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“Merlin.”
Merlin turns his head, murmuring something he hopes comes out as, “Give me a minute,” or even, “Go away, I’m sleeping.” It clearly doesn’t work, because a hand comes to shake his shoulder. A page rustles under Merlin’s cheek, unlike the pillow he was expecting; he looks up disorientedly.
“Merlin, the prince is on campus,” says Elyan, fond but seemingly distressed by Merlin’s ineptitude to wake up at what Elyan calls normal times and what Merlin calls the middle of the night.
“So?” Merlin asks, but is willing to concede the point enough that he groggily sits up. Sunlight falls through the window, streaking across Merlin’s legs and warming them. “I told you, I’m not interested—”
“Kilgharrah doesn’t care whether you’re interested or not,” Elyan interrupts him. “He specifically told you to be there, and if you’re not leaving right this minute, he’s going to put you in charge of cleaning duty for a week—”
Cleaning duty isn’t the end of the world, because Merlin tends to be a pretty efficient cleaner now that he’s learnt about fifty-seven cleaning spells (a natural consequence of sharing his uni accommodation with Gwaine, he’s found), but it will take precious time away from studying that Merlin can’t afford to lose.
“I’m going, I’m going,” he says, rolling out of his bed to quickly grab his clothes. Elyan offers him a thermos full of coffee, and Merlin presses a friendly kiss to his cheek for the gift—Elyan just sputters and watches Merlin run out of the apartment.
~*~
He’s one of five students being presented to His Royal Horrendousness, Prince Arthur Pendragon, first of his name, and by all accounts, royal clotpole. It’s supposed to be a great honour, but as Merlin nearly crashes into Kilgharrah, he thinks it’s mostly a pain in the arse. Kilgharrah raises an eyebrow at him.
“Am I too late?” Merlin asks, only because this will affect the letter of reference Kilgharrah will write for him if Merlin’s really going to go for that PhD in Magical Neo-Linguistics. It’s specifically focused on creating your own language for spells and it is notably very hard to get a spot.
“Nearly,” Kilgharrah says, and plants him in between Gilli and Mordred. “His Royal Highness is settling in. I expect all of you to be on your best behaviour and answer any and all questions he has for you. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
It is, really; Arthur Pendragon, recently graduated from Camlott University, is taking a more active role in the Royal Household. Therefore, he needs a personal sorcerer-slash-assistant who will, eventually, become the Court Sorcerer of England. Thirty years ago, Nimueh had been chosen from this very place, Albion University, to become Uther’s own sorcerer, and she has held the position of Court Sorcerer ever since then.
And now it is Arthur’s turn. It is an opportunity granted to only a few, the best of the best, the cream of the crop: it’s just that Merlin is utterly uninterested at the idea of slaving for the monarchy.
“How long will this take?” Merlin asks and receives another deadly stare from Kilgharrah. “It’s just, I’m supposed to give a presentation during Theoretical Abjuration today—”
The door creaks open, and an unfairly handsome man appears, smiling slightly at the sight of the five sorcerers standing at the ready. “His Royal Highness is ready for the interviews for the first round, Headmaster Kilgharrah,” he says.
“Thank you, Lancelot,” Kilgharrah says, his voice bordering on snide, and pushes Merlin forward. “I have the perfect candidate here for you.”
Merlin’s forced to walk forwards, ignoring the stares of his fellow pupils. He knows he’s Kilgharrah’s favourite for this position, for whatever reason—he just doesn’t like the idea of playing a device of destiny, or whatever Kilgharrah wants to call it.
The prince has taken up one of the oldest offices in Albion University: it’s made of dark wood, lovely and whispering to Merlin with the protective enchantments once placed on it. Prince Arthur sits behind a desk, his hands folded together neatly and his lips pressed together primly.
He is absolutely gorgeous, of course, but Merlin’s annoyance peaks at his haughty stare once he’s into the room.
“Thank you, Lancelot,” Arthur says, mimicking Kilgharrah’s words. “You can come back in ten minutes with the next participant, if you please.”
Lancelot bows his head in quiet acceptance and disappears. An old grandfather clock ticks; Merlin still stands there, probably looking rather defensive and—he’s only realising now—his thermo travel mug of coffee is still in his hand.
“Ten minutes?” Merlin asks, only remembering after he’s opened his mouth he’s probably supposed to say something like, Jolly good afternoon, Your Royal Highness, I’m all yours to command, even if he doesn’t mean it.
“Yes, and you’ve already wasted one standing up,” Prince Arthur tells him, gesturing towards the chair. Merlin wants to object, but then thinks about Kilgharrah standing in the other room and that reference letter he dearly needs, and sullenly sits down to sip his coffee.
“I suppose you only need ten minutes, don’t you?” Merlin says, thoughtfully. “Since it really isn’t a test of skill, but rather who’s best at sucking up to you. Which won’t be me, so—”
“I’m sorry,” Prince Arthur interrupts him, eyebrows raised. “You are—Merlin Emrys, aren’t you? The top student in his class? The one Kilgharrah recommended to me before I even came here—”
“Yeah, I don’t know why he did that,” Merlin says, shrugging. “I’m actually trying to get into this PhD programme—Magical Neo-Linguistics, you see. So I’m not really interested in getting the doubtful honour of cleaning up your messes. Honestly, in this day and age, do you still need a personal mage?”
Arthur looks more and more affronted with every word that pours out of Merlin’s mouth. “I’ll have you know that it’s a prestigious position—”
“Look, we both know you’re not going to pick me,” Merlin interrupts. “So can I just leave? I swear I won’t let Kilgharrah know that you don’t like me. I know his stares are imposing.”
“Why don’t you agree with my ten minutes?” Arthur asks, rather unexpectedly. “I know it’s short, but it’s also supposed to be about first impressions. And yours has been rather surprising, I’ll have you know.”
Merlin’s already half-risen from his chair, but he sits down again with some exasperation. “Well, it’s not really fair, is it?” he says. “You think you’re getting some impression in ten minutes, but we’re left trying to prove ourselves to some prince we don’t even know while trying to win the position most sorcerers can only distantly dream of getting. I’ve spent years with these students—I know Gilli will be absolutely in awe of you and stammer over his words, but really, he’s quite clever, and he’s good at defensive magic. And Gwen is fiercely protective, but she’s probably going to get your title wrong when she meets you. And you’ll just write them both off, because they’re nervous.”
“How do you know I’m going to judge them like that?” Arthur asks, the frown back on his face in full force.
