sucked in a sharp breath when he realised that he recognised her. “Alice…”

“You know her?” Gwaine whispered. “What do you suppose they want with her?”

“She’s a healer. Magic.”

Gwaine cursed under his breath. “Slave traders or bounty hunters then. Just grand.”

Merlin bit his lip, considering their options. They both carried swords, but neither of them had been worried enough about bandits to be arsed to make the long walk to and from Engerd in mail. They were outnumbered—unless you included Alice in the count—and more vulnerable, but Gwaine was a trained knight and Merlin…was not but had trained under said knight near daily for well over three months, so the odds were perhaps not as impossible as they could have been, even without Merlin’s magic.

“I have to help her,” he decided, silently putting his knapsack down on the ground. “I owe her that much. Would you mind—?”

“‘Course not,” Gwaine interrupted him, grinning. “There’s no age limit to being a damsel in distress.”

Merlin smiled back gratefully. He had not expected anything less but it was still polite to ask. “I have a plan. You go that way; wait for my distraction.” He waved Gwaine off in the same direction that the party was headed then started sneaking the opposite way.

His heart pounded fiercely in his chest as he tried to move stealthily through the undergrowth of the forest. This would be the first time he faced an enemy since giving up his magic. Of course, he had been forced to fight unaided by his power many a time throughout his years in Camelot for fear of discovery, but he had always known that it was there in case of absolute emergency. Now he was armed with nothing but his wits and a blade and had to trust that this would be enough. Gwaine’s nascent magic could not yet be depended on to win this fight, but his proficiency with a sword was almost certain to tip the scales in their favour. They could do this. They could. They would. They had to.

With this mantra running through his head, he left the cover of the forest and stepped out on the trail some distance behind the group. He fell into a light jog and called out, “Granny!” coming to a stop again as soon as everyone turned around to face him.

“The hell?” one of the ruffians exclaimed, and they all drew their swords.

“No, please!” Merlin cried, holding up his hands and feigning being out of breath. “I don’t want any trouble; I just want my granny back, please.”

Alice looked at him in shock. “Merlin?”

“Do you hear that?” scoffed the mail-clad man who looked like the leader. “The boy wants his poor old granny back. Do you suppose he means to fight us for her?”

“What?” Merlin asked, pretending to be confused until he followed the man’s gaze to the sword at his hip. “No, no! It was my father’s; I don’t even really know how to use it. Here, you can have it! It’s got to be worth something, right?” He made a show of fumbling with the sword as he drew it from its sheath, holding it out for inspection. “I don’t have much more on me, but we’ve got stuff back home we could pay you with. Please, she’s the only family I have left in the world.” He caught a glimpse of Gwaine slowly sneaking out onto the road behind the group and made an effort not to let his eyes linger so as not to give away his position.

The gang laughed tauntingly and the leader said, “What do you think, lads? Think this shabby beanpole can pay better than Carl? I hear he’s been looking for a healer for ages to make his fighting ring a little more interesting.”

“Carl?” Merlin’s mind jumped through a series of convoluted associations and decided to make a wild stab in the dark. He only needed to buy time until Gwaine was close enough to jump them. “Any relation to Jarl, the slave trader?” If he turned out to be even remotely right about this, he was disappointed in the creativity of their parents when it came to making up names.

“The fuck?” one of the thugs said.

Their leader narrowed his eyes and took a step forward. “Now, where did a good little boy like you hear a name like that?”

“Oh, we met once. Can’t say I knew him well, but I got very close with his champion at the time, and if Carl favours the same kind of entertainment, then I see why he’d have need of a healer. If you let my granny go, I’ll take her place. She’s taught me all of her tricks, and Carl would get much more value for his money if you brought him a young man instead of an old woman.”

“Merlin, please! I’m not worth it.”

He looked over at Alice with a reassuring smile. “That’s for me to decide. You know me and our friends will always be right behind you, don’t you? Now stand aside and let me take care of this, granny dearest.”

She frowned as she processed his pointed statement, then her eyes flickered to the side as some sort of realisation crept up on her. Bending her head, she shuffled off towards the side of the trail, but she could not move far as her cuffs were attached to a rope held by one of her captors.

The man holding the rope grinned cruelly. “I say we just take them both and get double the reward.”

“Now, that’s the first intelligent thing I’ve heard all day,” said the leader, taking another threatening step towards Merlin.

“Right. Well. Suppose I can’t blame you,” Merlin sighed. “There’s just one little thing I’ve got to see to before we leave. You see, I have to help that champion I mentioned kill some really stupid bandits.”

At that moment, Gwaine drove his blade through the back of one of the men and Merlin shifted his grip on his sword to strike at the leader. Distracted as he was by the gurgling gasp of his companion, he was only just able to bring his own sword up to block Merlin’s attack in time, stumbling back a few steps as he did so. The third man was knocked off balance by Alice tugging as hard as she could on the rope that led from her hands to his.

The world narrowed down to the blade in Merlin’s hand and his opponent as he put everything he had into remembering what Gwaine had taught him during these past months. In a way, having lost his magic made him a much more focused fighter as his attention was not half dedicated to being on the lookout for creative ways to covertly use his powers to gain the advantage. Still, he missed the sense of security that came with knowing that if things were about to go completely sideways there was always a last resort.

The bandit leader was a worthy opponent in that he was strong and had a long reach, but it was clear that he had not had the training of a knight, and his rough, underhanded fighting style was something Gwaine’s own hotchpotch of dirty tricks and polished moves had prepared Merlin for.

The fight was going fairly well, if he said so himself. Of course, the second he had that thought, the universe decided to punish him for his hubris by making him slip on a loose rock in the ground, and he fell flat on his back. Time seemed to slow down as he hit the ground, the air punched out of him with a loud grunt at the impact, and a smug grin spread over his enemy’s face as he raised his sword to exploit the opening.

Behind the man, Merlin was vaguely aware of Gwaine kicking the third bandit in the chest, sending him sprawling as well, then turning to throw a hand out towards Merlin’s opponent and shout, “Ádelfan eorþhol!”

A modest amount of dirt disappeared right beneath the leader’s foot just as he stepped forward to strike down at Merlin. It was enough to make him stumble forward, flinging his sword arm out for balance rather than going through with his blow, buying Merlin the time needed to roll to the side, jump to his feet and bring his sword down on the closest available unarmoured part of his opponent’s body, namely his neck.

He had not been able to summon the force needed to make it a clean decapitation, but it was more than enough to make it a mortal wound, and he exchanged a relieved look with Gwaine as the man went down.

A split second later, however, the relief turned to fear as Alice cried, “Watch out!”

Merlin could only watch in horror as Gwaine turned back to face his own assailant, just in time to see the man surge up from the ground with a wild swing of his sword. It found its target, slashing Gwaine right across the torso, sending him staggering backwards.

In the blink of an eye, the exhilarating rush of battle turned sour as the day went from being the sort of exciting adventure that Merlin still remembered at least semi-fondly to turning into one of the heart-shatteringly nightmarish ones. His heart seemed to stop in his chest, unable to keep pumping blood that had turned to ice in his veins, and he could not even find the voice to cry out in despair as he watched Gwaine stumble and wrap an arm around his torso.

With Gwaine standing with his back against him, Merlin could not judge the extent of the wound, but he had seen the blade connect, and at that angle and with such force behind it, it was bound to be bad. He was surprised that Gwaine was still standing at all, and so, it seemed, was the bandit.

“You—! What?! Sorcery!”

Before Merlin could process the man’s words or even force his legs to move to come to the aid of his betrothed—the love of his life who was most likely dying right in front of him—Gwaine regained his composure, straightening up and squaring his shoulders. In a fluid move, he stepped forward to cut the bandit down, meeting very little resistance as the man stared at him in complete shock, making only a feeble attempt at parrying before Gwaine got the better of him and put him out of his misery.

Alice watched on from the sidelines, her hands over her mouth in shock as she looked at Gwaine. Not until Gwaine winced and put his hand over his ribs did Merlin manage to tear himself out of his terrified stupor, flinging his own bloodied blade to the ground as he ran to Gwaine’s side, cold dread filling him at the thought of the sight that surely awaited him.

