Fic | Merlin/Arthur | the smile, the frown on your face
Merlin | Merlin/Arthur | PG-13
I
He is happy for Arthur.
He is.
He's been in Camelot long enough to see that Arthur's routine mostly consists of being run ragged by the King; long enough for his resentment over Arthur taking his frustration out on other people like a giant, emotionally challenged prat to turn to a sort of indulgent acceptance - even pride -because while the knights bear the brunt of Arthur's anger with the relative aid of their shields and swords whereas Merlin has no such buffer, it is him that Arthur will confide in, eventually, if he is to confide in anyone. After the shouting, after a sufficient number of meek yet completely fake sire's and other sounds of agreement that Arthur's lips can't help but twitch at, at some point, he will actually sit down at the table in his chambers, accept the wine Merlin has been trying to inconspicuously tempt him with, and let Merlin drop the servant act and ask him if he wants to talk about it, to which Arthur will reply with an incredulous snort before off-handedly beginning to relate some story that, interestingly enough, soon twists into the latest lecture he's been given by Uther, or the latest shouting match he's got into with Morgana, or so on.
Still, seeing as how Arthur spends a lot of his time wound up tight and beating up either the knights or Merlin himself on the pretext of combat training, he really is very happy when the strangers take up temporary residence in the castle and Arthur's frowns and glares are replaced by grins and a lighter blue of his eyes.
If Arthur is happy, then Merlin is happy. For Arthur. Naturally.
And yet…
And yet, it's- There's something-
+
Racing to the lake, Merlin's mind is feverish, the pain in his head forgotten as the dread steadily mounts, growing into a solid something in his chest and threatening to cut the flow of ragged gasps of air into his lungs. The thought, the thought of being already late is impossible because there is nothing beyond Arthur in his future, and without Arthur-
But no, he cannot think of that because the fear will- anyway, it's not true, he won't be late, and he needs to keep his wits about him to be able to defeat two magical beings, un-enchant Arthur and bring him back to Camelot, all the while continuing to keep Arthur unaware of Merlin's own secret.
+
Gaius leaves the prince's chambers soon after the cover story has been established, seeing as Arthur seems to be quite alright and back to normal, both in body and mind; Merlin would leave, too, if he didn't seem to suddenly feel incapable of letting Arthur out of his sight. Arthur keeps up a litany of suspicious questions and threats about the consequences should Merlin ever breath a word to anyone about getting the better of Arthur in a fight, and Merlin putters around on the far side of the room and offers only non-committal grunts in response in an attempt to hide the re-newed shaking of both his hands and his voice as images of dark water and a barely-there gleam of mail return to him.
Arthur's voice breaks off, and Merlin has a brief moment of relief as he hopes the prince has fallen back asleep, until-
"Merlin? Are you sure I didn't hurt you in the scuffle?"
And all would be back to normal, except Arthur is suddenly right there behind him and Merlin can feel the unique warmth of a hand hovering near his shoulder blade, and instead of gleeful optimism there is grudging worry in Arthur's voice.
"Yeah, I. I'm fine, just f-fine," and of course his voice stutters as he is then attacked by the memory of leaning over Arthur on the edge of the water, pushing air into his lungs with his mouth, desperately looking to see the natural rise of a chest, and seeing nothing, nothing.
"You're a crap liar, Merlin, now tell me - what's wrong?"
Merlin can't bring himself to speak, can't make sense of the lies, can't decide upon the right one.
"I…" Arthur continues, but something fragile bleeds into the demands, and Merlin suddenly feels Arthur tense behind him. "I seem to remember, earlier- in my chambers, if I spoke harshly, I-"
Merlin can't help but snort, and some small measure of blessed self-control returns to him.
"You always speak harshly to us lowly servants, Arthur," he berates playfully as he turns around to face his prince. Arthur's mouth opens in indignant splutter, but Merlin's smile slides off his face, and Arthur quietens down before even starting.
"No, it's- You weren't yourself. It's just, you seemed to be so far gone, taking off with her like that, and if I hadn't been able to bring you back-" He takes a deep breath but finds he can't go on.
Silence beats between them for a moment, then Arthur's hand rises again and, this time, settles firmly on Merlin's shoulder. You did, though or thank you or such a girl, Merlin, I rest my case; Arthur's firm regard could mean a number of things but Merlin just takes it to mean, it's okay now.
+
Something changes between them, afterwards; Arthur is still a prat as often as the prince, still mocks Merlin and lets his temper manifest itself in unreasonable orders and black moods, but the tantrums get shorter in lieu of actual talking, and some days Arthur doesn't seem to feel the need to suppress his amusement at something Merlin has said, doesn't turn away to hide his smile.
Merlin hasn't thought about the blasted Sidhe in weeks when a feast night arrives, seemingly ordinary at first: the King looking down upon most everyone as if he knows something that they don't; Morgana as beautiful and untouchable as the cold, late night mist; the knights drunk off their arses and doing a very poor job of hiding the fact; and a line of ladies queuing at their chance to almost-lay their hand on Arthur's sleeve as they reach up to whisper in his ear. Merlin happens to glance in his sire's direction exactly as one such attempt at winning the favour of the crown prince is happening, and freezes, his hands fisting at his sides - he thinks the hair at the back of his neck might be standing up.