Merlin sighs and gets up for real this time. “Because what other reason would you have for giving them only ten minutes?” he asks, smiling wryly, and walks out of the door.
~*~
Kilgharrah is waiting after Merlin comes out of his Philology course, which deals with Old English under Professor Gaius and is one of Merlin’s favourite courses. He’s always done better with synthetic languages as a rule—something about free word order and grammatical endings in the words themselves just makes more sense to him.
If he gets his position in Magical Neo-Linguistics, he’s going to try and base his new words on Old English, he thinks. He can sometimes feel the spells brew under his skin, more powerful and far more attuned to his magic than anything he is being taught in the other languages he knows, but it’s still not right.
He’s powerful, is the thing. The spells he’s being taught aren’t properly conducting that power, and it makes him feel awkward and wrongfooted at times. Magical Neo-Linguistics isn’t just his path towards being able to find new words to put magic into the world—it will make him so much more focused.
It will make him the strongest sorcerer to ever walk the Earth, in Kilgharrah’s words. So Merlin doesn’t understand why Kilgharrah won’t let him pursue this position instead of trying to force him into vying for Arthur’s favour to become England’s future Court Sorcerer. Even if he’s afraid that His Royal Haughtiness will go to one of the other magical universities—although Albion University is top-ranking in the world—there’s still plenty of other sorcerers who will serve Arthur far more dutifully than Merlin ever will.
But Kilgharrah stands there, whether Merlin wants him to or not. “You made an impression on the prince, I heard,” he says, and by the way he’s pursed his lips, Merlin also knows that the impression wasn’t a positive one.
“He made an impression on me, too,” Merlin says, crossing his arms as he regards the headmaster. He’s probably the only student who can talk to him this way—Kilgharrah is an intimidating figure and the world's most powerful shapeshifter. He’s always seemed to have a soft spot for Merlin, though.
“You have not opened your mind,” Kilgharrah tells him.
Merlin shrugs. “He has four other options to pick from, doesn’t he? I think Guinevere might be good for him. She’s kind and she’ll be able to stand up to him, once she’s a little more familiar with him. I think—”
“You and Prince Arthur,” Kilgharrah tells him, “are two sides of one coin.”
“I really doubt it.”
“Doubt whatever you will, young warlock,” Kilgharrah announces. Two first-year students shuffle past them, all big-eyed at the headmaster. “But destiny isn’t yours to write. You will be England’s Court Sorcerer.”
He makes the dream of every student in Albion University sound vaguely threatening. Merlin smiles wryly and calls after Kilgharrah’s retreating form, “I doubt he’ll pick me after that ten-minute interview we had. What was that, by the way?”
He doesn’t get an answer. To be fair, he usually doesn’t, when Kilgharrah is involved.
~*~
Merlin lives with Elyan Thomson—Guinevere’s brother—and Gwaine Green, who are some of his closest friends and also make it impossible to study at home. So Merlin has, for the past four years, made a nook of his own in the library. Geoffrey, the librarian, lets him bring his own lunch and tea if he brings Geoffrey vanilla wafers, and they’ve made the trade-off work for five years, since Merlin’s first year.
The Magical Department works a little differently than other departments. There’s only one bachelor study that will teach any students the basics: Theoretical Applications, Abjuration, Alchemy and Astrology. From there on, each branch has their own specialisations in the form of a master’s program, and then further programs going into a PhD. Merlin’s master is in Abjuration, but he’s had to make a flexible programme with some additional courses from the Magical Linguistics course to be able to apply to his PhD, with Latin, Old English, and Burmese to make up his language requirement.
It just means he’s spent a lot of time in the library. He has a place by one of the large windows overlooking the gardens where the light falls in a way that doesn’t bother his computer screen and where his books all fit on the window sill. It’s tucked away and quiet and Merlin’s—no one has ever bothered him here.
Until today.
“So this is where you’re hiding?”
Merlin tenses and turns to find Prince Arthur Pendragon staring at him. He’s wearing a suit that probably costs more than Merlin’s mum makes in a month, and it’s unfairly good-looking on him. “I’m not hiding. I’m studying.”
The prince raises his eyebrows at him as he glances at Merlin’s closed laptop and books. “Yes, you seem as if you’re a fastidious student.”
“Oh, bugger off,” Merlin tells him and defensively grabs his copy of Galdorléoðe to practise Old English. “Why are you here anyway? Don’t you have a Court Sorcerer to find?”
“Yes,” Arthur says, and hesitates. “Truth be told, I wasn’t looking for you.”
Merlin raises an eyebrow. “What were you looking for?”
Arthur looks back towards the entrance, and Merlin’s struck with the sight of his side profile—his strong jaw, his slightly crooked nose. The prince is gorgeous, of course, but Merlin doesn’t want to like him.
“A bit of quiet, frankly,” Arthur admits, and the odd sensation in Merlin’s stomach swoops when Arthur looks back at him. “So I suppose I shouldn’t have gone to find you. I just thought—well, the library at Camlott University was always a good hiding spot.”
“Prince Arthur!” A feminine voice comes from outside, and both Merlin and Arthur startle at the sound of it. Merlin doesn’t think he knows the person it belongs to, but Arthur bites his lower lip. It makes him look tragically human.
“What are you running away from?” Merlin asks, and Arthur’s eyes are sharp on his. “I can help you escape, but only if you don’t—I don’t know, are running away from saving kids in a tree, or something.”
“I think I could have you in the stocks for talking to me like that,” Arthur tells him.
“You could try,” Merlin says, grinning. He lets enough magic rise to the surface that his eyes glow golden, and Arthur stares at him.
For all intents and purposes, Arthur has been taught to sword fight in the tradition of his forebears, but even the deadliest knight wouldn’t have a chance against a fully-trained sorcerer. That’s why all the kings have Court Sorcerers, after all.
“They want to dissuade me from giving another interview to some of the other sorcerers,” Arthur tells him, his voice low. His cheeks have gone a tinge pink. “After you said—well, I supposed I should give them more than ten minutes if I am looking for someone to help me rule for the rest of my life. You were right. So I scheduled more interviews, but my advisors… want me to move on with the process. They want to be done by November.”
Arthur’s eyes are very, very blue. He stares at Merlin, his expression unmoving as if he is daring Merlin to say a word.
“Dunne,” Merlin commands. Arthur’s mouth makes a perfect ‘o’, and he stares at himself as he grows translucent. Merlin tilts his head to admire his spellwork. “That’s an invisibility spell,” he explains. “It will last you for a couple of hours. No one will see you—well, no one but me.”