“No, no, no, no! Lie down, Gwaine.” Maybe there was still time to do something. Maybe if they got those shackles off Alice, she could heal him. “Try not to move.” He put his hands on his lover’s shoulders, gently but insistently trying to coax him down onto the ground, only to have his hands batted away.

“I’m grand, love,” Gwaine grunted. “Well, mostly.”

“You’re not! Look at you, you’re—” The words died in Merlin’s mouth as he actually looked down at Gwaine to examine the severity of the wound. The non-existent wound. For a long moment his mind could not reconcile what he was seeing with what he had expected, but when he finally realised what he was looking at, he stammered, “You— You’re…actually fine? What—?” He sank to his knees, half to get a closer look and half because his legs were protesting against the idea of carrying him any longer.

A diagonal slash split the fabric of Gwaine’s tunic from his hip and up across his torso, ending under his left pectoral. The sword had cut clean through the fabric along the entire trajectory, except for a small patch covered by Gwaine’s girdle, which also appeared completely undamaged, though by rights it ought to have been sliced into ribbons. When Merlin reached out to part the tattered tunic to better see the skin beneath, he found that it too was entirely whole, but there was a rosiness blooming beneath the skin that indicated that Gwaine was likely to have a nasty bruise come tomorrow.

“How—?” was all Merlin could say as he stared up at Gwaine, who gave him a hand to help him get to his feet again.

Gwaine considered the question, then brought his hand to his sword, thumbing at the edge. He pressed down gently at first, then more firmly, and finally he dragged the pad of his thumb along the sharp blade with a fair amount of force and speed. Merlin flinched when his finger came away bloody, but after wiping it off on his sleeve, Gwaine held it up to show that the skin was unbroken and the blood only the remains of the slain bandits staining the blade.

“I think we just found out what the girdle does,” Gwaine said with wonder in his voice.

Merlin blinked, his thoughts churning sluggishly as he looked between Gwaine’s thumb, the slash in his tunic, and the undamaged girdle. When his mind finally caught up with the situation, relief rushed through him like a flash flood. He slumped forward and threw his arms around Gwaine’s neck, half embracing him and half clinging on for support as his knees threatened to buckle again.

“You’re all right,” he mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut and focusing on the warm vitality of the body in his arms. “You’re all right…”

“I am,” Gwaine confirmed, sticking his sword into the ground before bringing his arms up to return the hug. “I’m perfectly safe, love.”

Merlin let out a shuddering exhalation. “Thought you were done for.”

“For a second, so did I.”

“I can’t lose you too. I won’t let that happen.”

“Well, you’ve seen to that, haven’t you?” Gwaine chuckled, one hand leaving Merlin’s waist to pat at the girdle around his own.

Merlin drew back, grabbing Gwaine by the shoulders and fixing him with a fervent look. “Don’t do that again! Magic girdle or not, my heart can’t take it. And no more magic in combat until you can do it without losing focus on what’s going on around you!”

“Saved your life, didn’t it?” Gwaine pointed out with a cheeky grin.

Merlin raised an admonishing eyebrow. “Don’t you take that tone with me when I’m trying to scold y— Oh, gods. I’m turning into Gaius, aren’t I?”

“You do sound remarkably like him,” Alice commented behind them.

Merlin whipped his head around, suddenly reminded of their company. “Alice! You’re not hurt, I hope?”

She shook her head. “No, only tired and sore.” She held up her shackled hands. “Nothing I could not tend to if it was not for the cold iron.”

“Right. Let us help you with that. One of these men must have the keys on them.” After giving Gwaine’s shoulders a last squeeze to remind himself that he was miraculously alive and well, he went over to the dead leader and bent down to rummage through his clothes, trying his best not to look at the sickening wound in his neck. Gwaine did the same with the bandit closest to him.

“Why are you helping me at all?” Alice asked. “I thought you hated me.”

Merlin looked over his shoulder. “I never hated you. I was just scared you would get Gaius in trouble.”

“And yet you too keep company with sorcerers.” She nodded questioningly towards Gwaine.

“That’s not what bothered me; I was one myself at the time. It’s just that I discovered that you were in the thrall of the manticore. I had hoped Gaius and I would be able to help you sort that out without involving the law, but he wouldn’t listen when I tried to tell him what you were up to.”

“Oh. I thought perhaps you resented me for my relationship to Gaius.”

“No, of course not. I was overjoyed when he told me you two used to be engaged! I was so happy for him, and I was excited to learn that you were a skilled sorcerer. If things had been different, I would probably have asked you to be my teacher; my magic tended to be a bit unpredictable when it came to healing spells.”

“Found the keys!” Gwaine called, rising from where he was kneeling by the bandit who had held on to Alice’s rope.

Alice held out her hands as Gwaine walked up with the keys to her cuffs, and within moments she was free. She gave them both a grateful smile, then bent her head over her wrists and murmured, “Þurhhæle.” The irritation and swelling where her shackles looked to have been rubbing at her skin for days went down immediately, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oh, you have to teach me that,” said Gwaine, looking impressed. “I haven’t gotten the hang of healing yet either, and my ribs are killing me after that blow.”

Alice nodded. “If you wish. I should like to repay you for my freedom somehow.”

“You don’t owe us anything,” Merlin interjected. “Especially not me. It’s the least I could do after what happened in Camelot. After…what I did to you.” He sighed, looking down at his feet. “Alice, I’m the one who told Arthur that you poisoned Uther. I didn’t want to, especially knowing that you were not acting of your own free will, but the blame was falling on Gaius, and I saw no other way to clear his name. I’ve never forgiven myself for being responsible for parting you two from each other again.”

“The responsibility was mine,” protested Alice. “I was the one foolish enough to think I could control the manticore. I hope you know I could never have exploited Gaius so if it had not overpowered me and forced me to?”

“I know. You truly loved him, didn’t you?”

“I did. I still do. I could never be angry with you for protecting him from my mistakes.”

Merlin smiled as some of the guilt he had carried since the incident dissipated, but before he could thank Alice for her forgiveness, Gwaine spoke up, saying, “Poison and manticores? It sounds like there’s a hell of a story here, and I’d love to hear it, but it might be best to hide the bodies and get off the road first, just in case these fellas had friends.”

Seeing the wisdom in this, Merlin and Alice ceased their reminiscing. They delayed their clean-up mission only long enough for Alice to heal Gwaine’s bruised ribs, prompted by his pained grunting when he bent forward to grab one of the bandits by the ankles. Once he was hale and hearty again, he and Merlin dragged the bodies some distance into the forest where they would not be easily noticed by passing travellers.

Merlin felt a little bad for just leaving them there for the elements and scavengers to deal with instead of burying them properly, but Gwaine’s little hole-digging trick was not yet powerful enough to clear away enough dirt for a grave, and Alice was tired from her ordeal and from healing herself and Gwaine. She used a last bit of small magic to clean the blood from the road, then announced that she had better save her remaining energy for walking.

“Where do you live?” Merlin asked as they trod back towards the thicket where they had hid their things before launching their attack. “We have some supplies from Engerd that need to be taken care of, but if you need an escort back home…?”

She shook her head morosely. “I no longer have a home to return to. I stayed some time in Longstead in the Feorre Mountains, but the villagers were starting to turn suspicious of me. I was planning to move on soon, perhaps to go in search of a druid camp where I might stay the winter at least, but I was too slow. Rumour had already reached the wrong people, and I was intercepted by these men before I could slip away.”

“Why not come home with us, then?” Gwaine asked.

“I’m no longer welcome in Camelot, I’m afraid.”

“Nor are we,” Merlin confessed. “Went and got ourselves banished.”

She gave them both a surprised look. “Banished?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Point is, we live in Ealdor now,” said Gwaine. “Merlin is their new physician. He’s been trying to teach me some magic to help out with his work, but I’m still shite at it. We could use some pointers from you, if you wanted to stay there a while?”

Merlin nodded. “There’s so much I did not have time to learn from Gaius, concerning both the mundane and the magical healing arts. I would welcome your guidance.”