Gwen, standing at his side, feels his mood change, or maybe he has growled a little, and turns towards him, eyes widening. "Merlin? What is it?"
"That girl hanging off of Arthur's arm. Something's wrong."
Gwen peeks at the pair but doesn't appear worried. "Um, really? What makes you think so?"
"I just… I have this feeling. The same feeling I got when- when Sophia-" Merlin stops suddenly, feeling like he's missing something. Gwen chances a look at him and explains, finally, "But, Merlin, that's the daughter of one of Uther's new allies, and- well, truth be told, King Rowan is almost as bad when it comes to magic as Uther, I'm sure she couldn't..."
Even as they're speculatively staring at her and Arthur, the lady suddenly laughs and takes her leave. The tight feeling in Merlin's chest eases a little and he's about to resign himself to waiting and seeing; except, right then the next harpy sidles next to the prince, and- the feeling is back. In full force.
Some have called Merlin a bit slow but, contrary to what Arthur keeps saying, he's not a complete idiot. The realisation feels like a punch in the stomach, shining light to a corner of Merlin's feelings that he's happily mistaken for respect and brotherly affection for his liege.
"Oh, crap," Merlin intones, feeling very much like turning around and introducing his stupid brain to the castle wall.
+
In comparison, Merlin's life changes surprisingly little when one considers the magnitude of his epiphany. If he was expecting rose petals to fall in Arthur's wake, now, or the sound of his laughter to suddenly be accompanied by the plunking of heavenly harps, well- that would be a no on both counts. Arthur remains a royal prat who just happens to be too fit and shiny not to star in Merlin's dreams, and his daydreams, and, er-
Anyway, it's relatively easy to go on as before, bickering with Arthur, taking care of his needs (in all the ways except the one he might not mind too much, with his new awareness) and anonymously saving his life every other week.
At Arthur's coming-of-age ceremony Merlin is hard-pressed to hide his starry-eyed adoration because Arthur really is very fit and the candles bring out the creamy glow of his skin just so, and even Gwen is starting to get on with the program.
The Black Knight and the subsequent days of tension and growing desperation in the castle, however, show Merlin exactly the difference that the acknowledging of his emotion has wrought. He remembers, back then, running to save Arthur from Sophia, and the suffocating fear because Arthur needed to stay alive, needed to stay here for Camelot, for Merlin's destiny-
This time, the thought of losing Arthur - being plagued with that thought with nothing to do, knowing the true danger was not the wraith but Arthur's own damned stubborn sense of duty - the thought is-
Impossible, yes. Unthinkable, yes.
His body feels empty of anything but cold terror.
And the thing is, Merlin cares naught for Camelot - for Arthur's subjects, in spite of knowing how important the people are to Arthur - even the thought of his great destiny, just seems… inconsequential.
It's the thought of- never seeing that amazing blue of Arthur's eyes again. Never hearing the surprised bursts of laughter disguised as coughs. Never being able to help Arthur shrug into his coat and unnecessarily smooth the cloth in place over his shoulders.
That's how Merlin knows, really knows, that his love for Arthur-
It has no boundaries. No limits to what he would do, for Arthur.
+
Afterwards, Arthur apologizes for lifting his sword against Merlin, and Merlin wants to scoff because, obviously, Arthur thinks himself far scarier than he, in all truthfulness, could ever hope to be. At least to Merlin, who has seen Arthur sick and sleepy and pouty and all the possible states in between; in one memorable occasion, with an open smile on his face as a litter of the stable-master's dog swarmed his ankles, yipping and licking at his fingers and begging to be lifted up by big warm hands.
Instead, what Merlin wants from Arthur is an apology for thinking he could sacrifice himself like that - for pride, for honour - and a promise that he will never do so again; both of them things that Merlin knows he will never get.
And even while Arthur's integrity is one of the things Merlin most loves about him, it is making Merlin's hair turn white one hair at a time.
+
So all continues as before, domestic routine taking turns with hunts and campaigns and assassins, and Merlin counts his happiness by the seamless way he fits into Arthur's life, by every new expression on Arthur's face that he learns to name and catalogue, and by the evenings Arthur takes hold of his wrist as he's about to take his leave and says, would you like me to beat you in chess before retiring?
His love cannot actually grow, Merlin doesn't think; what it does is permeate every nook and cranny of his heart until he's waking up with a grin every morning, and it seems this is just the way it will go, Arthur strong and determined and oblivious, and Merlin there, always there, guarding him.
And then, Arthur finds out about his magic.
II
It seems impossible, ridiculously so, after so long and after so many stupid catastrophes with completely unfeasible solutions, for it to be such a small thing, in the end.
Arthur has suspected- since Ealdor, maybe. Or, perhaps, since his mortifying mistake concerning Sophia; he remembers baffling at how Merlin could ever have been able to subdue him, and a stray thought crossing his mind, must've been magic - and shying away from the idea immediately, casting it away and burying it under a barrage of wholly ordinary taunts and threats.