“I could use this more often in my life,” Arthur murmurs.
Merlin smiles. “Well, that’s why you need to find yourself a sorcerer to command your every word, don’t you?” he says. “And, Arthur… I’m pleased. That you’re taking the chance to get to know the others. I still don’t want the position, but maybe—you’re not so bad. For a royal prat.”
Arthur nods tersely. “Thank you, Merlin.” He hesitates for a moment, but then he disappears back into the courtyard and out of the library. Merlin leans back in his chair, staring at his books. Maybe he’s jumped to conclusions a bit too soon as well.
~*~
Merlin has Theoretical Abjugation with Gwen. They often sit together; Gwen makes the neatest notes and Merlin’s the best at getting the spells to work, so they’re a good team. He comes in a little late from his Burmese course so most people are already seated; he grins apologetically at Gilli when he has to scooch past him to sit down next to Gwen.
“Did you hear about the new interviews, Merlin?” Gilli asks him, his eyes shining with newfound hope. “I can’t believe I’ve got another chance. I’ve always dreamed of being Court Sorcerer!”
“Well, you never know,” Merlin tells him indulgently, but Gwen isn’t as willing to let him off the hook as that when he finally slides down in his seat.
“I heard that you’re responsible for the second interview,” Gwen says quietly as Iseldir starts his explanation, and she presses her lips together. “I was just—thank you, Merlin. I don’t think he’ll pick me to continue towards the next round, but it was nice nonetheless. To see him change his perspective like that.”
“I’m glad, Gwen,” Merlin says honestly. “I think you would make a wonderful Court Sorceress. If he doesn’t pick you, I think—”
“He seems rather adamant to have you, I think,” Gwen says, and jostles her shoulder against his in jest. “Or well, he didn’t say it like that. But he asked a lot about you. Not that he wasn’t—not in an unfriendly way, like he wasn’t interested in me. But I think you made an impression.”
“You know I don’t want that position,” Merlin tells her.
Gwen shrugs, and smiles up kindly at him. “I know you want to figure out what your magic can do when you’re not bound to existing spells, Merlin. But you can do a lot of good if you're a Court Sorcerer, can’t you? And I think you’d be good for Arthur.”
“I don’t believe in destiny,” Merlin says. “I believe that… things have to be chosen.”
“Well,” Gwen says knowingly. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. But he’s given us another chance—maybe you should think about doing the same—”
She’s cut off by Iseldir clapping his hands together. Merlin smiles innocently when their Professor’s eyes fall on them; a clear sign for them to stop talking and start paying attention.
“We’re going over shielding today,” Iseldir declares, very pointedly towards Merlin and Gwen. It cuts their conversation short, but Merlin is glad for that; he doesn’t think he wants to discuss His Royal Hopelessness’ kind side with her. “We will discuss a spell that will stop your vital organs to shield any sorcerer from dark magic focused around heartbeats and such—”
~*~
Technically, Merlin doesn’t get another interview. He spots Arthur across campus a couple of times, though. As much as Merlin has been ignoring him, the process of finding a Court Sorcerer is an age-old tradition. Arthur will probably be staying at their university until he finds one—he remembers the stories about Uther Pendragon nearly setting the cafeteria on fire forty years ago.
It must be difficult, he suddenly reflects. Arthur is just out of university himself and has to deal with the increase of his responsibilities as well as the media hounding after everything he does, only to be thrown out of his life again to make a choice about a sorcerer to assist him during his reign.
It’s that sympathy that makes him decide to cross the courtyard and sit with Arthur, he will later claim. Arthur is all by himself—or well, he has some knightly types hanging around him, but they aren’t sitting with him. Merlin is stopped by one at first, but then Arthur says, “Leon, let him pass,” and Merlin finds himself setting down his meagre lunch at Arthur’s table.
“So,” Merlin says, and straightens his shoulders when Arthur stares cryptically at him. “I heard you did the interviews. And?”
“And?” Arthur repeats. “Are you asking me why you haven’t been invited to another one? I would have, but you had some sort of protective sigil on your door that wouldn’t even let me knock—”
“That’s Elyan’s,” Merlin says, gesturing vaguely, “my housemate, he’s very particular about protective wards—why were you knocking on my door? How do you even know where I live? I think that’s some sort of privacy infringement—”
“What do you do when there’s visitors?” Arthur asks, leaning forward.
Merlin shrugs. “Make them text me. You could’ve done that, you know—I doubt you don’t have my phone number if you’ve stolen my address. And I didn’t—” he says when Arthur opens his mouth again, “want to ask for another interview. I wanted to know how they went.”
“Right,” Arthur mutters. “Rather well, I think. Although I’m not sure why you care, since you’re so unwilling to be my Court Sorcerer.”
“So odd that I’m taking an interest in the future of England, even if I’m not personally interested in the position,” Merlin says, and Arthur has the grace to look slightly abashed.
“Kilgharrah seems convinced you’re still part of the proceedings,” Arthur tells him.
Merlin shrugs. “Kilgharrah likes to get his own way. But I’ve got other plans.”
“The PhD programme. Neo-Linguistics, you said?”
“It’s like this,” Merlin says, and grabs his Latin book from his bag, because that’s the only one he’s carrying at the moment. He flips it open carelessly, and traces one of the words. “This is a spell for creating fire, right? But if you cast it in a different case, the effect changes. Nominative word—a simple flame, just what the books says. But if you change up the case to be accusative, it becomes something else entirely, more deadly—it’s not just simply a matter of learning spells and casting them. There’s a whole system.”
“And you want to… create a new system?” Arthur asks. From his voice, Merlin can tell he’s lost.
“Look at it this way,” Merlin says. “There’s thousands of combinations that create spells. It’s not just—we can’t explain it, really, why one language works so well and another doesn’t. But there’s something in all languages that seems universal; we haven’t unlocked it. We won’t, probably, because it may be about meaning rather than form? And if there’s something universal, then there’s—a starting point, a perfect match for semantics and the language to express intent. The point is, when you cast a spell you can sort of—feel how it sits on your tongue, and how it matches what you are intending to do. I’m trying to figure out ways to make it more effective, to find the words that match my spells perfectly. Because none of these languages harmonise with my magic. It’s like—saying the spell makes it less effective, but you need language to cast it. So it’s a matter of finding the best language to match the spell.”
“But you’re the strongest sorcerer in this university,” Arthur says.