She looked touched by the offer, but hesitated. “I should not like to impose. I would be arriving without money nor belongings…”

“I already have the essentials needed to practise our craft, and it’s shaping up to be a fine harvest; the village will not begrudge another mouth to feed, especially not someone who can contribute with expertise like yours. As for lodgings—”

“Maybe Hunith would take her in?” Gwaine suggested, obviously thinking along the same lines as Merlin when it came to the idea of losing the privacy of their abode.

“Hunith?” Alice asked, then lit up. “Oh, yes; you’re Hunith’s boy! Gaius told me so, but I had almost forgotten.”

“You know my mother?”

“I did, once, but I have not seen her since I first had to leave Gaius all those years ago. I remember her very fondly.”

Merlin felt a little stupid for not considering that his mother was likely to have met the woman Gaius had been betrothed to back before the Purge. Of course they would have known each other, and if he knew his mother—which he did—she and Alice would have gotten along very well.

“I’m sure she’d love to see you,” he said. “Come with us, at least to try it out? If you still want to join the druids later, we’ll help you find them, but I think you would fit right in in Ealdor.”

She gave him a grateful smile and reached out to lay a hand on his arm, squeezing it gently. “I will go with you. Thank you, Merlin—both for your assistance and your forgiveness. I am glad the gods saw fit to bring us together again.”

“Likewise.” He returned her smile, but something in her phrasing gave him pause. “We’ll, um, just check on our packs, then we can head for Ealdor.” He nodded towards the heap of knapsacks and bedrolls behind the thicket and met Gwaine’s eyes, silently asking him for a word.

Alice seemed to pick up on the bid for privacy, for she courteously stepped away a couple of paces as the men went to kneel at their packs, going over them to ensure that everything inside and out was still secure and ready for travel.

“What’s got you looking shifty all of a sudden?” Gwaine asked. “Regretting the invitation already?”

Merlin shook his head, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Upon spotting Alice and the slave traders, he had jumped into action without thinking twice about it, but now that the rush of battle was starting to abate, it struck him that the situation was precisely the sort of thing that used to happen to him on a near-weekly basis back in Camelot, and one of the things that had made him flee that life. Yes, they had saved Alice, and they had all come out of it alive and well, but chances were that Gwaine would be dead right now if it had not been for the magic of the girdle—a girdle that had been crafted years ago and just so happened to find its way to the right person at the right time. And this was still not nearly as unlikely as their having stumbled over Alice in the first place.

“No,” he said slowly, trying to regain control over his suddenly shaky nerves, “it’s just… You don’t think this is starting to smell a bit too much like destiny, do you?”

“How do you mean?”

“Running into a magical healer looking for a home right after you decide to pick up the art and need a teacher?”

Gwaine considered this, but there was a sceptical tilt to his eyebrows. “Well, it’s not right after, is it?”

“Destiny works on a massive timescale, a few weeks is hardly anything in the grand scheme of things. And to run into her here of all places… What if it was fated? What if destiny is trying to suck us back in?”

“I don’t know… Sounds a bit paranoid, love.”

Merlin’s stomach twisted at the choice of words. “Don’t call me that. Not you too.”

Gwaine winced apologetically. “Sorry.” There was genuine regret in his eyes that made it clear that he understood just why it had hit a nerve, and he laid a comforting hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “You’re right; you know best when it comes to this sort of thing. But I will say that even if it is destiny bringing Alice to us, maybe that’s not such a bad thing? Maybe it’s…an apology of sorts? A gift to make our lives a wee bit easier after everything you’ve sacrificed in the line of duty?”

“I wish I had your optimism,” Merlin huffed, smiling wryly. “Destiny is rarely that generous, in my experience.”

“Don’t know about that; it brought us together, didn’t it? Sure, but that’s the greatest gift I could have asked for.”

Merlin shook his head fondly and pulled Gwaine in for a quick kiss. “You incurable romantic. I just don’t like the thought of it sinking its claws into you too. Bad things tend to happen to those I love when they get too mixed up in this sort of thing.”

“Good thing you’ve gone and made me invulnerable, then,” Gwaine chuckled, stroking his hand over his girdle. “If that’s not a sign that destiny is trying to give you a break from worrying so much, I don’t know what is.”

That’s one way to look at it, I suppose, Merlin thought, yet felt the need to point out, “Hardly invulnerable if you can still bruise your ribs. Looks more like you’re impenetrable— Don’t make the joke you’re about to make! Just promise me not to go jumping off a cliff to test the limits of this thing. Internal bleeding is still bleeding.”

“Promise,” Gwaine laughed. “The ribs hurt enough; I’m lucky Alice felt up to healing them for me.” He fell serious again, squeezing Merlin’s shoulder. “I say we give this thing with Alice a try, and if your gut feeling still makes you feel queasy after a bit, then we send her off to the druids. Sound good?”

Merlin nodded reluctantly. In truth, his gut had made no protests when the offer had been made to have Alice join them in Ealdor; the suspicion had not reared its head until she had suggested that the gods were behind their unlikely reunion. Maybe he was just being paranoid this time, or maybe Gwaine was right and destiny had decided to throw them a bone in apology for the years of trials it had put Merlin through.

Making the choice to try to emulate Gwaine’s optimism, he got to his feet and slung his knapsack over his shoulder before turning to address Alice, who was stood a polite distance away, focusing on re-plaiting her hair.

“All right. Let’s go home.”

Chapter Text

Ask anyone in Ealdor and they would tell you that this year’s harvest was the most bountiful one in years. No, in decades! No, in living memory! Gwaine had very little frame of reference, but there was no denying that bringing it in was a lot of work. It was a very good thing that Alice had come along when she did, he reasoned, because it meant that she could take main responsibility for the whole physicking thing for a bit while everyone’s hands were needed out in the fields, and this, in turn, meant that Gwaine got to watch Merlin hard at work.

It was easy to get distracted by the sight of Merlin with his sleeves rolled up above the elbow, his wiry muscles straining under loads of sheaves and sacks of grain. Months of regular combat training and helping out around the village whenever his physician’s duties allowed had made its mark on him. Gone was the scrawny boy who had been more suited to spinning yarn than wielding a hay fork; this Merlin was lean but strong, and Gwaine wanted to lick the sweat from every part of his increasingly well-defined physique. Merlin seemed to have similar opinions about watching Gwaine perform manual labour, making them very lucky that Hunith had been glad to let Alice stay with her rather than taking them in themselves, or they would have had to choose between scandalising the old woman or go by their days in excruciating sexual frustration.

They were not the only ones finding themselves in an amorous mood this season, it would seem, for halfway through the grain harvest they received a letter from Camelot (or, more accurately, several letters from various friends lumped together in one delivery for the sake of practicality) announcing that there was to be a royal wedding on the autumn equinox. In Gwen’s letter, she bemoaned the fact that she had not yet convinced Arthur to repeal their (still unofficial) banishment so that they might attend the wedding and the preceding tournament, but she expressed cautious optimism about eventually persuading him to un-banish them at some point in the not-too-distant future.

That optimism had been sorely misplaced, as evidenced by her and Elyan turning up in Ealdor two days after the equinox. Gwaine and Merlin had just washed up after the day’s labour and were headed for Hunith’s cottage to have a bite to eat with her and Alice—as was their custom—when the old healer intercepted them on their way out of the door.

“There you are,” she said. “There’s a bit of a situation at Hunith’s place—a girl and a knight who are asking for you.”

Gwaine and Merlin exchanged a mystified look. None of their friend’s letters had alluded to an impending visit. Gwaine immediately got the feeling that something was not quite right, and it only intensified when they reached Hunith’s cottage to find that the visitors’ horses were joined by a laden cart covered with a tarpaulin.

They entered the cottage to find Gwen and Hunith sitting wrapped in a tight embrace on a bench by the lit fire while Elyan hovered awkwardly a few paces away. They were still dressed in their travel clothes, suggesting that they had arrived very recently. Gwen was even wearing her lavender cloak still, despite the warmth inside the cottage.

“Gwen?” Merlin asked.