So, maybe since Ealdor, when Merlin had trouble meeting his eyes for days afterwards, and always seemed at the verge of saying something and wouldn't; or maybe since Sophia; or maybe since the first fight with Merlin, in the market place, when Arthur just kept stumbling.
It hasn't seemed to matter. Not because he doesn't care about the truth - almost always he has wanted to ask, and several times almost has - but more in the way that Merlin is Merlin - too clumsy and earnest to be planning overthrowing the royal family; and a bit stupid; and a bit indispensable, as a confidant if not as a manservant (not that Arthur would ever tell Merlin that). So it has been relatively easy not to push the issue, especially since Merlin gets this panicked look in his eyes every time Arthur even entertains the thought of asking him a serious question; but when he sees magic used right in his chambers and Merlin still insists on excuses and preposterous stories, well, Arthur is starting to feel somewhat insulted.
It is some weeks after the whole mess with the Questing Beast, and everyone is still treating him like he might keel over any moment despite the fact that he feels perfectly healthy. These days Merlin looks more frail than Arthur feels, and at unopportune moments Arthur's memory keeps flashing to two pictures of him, side by side - of Merlin giving him that strange speech, eyes glittering wetly although everything was fine already; and of Merlin the next time Arthur saw him, three days later, looking thin and weary, and somehow so old - and Arthur is left feeling like he's missed something huge.
From the castle gossip he learns that curiously coinciding with his own illness, a patient from out-castle, maybe outside of Camelot, took residence in Gaius's rooms for a while; by grilling Guinevere he finds out that the woman was Hunith. It is all most irregular and frustrating and since no one will tell him anything even though he's the heir to the throne, thank you very much, he'll just have to get to the bottom of things on his own.
+
To be fair to Merlin, he doesn't crack easily. Despite clearly spending his nights in a hard chair at Arthur's table as often as his own room, and constantly looking worn and pale and still needlessly worried, he is very careful when he goes about his chores, and if it weren't for that one morning when Arthur was still more asleep than awake and heard a whispered word that definitely wasn't a language either of them is supposed to speak, then the crackle of flame, he might have remained content to continue to let the matter be.
Did you say something, Merlin, he'd asked, and of course Merlin had responded with a ludicrous tale about just trying to remember the words to an old lullaby, sire.
So, for the whole day now Arthur has kept Merlin busy with tasks that involve as much physical exertion as possible; he probably needn't have bothered, since the fine skin under Merlin's dark blue eyes is bruised with sleep-deprivation, and a part of him flinches at contributing to Merlin's unhealthy state, but the space between them is starting to get too dense with secrets and Arthur misses the easy- alright, friendship- of before.
When Merlin returns to Arthur's chambers that evening, almost asleep on his feet, Arthur would like nothing better than to order him to clamber into Arthur's bed and stay awake himself to make sure the idiot actually gets a full night's sleep sometimes; if not for the look in Merlin's eyes that not only says, tired right down to my bones, but also, hurting.
Distracting Merlin with a list of orders for the next day, Arthur waits for Merlin to start to zone out, having decided, in his gamble, to trust a character trait of Merlin's he has only recently noticed and still doesn't quite understand - that of instinctively doing everything he can to keep Arthur happy and comfortable - before he says, suddenly, almost carelessly, "Damn, it's cold here-"
And the window Arthur had opened earlier in the evening for just this purpose, abruptly slams shut.
Merlin starts, the glazed look clearing and an expression of horror taking its place, and he swallows and says, "Must've been some gust of wind-"
"The day has been completely still," Arthur counters, calmly.
"The wind's picking up, then-"
"And your eyes?" Arthur's sure he's not mistaken, although the flash of colour only lasted the tiniest of moments, a beautiful, burnished gold.
"My- what? Arthur, are you feeling quite-"
And this Arthur can't take, the twisting of his more than entitled queries into another vulnerability brought on by the whole hideous mess with his wound and whatever Merlin has lost that makes him look only half-there, at all times, and Arthur is genuinely angry when he says in a low tone, "Stop. Lying. To me."
They're facing each other, and Arthur thinks both of them might be breathing a little hard. Merlin's eyes are wide and begging, but his head moves only in helpless tiny shakes, one side, then the other, as if there's nothing to tell, nothing to show.
"And if I struck you?" Arthur takes a step forwards; a menacing step, he intends. "What would you do in self-defence?"
Merlin doesn't even shift his weight from one foot to the other.
"I doubt you would do so. Sire." There's no self-satisfaction; no pleasure at all in Merlin's face. Just a sort of exhaustion that can only come from the inside; from the mind, not the body.
Arthur tenses his muscles, lets his hands lazily roll into hard fists against his thighs. He knows Merlin's calm regard tracks every movement, and still, there's- nothing at all. No single sign of alarm.
Arthur knows better than to think he could actually harm Merlin; suspects he couldn't lift a fist even to make the pretence. He wishes Merlin's trust in him wasn't so absolute even as it makes his soul soar. Abandoning the act, his hand goes to the dagger in his boot. Merlin remains unconcerned - right up until Arthur brings the blade to his own throat, to lick at the tendon in the juncture of neck and shoulder.