Merlin shrugs. “I can feel that there’s a system that would match my magic perfectly. But that doesn’t mean this doesn’t work—I’m still good at it, you know. But I want to find out what is beyond the form of words, to find what makes some spells work while it doesn’t others, and you’re not allowed to work new spells until you’ve got a degree in Neo-Linguistics, so that’s what I’m going to do.”
Arthur stares at him for a moment. “You do know that you would be above those rules as a Court Sorcerer, don’t you?” he asks. “If you wanted—well, you could still do that, I suppose.”
“Could I?” Merlin challenges, and smiles tightly. “Look, Arthur, I’m sorry. It’s not even really about you.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“There’s just something that I need to figure out,” Merlin says. “And I’m worried I won’t have time for it if you’re supposed to be my first priority. I want a life I’ve chosen. I’m honoured, really, that I was one of the representatives of my generation, but I just want to be free.”
“I want you to be that, too,” Arthur murmurs. The silence is awkward for a moment; Merlin wonders if he should go and leave Arthur to it. But then the prince leans forward. “How does it work between languages, then? Are there certain aspects that make the magic easier? How does one go about that?”
Merlin blinks at him. Arthur’s question is sharp, and it’s thrown him for a loop. “Well, you see, I prefer agglutinative languages—”
~*~
Merlin intended for that to be it, when it comes to His Royal Harlot, Arthur Pendragon.
He can’t help it if Arthur has endeared himself to Merlin a little bit—he’s sharp, really, and Merlin has always liked people who could keep up with him. Arthur isn’t a linguist, by any means, nor is he a sorcerer, but he picks up on more complicated subjects rather quickly, and Merlin can see him turning the thoughts over in his head and absorbing Merlin’s point of view.
Merlin likes it. Which means he absolutely needs to stay away from Arthur.
Unfortunately, Arthur’s presence on campus is unavoidable. Merlin lives in a student dorm only five minutes away from uni, so he’s barely ever far away. And he’s not entirely sure where Arthur is staying, but he, too, is spending most of his time at campus—if not to find his new Court Sorcerer, then to bow his heads over magic books with a deep frown, leafing through the paper with his calloused fingers—
Merlin is avoiding him, yes.
Although Arthur makes it hard. Especially when he is duelling two magic users all by himself in the courtyard. Half of England seems to be watching, Merlin thinks sourly, as he pushes himself past the rings of spectators. Arthur’s wearing his magically-enhanced armour like a knight of old, gleaming sword in hand as he faces Mordred and Edwin Muirden, the last of the five candidate Court Sorcerers.
He thinks it’s probably an impromptu duel, judging by the surroundings. A circle has been hastily drawn on the courtyard, Arthur pacing alongside the edges with a predatory look on his face Merlin hasn’t seen before.
He attacks swiftly and mercilessly.
The disadvantage of being a sorcerer is that muttering a spell costs time. And it’s not always as if you know what spell to use in advance. Merlin’s lucky, because he’s been rambling at the speed of light since he uttered his first word, and his mind’s always whirring with available spells, so speed isn’t an issue for him. But he’s an exception in that, as with most other things.
So when Arthur torpedoes forward, Edwin isn’t quick enough. He falls back in shock, outside of the circle, which flashes blue as the sign of Edwin’s defeat. He barely even gets the chance to be shocked, but then Mordred’s mouthing a spell of his own—Celtic, Merlin notices with a hint of approval—and Arthur has to deflect with his sword.
It’s a special sword that can deflect, but Merlin isn’t surprised he has one. Mordred is wrongfooted, though, the surprise in his eyes lingering when the gold fades. Arthur is quick here too, but Mordred is younger and faster than Edwin, and at least retaliates.
Which Arthur seems to have been expecting. He feints to the left and then goes for the right, blindsiding Mordred and tipping the sword against his chest. Mordred raises his hand in reflex, and then takes a step back—outside of the circle and into the audience, right next to Merlin.
Arthur’s eyes meet Merlin’s. He raises his chin minimally.
Merlin steps into the ring.
Arthur twirls his sword. He grins, openly and maddeningly beautiful, and Merlin isn’t sure why he was duelling at all but for the fact that he understands that Arthur’s just showing off what he has, and what a sorcerer needs to have to measure up to him.
And Merlin’s always excelled at tests.
Arthur doesn’t give him a moment to measure him up; he just takes two steps back to give Merlin some space, and immediately whirls back in, sword raised and ready to force Merlin back. Merlin’s always prepared, though; the shielding spell on his arm deflects Arthur’s sword, and for a moment he’s afraid it’s not going to be strong enough, but then the sword slides off.
It’s a moment to breathe, and then Merlin’s the one stepping forward. The magic surges up before the spell has even fully left his lips; Arthur’s blown back, only left standing through sheer determination. He’s fast, though, unwilling to let Merlin win the watch—he jumps forward. Merlin catches himself stepping back, and deflects with a blinding spell followed with a gust of wind from the side rather than from him.
Arthur’s on him in time to do the unexpected—instead of raising his sword, he grabs Merlin with him, and they both fall on the ground. Merlin can’t even hear his own voice over the familiar magic in his veins, and Arthur’s forced to let go of him, although quicker to get to his feet.
They watch each other warily from the other side of the circle. Every step Arthur takes, Merlin matches.
“Do you yield?” Arthur asks, eventually.
Merlin smiles. “Not to you.”
There’s only one chance of ending this, really; find a spell that Arthur can’t deflect back at him. Merlin’s mouth forms another spell, and Arthur raises his sword. Merlin can feel the spell warring between them, but he holds it even as he can feel the push against his own body. If he holds it long enough that Arthur has to give up—
A blue light shines, and the sheer power that radiates off it forces him back. Merlin drops his spell, and finds that his feet have crossed the line of the circle. Perplexed, he looks up—only to see that Arthur’s have too.
If Arthur is surprised by this turn of events, he doesn’t show it. From across the circle, he cocks up an eyebrow towards Merlin and grins sincerely. Then he disappears in the crowd before Merlin can even catch up with him.
~*~
“Right,” Gwaine says, and decidedly puts down his plate of lasagna on the table. Merlin, who had been in the process of dozing off against his fist while looking at his book of Theoretical Apotropaic Magic, starts to full awareness.
“Hi, Gwaine,” Merlin says, and manages a half-smile.
“‘Hi, Gwaine’, he says!” Gwaine calls out, gesturing theatrically into the air even though Elyan’s not even home and he therefore has no reason to be so dramatic. “Merlin, love of my life, moon of my night. Is that all I get?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Merlin deadpans.
