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1.
They had been ambushed. What began as a standard hunt soon turned into the scrape of metal against metal, laboured breaths, and loud grunts. Merlin had scurried off, pressed safely behind a tree weaving magic through the battle, offering aid unseen. The battle was alive and moving, forcing the knights to press forward in a terrifying pursuit of their attackers. It moved them from their camp towards the nearby stream and well past it, and Merlin was struggling to keep up. Grasping trees for support, anything to propel him forward as his lungs burned making his gasps for air quick and painful, his legs ached but still he pushed forward and stumbled toward the fight. Then suddenly he felt himself yanked backwards. Rough hands grabbed him and pulled him toward a sword coming down at him. In a flurry of panic and instinct, he slipped out of his jacket, leaving the bandit to lamely cut through the fabric. They were alone, and Merlin could hear the distant shouts of his knights, could single out His Knight in the chorus. Without a second thought, Merlin sent a great force toward his assailant, some borrowed wind of an angry storm, and he went flying. There was no satisfying arc to his body, no fantastical float through the air, just the forceful push and then the sudden cracking of his skull against a rock. Merlin might’ve grieved him had he been a bit younger still and wet around the ears.
He ran, following the disturbed ground; the broken branches; the trampled through bushes; the sounds of battle. It all happened too quickly – Merlin rushing onto the scene, Arthur alone, triumphantly plunging his sword into a man, and the spark of a flame. They had lured them into a trap. Suddenly the terrain went up in flames, engulfed in a hateful yellow and the distinct smell of burning oil. Most of the knights found themselves outside the radius of the flames and whipped around at the sudden heat, watching as their prince disappeared into the searing light. Merlin had been slow to act, the fool, but for some awful reason he’d seized at the smell; the flames; the pyre he dreamt of. His stupor was broken by a shout, and he only realised it was him when he felt his throat give out. He rushed the bandits, weaving the fire through his hands, and he felt it hot, hot, hot in his veins. He grabbed the man still kneeling, the one to ignite the flame, and poured the fire into him, burning him from the inside. At the smell he nearly vomited. Gritting his teeth, he leapt to the next man within reach, continuing to steal from the roaring flame behind him, and poured it out onto the man in front of him. It was a blinding hot rage that moved him. He tried to reach again, to take from the fire that burned behind him but found there was nothing much left to take. He heard the sharp sound of metal, of a sword being picked up and he turned in time to see Arthur running at him. Merlin couldn't muster up the will; the want to run. The only thing he could muster up was a silent thanks sent to the Triple Goddess that it would not be the pyre, and that it was Arthur, his personal hand, his strike to do it. Somehow there was a romance to that, he thought briefly, then felt shame.
Arthur's sword did not reach Merlin, it did not even scrape him. Instead it curved up and Arthur cut down the bandit running at the warlock. He fell enthusiastically, and Merlin felt no satisfaction in seeing him drop. Arthur picked Merlin up by the arm, his hand wrapping around his bicep and holding tight enough to bruise. He felt his legs go out under him, wobbly and uncertain, but Arthur's grip held firm. He hadn't thought this far ahead, didn't think he'd NEED to, thought he'd be divorced head from body, thought from mind. "Arthur, I can-" He found himself saying.
"I didn't see." Arthur said, his jaw set tight, his gaze intense and unrelenting. And for a moment Merlin would've taken the pyre over the way his eyes seared into him.
"But I-" Confession bubbled, seized him. All of this was wrong. He was meant for the pyre, he had been a dead man walking. He'd been promised hurt, and pain, and death. He had been promised the stern hand on a sword, the cold of the blade, he'd been promised an end.
"Merlin," Arthur warned. "I didn't see." He all but pleaded.
And then they were running from the this thick of the forest and to their camp. They swiftly packed up, tending to wounds where they could, a few of the knights had burns that would require Gaius' attention. Merlin swept through in a trance – most of them did, or Merlin hoped they did. They rode toward Camelot, but they were still two days out from her walls. With reluctance they settled into another camp, made another fire that no one sat too close. Merlin couldn't stomach it. Still, he burned the image of the campfire into his eyes until they stung and the visage lingered in his sight, so that when he stared at Arthur, he only saw the phantom of the flame. He swallowed hard, inhaled the smoke that lingered in the air and turned away from the camp. He walked a few paces away, enough that he couldn't make out the soft words of the knights anymore.
