Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is a quiet evening, which should have warned Merlin that something was about to go wrong. After all, such is the law of Camelot.

He has to hand it to the assassin of the week that they get further than most; Merlin only senses their presence when they are already inside Arthur’s chambers.

It could have been a peaceful night. The candles are burning low, and Arthur is already in his nightshirt, pretending to look over reports while, really, sharing a pitcher of wine with Merlin. He has been a little more quiet than usual since Merlin’s capture in the Valley of the Fallen Kings a few weeks ago, but that aside, it is all comfortable in its familiarity.

It could have been a quiet, peaceful night. Instead, the air in the room shifts ever so slightly, and Merlin’s magic prickles beneath his skin. The curtain flutters in the open window, and Arthur throws his dagger before Merlin can say his name in warning.

A noise of pain sounds from behind the curtains. Merlin’s shoulders sag in relief, just as blinding white light erupts through the chambers until, finally, everything goes blissfully dark.

The first thing Merlin thinks when he wakes up is fuck. The second is that his body feels strange beyond sore muscles and the bruise he is fairly sure is forming at the back of his head.  

The third thought is Arthur, which instantly makes him push himself upright.

The chairs in front of the fire are overturned, spilt wine dripping down from the table. Merlin processes none of this as he stares at his own face—black hair a mess, and blue eyes blinking up at him with growing alarm.

“What the—” the other body says, and alright, technically Merlin knows that it must be Arthur. Most likely. Hopefully.

Practically, he looks down at his hands with mounting dread. He looks at the silver ring glinting on his left forefinger, and the royal signet ring on his right hand. He takes in the loose sleeping shirt that stretches over a toned chest that Merlin certainly never built up, and has to bite down on the hysterical laughter that wants to rise up his throat.

“Merlin? What the—why do you look like me, what in—”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, except it is more of a plea; for what, he is not entirely sure.

He reaches for his magic, for the reassuring warmth of it, and comes up empty. Not a single spark, none of the familiar weight of it, and his stomach sinks with dread so quickly that it leaves him nauseous.

“Do not Arthur me,” Arthur snaps, pushing himself to his feet. He looks around the room with sharp eyes, and Merlin has to look away from his own face wearing an expression that he still, somehow, recognises. “You look like me, and I haven’t had a chance to check properly yet, but I’m assuming that I look like you. All the insults coming with that aside, there has also just been someone in my chambers who, I would wager a guess, is responsible for this, so if for once—”

“Alright,” Merlin cuts in, too sharp. He isn’t in the mood to deal with Arthur’s habit of getting mean when he is stressed right now.

He is no stranger to crisis, but the absence of his magic’s bright glow is the most unsettling thing that he has ever experienced.

“I thought your knife hit its mark, but if it didn’t, wouldn’t they have used the time when we were unconscious to do something about us?” he forces himself to say, looking in the direction of the curtains. The window is still open, allowing the soft September breeze to waft into the chambers.

Usually, Merlin wouldn’t hesitate to check. Usually, Arthur wouldn’t, either.

It reminds Merlin of the Dorocha, but he forcefully pushes the memories away.

They are both standing rooted to the spot, refusing to look at each other. Merlin wonders whether Arthur is feeling as helpless and scared as he does, suddenly robbed of the body that he trained and shaped for his entire life.

In the end, Arthur huffs and grabs his sword from the weapon table. He grimaces down at it before striding towards the window, pulling the curtain aside with a little too much force.

Merlin’s heart trips, but there is no one there; only the open window and the starless, clouded sky beyond it, tepid late-summer air almost mocking in its laziness.

“Well,” Arthur says, and his voice comes out strained.

“Well,” Merlin echoes, the relief followed swiftly by the dread that the prospect of having to sort this out on their own brings with it.

“Look,” Arthur says, already crouching to—

“Don’t touch that.”

A silver, faintly gleaming stone the size of a fist is lying beneath the window. Merlin doesn’t need his magic to sense that it is powerful.

“Why not? What’s the worst that can happen—that it will reverse whatever the fuck it has done to us?”

“I think the proper term is that it swapped our bodies.”

“Oh, thank you, Merlin, truly; having the proper term for it makes me feel so much better.”