“It’s the talk of campus, you know,” Gwaine says, leaning forwards while violently stabbing his lasagna. “That you’re taking up the Princess’ offer. That you’re going to be England’s next Court Sorcerer. And I’m betrayed you didn’t tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell!” Merlin huffs out.
Gwaine sweeps the book out from under his grasp. “Apotropaic spells,” he says, tutting his lips. “That’s protective magic, Merlin. And I know this isn’t in your curriculum—Elyan and I know your schedule, and this isn’t on it—”
“Because you’re mother hens,” Merlin says.
“Because,” Gwaine says, “You’re our friend, and you’ve got this tendency not to look out for your own best interests. And you were the one who was so insistent on not being a Court Sorcerer. Kilgharrah told me to convince you, you know? To tell you it was your destiny to be by our Royal Princess’ side—”
“—Kilgharrah did what—”
“—But here I find you, duelling with him and sitting with him at lunch and half the campus has bets on when the news is going to come out! Arthur’s all but decided, and you keep telling us you’re going to take that PhD next year, but you haven’t even filled in any applications yet—”
“I’m working on them,” Merlin says in exasperation. “I’m not the next Court Sorcerer!”
Gwaine eyes him suspiciously. “You’re sure?”
“I would have told you.” And he would have—Gwaine is his best friend, probably, definitely on the campus. They’ve been sticking out their necks for each other since they first met during a pub brawl, and they haven’t stopped since.
Gwaine seems to accept it, and sags back into his chair. “I wouldn’t mind if you did take it, you know,” he says, after a moment. “I just—I’d hope you’d tell me, at least. So I can tell His Royal Horribleness—”
“—Horse dung, we’re at calling him horse dung—”
“—where to shove it if he treats you like less than you deserve.” Gwaine’s eyes crinkle around the corner in that way he does when he means what he’s saying. Merlin has come to know him well enough the last few years that Gwaine means it when he says he’ll go toe to toe with the heir to the crown just to make sure Merlin’s happy.
“Thanks, Gwaine,” Merlin says, and pats his friend’s hand before stealing a bite of his lasagna.
~*~
It’s not really that much of a surprise to find Arthur waiting for him at the end of the hall when Merlin’s final class ends on Tuesday. He’s a little exhausted—it’s only two in the afternoon, but he’d stayed up late to finish an essay—but he’s been expecting this since that duel ended.
He’s coming out of a small tutorial group, and the six or seven other students quietly disperse upon seeing the Prince of England at the end of the hallway. Merlin makes his way over to him, his backpack feeling far heavier than it did at the start of the day.
Arthur’s face is oddly lit inside the building. His face was made for being outside, Merlin decides—for leading his men in a field and laughing with his sword in his hand. But he was born a thousand years too late for that.
“I need you to take that position,” Arthur says. Two of his knights—Leon and Lancelot—are standing a few feet away, guarding the entrance. As if Merlin wouldn’t be able to hex anyone with ill intent who dared set foot in Arthur’s vicinity.
“I told you,” Merlin says uncomfortably. “I don’t want to be a Court Sorcerer. I’m applying to the PhD—that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. Control my magic.”
“You’ve got enough control, I think.” Arthur’s words are clipped, measured. Merlin thinks he’s probably rehearsed this conversation ten times in the mirror. Or maybe he made Lancelot play Merlin.
Merlin’s lips twist into something near a smile. “I do. But I’m… more. I have more. And I’m not going to figure out what my magic is by being around you.”
“I disagree,” Arthur says, pouncing on the argument. “As my Court Sorcerer, you will have plenty of choices as to what to do with your magic. It’s not as if you’re supposed to be at my beck and call—as long as my father’s the king, you have some leeway. You will have to train with Nimueh, of course, and there’s a significant amount of time that you’ll have to spend learning what is expected of you, but you can still pursue an education in Neo-Linguistics—”
“Arthur,” Merlin says. Arthur falls silent and his eyes glimmer with a distant hope. Hope that Merlin shouldn’t have put there.
“I don’t believe in destiny,” Arthur murmurs. He takes a step closer, as if daring Merlin to defy him. Merlin only sees Leon and Lancelot slip away, and breathes hard. From up close, he can see the faint freckles decorating Arthur’s jaw; the slight unevenness of his teeth when Arthur parts his lips.
He shouldn’t be staring at Arthur’s lips.
“Neither do I,” Merlin says. “Arthur, please. It’s not you—you know it’s not you.”
“Then why aren’t you saying yes?”
“Because,” Merlin tells him, and the words are stuck in his throat. “Because you’re—you’re the next king, the hope of a kingdom, and I’m the boy whose magic was unregulated until I was fourteen because no one understood how I was doing it. Because I want you to do this right, and I’m—I don’t know how my magic works, and I won’t until I do this PhD, and you deserve someone who knows, alright, and who can put you first without wondering all the time. Because I don’t want to give into Kilgharrah and his destiny, because that means he was right and I am really that powerful, and I don’t know why that should be me!”
He doesn’t realise he was shouting until he’s done, his chest heaving. Arthur hasn’t moved back at all; he just stares at Merlin, his lashes far longer than they have any right to be.
“I never had any say in what path I was put onto,” Arthur says, taking him by the shoulders. “Listen, Merlin—stop interrupting me, will you, I’m your prince. Do you think I’m eager to let anyone tell me what destiny has in store for us? If there’s any destiny, it’s because I would have chosen you no matter what. I want you to be by my side when I rule. You, and no one else.”
Merlin’s mouth opens and closes several times. “Gwen—”
“Gwen is a perfectly lovely sorceress, but not you.”
“I shouted at you,” Merlin says, a little faintly. “Not just… when we first met. I wanted to put you off as much as I could.”
Arthur grins. “Yes, and you were right to. And that’s exactly when I first started to put some stock in Kilgharrah’s words. Mostly it’s because you’ve never failed to tell me exactly what you think of me. Do you have any idea how rare that is? Even if you’re a complete idiot about it and we’ll have to train it out of you before you meet my father, of course. He’ll put you in the stocks for a week.”
“I thought we didn’t have the stocks anymore.”
“He’ll reintroduce them,” Arthur says solemnly, “just for you. Merlin, please.”
For a moment, Merlin thinks about what it would mean to say yes. Thinks about that coveted place by Arthur’s side—and he would be good at it. Even if no language feels right on his tongue, he’s still powerful. And Arthur’s right that he would have enough chances to learn. It might take him a little longer before he finishes it, but he’d skip the process of even having to apply to the PhD in the first place.