In the early morning they made the rest of the journey back without much trouble. They got the knights to Gaius, they tended to wounds, fed the horses, reported only the bandits, warmed a bath, went on as they were. Arthur smiled all the same, had teased him all the same, ordered him around all the same, the world kept turning all the same.
But Merlin could not be the same. He wondered how many other things Arthur did not see. Did he not see when Merlin would hide away whispering old words to life? Did he not see when Merlin would sneak off late into the night to fight some creature or other? Did he not see how his eyes lit that animal yellow? How long had Arthur not seen a thing?
A week after they returned, Merlin stood in Arthur’s chambers gazing at the fire. It was silent save for the scratching of quill on paper, and the embers of the fire. It was late, and the autumn chill was creeping in despite the lit and healthy hearth. A heavy sigh escaped the prince’s lips, and he pushed himself away from his desk. “Merlin.”
"Yes, sire?" He answered automatically, the words felt foreign to him. Most words felt foreign to him these days, all stolen and overdue. He had been meant for the pyre. He wanted so desperately to ask but Arthur...
"Please," Arthur said, picking up a conversation he didn't know they were still having.
Merlin ripped his gaze from the fire, met his prince's eyes for the first time in a week. They stood there, languid and tired, both of them seemed older than they had ever been. Older than the paintings of men long since passed, older than the stones in the walls, than the dirt beneath. Merlin couldn't understand what Arthur was asking, he didn't want to. His heart ached with something, maybe dissatisfaction. "Okay," he’d said. And then Arthur didn't see him leave the chamber, didn't see him climb into bed, didn't see him stare blankly into the ceiling, and didn't see him that day in the forest.
Melin had kept his promise. He was good at listening to orders when he wanted to. So he lulled himself back into that familiar routine of bickering, of chores done haphazardly, of stealing a sausage off Arthur’s plate, of quests and danger, of hiding, of being unseen. He smiled wide, made stupid jokes, but it never left his mind. How could it? He watched Arthur more closely now, noticed all the things Arthur did not see. Noticed how the prince’s gaze fell and found interest in the clouds as a hungry child nicked some bread to eat; how he’d ushered himself quickly away from a man tending to his daughter’s wounds, ancient words staining his tongue. Merlin had always thought the prince oblivious, always thought himself lucky that Arthur seemed to posses a unique lack of awareness. But in light of things, how was he too continue?
Was this charade necessary when his secret had already been laid bare? Was this a mercy Arthur was doing for his own peace of mind? In ignorance bliss, and so forth. Was this how it would always remain? Merlin frowned at that, but he made sure to frown only when Arthur was not looking – which he found was often these days. Albion would flow with magic once more, now Merlin scoffed at the notion. It seemed magic would only hum under the merciful gaze cast away. Somewhere in his heart he knew he was asking for too much, that this was better than the executions and the cruelty of Uther and his witch hunts. But like a fool, he had hoped for something more, something closer to freedom, to elation; and selfishly he yearned for the intensity of punishment if nothing else. Still, he tried to be thankful his kind were doomed only to the shadows and not the pyre. Maybe this was the best they were going to get.
2.
"Merlin," The day was beautiful and bright, the sun a warm golden glow that lit the prince's hair. And for a moment Merlin was jealous as all gold turned to a jaundiced animal yellow for Merlin. How could someone shine with the brilliance of a heaven, to catch the heat of sun and turn it soft and angelic?
"Yes, Arthur?" He replied as he continued to harvest the Pimpernel into his basket.
"What the hell are we doing out here in the bloody shrubs?" He complained, kicking the dirt and scowling.
"I'm being helpful, as I always am, and you're..." Merlin rights himself, then takes a moment to look up and consider him "Being annoying, as you always are." He smirked at the prince before returning his attention to the bush in front of him. "Why are you here?" Merlin asked after a beat.
Arthur scoffed, "Can't I be? Last time I checked I was the crown prince of Camelot. I am allowed to be wherever I want to be." He placed his hands on his hip to emphasise his point.
"Well, 'last time I checked' you were the one who asked me why 'we're here' - as if I had some force in hauling you out here," He said with something like an accusation resting between the words.