What about this, Arthur starts to say, but the words are only just about to form when the dagger is suddenly in Merlin's hand, Arthur's gripping nothing but air.
Except that Merlin hasn't moved, hasn't so much as blinked, only tensed: jaw set square, arms tight against his sides. The hold on the dagger very, very sure.
Arthur wants to do something foolish like gasp, like he's surprised after all.
"You utter prat," Merlin hisses, and for once there is no hint of teasing or warmth in the word, "d'ya think this is a game? Do you not have enough danger and peril from every crazed sorcerer and magical being in the realm, must you put me through you playing with your own life, as well?"
And if there ever was a hint of doubt in Arthur's mind, any vestige of his father's fear remaining, it is wiped out by the burn in Merlin's eyes, just beginning to swirl with gold again, as something new and only a little frightening starts to become clear to Arthur.
Every other warlock might end up corrupted by their power; anyone else might be bought and turned; his knights and his subjects and his servants could betray him because everyone has a weakness, and the weakness always comes with a set price; but Merlin- there's always, always been something about Merlin-
And you don't fake emotions like that. You don't fake the utterly impossible mixture of exasperation, annoyance, indulgence and pride Arthur sees in Merlin's gaze. You don't fake, day after day, the gleeful smile on Merlin's face when he gets to wake Arthur up in the rudest, most obnoxious of manners imaginable. You don't fake the crumbling of Merlin's face when Arthur informs him that, yes, in fact the stables do need to be mucked out again. And again and again.
And no matter how much some part of him ridicules himself for believing Merlin's supposed contentment at remaining Arthur's servant (until the day I die), all he needs to do is dig into his memories, to the picture of the defeated, brilliant shine of Merlin's eyes, and he knows, you don't fake that kind of bravery and loyalty and fear.
Merlin can't be bought because his only weakness is Arthur.
And Merlin cannot become corrupted because, apparently, protecting Arthur is more important to him than protecting his magic. Or his life.
Arthur strides the last steps until he's standing right in front of Merlin and takes the hand still frozen around the dagger; prises open the fingers and flings the knife away from them.
As Arthur's fingers interlock with Merlin's newly-freed hand, his lips press down against Merlin's.
Merlin is cold and trembling, and there's a sound from him that is perhaps surprise or fear - but when Arthur leans back to look into the burning blue-gold, to give Merlin a chance to say no, Merlin's other hand wraps around his waist like a vice and his mouth dives for Arthur's, and Arthur feels a nervousness he didn't know he had time to feel drain out of his body.
Merlin's trembling is worse now, and his lips can't seem to decide where they want to be, trailing agitatedly down Arthur's jawline, detouring by his neck, slipping out his tongue at the spot where Arthur had held the blade; and Arthur lifts up their joined hands to rest between their chests, between their heartbeats, and his other hand settles to cover the back of Merlin's neck, and he murmurs, "Shush, shush."
Hard as the kisses and Merlin's frantic touches have made Arthur, the need to see Merlin rested and less brittle easily wins out over the desire. Merlin happily lets Arthur divest him of his clothes, only starting to protest as Arthur starts steering him towards the bed, himself still fully clothed.
"Arthur, why- don't you-" And there is such honest fear in Merlin's gaze, such self-doubt, that Arthur can't help but stop and take Merlin's face between his palms and just kiss him, kiss him until he groans and starts unconsciously moving against Arthur.
"Ah, stop, you fiend-" Arthur feels hot and definitely short of breath but they'll have time for this, later; Merlin's eyes are questioning and there's an amusingly petulant twist to his lips when Arthur tells him, "You've been looking like death warmed over for weeks - you're going to sleep, now, and sleep well, or so help me."
Merlin grins, and the expression is so familiar, so beloved that the relief stings Arthur's chest. Then, in the blink of an eye, the grin is a smirk, and Merlin's long fingers are up teasing at Arthur's sides, supposedly innocently worrying the hem of his shift. "I'm sure I'll sleep much better if you're there to warm the bed, sire."
Arthur eyes Merlin distrustfully. "I'm not sure if- Will you be able to behave?"
Merlin's smirk transforms into something gentler, something delicate and far-away again. "This feels like a dream already. I'm afraid, if I go to sleep now, I'll wake up in Gaius's rooms and know that I will never, ever get to hold Arthur Pendragon in my arms."
The breath catches in Arthur's throat. In quick movements, he strips his clothes before stepping forward again, chest to chest. Merlin's eyes are killing him, the need in them. Arthur's pendant digs into both their skin; the one he's worn since before he can remember, the only gift of love he has ever been given - before this. Laying himself as naked as the Crown Prince of Camelot can, Arthur lifts the pendant over his head, discards it. The pure joy on Merlin's face suggests he might know what the action marks.
"When you wake up tomorrow, I'll be right here. As I will be for as long as you want me to be."
Merlin's eyes are bright with unshed tears as he counters in a whisper, "For that promise, I will search the ends of the world for the mystery of eternal life."