But it’s not fair to Arthur if he only uses him to get to that place. Arthur deserves someone who puts him first—always, unreservedly. Merlin suddenly wants it, more fiercely than anything—damn the Neo-Linguistics program, and damn his own reservations and his concern about what sort of future awaits them that would require a king with a destined Court Sorcerer—
Because he cares about Arthur. Possibly entirely too much, and that’s a sort of danger in itself. Arthur’s smile is bright, as if he can nearly see the yes that lies on Merlin’s tongue, and Merlin realises with absolute certainty that if he’s asked to protect Arthur, he’ll be putting his own heart on the line. Maybe not now, not yet—but he will.
“I can’t,” he says, and takes a step back. It’s far enough that all the details of Arthur’s face become invisible to him again, but not the disappointment. Arthur’s expression betrays all of that, and Merlin feels like the worst of sorcerers.
He flees in the other direction, panting so hard he thinks his lungs will constrict. Somehow, Merlin keeps breathing.
~*~
“What did you do?” Gwen asks him when he comes in to sit with her during Restorative Magic. He’s a little early, mostly because he’d been up most of the night and didn’t want Elyan or Gwaine to nag him about it.
“I didn’t do anything,” Merlin says defensively, more as an automatic response than anything else, and only then her words sink in. “Hang on, I actually don’t know what you’re talking about this time. So I really didn’t do it, did I?”
“Prince Arthur’s leaving, Merlin,” Gwen says, raising her eyebrows knowingly.
Arthur still has several months to take a pick. Although Merlin realises now that Arthur’s always considered him his first choice as a Court Sorcerer, Arthur would’ve been an idiot not to talk to anyone else. He knows Arthur’s had several interviews with Gwen and a couple with Mordred and Gilli, and he’d sort of figured any one of them would be up for the position now Merlin’s officially declined the offer.
He hadn’t known Arthur would choose so fast, though. “So, Mordred?” he asks, trying not to gnaw his cheek too badly. “I thought he’d pick you.”
Truth be told, he’s been rooting for Gwen from the beginning. She’s more than Arthur deserves, probably, but she would’ve been a solid choice. If anyone has earned it, it’s her.
Gwen’s frowning at him, though. “No,” she says, frowning at him. “He didn’t pick anyone. He’s just left. Merlin, didn’t he offer you the position? I was so sure that he would—”
“He did,” Merlin says numbly. “I said no. But he can’t have—he doesn’t mean—is he going to another university?”
It has been three hundred years since a Court Sorcerer was chosen who didn’t come from Albion University, but it’s not impossible. They have three other Magical Departments in England, although none of them nearly boast the same level of magical prowess, and none of them have a shapeshifter as a headmaster.
“I think he’s just going back to Windsor Castle,” Gwen says hesitantly. “That’s what Lance said, anyway.”
“Lance?” Merlin repeats, and watches Gwen’s cheeks grow dark. “Arthur’s bodyguard, Lance?”
“He’s nice,” Gwen defends, and clears her throat. “And anyway, I hardly think that’s the issue here. Is that a thing that’s possible, you think? The prince choosing not to take a Court Sorcerer?”
Merlin’s never thought about it. Merlin has no idea who will look over Arthur when he’s actively taking up his duties. Nimueh will probably continue to have primary care of Arthur’s safety now that no one else is taking the position and he’s going back to Windsor Castle.
But it means Merlin can’t say goodbye.
“I suppose Nimueh’s lackeys will look after him until next year,” Merlin says, and privately wonders who next year’s contenders will be. Freya, maybe? She’s powerful enough for it. Merlin won’t be available for it at all if he gets the position he’s hoping for. He’ll be creating his own languages to work his magic through.
Suddenly, the thought doesn’t appeal nearly as much as it has before.
“I suppose,” Gwen says. “But what will happen if he doesn’t pick anyone?”
Merlin can’t tell.
~*~
The day that Arthur should’ve announced his own sorcerer goes by unmarked. Kilgharrah hasn’t approached Merlin about his decision not to take the position, even though Merlin somewhat expected him to. Instead, whenever Kilgharrah sees him, he raises his eyebrows and smiles privately as if he’s the only one in on a joke.
If so, Merlin’s not particularly amused. At least he isn’t being reproached for it by Kilgharrah; he doesn’t think he could’ve borne the disappointed looks on top of the despondency curling into his chest every day he thinks about Arthur. It has crawled up on him, this desire to take him up on his offer. It’s been growing since Arthur gave a second interview to Gwen and Gilli; since he let Merlin explain Neo-Linguistics to him during lunch with an amused smile playing on his lips; since he faced Merlin in a duelling ring and made him his match.
And he’d wanted Merlin to take a position that would bind them together forever. Merlin’s the one who isn’t brave enough to take it. They work together well for now, but if he can’t contain the anxious joy whispering in his mind every time he sees Arthur, he won’t be able to protect him. And if Arthur figured it out only after Merlin had been named Court Sorcerer, and he hadn’t been amenable…
Merlin’s doing what is best for them both. It’s just Arthur who has to be so stubborn about it all and won’t even consider anyone else. Merlin hasn’t yet figured out if he’s glad about it or not.
So the first block ends, and exams come with it. The workload for Merlin’s first block isn’t so bad, but he still spends two full weeks in the library to make sure his essay for Old English is absolutely perfect. He’s got to hand in his applications for his PhD by January, and Merlin’s sure he won’t be able to get anything done in the Christmas break. His mum always makes sure their schedule is filled to the brim with activities, bless her heart.
Things calm down. Arthur makes a public statement on television that Merlin watches with Gwaine. Arthur’s words are calm and collected, but Merlin has come to know him well enough to recognise the tension in his shoulder as Arthur reads out a statement about not being ready to commit to any sorcerer at this point in time. Nimueh stands behind him, and her eyes seem to pierce Merlin through the screen.
He can’t regret this. Someone else will come by to protect Arthur—someone else, equally powerful and well-matched in a fight, and someone who isn’t going to be staring at his jaw when he makes speeches, and someone who can surely spend the rest of his life by Arthur’s side without it having to be their destiny.
Destiny. What an old-fashioned notion, Merlin thinks to himself morosely.
Merlin scores full-points for his essay on the vowel quality of stressed syllables in Old English. November crawls into December, and Merlin pens about ten different versions of a motivation letter for his PhD application. He wonders if he can still put Kilgharrah on his references list, and chucks a half-eaten sandwich at Gwaine’s head when he suggests putting Arthur as a reference.
Life continues on, and Merlin doesn’t expect to see Arthur ever again. He is resolved not to have any feelings about that whatsoever.