"It's a nice day."
"Very observant, sire."
"I've nothing left to attend to."
"Lucky you," Merlin of course knew what the prince was angling at. He always struggled to ask – or rather it was always a struggle for Arthur to want. To say he wanted something with his heart, that was not in line with duty, or with keeping some noble order, or what have you. So he'd do this, make Merlin say all the soft parts that made him feel stupid and small, and then he'd tease Merlin for it, and call him girlish.
He saw Arthur fidget with the hem of his sleeve, lips pressed into an annoyed scowl. He looked petulant, and Merlin wanted to laugh. Merlin, of course, would give in, likely, eventually. But he had to find his fun somewhere. They'd do this dance back and forth for a bit, then Merlin would roll his eyes and suggest the prince needed a break in some sunny field, with lots of flowers and plenty of grass. And Arthur would act like he was doing Merlin a favour by letting himself be pulled along.
However, before Merlin could play his part, have his fun, Arthur spoke “Is this urgent?” His gaze was cast away from Merlin.
"Huh?" Merlin said like some primitive.
"The herbs, idiot." He turned his head toward him and pointed obviously to the basket clutched at Merlin's side.
"Uh...Not entirely? Why?"
"Finish up, then." Arthur ordered, "Take them to Gaius and meet me by the gates."
"Why?"
"Because It's a nice day, Merlin. We should- I want to-" He started, eyebrows furrowed, still trying to figure out the words, "Come with me to the fields, I'm bored."
Merlin couldn't help the little laugh that escaped him, breathy and amused. This was not their script, not their song, or their dance – so to speak. He felt a sort of delirium take over him as he just sort of stood there, staring at Arthur with a disbelieving smile. Was it strange to say he felt proud, and maybe a little endeared? "Well?" Arthur said, face turning redder by the minute and his voice growing even more annoyed.
"Yes! Of course," Merlin shook his head in some attempt to shake the stupor "Yeah, let me just-" he stood suddenly and awkwardly. Arthur had just stared at him, eyebrow raised. Merlin let out an embarrassing giggle, hoped Arthur did not take it as Merlin laughing at him, and then ran off. He quickly composed himself enough to drop the basket off with Gaius without any suspicion. The day was lovely, and although Arthur had not requested it specifically, he had swept through the kitchens, stealing a few tarts before anyone could notice or scold him for it.
Arthur stood dutifully at the gates, his hands behind his back and his gaze stern and set out vaguely away from Camelot. When Merlin approached his face softened and a smirk replaced his hardened expression. “Took you long enough.” he said by way of greeting.
“I had to grab a few things, lest I be subjected to your whining,” Merlin elbowed the prince lightly, and before he could protest, Merlin revealed the stolen treats. Arthur looked behind them, as though Cook would somehow manifest at the confession, when he looked back to Merlin they both laughed, stifled and full of mirth.
They exited the walls of the city and into the forest. They traversed along a river, following it aimlessly and silently, only speaking to threaten to push one other into the cold autumn water, or proclaim a particularly ugly toad was likened to the other. Soon they reached the field, once lush and green, now it took on a muted tone in the autumn. The blades of grass long and roiling like a calm sea. They laid out the blanket Merlin had the forethought to bring, and ate the stolen tarts.
"He's such a pompous fool." Arthur scoffed, face scowling and picking a blade of grass aggressively, like it had wronged him somehow.
"Careful there Arthur, that almost sounds treasonous." Merlin poked his side which earned him a shove back in return.
"I always feel treasonous talking politics with you. You're a terrible influence on me."
"Hah! Yeah, right! I’m a WONDERFUL influence on you! Were it not for me you'd still be some rude, ill-mannered prat." Merlin threw his head back, laughter caught in his throat.
"Now whose being treasonous? Is that any way to speak to your future king."
"Well, seeing as you’ve yet to have your coronation, and your father seems perfectly healthy – you're currently, within this moment, very pointedly not king” Merlin with a smirk on his lips, gazed up at Arthur who had leaned in slightly, crowding Merlin a little but there was no threat here. “That means I’ve every right to speak to you how I like, I think."
"And the fact that I'm still prince?" He risks placing his hand behind Merlin, reducing the distance between them.