Merlin opens his mouth but decides to let it slide. Really, he is only just beginning to wrap his head around all the implications, and he can’t blame Arthur for the visibly mounting panic.

“Gaius should have a look at it,” he says instead. “Maybe he’ll know how to reverse it.”

Merlin also needs to talk to him alone because the absence of his magic is still trying to send him into a full-blown panic, but Arthur never had to know about that less than he does right now.

Arthur sighs, rubbing a hand across his face before slanting a tired smile at Merlin. “I think what we need is another drink.”

For the second time tonight, the relief is just about to spread through Merlin’s stomach. Then the overturned pitcher rightens, refills, and neatly sets itself down in front of Arthur.

There is a very long silence during which the tension rises and thickens in the air, freezing Merlin in place so thoroughly that his muscles start aching.

Out of all the ways he imagined this specific revelation to go down, he could have never come up with this one.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and even though it is not Arthur’s voice, Merlin hears the dangerous edge as if it were. When Arthur looks up at him, Merlin learns what betrayal looks like on his own face. “Do explain to me why your body possesses magic; do it in a way that is not spinning a story too outlandish for me to believe.”

Merlin looks at the tight anger on his own face, looks at the shaking hands and the clenched jaw, and wonders if the only reason that Arthur has not yet made use of the sword still in his hand might be that Merlin is currently wearing the King’s body.

“I was born with it,” he says, and the specifics aside, he has pictured this very moment too many times to sound guilty, to do anything but tilt his chin up. There are a great many things he has done wrong, guilt a distinct weight upon his shoulders, but the magic itself has never been part of it.

The magic itself has always loved Arthur, has kept him alive and healthy as best as it could; he refuses to plead forgiveness for that.  

“You were born with it,” Arthur repeats, his voice devoid of emotion. “And yet I’ve been told that magic is a choice.”

“And Camelot has such a renounced education on all matters concerning magic, does it?” Merlin shoots back, instinctive. His heart hurts. “I conjured up lights to brighten our cottage the first winter after I was born; I could barely turn over in my crib. I made flowers grow in the first spring. I made things float before I could walk. My mother hasn’t known a moment without fear for a single day of my life; do tell me again how it is impossible.”

Doubt flickers across Arthur’s expression before it is replaced by steel once more. “I have no way of knowing that you aren’t lying to me. Magic corrupts everyone eventually, even the… even the kindest of people.”

He doesn’t need to say it, for Merlin to know who he is speaking of. There is an irony in this, if nothing else, Merlin’s own guilt like a noose around his neck.

“Magic doesn’t corrupt,” he says, and this must be one of the cruellest things he has ever done to Arthur. “It wasn’t magic that turned Morgana against you, Arthur. She—”

“You can’t know that,” Arthur spits, his voice going brittle with emotion. A vase at the far end of the room shatters in a cascade of shards and water.

Merlin ignores it; this is too important to palliate it. “I do know that; I’ve had magic for all my life, Arthur. Neither I nor Morgana chose it, yet she is the one who decided to turn against Camelot.”

“And you?” Arthur says, his voice more bitter than Merlin has ever heard it. His own eyes are staring back at him with so much hurt that he wants to recoil from it. “Tell me, Merlin, have you never hurt me?”

Perhaps the worst thing is that Arthur looks at him as if he already assumes to know the answer. The worst thing is that he is right.

“No, I have,” Merlin admits. “And it might not make a difference to you, but it was never on purpose. I have always tried to keep Camelot safe, to keep you safe. All I’ve done, the good and the bad… It’s all been for you, Arthur.”

Arthur nods, his expression hard. In the end, he says nothing but, “Leave me.”

“I can’t.”

“Merlin—”

“Arthur. There is no way either of us could explain why the King of Camelot is spending the night in his manservant’s quarters. If a single person sees me, half the castle will know by morning.”

Arthur laughs, a short, harsh sound that falls heavy into the space between them. He looks down at his hands and runs the fingertips of the left one over the palm of the right before his eyes travel slowly through his rooms.

“The antechamber, then. Don’t let me see you until the morning.”