Sequel: in time and space
I
He is happy for Arthur.
He is.
He's been in Camelot long enough to see that Arthur's routine mostly consists of being run ragged by the King; long enough for his resentment over Arthur taking his frustration out on other people like a giant, emotionally challenged prat to turn to a sort of indulgent acceptance - even pride -because while the knights bear the brunt of Arthur's anger with the relative aid of their shields and swords whereas Merlin has no such buffer, it is him that Arthur will confide in, eventually, if he is to confide in anyone. After the shouting, after a sufficient number of meek yet completely fake sire's and other sounds of agreement that Arthur's lips can't help but twitch at, at some point, he will actually sit down at the table in his chambers, accept the wine Merlin has been trying to inconspicuously tempt him with, and let Merlin drop the servant act and ask him if he wants to talk about it, to which Arthur will reply with an incredulous snort before off-handedly beginning to relate some story that, interestingly enough, soon twists into the latest lecture he's been given by Uther, or the latest shouting match he's got into with Morgana, or so on.
Still, seeing as how Arthur spends a lot of his time wound up tight and beating up either the knights or Merlin himself on the pretext of combat training, he really is very happy when the strangers take up temporary residence in the castle and Arthur's frowns and glares are replaced by grins and a lighter blue of his eyes.
If Arthur is happy, then Merlin is happy. For Arthur. Naturally.
And yet…
And yet, it's- There's something-
+
Racing to the lake, Merlin's mind is feverish, the pain in his head forgotten as the dread steadily mounts, growing into a solid something in his chest and threatening to cut the flow of ragged gasps of air into his lungs. The thought, the thought of being already late is impossible because there is nothing beyond Arthur in his future, and without Arthur-
But no, he cannot think of that because the fear will- anyway, it's not true, he won't be late, and he needs to keep his wits about him to be able to defeat two magical beings, un-enchant Arthur and bring him back to Camelot, all the while continuing to keep Arthur unaware of Merlin's own secret.
+
Gaius leaves the prince's chambers soon after the cover story has been established, seeing as Arthur seems to be quite alright and back to normal, both in body and mind; Merlin would leave, too, if he didn't seem to suddenly feel incapable of letting Arthur out of his sight. Arthur keeps up a litany of suspicious questions and threats about the consequences should Merlin ever breath a word to anyone about getting the better of Arthur in a fight, and Merlin putters around on the far side of the room and offers only non-committal grunts in response in an attempt to hide the re-newed shaking of both his hands and his voice as images of dark water and a barely-there gleam of mail return to him.
Arthur's voice breaks off, and Merlin has a brief moment of relief as he hopes the prince has fallen back asleep, until-
"Merlin? Are you sure I didn't hurt you in the scuffle?"
And all would be back to normal, except Arthur is suddenly right there behind him and Merlin can feel the unique warmth of a hand hovering near his shoulder blade, and instead of gleeful optimism there is grudging worry in Arthur's voice.
"Yeah, I. I'm fine, just f-fine," and of course his voice stutters as he is then attacked by the memory of leaning over Arthur on the edge of the water, pushing air into his lungs with his mouth, desperately looking to see the natural rise of a chest, and seeing nothing, nothing.
"You're a crap liar, Merlin, now tell me - what's wrong?"
Merlin can't bring himself to speak, can't make sense of the lies, can't decide upon the right one.
"I…" Arthur continues, but something fragile bleeds into the demands, and Merlin suddenly feels Arthur tense behind him. "I seem to remember, earlier- in my chambers, if I spoke harshly, I-"
Merlin can't help but snort, and some small measure of blessed self-control returns to him.
"You always speak harshly to us lowly servants, Arthur," he berates playfully as he turns around to face his prince. Arthur's mouth opens in indignant splutter, but Merlin's smile slides off his face, and Arthur quietens down before even starting.
"No, it's- You weren't yourself. It's just, you seemed to be so far gone, taking off with her like that, and if I hadn't been able to bring you back-" He takes a deep breath but finds he can't go on.
Silence beats between them for a moment, then Arthur's hand rises again and, this time, settles firmly on Merlin's shoulder. You did, though or thank you or such a girl, Merlin, I rest my case; Arthur's firm regard could mean a number of things but Merlin just takes it to mean, it's okay now.
+
Something changes between them, afterwards; Arthur is still a prat as often as the prince, still mocks Merlin and lets his temper manifest itself in unreasonable orders and black moods, but the tantrums get shorter in lieu of actual talking, and some days Arthur doesn't seem to feel the need to suppress his amusement at something Merlin has said, doesn't turn away to hide his smile.
Merlin hasn't thought about the blasted Sidhe in weeks when a feast night arrives, seemingly ordinary at first: the King looking down upon most everyone as if he knows something that they don't; Morgana as beautiful and untouchable as the cold, late night mist; the knights drunk off their arses and doing a very poor job of hiding the fact; and a line of ladies queuing at their chance to almost-lay their hand on Arthur's sleeve as they reach up to whisper in his ear. Merlin happens to glance in his sire's direction exactly as one such attempt at winning the favour of the crown prince is happening, and freezes, his hands fisting at his sides - he thinks the hair at the back of his neck might be standing up.