"Irrelevant. You're far too annoying to be considered any real sort of prince."
"You little-"
And to this Arthur tackled him. Merlin let out a surprised laugh but quickly pushed back against Arthur who was trying to get him in a headlock. Merlin slid an arm around Arthur’s side, then flipped them so that the prince was under him. Arthur looked up at Merlin with a sort of startled surprised expression, and then a determined smirk as his competitive spark ignited at the prospect of an actual fight. They wrestled and rolled in the grass for some time, Merlin trying his best and Arthur never letting up. Eventually, Merlin gives up with a huff, Arthur straddling his middle, pinning his arms right above his head.
"Okay, okay, you brute!" Merlin conceded, and Arthur’s laughter died down.
"You know, you're not too bad." He loosened his grip on Merlin’s hands.
"Bit forward aren't you, sire?" Merlin retorted which only earned him a smack to the head as Arthur rolled off to lie down next to him.
"You know what I meant. I have half a mind to force you into knighthood."
"Oh, no thank you. I'm not so desperate as to want to become some bumbling oaf with a sword."
"You're already a bumbling oaf.” Arthur said automatically, “And only you’d think being a knight is something that one should be ashamed of, you fool.”
"Hm, maybe I'm trying to save your good name. What if I become a better knight than you? What will the people say?"
"You're a very funny man, Merlin." Arthur turned his head toward Merlin with a look of fondness.
Merlin's heart began to race. He looked so...human - lying here in the grass, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, his eyes tired and his breathing even. He doesn't know why it happens, but it does – and like some prepubescent, Merlin's breath hitches and he feels the undeniable sprout of his magic. Several flowers bloom around them, and the autumn grass regains some of its lustre. Merlin immediately sits up, feels like throwing up, his heart speeds from its already quickened pace, only now it thrums with anxiety and shame. He feels his hands clam up and he swallows nervously, although his mouth suddenly feels dry.
"Sorry." He murmurs, small and uncertain.
"It's alright." Is all Arthur says. He can hear him shift to sit up as well.
They do not look at one another, or at least Merlin does not look to Arthur, so he hopes Arthur does the same.
"The sun is setting." Arthur comments.
"It is."
"We should get going."
So they stand and make their way back. Merlin does not say anything, and neither does Arthur.
3.
It's a night out at the tavern. Gwaine convinced everyone that it would do them some good to lighten up, and so here they were, half drunk and half stumbling through a conversation. "Mate, you've got to - to, ya know." Gwaine slurs at Lancelot, sluggishly throwing around his tankard to try and articulate his point.
"What?" He replies, eyebrows furrowed and confused.
"Just- let loose. Look at you! You've barely touched your drink. Merlin's out pacing you at this rate!"
"Leave the man be, if he wishes to drink, he will, and if not," Elyan does a sort of half-felt shrug gesture, but Gwaine only groans in response.
"This is meant to be bonding! We drink, we share a few stories, we cry, we hug afterwards," He motions again with his tankard and sloshes around the ale. He takes a swig before looking over the group. "C'mon what's wrong with you all? I mean I know Merlin's sulking because his princess isn't here but-" Merlin scoffs at that.
"I am not sulking." He rolls his eyes.
Gwaine smirks "Alright, then what are you doing, love?"
"I'm...celebrating? I don't know Gwaine, I'm just doing whatever you dragged us out here to do."
"Whatever I dragged us here to do-" Gwaine repeats, offended "I swear, this is the last time I'm taking you sorry lot to go drinking."
"As if anyone but us could endure you for longer than a candlemark," Merlin says into his tankard and the group laughs a hearty laugh. Still grinning, Gwaine grabs Merlin and roughly messes his hair.
Merlin drinks more than he should, but then he always drinks more than he should with Gwaine. He stumbles alone through the quiet and empty streets of Camelot, late into the night. The cold bit at his ears and nose, but he found he didn't mind all that much. He wandered around aimlessly, listening carefully to the night birds, and the occasional bat fluttering through the air. Merlin always enjoyed Camelot at night, he could take up as much space as he wanted in the streets, walk with as much reckless abandon as he so pleased. It felt like home, it felt foreign, it felt like something he both wanted and didn’t. He hadn't noticed where he was until he was shoving the doors open, rude and ill-mannered as always. Arthur glanced up at him from the fireplace, eyes red, and tears down his face. Merlin entered quickly, closed the door. He was still a little drunk but the scene sobered him enough to stop his swaying and his thoughtless state. Arthur had quickly gone to fix up his face, wiping away any signs with his sleeve.