~*~
The hallways are mostly abandoned when Merlin hastens his way through them on his way to Monmouth's office. Most people have left for the holidays already and only a few students still remain, most of them in their final year, like Merlin, and handing in some last-minute essays. Like Merlin, once again.
Doctor Monmouth isn’t in, but Merlin doesn’t need him to be; all he needs is to slip his document into the mailbox intended for these essays. Merlin will never be sure why they don’t just accept digital copies, but Monmouth is unsurprisingly old-fashioned, considering his age.
He doesn’t expect Gilli to appear as he does, right when Merlin turns around.
“Merlin?” he says, and smiles nervously, twisting his hands. “There’s—the prince is waiting at the entrance, and he asked me to come and get you, and to tell you that, well, that he isn’t going to break your privacy by looking up your number and that he doesn’t want to risk knocking on your door.”
Gilli looks confused even as he says it, but Merlin only feels nailed to the ground. He remembers accusing Arthur of his lack of regard for privacy rules when he’d apparently shown up at Merlin’s apartment. He doesn’t recall Arthur taking it to heart.
Although he has no idea what’s going on in Arthur’s head at all. “Did he say why?”
Gilli shrugs. “He didn’t say.”
He wouldn’t have, of course. Arthur would never make this any easier; Merlin swallows heavily, mind whirring with thoughts about what Arthur could say to him. He’s not so sure he could refuse Arthur a second time, if he asked Merlin to stand by his side again.
Merlin huddles into his jacket as Gilli follows. He wishes he’d had a moment alone to consider his thoughts, without feeling as if he has to hurry towards Arthur, but Gilli’s presence makes it hard to justify going to stand in a corner to just panic for a couple of minutes.
He spots Arthur as soon as he’s in the main hall, standing just outside the doors, hands in his pocket and his shoulders hunched. He hasn’t spotted Merlin yet; his expression is one of wary carefulness, his brows furrowed as he inspects one of the tiles before him. Merlin’s heart surges unwittingly in his chest at the sight of him.
Arthur looks up and sees Merlin. He opens up the door—
The magic surges through Merlin before he’s even noticed it coming. The sudden force of it brings him to his knees, and he is barely aware of the pain of his knees slamming against the floor through the odd sensation of the spell. His throat is aflame and he can’t even open his mouth to scream. Panic sets in immediately—no voice means no spells.
With panic, however, comes the odd sort of knowledge that this isn’t aimed at Merlin. If anyone is setting off spells on the campus—and who even got this close? Kilgharrah’s wards are powerful enough to keep anyone out who shouldn’t be there—it is because Arthur came here.
Arthur is in danger.
He looks up, forcing himself to his feet. Gilli, beside him, has fallen too; there’s an oddly stricken expression on his face, beyond pain and surprise at his own fate. His hands are on his throat, as if he can’t quite believe he can’t speak, but his eyes are fully on Arthur.
Arthur, whose face has gone pale as a ghost, lies unconscious on the floor, sprawling all over. Merlin might have laughed on any other day; right now, all he can do is run for him. The agony in his throat flames up when he opens his mouth, tries to call out Arthur’s name. Arthur’s eyes are rolled back in his face when Merlin finally gets to him, and for one desperate moment, Merlin thinks he is dead.
Then he breathes in, shuddering, as if it doesn’t come naturally. Merlin recognises this spell, suddenly, from Iseldir’s class in Theoretical Abjuration. The protective barrier to stop someone’s vitals for a second; a way to ward off some curses that revolve around heartbeats and such. But Arthur isn’t a sorcerer, and this will kill him, and Merlin can’t talk.
He turns back towards Gilli. Gilli’s panic is clearly written all over his face, the tear tracks on his cheeks visible even from a distance. Merlin turns back; Arthur’s gasping in another breath, ragged, and his face is going purple. He cannot take this sort of spell. It’s dangerous even to sorcerers, and Arthur wasn’t made for this. Merlin knows the spell—fnære—but he has lost his voice.
Was this someone’s plan? No one else is here. The magic bubbles up in desperation, and Merlin opens his voice. Nothing comes out, even as he mouths the spell, over and over, putting his lips against Arthur’s hand to feel his mouth form the words on his skin—
The spell surfaces unexpectedly, and more than that, besides. Arthur gasps to life, nearly knocking his head against Merlin’s, looking wildly at him. Hlēoþor, Merlin thinks when Arthur grasps at him, because he needs to talk, and the spell still doesn’t come out, but his magic surges up despite that.
“Merlin,” Arthur gasps, and only then Merlin belatedly realises he’s holding Arthur in his lap, with his lips still pressed against Arthur’s hand. He drops it, trying to think of any sheepish excuse that wouldn’t make him sound like a lovelorn idiot—
And then Arthur’s lips are against his own, warm and chafed and insistent, and Merlin thinks, oh, and kisses back just as fiercely, his hand cupping Arthur’s cheek. Alive, alive, alive. The concern is still clawing in his chest, though, his desperation not nearly settled, so he pushes Arthur away to look him over with both hands and eyes.
“What happened?” he demands, ignoring the sharp redness of Arthur’s cheeks when Merlin’s hands wander all over him. “Was there someone else here? Did someone attack you—”
The realisation crashes into him. Merlin struggles back to his feet, his eyes heavy as he looks towards Gilli. His classmate is still on the ground, crying quietly with his hands clasped over his eyes.
“He said you wanted to meet me here,” Arthur manages, and Merlin helps him up gingerly. “I wasn’t sure what it was about—I didn’t think—”
“What did you do, Gilli?” Merlin asks. Gilli stops trembling, and carefully picks himself up from the floor. There’s something cold and empty in his expression; both the presence of remorse and the wish that he’d pulled off whatever he wanted to do here today. It’s the expression of someone who has dug a hole and now has to lie in it.
Merlin responds faster than Gilli can; when Gilli opens his mouth to speak, he’s stuck on the first syllable when Merlin’s magic already surges up as soon as he’s realised what spell Gilli is using. It forces Gilli back, and Merlin’s magic stuns him. Before he’s even walked over there, Arthur has made his way over to Gilli, a dagger against his neck.
“Don’t make another move,” Arthur demands, his voice low and dangerous, and Gilli finally sags down. Without even looking in Merlin’s direction, Arthur continues, “I thought you needed to say the spells out loud? Have you been lying to me, Merlin?”
“It’s…” Merlin starts, and flounders. “I’m not sure what it is. I couldn’t talk, and you were just lying there, and I knew the spell but I couldn’t say it, and my magic… just surged up anyway. More than it ever has before.”