Gwen, standing at his side, feels his mood change, or maybe he has growled a little, and turns towards him, eyes widening. "Merlin? What is it?"
"That girl hanging off of Arthur's arm. Something's wrong."
Gwen peeks at the pair but doesn't appear worried. "Um, really? What makes you think so?"
"I just… I have this feeling. The same feeling I got when- when Sophia-" Merlin stops suddenly, feeling like he's missing something. Gwen chances a look at him and explains, finally, "But, Merlin, that's the daughter of one of Uther's new allies, and- well, truth be told, King Rowan is almost as bad when it comes to magic as Uther, I'm sure she couldn't..."
Even as they're speculatively staring at her and Arthur, the lady suddenly laughs and takes her leave. The tight feeling in Merlin's chest eases a little and he's about to resign himself to waiting and seeing; except, right then the next harpy sidles next to the prince, and- the feeling is back. In full force.
Some have called Merlin a bit slow but, contrary to what Arthur keeps saying, he's not a complete idiot. The realisation feels like a punch in the stomach, shining light to a corner of Merlin's feelings that he's happily mistaken for respect and brotherly affection for his liege.
"Oh, crap," Merlin intones, feeling very much like turning around and introducing his stupid brain to the castle wall.
+
In comparison, Merlin's life changes surprisingly little when one considers the magnitude of his epiphany. If he was expecting rose petals to fall in Arthur's wake, now, or the sound of his laughter to suddenly be accompanied by the plunking of heavenly harps, well- that would be a no on both counts. Arthur remains a royal prat who just happens to be too fit and shiny not to star in Merlin's dreams, and his daydreams, and, er-
Anyway, it's relatively easy to go on as before, bickering with Arthur, taking care of his needs (in all the ways except the one he might not mind too much, with his new awareness) and anonymously saving his life every other week.
At Arthur's coming-of-age ceremony Merlin is hard-pressed to hide his starry-eyed adoration because Arthur really is very fit and the candles bring out the creamy glow of his skin just so, and even Gwen is starting to get on with the program.
The Black Knight and the subsequent days of tension and growing desperation in the castle, however, show Merlin exactly the difference that the acknowledging of his emotion has wrought. He remembers, back then, running to save Arthur from Sophia, and the suffocating fear because Arthur needed to stay alive, needed to stay here for Camelot, for Merlin's destiny-
This time, the thought of losing Arthur - being plagued with that thought with nothing to do, knowing the true danger was not the wraith but Arthur's own damned stubborn sense of duty - the thought is-
Impossible, yes. Unthinkable, yes.
His body feels empty of anything but cold terror.
And the thing is, Merlin cares naught for Camelot - for Arthur's subjects, in spite of knowing how important the people are to Arthur - even the thought of his great destiny, just seems… inconsequential.
It's the thought of- never seeing that amazing blue of Arthur's eyes again. Never hearing the surprised bursts of laughter disguised as coughs. Never being able to help Arthur shrug into his coat and unnecessarily smooth the cloth in place over his shoulders.
That's how Merlin knows, really knows, that his love for Arthur-
It has no boundaries. No limits to what he would do, for Arthur.
+
Afterwards, Arthur apologizes for lifting his sword against Merlin, and Merlin wants to scoff because, obviously, Arthur thinks himself far scarier than he, in all truthfulness, could ever hope to be. At least to Merlin, who has seen Arthur sick and sleepy and pouty and all the possible states in between; in one memorable occasion, with an open smile on his face as a litter of the stable-master's dog swarmed his ankles, yipping and licking at his fingers and begging to be lifted up by big warm hands.
Instead, what Merlin wants from Arthur is an apology for thinking he could sacrifice himself like that - for pride, for honour - and a promise that he will never do so again; both of them things that Merlin knows he will never get.
And even while Arthur's integrity is one of the things Merlin most loves about him, it is making Merlin's hair turn white one hair at a time.
+
So all continues as before, domestic routine taking turns with hunts and campaigns and assassins, and Merlin counts his happiness by the seamless way he fits into Arthur's life, by every new expression on Arthur's face that he learns to name and catalogue, and by the evenings Arthur takes hold of his wrist as he's about to take his leave and says, would you like me to beat you in chess before retiring?
His love cannot actually grow, Merlin doesn't think; what it does is permeate every nook and cranny of his heart until he's waking up with a grin every morning, and it seems this is just the way it will go, Arthur strong and determined and oblivious, and Merlin there, always there, guarding him.
And then, Arthur finds out about his magic.
II
It seems impossible, ridiculously so, after so long and after so many stupid catastrophes with completely unfeasible solutions, for it to be such a small thing, in the end.
Arthur has suspected- since Ealdor, maybe. Or, perhaps, since his mortifying mistake concerning Sophia; he remembers baffling at how Merlin could ever have been able to subdue him, and a stray thought crossing his mind, must've been magic - and shying away from the idea immediately, casting it away and burying it under a barrage of wholly ordinary taunts and threats.