"Merlin, what are you doing here?" He said, annoyed, angry, but mostly tired.
"I..." Merlin began, standing dumbly and picking at a thread on the hem of his shirt. "I don't know..."
"Well, you're dismissed."
"But-"
"You are dismissed, Merlin." He raised his voice. Not nearly a shout, but in the dead of the night it rang loud and harsh. Merlin frowned, stepped toward Arthur.
"Is this- are you-..." Merlin tries, but he is coming up short as his mind works through the alcohol. He looks at Arthur, wants to say so much, wants to say the right thing to make him feel better. "He was your father." He settles.
"It doesn't matter. He wasn't a good man." Arthur retorts, head turning to look at the fire.
"That hardly stopped him from being your father, hardly stops you from having cared about him." Merlin sits himself down in his chair, the one next to Arthur's. The fire is dwindling, barely offering any light, and even less warmth.
"It should." He says resolutely.
"You're allowed to have feelings on the matter, you know. No one would blame you"
"I would. I would blame me, he does not deserve this." He gestures to himself, all of himself, eyes welling up and threatening to spill. "He...was no good to me, no good to the kingdom...No good to Morgana." Arthur's jaw clenched, and his eyes screwed toward the dying fire, trying to stop the tears.
They sat there for a moment longer. Watching the vanishing light as the fireplace grew darker and darker, until even the small veins in the wood showed no signs of the flame. Merlin stood, slowly, and walked over to Arthur. He reaches out, gently grabbing at his wrist and pulls him up, and Arthur all but lets him. They stand there in the dark, face to face, Arthur not quite looking at him, and Merlin trying to parse him through the dim light and his inebriated state. Arthur risks a glance, sees Merlin and his too big eyes, full of sorrow, and trust, and understanding. He can feel himself becoming emotional again, and he wants to storm out and put his armour on, take it out on some poor training dummy, or slaughter some hog in the woods – he wants to sink his nails into something, and be useful, and purposeful, like he’s supposed to be. He takes in a breath of frustration, and his teeth gnash against each other, but Merlin just touches his hand softly, and that's enough to undo him. Arthur crumples into Merlin's arms, tears wetting his threadbare shirt. Merlin only holds him, smooths his hair, rubs reassuring circles into his back. And Arthur wished he wouldn't, wished Merlin would be insubordinate and call him stupid, tell him to man up, to take his place as king and cease this childish display. But Merlin lets him cry, lets him get it out of his system, and he doesn't say anything of it.
When Arthur’s sobbed himself tired and spent, Merlin dresses him, then settles him under the covers. Merlin stays by the king's bed for a moment, staring down at Arthur with his hair all tousled and messy, eyes puffed and tired. Merlin lets out a breath, something caught between laughter and awe. He looked so young, so vulnerable. So unlike the king but so much like his friend. He reaches out, tucks a stray lock of hair away from his face. Arthur leans in a little, his gaze cast downward shyly. And Merlin can't help himself, knows he should, knows it's unfair to Arthur right now of all times. But instinct is hard to fight, and he does it before he knows. Arthur catches his eyes as the light is fading and Merlin's hand is retreating. "What was that for?" Arthur asks, no particular tone to his voice.
Merlin tries to keep his voice steady, he answers honestly. "You'll complain about your eyes being puffy in the morning," and then Arthur laughs, it's small and honest, and the sweetest sound he's ever heard.
4.
Feasts were always tiring, most especially for the serving staff. It was always a coordinated storm of servants, men and women coming to and fro, pouring drinks, cleaning a spill, rushing through the halls to get more mead, or bread, or cheese – and then there was the mess afterwards, where even that was rushed and done in a hurry so that it could just be done with. And when it was, a collective sigh could be felt rippling through the castle.
Merlin liked to take his sigh up near the ramparts with a few leftovers and some wine. Somehow both too tired and too restless to really sleep. He liked to watch the first glimpse of the sun breaking the horizon, make himself proper tired so the next day he could fall into a dead sleep. It probably wasn't wise, and he always regretted it around noon, but nothing could quite beat the feeling of the cool night air biting against his skin, the wine settling into his blood, and the shades of periwinkle and rosy pinks of dawn.