And he’s not sure what that means, that his magic is apparently very willing to be commanded even without explicit spells. It feels right, too, the way no language ever has. It fits, but Merlin doesn’t have the time to consider it. He attempts more wordless magic, heedless of spells and only considering his intent—Gilli goes out like a light, and with the threat actually unconscious, Arthur turns around.
“Was this set up?”
Merlin shrugs, not sure what to say. All he knows is how panicked Gilli looked right after he’d found himself mute. “I know Gilli wanted to be chosen as your Court Sorcerer,” he says carefully. “I didn’t know he’d go to these lengths, though. He must have—well, I don’t think he meant to hit himself with his mute spell. Maybe he wanted to make this grand show of saving you, but he must’ve known…”
Arthur’s expression is dark. “I’ll have Nimueh deal with him,” he says decisively, but then his steadfast facade falls away, and he feels five steps too far away from Merlin suddenly. “So you didn’t… Gilli left a message that you’d reconsidered and wanted to speak to me. About the position. But I suppose that was all a lie.”
Merlin takes a shuddering breath. Arthur’s voice is deceptively neutral, but Merlin remembers his lips against Arthur’s—the desperation of reaching for his magic and finding no words while Arthur was dying underneath him.
“I never would’ve let that message go through Gilli,” he says wryly.
Arthur’s lips twist into a humourless smile. “I suppose I knew that. I just—it was my hope—”
“—What if I did change my mind?” Merlin interrupts him, suddenly, shuddering and uncertain. “I’m not—well, I’m not going to be able to research wordless magic in Neo-Linguistics, and it’s too late to fill in any other applications. I wouldn’t even know where to begin, really, and I can’t…” His throat feels drier than it was under the curse. “I can’t see you like that again. Not if I can protect you. Be with you.”
“With me,” Arthur repeats. Merlin stands still, for a moment, his chest aching with the idea he got this all wrong. He is on the verge of opening his mouth and amending his words when Arthur smiles, and takes the five steps to kiss Merlin once more, sweet and demanding at the same time. “With me? In whatever way I want?”
“In all the ways you want,” Merlin tells him. Arthur’s eyes are dark on his, and then he presses their mouths together again. Merlin’s toes curl as Arthur’s hand closes around Merlin’s arm; his eyes are pressed close, his magic surging up in wordless pleasure, and that will take a while to get used to—
Gilli lets out a weak moan behind them, and Arthur breaks the kiss with a grimace.
“Deal with that first?” he asks, and Merlin wants to kiss the sheepish look on his prattish face. “As your first act as my Court Sorcerer?”
“I see how it’s going to be,” Merlin sighs, slipping from Arthur’s grasp. “Let’s deal with this first.”
~*~
Merlin’s Christmas break is spent in Windsor Castle. Arthur gives him a little snow globe of the castle; he grins when Merlin glowers at him for it, and says, “I got it before you even said yes so that you’d have a version of the castle to protect even though you wouldn’t be my Court Sorcerer. Look, it has a small version of me.” It does, and Merlin enchants it to keep snowing at all times, and spends far too much time staring at the tiny golden-haired version of Arthur.
His mother joins him, and Gwen, Gwaine and Elyan all come back from their own homes a little earlier to be part of the ceremony where Merlin is named Arthur’s Court Sorcerer. It happens on Christmas Day, which Merlin protested at first, but Nimueh had stared at him so darkly that he’d eventually relented.
Merlin swears an oath to protect Arthur on national television, and only later learns that his eyes had glowed golden as he’d said the words. Maybe they still have some power in other ways, he reflects; he’s not surprised, even if he doesn’t need them for his spells anymore.
“I’ve got to go back to campus, though,” he tells Arthur when they’re tangled up in Arthur’s silk sheets. “I’ve still got to finish my last year, and now I’ve got to attend all those extra lessons from Nimueh. Do you think those weekly updates are really necessary?”
“Yes,” Arthur tells him.
“At seven in the morning, though?”
“Yes, Merlin,” Arthur says, and sighs in exasperation. When Merlin looks at him, though, his expression is too fond for him to be properly annoyed. “You can’t stop being my Court Sorcerer in the morning.”
“I wish I’d known beforehand,” Merlin says mournfully. “I wouldn’t have accepted the position, Your Royal Hack.”
“You can’t keep up making positions like that, Merlin.”
“And you’ll be Your Royal Headlessness, if you are expecting me to go to a seminar on how to behave myself during dinners at eight in the morning,” Merlin tells him.
Arthur sighs and presses another kiss to his lips; Merlin thinks deliriously that kissing him is like swearing fealty all over again, but wordless, soundless, like his magic; with all emotion poured behind it that just don’t seem to have the right shape when they’re poured into a sentence.
Merlin being Arthur’s Court Sorcerer doesn’t mean anything yet, in the grand scheme of things. He still needs to finish his studies, and Uther is still king, which means Nimueh is still the Court Sorceress of Britain until Arthur ascends to the throne. And hopefully that will still take many years.
“Merlin?” Arthur asks eventually. There’s something quiet in his tone, an uncertainty that Merlin has come to know runs deep in him. Arthur isn’t ready to be king, not yet—but he will be a great one, Merlin knows, when the day comes.
“Yes?”
“Why did you change your mind?” The words themselves are devoid of emotion, but if Merlin’s learnt anything, it’s that it’s not the words that matter, but the intent. Arthur’s eyes follow him carefully as Merlin leans forward to cusp Arthur’s jaw. “You never wanted the position. But Kilgharrah said it was destined—”
“I don’t care what Kilgharrah said,” Merlin interrupts fiercely. “I don’t care about what’s destined, or what’s written. I never did it for that—you know that’s not why.”
The relief on Arthur’s face is palpable, but still he asks—“Why, then?”
“Because you were right,” Merlin says. “It’s only destiny because it’s the choice I would’ve made anyway. Regardless of what anyone told me, including you, if you didn’t know. Because I wanted not to choose you and figure out my magic, but I only figured it out when you were there.”
Arthur takes a deep breath. His hand on Merlin’s nape is warm, but his smile is even more so. “For someone who doesn’t need words, you’ve surely got a lot of them. You could’ve just said you love me, Merlin.”
“You’re a moron, Your Royal Hypocrite,” Merlin tells him, but against Arthur’s mouth, he laughs. Under his skin, his magic grows and only pulls them tighter together; and Merlin closes his eyes and lets destiny come.