So, maybe since Ealdor, when Merlin had trouble meeting his eyes for days afterwards, and always seemed at the verge of saying something and wouldn't; or maybe since Sophia; or maybe since the first fight with Merlin, in the market place, when Arthur just kept stumbling.
It hasn't seemed to matter. Not because he doesn't care about the truth - almost always he has wanted to ask, and several times almost has - but more in the way that Merlin is Merlin - too clumsy and earnest to be planning overthrowing the royal family; and a bit stupid; and a bit indispensable, as a confidant if not as a manservant (not that Arthur would ever tell Merlin that). So it has been relatively easy not to push the issue, especially since Merlin gets this panicked look in his eyes every time Arthur even entertains the thought of asking him a serious question; but when he sees magic used right in his chambers and Merlin still insists on excuses and preposterous stories, well, Arthur is starting to feel somewhat insulted.
It is some weeks after the whole mess with the Questing Beast, and everyone is still treating him like he might keel over any moment despite the fact that he feels perfectly healthy. These days Merlin looks more frail than Arthur feels, and at unopportune moments Arthur's memory keeps flashing to two pictures of him, side by side - of Merlin giving him that strange speech, eyes glittering wetly although everything was fine already; and of Merlin the next time Arthur saw him, three days later, looking thin and weary, and somehow so old - and Arthur is left feeling like he's missed something huge.
From the castle gossip he learns that curiously coinciding with his own illness, a patient from out-castle, maybe outside of Camelot, took residence in Gaius's rooms for a while; by grilling Guinevere he finds out that the woman was Hunith. It is all most irregular and frustrating and since no one will tell him anything even though he's the heir to the throne, thank you very much, he'll just have to get to the bottom of things on his own.
+
To be fair to Merlin, he doesn't crack easily. Despite clearly spending his nights in a hard chair at Arthur's table as often as his own room, and constantly looking worn and pale and still needlessly worried, he is very careful when he goes about his chores, and if it weren't for that one morning when Arthur was still more asleep than awake and heard a whispered word that definitely wasn't a language either of them is supposed to speak, then the crackle of flame, he might have remained content to continue to let the matter be.
Did you say something, Merlin, he'd asked, and of course Merlin had responded with a ludicrous tale about just trying to remember the words to an old lullaby, sire.
So, for the whole day now Arthur has kept Merlin busy with tasks that involve as much physical exertion as possible; he probably needn't have bothered, since the fine skin under Merlin's dark blue eyes is bruised with sleep-deprivation, and a part of him flinches at contributing to Merlin's unhealthy state, but the space between them is starting to get too dense with secrets and Arthur misses the easy- alright, friendship- of before.
When Merlin returns to Arthur's chambers that evening, almost asleep on his feet, Arthur would like nothing better than to order him to clamber into Arthur's bed and stay awake himself to make sure the idiot actually gets a full night's sleep sometimes; if not for the look in Merlin's eyes that not only says, tired right down to my bones, but also, hurting.
Distracting Merlin with a list of orders for the next day, Arthur waits for Merlin to start to zone out, having decided, in his gamble, to trust a character trait of Merlin's he has only recently noticed and still doesn't quite understand - that of instinctively doing everything he can to keep Arthur happy and comfortable - before he says, suddenly, almost carelessly, "Damn, it's cold here-"
And the window Arthur had opened earlier in the evening for just this purpose, abruptly slams shut.
Merlin starts, the glazed look clearing and an expression of horror taking its place, and he swallows and says, "Must've been some gust of wind-"
"The day has been completely still," Arthur counters, calmly.
"The wind's picking up, then-"
"And your eyes?" Arthur's sure he's not mistaken, although the flash of colour only lasted the tiniest of moments, a beautiful, burnished gold.
"My- what? Arthur, are you feeling quite-"
And this Arthur can't take, the twisting of his more than entitled queries into another vulnerability brought on by the whole hideous mess with his wound and whatever Merlin has lost that makes him look only half-there, at all times, and Arthur is genuinely angry when he says in a low tone, "Stop. Lying. To me."
They're facing each other, and Arthur thinks both of them might be breathing a little hard. Merlin's eyes are wide and begging, but his head moves only in helpless tiny shakes, one side, then the other, as if there's nothing to tell, nothing to show.
"And if I struck you?" Arthur takes a step forwards; a menacing step, he intends. "What would you do in self-defence?"
Merlin doesn't even shift his weight from one foot to the other.
"I doubt you would do so. Sire." There's no self-satisfaction; no pleasure at all in Merlin's face. Just a sort of exhaustion that can only come from the inside; from the mind, not the body.
Arthur tenses his muscles, lets his hands lazily roll into hard fists against his thighs. He knows Merlin's calm regard tracks every movement, and still, there's- nothing at all. No single sign of alarm.
Arthur knows better than to think he could actually harm Merlin; suspects he couldn't lift a fist even to make the pretence. He wishes Merlin's trust in him wasn't so absolute even as it makes his soul soar. Abandoning the act, his hand goes to the dagger in his boot. Merlin remains unconcerned - right up until Arthur brings the blade to his own throat, to lick at the tendon in the juncture of neck and shoulder.