Merlin bites down on his tongue to stop his own anger from spilling forth, but he lingers at the door to the servant's quarters. “I’m not going to apologise for hiding it, or for possessing it in the first place. I never chose it, Arthur, but I don’t regret it, and I am not going to apologise for it, no matter what happens between us now.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before pushing into the antechamber, the door falling shut behind him.

When he tries to light one of the candles with a thought, nothing happens. He presses his knuckles against his eyes and refuses to give in to the urge to cry or punch a wall.

Merlin doesn’t sleep that night. He runs through countless scenarios of how the following days could go instead, each worse than the last.

It would be a consolation that at least Arthur can hardly execute him while he is wearing Merlin’s face, if Merlin hadn’t stopped believing that Arthur would do so years ago.

Unfortunately, that still leaves them with Merlin’s myriad of lies, the fact that Arthur has clearly no clue how to control the magic, and how Merlin has no hope of successfully acting like Camelot’s King; one session of knight training and they are doomed.

Not to mention that Merlin doesn’t particularly fancy having to decide over his own fate.

When he finally brings himself to roll out of bed and enter the main chambers, Arthur’s bed is already empty.

The moment Merlin spots him, terror—real terror, for the first time since last night—rushes through his entire body.

Arthur is standing in front of his mirror, wearing only smallclothes. He is looking at Merlin’s body with a distinct expression of horror, his eyes roaming over the countless scars that Merlin had, up until now, kept carefully concealed.

The air leaves Merlin’s chest with a foreign sound, and he slumps back against the doorframe. This feels almost worse than his most well-worn secret getting torn from him without his say in the matter.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and his voice is an unsteady, furious thing. “Tell me why you have more scars than half of my knights combined.”

It isn’t a request. It is an order, harsh and unrelenting. Merlin has never been able to refuse Arthur one of those.

“You, sire; I’ve told you, my magic—all of it is for you. Did you think the vow ended at the threat of marks to my skin?”

“Merlin,” Arthur chokes, and he sounds almost human, then, instead of like the king that Merlin had sworn his loyalty to, long before he understood what it meant.

He startles when Arthur is suddenly in front of him, eyes wild and his fingers wrapping around Merlin’s wrists, too tight. “I never asked you—you were never supposed—”

The words are jagged, sentences bitten-off and raw. Merlin understands; he never learnt how to bear watching Arthur drive himself to ruin for his kingdom either.

He lifts his shoulder into a shrug. “I’m a sorcerer, sire; I don’t think you are supposed to care about how marred my skin is.”

It’s a mean thing to say, he knows, but Merlin is so, so tired. It isn’t Arthur’s fault, not really; it is that yet again, Merlin’s choice has been taken from him. It is that he looks at his own body across from him, the white-polished scars and the casual way they snake across his skin, and does not quite know whether he regrets them or not.

It is that Arthur looks at him with that specific mixture of horror and determination, which means that he isn’t about to send Merlin to the executioner.

Merlin should be relieved; in many ways, he is. In others, he can already hear all the questions, can already sense all the stories burning his tongue. Can only think how he doesn’t even have the choice anymore to leave in the grey of dawn, finally turning his back on all of this.

“Come on,” he says, pulling away from Arthur. “We need to speak to Gaius.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, reaching for him again.

Merlin stiffens, staring at the point of contact.

Arthur lets go. “Are you…” he tries, wetting his lips before he meets Merlin’s eyes with stubborn defiance. “If Gaius knows how to fix this, you are not to leave. I promise you immunity, but I… you owe me answers. Don’t abandon me without them.”

Don’t do what my father has done to me, Merlin hears, and heat is prickling at the back of his eyes. It is a cruel thing, to compare him to Uther Pendragon. It is nauseating how mere moments ago, Merlin had contemplated doing exactly that.

This time, he is the one to wrap his fingers around Arthur’s wrist. Arthur doesn’t flinch.

“I promise,” he says. “Once we fix this, you can ask me as many questions as you want, and I will explain. You will hate me for half of the answers, and you might banish me from the kingdom once we are done—”

“I wouldn’t—”

“—but even if you do, I will not leave you unprotected.”

Arthur studies him, silent and careful. He doesn’t attempt to make any more reckless vows, and there is a wariness in his eyes that cuts Merlin to the bone.