Lost in the vast blanket of stars, Merlin did not hear as footsteps approached, timid and quiet. "Merlin," He turned his head, mouth caught in half a bite of cheese. Arthur stood there, still dressed in his feast clothes, a fur lined coat to help protect the cold, his finest red tunic – he hadn't even bothered to take his crown off. It looked silver in the moonlight. "My lord," He said but it lacked the usual bite, and maybe he meant it more than he usually did. Arthur pressed his lips into a line, something akin to an awkward smile as he grabbed the crown off his head. He held it for a moment, seeming to find something about it that Merlin could not quite grasp.
"Do you mind?" He asked, motioning next to Merlin.
"Oh, of course not," Merlin moved to the side to allow Arthur to sit on the blanket. Arthur sat down next to him and gently placed the crown close beside him. "But I warn you, not sure there's enough wine for the two of us," Merlin nudged his shoulder.
"Oh Gods, I think I'll never have another drop of wine, ale, or mead in my life. Not sure I have it in me to even have a drop of water." Merlin laughed, smiled wide at him.
"I thought you said you'd be taking yourself to bed, or did dressing yourself prove to be too much for you." He teased
"I did not tell you when I would be taking myself to bed.” Arthur said matter-of-factly, “How very much like you to wrongly assume things, don't you ever tire of making a fool of yourself?" Merlin gave him a look, and Arthur only smirked back at him. "I didn't feel tired.” He confessed “well, no, I'm bone tired, but restless still. Thought a walk could help." Arthur picked at some of the cheese before thinking better.
They sat there gazing at the stars for a while, enjoying the silence and each other's company. Just as Merlin felt the sleep creep into his eyes, Arthur spoke up again. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure,"
"Why Camelot?" On the surface it was a simple question. It could have had a simple answer, had Merlin been someone else, had Arthur not been the King, had they been born in some other time. Merlin opened his eyes, all manner of sleep leaving him as he tensed, stealing a glance toward Arthur who still only looked up at the night sky. He could lie, avoid it all together, leave right now and say he was too tired. He wanted to.
"My mother knew Gaius, said he could help me."
"Why did you-"
"I didn't." Merlin cut him off. Knew what he was going to ask. Arthur turned his head at Merlin, his eyebrows furrowed, annoyed that he'd been cut off, and at the fact that he thought Merlin was trying to hide after all this time. "I was born with it."
"Ah." He said rather lamely, all that heat and anger suddenly leaving him. And for some reason this caused Merlin to burst out into laughter. He fell onto his back and tried to stifle the laughter that disturbed the silence of night. "What on earth is so funny, Merlin?" Arthur demanded, leaning over to look at his idiot manservant.
"I've just told you I was born with magic, and all you've got to say is 'ah'," and to that Merlin was reduced to another fit of giggles. "Well what the bloody hell am I supposed to say, you idiot?" Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was some sense of relief, maybe it was just the acknowledgement of saying it out loud that which had gone unsaid for so long. But Merlin could just not stop himself. As he tried to cease his writhing, he clumsily kicked his foot out and knocked over the pitcher of wine, spilling it onto the stone.
Arthur's head whipped around as he pulled his legs and cape away from the spill, making sure to snatch his crown along the way. "Merlin you-" He stopped himself with a huff of frustration. "Fantastic, now it looks like a bloody crime scene."
Merlin sat up and looked to the spill. He saw the wine stain the stones, and wondered how many of the bricks had been bathed in blood, how much blood has Camelot spilled? How much of Camelot's blood was on his hands? Merlin reached out, mindlessly, and cleaned it up. The wine was gone, and the pitcher righted itself. He did not need to look at Arthur to know he was staring.
"Why did you stay?"
"You must know, it was for you...Always for you." He didn’t chance a look at his king, scared he might find something there, scared he might do something stupid.
Arthur stood, slowly. He adjusted his cape and fixed the crown back on his head. He reached down and pulled Merlin up from the ground and from his stupor. "Off to bed with you- with the both of us, I think."
"I've got to be up soon anyways, no point in-" Merlin whined, allowing himself to be stood upright.