She looked up from Hunith’s shoulders, revealing a blotchy, tear-stained face. “Merlin…” she breathed, lip wobbling.

He rushed over to her, kneeling before her and taking her hand when she released Hunith from the hug. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you in Camelot? Are you hurt?”

She shook her head and drew a shuddering breath to reply, but all that came out was a sob, and she flung herself forward, wrapping her arms around Merlin’s neck as she sank to her knees as well, clinging on to him for dear life as she cried.

Gwaine looked on with increasing unease as a concerned Merlin rubbed her back and made calming, shushing noises. Deciding that there was not much he could contribute to that situation at the moment, he instead sidled up to Elyan and said, “Don’t tell me you’re joining us in exile after all?”

“She’s banished, not I,” Elyan sighed. “I only asked Arthur’s permission to escort her somewhere safe. Hunith says she’s more than happy to let her stay with her and, uh, Alice, was it?”

“What the fuck made him banish Gwen of all people? Has he finally gone completely off his nut?”

Elyan hesitated for a moment, then said, “Lancelot returned.”

Merlin snapped to attention, turning his head to look at them even as he continued tracing soothing circles into Gwen’s back. “What?”

“What do you mean, ‘returned?’” Gwaine asked.

“Like, returned-from-the-dead returned.”

“He’s alive?” Merlin whispered, looking rather like someone had just dropped an anvil on him. “How?”

Gwen extricated herself from the hug, wiping at her eyes as she said, “He doesn’t know either. He claims he remembers nothing between stepping through the veil at the Isle of the Blessed and waking up somewhere in the Feorre Mountains.”

“That’s…strange…” Merlin’s brow was furrowed with something like suspicion, and his eyes found Alice’s across the room. She looked likewise troubled by the news, and Gwaine got the sense that rejoicing over Lancelot’s unlikely resurrection might be better put off until further notice.

“But why did his return end in your banishment?” Gwaine asked, impatient to get a grip on the whole story so he could decide how he should be feeling about it all.

“Because I—” Gwen interrupted herself with a sniffle, then clambered back onto the bench, brushing off her knees and straightening her back in an attempt to recover some dignity. She took a deep breath. “Because I kissed him. And Arthur saw it.”

Gwaine almost gaped at this revelation. Sure, he had spent enough time with Lancelot to have realised that he was in love with Gwen, but it had seemed a sort of pure, resignedly one-sided love that he was content to silently carry within himself, and surely the man was far too noble of spirit to ever act on it? Not to mention Gwen encouraging him. That was just as unthinkable. Gwaine knew the type of person who would stray from someone they were committed to—he had slept with a fair number of them, back before he had admitted to himself that he was a romantic at heart—and neither Gwen nor Lancelot fitted that description.

“That doesn’t sound like you,” Merlin said, obviously thinking along the same lines.

“It’s true,” Gwen sniffled. “I did it. I agreed to meet with him alone in the council chambers, and I kissed him. I just don’t know why. I was to marry Arthur the next day. I love Arthur, with all my heart; I never wanted to betray him. I don’t know why I could not resist Lancelot’s invitation—why I felt so…so drawn to him. I had not thought of him like that for many years; whatever we could once have shared is in the past! I chose Arthur and put it behind me, or so I thought.” She sobbed again and buried her face in her hands. “Oh, gods, I’ve ruined everything!”

Hunith put her arm around Gwen’s shoulders while Merlin got to his feet. “The Lancelot we knew would never do this,” he said, looking to Gwaine and Elyan for confirmation.

“Never,” Elyan agreed.

“Sincerely doubt it,” said Gwaine. “But you knew him best.”

“He wouldn’t,” Merlin repeated with grim certainty. “He left Camelot for a second time just to ensure he would not come between them. He would rather die than jeopardise either of their happiness. He did die for them. Something’s not right here.”

“If I may make a suggestion,” Alice said, stepping in from the sidelines. “I know a thing or two about the darker arts of magic.” Her eyes flickered over to Elyan. “That is, I came across some information before the Great Purge…”

Elyan waved a hand dismissively. “It’s fine, I may be a Knight of Camelot, but I don’t agree with the ban. I know Merlin had magic and that Gwaine was trying to pick it up last we met.”

She nodded, her shoulders sagging with relief. “Well, then. I have studied the subject closely, and judging from your description, I do not believe that this Lancelot is the same man you once knew—not entirely, at least.”

“He’s not?” Gwen asked, looking up again.

“My best guess would be that he is what is known as a shade—a tormented soul summoned from the world of the dead. One would need to visit one of the Five Gateways to perform the ritual, and one such can be found in the Feorre Mountains, namely the Pool of Nemhain.”

Merlin frowned. “What does that mean for Lancelot? If it is his soul that has been summoned, is he not then himself?”

“Not quite. Shades cannot recall their past lives and their will is not their own. They are fully under the command of whoever summoned them.”

“Morgana,” Gwaine guessed.

“Has to be,” Merlin agreed. “She probably couldn’t stand the thought of Gwen taking ‘her’ place as queen. What I don’t understand is how Lancelot could have entered the citadel if his intent was to sabotage the wedding on Morgana’s orders. Surely my magic would recognise this as an attempt to hurt both Gwen and Arthur, albeit emotionally?”

“Your magic?” Alice asked, and was thus treated to an abridged explanation of exactly how Merlin had “lost” his magic and what effects it had had on the citadel in his absence. When the explanation concluded, she looked at Merlin with a newfound admiration. “Your spell sounds powerful indeed, and under normal circumstances it might have prevented this from happening, but shades do not, strictly speaking, have intentions of their own. They obey their masters blindly and do not act on impulses outside of what is needed to follow their orders to the best of their ability. Perhaps this allowed him to slip through the net.”

“Maybe,” Gwen said slowly, “or maybe he believed he was acting with good intentions. If Morgana is aware of the limitations of the protection on the citadel and Lancelot could not remember his past life, who’s to say that she did not tell him that I was secretly in love with him and that it would be for the best if the wedding was broken off to prevent an unhappy marriage. He could have thought that he was helping, in a strange, roundabout way.”

Merlin bit thoughtfully at his thumbnail. “Could be. Either way, Arthur needs to be told; this changes everything.”

“It changes nothing. I still kissed Lancelot. It hardly matters if he was fully himself or not; I was, strange as it seems.”

Alice hummed and cocked her head. “Did Lancelot give you anything at all? Something to eat or drink or wear?”

The question took Gwen aback and she blinked in confusion a couple of times before saying, “He did not feed me anything, unless he snuck something into my food without me noticing. What do you mean by ‘wear?’ Like clothing?”

“Or jewellery. A ribbon for your hair. Anything.”

Her eyes widened. “He gave me a bracelet. He said he had gotten it from the people who found and cared for him after he woke up.”

“Do you have it? May I see it?” Alice asked eagerly.

“No… I took it off after everything happened—threw it into a corner of my cell and left it there. I don’t know what happened to it afterwards.”

Gwaine frowned, his already…complex emotions about Arthur souring further. “He threw you into the dungeons?”

“Only for an hour or so,” she replied in a more defensive tone than Gwaine felt that Arthur strictly deserved at this point.

Merlin looked to Alice. “You think the bracelet was enchanted?”

“Without examining it myself, I cannot say for certain, but it sounds highly likely.” She turned back to Gwen. “I do not know you well, my lady, but—”

“I’m not a lady,” Gwen said bitterly, “and now I never will be.”

“—but by the sound of it neither you nor your friends would have thought you capable of betraying your betrothed before this. I am inclined to believe it as well. If the bracelet can be found, Gaius would be able to tell whether it was responsible for your actions or not. Perhaps your wedding day is but postponed; you may be queen yet.”

“You really think so?” she asked, tearful anew and seemingly struggling to rein in hope in fear that it would prove false. She reached beneath the folds of her cloak to grasp at something around the height of her collarbones.

“We just have to find that bracelet,” Merlin reassured her. “I would wager anything that Morgana is to blame for this mess, not you.”

“I will return to Camelot at first light and start the search,” Elyan said resolutely. “We’ll convince Arthur that this was all a horrible mistake and have you back in Camelot in no time.”