“Alright,” he finally says, and for the first time in years, Merlin cannot read him. “Let’s find Gaius and see whether he knows how to fix this; I do think we have rather a lot of talking to do.”

Merlin smiles, a flicker of fondness lighting up the dread within him. “You do realise that between the three of us, you are the one who currently possesses magic, right? If anyone is to reverse the spell, it would be you. Which means that you will have to learn how to control it.”

Arthur’s composure breaks, disbelief and hysterics sprawling across his face. “But I’m—that could take weeks.”

“Yes,” Merlin says with a grimace. “Which is why we should get started, because I am absolutely not capable of pretending to be some clotpole of a king for an extended amount of time, nor can you convincingly play the servant to anyone for more than a day.”

Arthur’s mouth faintly ticks into a smile before he smothers it, fingers flexing at his sides.

Merlin wants to bury his face in Arthur’s neck and pretend none of this is happening. It’s a familiar instinct, and he ignores it with practised ease.

Arthur sighs, long and put-upon, but most of the straining anger has bled out of him. “Well,” he says. “Best to get started then, isn’t it?”

Gaius takes one look at them and raises a suspicious eyebrow. It probably doesn’t bode well for them.

Once Merlin starts to explain, Gaius goes pale, though.

Merlin can read the fear beneath the stoic expression, and he knows what Gaius is thinking, knows that their swapped bodies must only make this more complicated. Gaius has built a life out of showing the right expression to the right people, and this unsettles every safety mechanism he has for himself and Merlin.

Sighing, Merlin glances back at the door to make sure it is shut. He says, “He already knows, Gaius. It would have been difficult to hide it, considering that it is currently his to wield.”

He doesn’t get it out without bitterness, but neither Gaius nor Arthur notice, both distracted when said magic pushes a chair beneath Gaius just as he is swaying on his feet.

“Tell me exactly what happened,” Gaius says after taking three steadying breaths. He has always been quick to recover from whatever Merlin—or Uther, or Arthur, or Camelot as a whole—threw at him, and Merlin is glad, truly. They don’t need anyone else to freak out.

He explains what he knows, and Gaius collects books. It would be almost familiar, if not for Arthur sitting on the bench beside Merlin, wearing Merlin’s face. If not for the flicker of wariness in Gaius’ eyes whenever he looks at them.

“Well, on the bright side,” Gaius says, hours later when the midday autumn sun is dripping out of the sky, “the spell to reverse this isn’t particularly complicated; the artefact should do most of the work once Arthur understands how to channel the magic.”

The optimism feels forced, and it is obvious that merely mentioning magic with Arthur at the table is costing Gaius.

Not that Merlin can blame him; not a day goes by that Uther’s absence isn’t a sharp, distinct relief, no matter how much the sight of Arthur’s grief-worn face dims it time and again. Gaius has far fewer reasons to trust Arthur, no matter how often Merlin tells him otherwise.

“So how are we going to go about this?” Arthur asks when the silence morphs and stretches its spindly fingers through the golden workshop. “It will be impossible to keep this a secret for long—which must have been the attacker’s goal, I suppose.”

He is avoiding naming them ‘sorcerer’ or ‘warlock.’ Merlin can no longer tell whether it is on purpose or a life-long habit, and which one would be worse.

“All you need to do is channel the magic into the artefact,” Gaius says, tilting his head at the white stone sitting in the centre of the table. As if Arthur had a fraction of control over Merlin’s magic. “Once it has enough power, the spell will reverse on its own; I’m assuming that the attackers neither knew of Merlin’s magic nor expected anyone else to be in your chambers with you, your Highness.”

So they meant to catch Arthur on his own, planning to switch their own body with his. It would have been a good plan, really; there is no way to tell how long it would have taken anyone to notice.

“Tell the court that I have fallen ill,” Arthur says. “Nothing life-threatening, but something contagious; it wouldn’t do to cause serious concern for my health, but I do not need half of the nobles at my doorstep either. As the court physician, I am sure that you can come up with something.”

There is a sharpness to Arthur’s tone, betraying that he hasn’t missed Gaius’ awareness of Merlin’s magic.