What about this, Arthur starts to say, but the words are only just about to form when the dagger is suddenly in Merlin's hand, Arthur's gripping nothing but air.
Except that Merlin hasn't moved, hasn't so much as blinked, only tensed: jaw set square, arms tight against his sides. The hold on the dagger very, very sure.
Arthur wants to do something foolish like gasp, like he's surprised after all.
"You utter prat," Merlin hisses, and for once there is no hint of teasing or warmth in the word, "d'ya think this is a game? Do you not have enough danger and peril from every crazed sorcerer and magical being in the realm, must you put me through you playing with your own life, as well?"
And if there ever was a hint of doubt in Arthur's mind, any vestige of his father's fear remaining, it is wiped out by the burn in Merlin's eyes, just beginning to swirl with gold again, as something new and only a little frightening starts to become clear to Arthur.
Every other warlock might end up corrupted by their power; anyone else might be bought and turned; his knights and his subjects and his servants could betray him because everyone has a weakness, and the weakness always comes with a set price; but Merlin- there's always, always been something about Merlin-
And you don't fake emotions like that. You don't fake the utterly impossible mixture of exasperation, annoyance, indulgence and pride Arthur sees in Merlin's gaze. You don't fake, day after day, the gleeful smile on Merlin's face when he gets to wake Arthur up in the rudest, most obnoxious of manners imaginable. You don't fake the crumbling of Merlin's face when Arthur informs him that, yes, in fact the stables do need to be mucked out again. And again and again.
And no matter how much some part of him ridicules himself for believing Merlin's supposed contentment at remaining Arthur's servant (until the day I die), all he needs to do is dig into his memories, to the picture of the defeated, brilliant shine of Merlin's eyes, and he knows, you don't fake that kind of bravery and loyalty and fear.
Merlin can't be bought because his only weakness is Arthur.
And Merlin cannot become corrupted because, apparently, protecting Arthur is more important to him than protecting his magic. Or his life.
Arthur strides the last steps until he's standing right in front of Merlin and takes the hand still frozen around the dagger; prises open the fingers and flings the knife away from them.
As Arthur's fingers interlock with Merlin's newly-freed hand, his lips press down against Merlin's.
Merlin is cold and trembling, and there's a sound from him that is perhaps surprise or fear - but when Arthur leans back to look into the burning blue-gold, to give Merlin a chance to say no, Merlin's other hand wraps around his waist like a vice and his mouth dives for Arthur's, and Arthur feels a nervousness he didn't know he had time to feel drain out of his body.
Merlin's trembling is worse now, and his lips can't seem to decide where they want to be, trailing agitatedly down Arthur's jawline, detouring by his neck, slipping out his tongue at the spot where Arthur had held the blade; and Arthur lifts up their joined hands to rest between their chests, between their heartbeats, and his other hand settles to cover the back of Merlin's neck, and he murmurs, "Shush, shush."
Hard as the kisses and Merlin's frantic touches have made Arthur, the need to see Merlin rested and less brittle easily wins out over the desire. Merlin happily lets Arthur divest him of his clothes, only starting to protest as Arthur starts steering him towards the bed, himself still fully clothed.
"Arthur, why- don't you-" And there is such honest fear in Merlin's gaze, such self-doubt, that Arthur can't help but stop and take Merlin's face between his palms and just kiss him, kiss him until he groans and starts unconsciously moving against Arthur.
"Ah, stop, you fiend-" Arthur feels hot and definitely short of breath but they'll have time for this, later; Merlin's eyes are questioning and there's an amusingly petulant twist to his lips when Arthur tells him, "You've been looking like death warmed over for weeks - you're going to sleep, now, and sleep well, or so help me."
Merlin grins, and the expression is so familiar, so beloved that the relief stings Arthur's chest. Then, in the blink of an eye, the grin is a smirk, and Merlin's long fingers are up teasing at Arthur's sides, supposedly innocently worrying the hem of his shift. "I'm sure I'll sleep much better if you're there to warm the bed, sire."
Arthur eyes Merlin distrustfully. "I'm not sure if- Will you be able to behave?"
Merlin's smirk transforms into something gentler, something delicate and far-away again. "This feels like a dream already. I'm afraid, if I go to sleep now, I'll wake up in Gaius's rooms and know that I will never, ever get to hold Arthur Pendragon in my arms."
The breath catches in Arthur's throat. In quick movements, he strips his clothes before stepping forward again, chest to chest. Merlin's eyes are killing him, the need in them. Arthur's pendant digs into both their skin; the one he's worn since before he can remember, the only gift of love he has ever been given - before this. Laying himself as naked as the Crown Prince of Camelot can, Arthur lifts the pendant over his head, discards it. The pure joy on Merlin's face suggests he might know what the action marks.
"When you wake up tomorrow, I'll be right here. As I will be for as long as you want me to be."
Merlin's eyes are bright with unshed tears as he counters in a whisper, "For that promise, I will search the ends of the world for the mystery of eternal life."
Sequel: in time and space