“And Lancelot? What happened to him?” Merlin asked.

“Imprisoned. Arthur had not yet passed sentence by the time we had to leave.”

“Could he be questioned—made to confess what he has done?”

Alice shook her head. “Unless Morgana is a fool, her orders will prevent him from revealing the truth, and no means of persuasion could overrule her command.”

“Maybe Gaius could at least prove that he’s a shade? That ought to lend some credence to Gwen’s innocence.”

“Perhaps.”

“And then what?” Gwen asked. “Can he be…cured? Become himself again?”

After a second’s hesitation, Alice gently said, “Not to my knowledge. Bringing a soul back even as a shade of its former self requires a powerful feat of necromancy. To then take a shade and bring their twisted soul back fully… As far as I know, it has never been done.”

Disappointment settled over the group, but Merlin was first to brush it off and jump into planning instead. “Maybe Gaius can find something in his books. We’ll write to him and ask him to do some research and explain the situation to Arthur while Elyan conducts the search for the bracelet. Gwen, if you could make a drawing of the bracelet as best you can from memory, that might be of help. Mother, could you bring out some parchment? Gwaine, if you could give us a bit of light?”

Gwaine blinked himself out of his grim contemplations and looked over to where Merlin was joining Hunith in setting up the writing implements on the dining table. Meeting Merlin’s eyes, Gwaine recognised his request for what it was: a way to make him feel at all useful in this situation instead of just standing on the sidelines, stewing in the feeling of impotence. He could not bring himself to resent being so easily read or muster any annoyance at being coddled, however. Truth was, he did welcome the distraction. Besides, it gave him a chance to practise his newfound talents and show off a bit in front of Elyan and Gwen.

He gave Merlin a nod, then closed his eyes in concentration. His hand drifted to the girdle at his waist, as it so often did when he attempted a spell. He found that the spark of power he could sense in the band helped him attune himself to seeking out the same feeling within himself and the world around them, though these days it was becoming increasingly easy even without that aid.

As soon as he had found the vibrating current of energy that he was looking for, he raised his hand, holding it palm-up in front of him as he whispered, “Leohtcliowen!” and did his best to redirect the flow of magic through himself and into a focused point just above his palm.

He was beyond pleased to have the spell succeed on his first attempt. Though it flickered for a second before stabilising, a ball of light formed in his hand, contrasting the warm glow of the fire with its cold, white light. With some further concentration, he sent it across the room to hover over the table where Merlin, Alice and Gwen were now bent over the parchment, discussing how best to phrase their letter.

Merlin glanced up at the glowing orb with the mixture of wonder and wistfulness that watching Gwaine perform magic always seemed to inspire in him, but when he looked over at Gwaine to thank him with a nod, there was only pride and gratitude in his expression.

The light flared a bit brighter for a second in response. Gwaine was still unused to people actually being proud of him. Before he first came to Camelot, he had not done much to make himself deserving of such regard, and despite being subjected to it quite regularly after throwing his lot in with Merlin, it still felt a little foreign.

It felt good, though. Very good. Almost as good as the feeling of the magic itself. Only in the heat of battle and the game of seduction had he experienced the sort of rush that he felt when he succeeded in channelling a spell. It was also nice to feel like he had a talent for something other than the old hitting-people-with-a-sword-until-they-stopped-moving trick. Sure, he got to use that ability for good every now and again, but he had never before had a skill that felt as constructive as magic did, especially the healing spells.

Gwen gasped when she saw the light, staring at it first in surprise and then delight before turning to Gwaine with a smile as bright as she could manage given her fragile state. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

Gwaine tried to hide the effect the compliment had on him behind a roguish grin. “It’s only a reflection of all the beauty in this room.” He gave her and Merlin a wink each, and they both rolled their eyes. “Shame Elyan is here to bring down the average of all our combined good looks.”

Predictably, this earned him a punch to the shoulder. “Oi!”

Gwaine just laughed. He went to take a seat on one of the benches around the fire and was joined by Elyan and Hunith as the others returned their focus to the mission. His own attention was split between keeping the light going and participating in conversation; a good exercise for both his control over his magic and his general power of concentration (which, to be quite frank, often left much to be desired).

“So… You really went and learned magic, huh?” Elyan asked, also looking over at the light above the table.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” replied Gwaine. “Sure, you were here when I first lit that candle.”

“And I was there to see you fail to do it again a dozen times. This is a far cry from lighting a wick.”

“Things have been moving much faster since Alice started teaching me. Unlike Merlin, she knows what it’s like to start from nothing.”

“She says our Gwaine is a very prodigious and diligent student,” added Hunith, beaming with her signature motherly pride that usually made Gwaine want to either start weeping or go back in time to replace his own mother with her. Not that his mother had been all that terrible, but Hunith really was something else.

Elyan raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Really?”

“Doubt me, do you?”

“No, I— I mean, obviously you’ve learned much in only three months.” He gestured to the ball of light. “I just have a hard time imagining you bent over a book, you know, actually studying.”

Gwaine snorted. “Oh, aye, I’m grateful that neither Merlin nor Alice managed to bring any books on the subject here. Worst I have to deal with is the occasional longer lecture from Alice which I do my best to stay awake throughout.”

“Sometimes failing,” Hunith interjected with an amused smile.

“I blame the harvest. How am I supposed to concentrate on a monologue about the theory of magic after a full day out in the fields?”

“I’m not sure I buy that excuse,” Elyan laughed. “You start snoozing the second Leon starts his lessons on troop movements.”

“So do you; it’s Leon we’re talking about.”

“…Fair.”

“Luckily, I have Merlin to remember everything she says and remind me later,” Gwaine said, sending a fond look Merlin’s way (which went completely unnoticed by its recipient, occupied as he was). “But most of the lessons are much more practical, thank the gods, and I don’t mind drilling the exercises until they stick. Feels bloody amazing when you get a spell right, so it does. Hopefully, I’ll get more time to practise come winter.”

It would be grand to have something to busy himself with during the colder months when work around the village slowed down a bit compared to the harvest frenzy. It was either magic or let Merlin teach him to spin. Oh! Perhaps he could get Alice to secretly teach him that trick of keeping the spindle turning as a nice surprise for Merlin.

Elyan nodded, and they fell silent for a while, watching the others sort out the letter. Having been distracted by the arrival of their surprise guests, Hunith finally got started preparing dinner for them all, and Gwaine diverted a bit more attention to steadying the floating light, which had flickered a little every now and then while he had been distracted talking. He would have to work on that.

After some time, he asked Elyan, “Do you think we’ll be able to pull this off?” He kept his voice low so as not to travel over to the group at the table. He wanted Elyan’s honest opinion, not what the man thought his sister needed to hear.

“I think so, as long as I can track down that bracelet. If not… I don’t know if just proving that Lancelot is a shade will be enough. After everything that has happened, Arthur sees traitors everywhere. I fear it might cloud his judgement even when it comes to Gwen. I’m sure he loves her, despite it all; but we’ll still need to find irrefutable proof that the kiss itself was forced, or it won’t matter who she gave it to.”

Gwaine swore under his breath. “Bloody mess altogether. He’s a fool to think she’d ever hurt him like that. I mean, look at her; she’s kindness and loyalty incarnate.”

“It…probably doesn’t help that we went to visit you without telling him first, back in summer,” Elyan said, wincing.

“He give you shite for it when he found out?”

“Not too bad, just had me muck out the stables a couple of times. He seemed mostly resigned at the time, but now I can’t help but wonder if it will be held against her. You may not be as publicly banished as she is, but you’re still technically traitors to the crown, even if hardly anyone knows it.”

“Right so. The most dangerous traitors imaginable,” Gwaine grunted. “If he minds so much, why’d he let you escort her here? Hell, why not banish you too, just in case your loyalties are divided?”

“He’s not that far gone.” Elyan hesitated a second before confessing, “I offered Gwen to stay here with her, you know. Follow her into exile.”

“Really?” Gwaine asked, genuinely surprised to hear it.