"Oh, take the day off, you oaf. For my sake."
He wanted to protest, mostly out of habit. But Arthur had squeezed his shoulder in reassurance, smiled at him sweetly, and that was enough to undo him."Alright."
5.
Merlin had never been busier in his entire life, and he had Arthur to thank for a great deal of his troubles, as always. The second he set foot into the king’s chambers he was being pushed out the door with a mile long list of asinine requests and tedium. Not to mention he was still Gaius’ apprentice, and Gwen had been swamped all the same and so Merlin offered to help her, he could never quite refuse her. He had been ran ragged by the end of the day, irritation threatening to bubble over his usually carefree demeanour. He just wanted to get Arthur settled for the night, even if it meant strong-arming the man into bed. Then he would collapse into his own, where he would not move until an hour past Arthur’s breakfast time, in some protest against the king for the day he had just been made to endure.
He practically stormed into Arthur’s chambers, pushing the doors open recklessly and with a great huff. "Alright, Sire, let us get you ready for bed, I'm sure you've been oh so hard at work all day doing very, very, very important things – and I'm most certainly sure those things can wait til tomorrow. So come on, then!" He walked straight to Arthur’s wardrobe to get out his night clothes with little consideration. He paid Arthur no mind, did not want to give him the opportunity to add one last thing onto his plate. "One moment, Merlin." Was all he said.
"Whatever it is you are working on can surely wait til the morning." Merlin groaned.
"Actually, I was hoping to get your opinion on it. Before you retire for the night that is." Had Merlin been more aware and about himself, he might've sworn the king was...nervous. Instead he could only feel his own growing headache and irritation. "Arthur, I am begging you if I do one more thing, I think I'll collapse this entire castle onto myself and everyone inside." But then he looked at Arthur, who looked back at him with pleading eyes, his hands grasping the paper uncharacteristically anxious. He sighed, and stomped over to Arthur's desk. He took the parchment and scanned it quickly, skimming through the lines.
"Its still a draft.” He began defensively. “Truthfully I've been reworking it a great deal, and for some time. I thought I could manage on my own, but I am out of my depth, but surely it's something – a base, a foundation. I've always trusted your council, even if at times it seems I might not, however I truly think you a bright mind, and well quite frankly I'm not sure there's anyone else who I could trust with this. Well, I suppose there's maybe Gaius, if you're unwilling, but there's no one else I'd rather trust." Arthur rambled, but the words melded into one cacophonous noise. A nothing sound to Merlin's ears as he reread the words over and over again. Silence filled the room, the king waited nervously. "Merlin, say something."
Merlin looked up, his throat dry and tears welling up in his eye. He floundered for a second, trying to think of anything to say, anything he could say. Instead he threw himself onto Arthur, arms wrapping around him as he began to weep, openly and loudly. Something in his head told him this was inappropriate, wrapping himself around the king like this, and through the haze he tried to listen. He pulled himself away from Arthur, tried to take a step back but the King's arms rested around his waist, keeping him close. "You're- Are you certain?” Merlin looked at him through bleary eyes, still unsure that this wasn’t some dream. “You're truly doing this?"
Arthur swallowed thickly and obviously, and then nodded. His eyes scanning Merlin's face, as if he had to be worried about Merlin’s reaction. "Only if you promise to help me."
"Of course I will. Gods, Arthur, of course I will."
"Merlin." Arthur said like it was the easiest thing in the world, like he’d been born knowing his name, like he’d know it after he was dead and gone and buried. He looked at Merlin with wide and wanting eyes, and somehow Merlin knew what he was saying, what he was asking. Merlin leaned down and kissed him, soft and sweet. The kiss was chaste, as kisses went. Merlin always yearned for passion, for intensity, always thought if it were to ever happen it would be dramatic and life threatening. Thought the idea of a kiss goodbye something aspiration and poetic. But he could settle for this, could settle for the sturdy and sure lips against his, could settle for a promise, and an oath, and a forever. As they parted Merlin brought his hands to up to softly grasp Arthur’s face, and he felt as all the adrenaline drained from him.
“Maybe, it can wait til morning though?” Arthur offered.
He laughed, unburdened for the first time. Tired and satisfied, “Yeah, maybe it can.”