“After some thinking, yeah. When I heard what she’d done, I was shocked and disappointed in her at first, but then I asked myself if there might not be more to the story. I mean, she was adamant that she had actually done it, but she was so broken up about it that I started questioning if this wasn’t just another case of Arthur banishing the wrong person. It’s starting to become a pattern with him. ‘Course, I couldn’t have guessed all this was going on—” Here he gestured to the group around the table. “—but I had my doubts about whether I should stand by my sister rather than the king who keeps pushing away his most loyal friends and sending them into exile.”

“Let me guess: she wouldn’t hear of it?”

“Of course not. She said Arthur needed friends like me now more than ever and that she would feel better knowing that I was there to protect him. Reminded me of my oath of fealty too.”

“Right, that old pox.”

Elyan shook his head with a wry smile. “Some of us do put a bit more stock in that sort of thing than you, Gwaine.”

“Oh, I put stock in it, all right, just so long as I remain sure I gave it to the right person. Come Beltane, I’ll make another vow, and that one I do intend to honour.”

“I don’t doubt it. But Gwen is right. Arthur needs all the friends he can get if he’s not to end up a sitting duck for his actual enemies—or grow bitter and suspicious until he turns into another Uther. If by standing by him I can prevent that, then I’ll do it.”

“You still think you can change him too, eh?”

“It’s getting harder to keep faith, I’ll admit, but I still have it. You know no one’s been executed for sorcery since you left, right? Well, one or two sorcerers have been executed, but only because they committed other capital crimes as well. The rest have been let go due to lack of evidence or banished if they were found guilty.”

“Doesn’t exactly constitute a repeal of the ban, though, does it?” Gwaine muttered. “And according to Gaius’ letters, he’s not actually rewritten the law declaring all magic punishable by death.”

A law that would see Merlin banished regardless of whether he killed the king or just heated his bathwater was still unjust. Hell, it would see Gwaine banished. Fuck, but sometimes he plain forgot that he was the one hiding the fact that he was a sorcerer these days, not Merlin.

“No, but it’s a step in the right direction, don’t you think?”

Gwaine considered this, letting his gaze wander from Merlin (banished for attempting to save Arthur’s father) to Alice (on the run from a death sentence for a crime she committed while possessed) and finally to Gwen (banished for being magically coerced into kissing a man mysteriously risen from the dead). With this precedent, it was difficult to consider it a step forward for some random sorcerer to also be banished just for making their bread rise perfectly—or whatever other innocuous act they had been caught in.

“We can only hope,” he said grimly.

Unfortunately, his own hope that Camelot was on a path leading anywhere but to disaster was wearing thinner by the day.

Chapter Text

Gwen’s stay in Ealdor turned from a couple of days into a week, then from a week into longer than Merlin really cared to keep count of. Elyan’s first report from Camelot had been discouraging, as were all those that followed. He had not yet been able to locate the bracelet suspected of robbing Gwen of her will, and apparently Lancelot the Shade had escaped custody only hours after Gwen and Elyan had left Camelot. What was more, he had liberated Agravaine the Toad from the improvised prison that was the old leech tank before fleeing the city with him.

It worried Merlin to no end that Morgana had found a workaround to not only smuggle a saboteur into the castle but also smuggle another out of it. Who knew what other tricks she might be cooking up that would allow her to sidestep the protections he had placed on the citadel? How long would it be before she figured out a way to break the defences entirely?

He kept wondering if he could have prevented Gwen’s banishment if he had stayed at Camelot. Could he have found the bracelet and proven Gwen’s innocence, or even noticed its power before it could do any harm? Would he have seen Lancelot for what he was in time to do something about it? Could he have saved him if he had still had his magic? Gaius’ letters stated that he had found no precedent for a shade turning back into their old self again, but there was still an insinuation posing the question, Who knows? If a warlock of unprecedented power was to make an attempt at an unprecedented feat…?

That thought was almost enough to convince Merlin to return to Camelot and try to reclaim his magic. If it could bring Lancelot back… But Lancelot was not in Camelot anymore. To make such an attempt, he would first have to locate the fugitive shade, and that meant seeking out Morgana, more likely than not. The whole business would turn from helping a friend into a continuation of the destiny he had tried to put behind him, unavoidably pulling him back into the fight, and he did not know that he was ready for that.

What if he got his magic back but found that his command of it had weakened from months of disuse? What if he got it back and then learned that even his full power could not achieve the things he needed it for in the first place? What if he got it back only to immediately collapse under the pressure of it all, falling right back into the excruciating fatigue he had spent so long trying to recover from?

Perhaps most dauntingly of all: what if he got it back and nothing was different? What if he just got swept up in destiny again and was forced to keep doing his work from the sidelines because Arthur still would not accept his magic? What if he went back to trying to protect everyone he loved from every possible danger fate might throw at them, only to keep losing them one by one because it was foretold or because he misinterpreted a prophecy or because he could not be everywhere at once? What if things just went on like that—on and on and on—and nothing fucking changed except for the worse? How was he supposed to bear it?

“I thought I might find you here,” Gwen said, startling him out of his thoughts as she came up behind him.

Merlin turned to glance over his shoulder but did not get up from his seat on the trunk of the fallen tree he had been occupying for… Oh, for hours, apparently, judging by the light. It had definitely not been this dim when he had first wandered off into the forest, ostensibly on the hunt for juniper berries to refill their stock. In truth, what he had been seeking was somewhere to think without causing anyone who saw his expression to worry that the world was ending.

“Did you, now?” he asked, trying his level best to force his mouth into something at least resembling a smile.

“Well, Gwaine did,” Gwen confessed, “and he told me to bring you a cloak if I went to find you. He thought you might be getting cold if you were sitting still in this weather.”

Merlin’s forced smile turned a little softer and more genuine. He had not been fooling anyone with his juniper excuse, it would seem. He was grateful that he had at least been given some time to himself before having someone sent after him to bring him home. Gwen did not appear to be in a hurry to do so, however, for she took a seat beside him on the log after handing him the cloak, pulling her own tightly around her.

“This is Gwaine’s cloak,” Merlin commented, for lack of anything better to say. He wrapped the green cloth around himself all the same.

“He says it’s better than the shoddy one you brought from Camelot. He’s still sulking about you not letting him get you a new one.”

“Mine is still perfectly serviceable!” Merlin protested. “And I let him pay for the fabric for my new tunic. Hasn’t he spoiled me enough?” He stuck his arm out from under the cloak and waved his sleeve around to emphasise his point. The blue wool had kept him toasty enough that he had barely noticed the evening chill descending on him as the sun started setting, even though he had been sitting still. He still welcomed the cloak, though. It smelled like Gwaine (somewhere beneath the scent of woodsmoke that inevitably perfumed all their clothing).

Gwen chuckled and shook her head fondly. “He’ll never get tired of spoiling you, and you know it. I won’t be surprised if he gifts you a new cloak for Yule, whether you like it or not.”

“And I suppose he’ll rope you into doing the stitching on that too, just like the tunic?”

“I volunteered, I’ll have you know, and I will again.”

“You two conspire against me at every turn, don’t you?” he grumbled in mock annoyance. “I bet mother is in on it too.”

“Oh yes, we meet every midnight to plot schemes to keep you warm and cosy. Then we cackle wickedly and drink the blood of babies from the skulls of our previous victims who died of overheating from all the layers of clothing we forced them into.”

“I knew it! Well, I’ll have my revenge somehow. Take this!” He shuffled closer to her and lifted the edge of his cloak so he could wrap it and his arm around her shoulders.

“No! Not the shared body heat!” she laughed, leaning into his embrace. “You are a cruel, cruel man, Merlin.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

The playful atmosphere fell away to be replaced with a contemplative one as they settled into their little cocoon of warmth, content to just sit there in silence for a while.

“Gwaine didn’t send you out here just to warm me up, did he?” Merlin finally asked.

Gwen shook her head against his shoulder. “He knows what day it is.”

Of course he did. All three of them had grown more pensive in the week since Samhain, silently counting down the days to the anniversary.

“I miss him. He would’ve had something sage and vaguely poetic to say about this whole predicament, I’m sure.”

“And then he’d round it off with something self-deprecating,” Gwen sighed. “He…he told me once that meeting me had given him something to live for. I wonder sometimes if that’s why he sacrificed himself—because I took that reason away by choosing Arthur.”

Merlin tightened his arm around her shoulders. “He made that choice for you by leaving after Hengist. As for why he sacrificed himself… Narrowing down the dependence of your whole existence to the happiness of one person is no way to live; ask me how I know. I was prepared to make the same sacrifice for Arthur and the vague ideal of the kingdom I was told he was going to build. It was my destiny to protect him, and I was willing to give my life to fulfil it. I’d like to think that Lancelot did what he did not only for you, but for Arthur, me, and for all of Camelot. That motivation is probably leagues better than blindly going along with what some old dragon and a couple of druids made me believe was all I was good for, don’t you think? Either way, it’s hardly your fault.”

She sniffled as she contemplated this. “Maybe… I just wish none of you had to make that sacrifice. Why is it always the people I love most who get into these situations in the first place?” she lamented.

“Because you have a type. Arthur, Lancelot, me. We all fit it to a tee.”

“Oh? Pray tell, what do you all have in common besides self-sacrificial tendencies?”

“We’re all ‘real rough, tough, save-the-world kind of men,’” Merlin whispered theatrically, playfully bumping his knee against Gwen’s. “Strapping heroes like us tend to attract trouble.”

It took a second for the callback to ring a bell, but when it did, Gwen snorted. “You’re terrible.”

“You’re not denying it.”

“I wish I could, but lately you’ve gone and turned all— That is to say, you’ve become sort of, uh, solid. Oh, no… Forget I said that! Besides, it’s not like you were like this back when we first met— Not that I’m saying you weren’t—! Gods, save me…”

She buried her face in her hands as he laughed merrily, all his sorrows momentarily forgotten as he delighted in the reminder of their younger days when he had been a lanky young sorcerer new to life in the big city and she had been a kind-hearted lady’s maid with a propensity to talk herself into endearingly awkward circles.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell Gwaine about how appealing you find my new, brawny, muscular self,” he teased.

“I wouldn’t go that far. And he’d probably just be happy to have someone to ogle you with. Which I haven’t! Ogled, that is. I’ve just…noticed. Because it’s noticeable. Not that I’m saying it’s noteworthy—nor that it isn’t, it’s just— I’ll stop talking now.”

“It’s all right, Gwen,” he chuckled. “I know you like them blonder these days.”

“And still unattainable,” she replied morosely.

“We don’t know that.”

“It’s been a month and a half. If Elyan has not found the bracelet by now, he never will, and Arthur will not accept my innocence without it.”

“Elyan’s letters said that Arthur was willing to hear him and Gaius out, especially after Lancelot’s suspicious disappearance.”

“They also said that Arthur is half-convinced they’re making the story up because they feel sorry for me. Letting them go on with the investigation doesn’t mean he won’t need it to yield proof—proof which cannot be found.”

“Hasn’t been found—yet.”

She shook her head in resignation and sniffled. “Or ever. We may have to make our peace with that eventuality. Perhaps it is for the best. The council was never happy with his decision to marry a commoner, anyway.”

“Bugger the council! You and Arthur are destined for each other; who cares what other people think?”

“I thought we had established that what is destined is not always what is best for the people involved, nor something that is certain to come true.”

Merlin bit his tongue as he found himself verging on the brink of actually arguing in favour of destiny despite it all. “Then forget destiny. What’s important is that you two love each other and want to be together. Don’t give up hope; it might happen yet.”

“I haven’t, but… Hope is painful, Merlin. I can’t help but wonder if it would have been better not to know that I might be innocent—if it would have hurt less to accept that I made a mistake and simply had to learn to live with the consequences.”

“No,” he said decisively. “Guilt is no easier to bear than hope, even when you fear it will prove false. You deserve to know that you’re not to blame.”

“Is this another ‘ask me how I know’ thing?”

Yes, he thought, but said nothing as he was not in the mood to actually be asked about it. He just held her a little closer and dropped a kiss to the top of her head. To his relief, she did not press him but leaned into the embrace, reaching up to grasp at the hand he was resting on her shoulder under the cloak.

They stayed like this in wistful but companionable silence until it had grown so dark as to make the short trek back to Ealdor through the forest slightly precarious.

Chapter Text

“Another letter from Elyan?” Merlin asked as he entered the cottage, finally returned home from the birth he and Alice had assisted at. Judging by the smile on his face, it had gone well.

Gwaine looked up from the parchment he had been staring at for far too long. “Gwen got one from Elyan—no progress to report, as usual—but this is from Percival.” He rubbed at his tired eyes. Summoning light through magic was cheaper and brighter than candles, but it also strained the eyes. He ought to ask Alice if she knew how to alter the spell to make the light a bit warmer.

Merlin peered over his shoulder. “Wrote it himself this time, huh?”

“You’re right, there. His hand is getting more legible, though. Sure, it only took me an hour to decode the whole thing.”

“Say anything interesting?”

“Very. Apparently he was possessed for a bit. Elyan too.”

“What?” Merlin snatched the letter out of his hands and skimmed it, but he soon held it out for Gwaine to take back. “Read it to me? Might take me another hour otherwise.”

Gwaine obliged, turning around in his seat by the workbench and leaning back against it with one of his elbows resting on the tabletop. While he read aloud from the letter, Merlin set about unpacking his medicine bag as he listened to the recounting of the story.

According to Percival, their patrol had stumbled over a druid shrine, which Elyan had unwittingly disturbed, thus releasing a restless spirit that had latched on to him. Unable to enter the citadel, the spirit had made Elyan invent some excuse to remain in his family’s old house in the lower town, where he had later lured Arthur in an attempt to kill him. Arthur had succeeded in overpowering him, however, and Elyan had been apprehended. When the knights who were taking him to the dungeons had crossed into the protection of the citadel, dragging Elyan with them, the spirit had been expelled and fled into the nearest available vessel, namely Percival, in whose body it had then fled the city. Fortunately, witnesses had glimpsed the spirit as it switched bodies, thus lending credence to Elyan’s claims that he had not acted of his own volition, and Arthur had focused on pursuing Percival instead, tracking him back to the shrine. There, Arthur repentance for the raid on the druid camp which had once stood at the site had appeased the spirit, letting it find peace.

All this was fairly standard for the adventure-prone Knights of Camelot and might have registered to Gwaine and Merlin as nothing more than a thrilling story to tell around the campfire, had it not been for Percival’s description of Arthur’s atonement.

“He really said that he would stop the persecution of the druids?” Merlin asked when Gwaine had finished his reading.

“That’s what it says.”

Merlin processed this for a while, absently chewing on the nail of his thumb as he thought, making Gwaine very much hope that he had washed his hands extremely well after seeing his patient. “And yet…there’s no mention of any change to the laws banning magic.”

“I’m sure Percy would have opened with that if that was the case.”

Merlin’s hands fell to his sides, repeatedly clenching into fists and relaxing again. A muscle in his jaw jumped as he looked off into the middle distance, lost in thought.

Gwaine leaned forward, resting his arms against his knees as he looked up at his betrothed, trying to guess at what was going through his mind. “You don’t think it’s a step in the right direction?” he asked, parroting Elyan’s words, more to prompt Merlin into speaking than to express an opinion of his own.

“I guess. Maybe I should be happy…”

“...but?”

Merlin sighed—or perhaps it would be more accurately called a frustrated huff—his hands now stuck in their clenched positions. “But what difference does this promise to ‘treat the druid people with respect’ actually make if he does not also repeal the ban? Does he mean to let them roam freely throughout the kingdom as long as they swear off magic? That’s not how this works.”

“Do all druids have magic?”

“I’m sure some have less aptitude for it than others, and of course they sometimes take in people in need with no magical background whatsoever, but what distinguishes them from Albion’s other nomadic peoples is the fact that they still follow the Old Religion.”

“Which requires them to use magic?” Gwaine asked, struck by the realisation that, for all his travels and run-ins with people from all sorts of places and walks of life, he actually knew very little of the druids.

Merlin shook his head. “The Old Religion is magic, and you don’t follow it as much as you’re sort of…part of it, and it of you. To follow it is to engage with the magical essence that binds the world together—to draw from it, nourish it and protect it. It is possible to also practise it in the more literal, religious sense through rituals and prayers to the gods, but every act of magic, however small, means taking part of the Old Religion, even your little light there.”

“Huh. Never saw myself as the religious type, but there’s a first time for anything. Doesn’t make me a druid, though, does it?”

“No, the druids are just a subgroup of practitioners. They have their own traditions and rites that they observe as part of preserving the balance of the world and connecting with the earth and the gods. That’s what Arthur doesn’t seem to understand; you can’t separate the druids from the Old Religion, and you can’t separate the Old Religion from magic! To say that you will allow one but not the other is pure ignorance!”

Gwaine nodded slowly. “You’re angry at him.”

Merlin visibly forced himself to relax his shoulders. “I’m…disappointed in him. He may think he’s making some sort of grand, magnanimous gesture by declaring that the druids deserve respect, but he’s not actually giving it to them.”

“Which makes you angry.”

“I— Frustrated, maybe.”

Rising from the stool and putting the letter down on the workbench, Gwaine approached Merlin. “No. I think you’re angry, and I think you need to say it. Come Yule, it will have been almost nine months since we left Camelot, and in all that time you’ve never once actually admitted that you’re mad at Arthur—mad at destiny, perhaps, but not Arthur—and I think you bloody well should be.”

“Airing my grievances won’t change anything. There’s no point.”

“Of course there is!” Gwaine laid his hands on Merlin’s shoulders. “The point is to get it out of your system so you can make room for better things. Ever since Gwen got here, you’ve gone all broody again. It’s doing you no good, stewing in these feelings, so let them out and let them stay out.” When Merlin still seemed unconvinced by this, Gwaine added, “G’wan, you never had trouble complaining about him back in Camelot. Let’s start small: name-calling, maybe?”

Merlin raised an eyebrow. “So just calling him a prat, or what?”

“Sure, he is one. What else?”

“A…dollop-head?”

“Come on, you can do worse than that.”

The corner of Merlin’s mouth twitched in begrudging amusement. “Very well. Arthur is…an ignorant, spoiled, small-minded, oblivious, thick-headed, stubborn ass.”

Gwaine grinned. “Right so, now we’re getting somewhere. And why is he all these things?”

“Because he’s stupid enough to think Gwen could ever willingly betray him. Because he’s cruel enough to banish her from the only home she’s ever known. Because he’d rather they both be miserable instead of accepting Lancelot’s shady actions as proof enough that something’s not right.”

“And this makes you feel—what?”

“Angry.” Merlin’s shoulders slumped for a second before he took a deep breath and squared them, meeting Gwaine’s eyes with renewed determination. “I’m angry at Arthur for treating Gwen like this. I’m angry that he still refuses to really listen. I’m angry that he’s doing the absolute bare minimum—or less, even—yet thinks himself so much more progressive than his father. I’m angry that he banished us just to soothe his pride even though we had already left Camelot. I’m angry that he suggested I go back to lift the spell and live a half-life for the rest of my days, suppressing my magic!”

Gwaine let his hands drop from Merlin’s shoulders as he got more and more worked up, and he soon started pacing as he continued his rant.

“I’m angry at him for working me to the bone and not even realising it. I’m angry that getting him to admit that we were friends was like pulling teeth. I’m angry at him for— for telling me that my father was not worth my tears after he died in my arms! And I’m bloody furious at him for acting like I hurt him by practising magic when he’s spent years participating in his father’s genocide of my people—of our people—while I had to pretend to support the slaughter of my own kind, knowing that I would be next if I protested too loudly or was ever found out!”

“He said that about your father?” Gwaine asked, shocked.

Merlin faltered in his pacing, sighing as he said, “He didn’t know Balinor was my father—still doesn’t, unless Gaius has told him—but yes. It was a misguided attempt to cheer me up.”

“In what world would that—?”

Merlin did not seem to really hear him. “And I’m angry at myself for still making excuses for him. For the longest time, I’ve blamed destiny for the fact that I’ve been forced to treat every problem in Camelot like my responsibility and for making it my duty to guide Arthur onto the path to becoming a great king—but Arthur’s shortcomings aren’t my fault, are they? Why should it be seen as my failing that he’s still acting like a prick? Yes, his father really did a number on him, but at some point it becomes a choice to listen to the advice of a dead, bigoted madman rather than to one’s friends. I mean, for fuck’s sake, how hard is it really to realise that persecuting a whole people just because they can do laundry with their minds is maybe not actually the sort of thing the good guys would do?!”

Merlin concluded this harangue with an incredulous sweeping gesture and a wild look in his eyes as he turned to Gwaine for answers.

Gwaine did not know that he had any to offer—not any particularly profound ones, anyway. All he could do was nod and say, “Hear, hear!” inwardly cursing the ordeal Merlin had been through for the millionth time. It made him want to take the name of deities still unknown to man in vain. How Merlin had not yet gone absolutely barking mad was truly a miracle.

Merlin opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself. He closed his eyes and inhaled and exhaled slowly a couple of times before looking up again. “Right. So maybe I am a bit angry,” he said.

“Yeah, love. I’d say.”

“Probably should have let all that out sooner, huh?” When Gwaine inclined his head in agreement, Merlin added, “I just…don’t know what to do with it. With the anger.”

“At this point? Nothing.”

That answer seemed to surprise him. “Nothing?”

Gwaine shook his head. “Nothing. The reason we’re in this mess at all is that you’ve had to do everything up until now, and you’ve done all that you possibly can—both when it comes to your destiny and helping Gwen with her situation. All that’s left to do is sit back and wait to see if Arthur steps up to take responsibility for the consequences of his own actions—and inaction. That’s why we left in the first place, isn’t it? To let you rest while he puts in the work, for once?”

“I— Yeah. You’re right.” Merlin sighed and rubbed at his eyes wearily. “It’s just been hard to watch Gwen suffer. Can’t keep from thinking there’s something I should do to help…”

“You have.” Gwaine reached out to catch one of Merlin’s hands in his own, interlacing their fingers. “You helped Alice figure out what was amiss with Lancelot, you wrote to Gaius with advice, and you’ve been there for Gwen every day since. She isn’t suffering because you’ve failed to help her; she’s coping because you have helped her by making sure she has a home where she’s surrounded by friends who love her and believe in her innocence. If Arthur doesn’t pull his head out of his arse and take her back, then it proves he was never worthy of her in the first place, and if he does own up to his mistakes, then the problem is solved. Neither possibility becomes more likely to come true by brooding over it.”

Merlin huffed and squeezed his hand. “When did you become such an expert in mindfulness?”

“I’ve known a lot of men in my day who clung on to anger way past its usefulness—been one too at times. It’s no way to live, so heed my advice and let it out.”

“You literally punched Cynan in the nose only last week.”

“Eh, sometimes you let the anger out through your fists,” Gwaine said with a shrug. “He called you a catamite, I gave him a wallop, and now we’ve put it behind us—easy as you like.”

“Guess that explains why looked so sheepish while I helped set his nose,” Merlin chuckled, shaking his head. “So what you’re saying is that I should give Arthur a clip round the ear next time we meet?”

“Or the bollocks, if you like. Until then, don’t dwell on him more than he deserves. You have your own life to live.”

Merlin contemplated this for a moment. Finally, without breaking eye-contact, he raised Gwaine’s hand to his lips and pressed a light kiss to his knuckles. “Very well. You know, I should have started taking advice from you much sooner instead of going to a thousand-year-old dragon for counsel. It might have been cathartic to have tried to punch Arthur at least one more time before leaving Camelot.”

“You’ve actually done it before?”

“Oh, have I never told you how we met?” Merlin asked, batting his eyes innocently.

A gleeful grin spread across Gwaine’s face as he gawked at his enigma of a lover. “No, but you’re going to, right now. Tell me everything!”

Merlin laughed, looking more at ease than he had in months.