“In the meantime,” Arthur says, rising from the bench and slanting a glance at Merlin that holds no humour but all the authority of a king. “Merlin will teach me how to channel his magic to restore us to our proper places.”

“Sire,” Gaius says, and his voice is all defiance, his shoulders squared. Merlin knows where this is going before Gaius speaks, and he wishes that he didn’t. “He has always protected you; he does not deserve death or punishment, no matter his lies. If you feel you have to uphold your father’s traditions—”

Arthur laughs, a short, ugly sound that cuts through the room. “I have wished to be more like my father for as long as I can remember. Recently, I’ve found myself turning away from his values, without much conscious choice of my own.”

It isn’t a pardon, isn’t forgiveness or promise. But Uther died less than a year ago, and Arthur wears his grief as openly as he wears his sword.

Merlin’s heart is a spitting bonfire within his chest, and as he follows Arthur out of the chambers, he cannot tell whether it is fear or anger or hope fuelling the flames.

“Well, come on then,” Arthur says, once they are back in his chambers. “We are not going to fix this if you stare holes into the walls.”

A part of Merlin wants to protest; there are a lot of places that he thinks of as belonging to him and Arthur alone, but this one—the fire roaring in the hearth, the furs lining the stone floor, the rest of the world shut out—has always been theirs more than any of the others.  

Merlin isn’t sure whether he can bear the demolition of it, ruptured secrets finally tearing them apart.

The rest of him is all too aware that it has always been inevitable, and if the truth is what breaks them, perhaps that has always been tangled up in the strings of their fate, too.

“Merlin.”

He sighs; grabbing the pitcher of wine and two goblets from the table, he joins Arthur in front of the fire and ignores the raised brow at his audacity. “Let’s start with fire, it has always come instinctively to me. Do you remember what it felt like when you were doing magic on accident?”

A wince flashes across Arthur’s face before he shakes his head. “It felt kind of… warm, I guess? It felt…”

The silence lingers and stretches, Arthur’s face turned too far into the shadows for Merlin to read his expression.

He has never been a patient man. “It felt what?”

“It felt… Nice,” Arthur finally says, and Merlin can tell that the admission stings. “I didn’t expect it to feel like that.”

“Try to focus on that warmth,” Merlin says, swallowing. “To pull it to the surface, picture what you want it to do. The fire in the hearth, and how it would smell. Try—”

A loud crack whips through the room as a flame leaps up, hot enough to scorch Merlin’s brows. He flings his hand out to contain it, useless.

It is only when Arthur scrambles back that the magic and the fire die back down.

Arthur stares at him, his face indecipherable. “I suppose with how clumsy you are it is a wonder that Camelot still stands, loyalty or not.”

Merlin clenches his jaw and bites his tongue, but all it accomplishes is that his following words sound bitten-off and bitter. “Don’t you think that if I meant you or Camelot harm, I would be exploiting this entire mess for all its worth?”

“That’s not the point. You’ve lied to me—”

“And what else did you want me to do? When do you think I should have told you? Perhaps when—”

“My father died more than a season ago,” Arthur says, his voice dropping low. “Do consider wisely how many excuses you have for continuing to lie to my face day in and day out.”

Anger is still thrashing against the inside of Merlin’s heart, but Arthur’s words also pierce right through the sore spot of it that is blackened by guilt and regret.

He averts his face, watching the embers left behind in the fireplace. It isn’t that Arthur is wrong; by now, there have come and gone many days when Merlin should have told him. Where he circled, round and round, between his past actions and their promised future, between destiny and his love for Arthur that never once had anything to do with royal standing or gilded power, with stations or titles or the lack thereof.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and his voice has calmed, but there is still steel in the substructure of it. “You asked me to conjure fire; tell me how you've got the burn scar on your chest.”

It is everything Merlin can do not to laugh, hysteria gathering in the hollows of his teeth; of course, this is the scar that Arthur would ask about first. “No. Ask about another one.”

“Merlin, you can’t—”

“No.”

Merlin cannot bring himself to look at Arthur. It is bad enough that his choice in all of this has been taken from him, by someone who most likely had no idea what they were doing.

It isn’t the first time Merlin has been considered collateral damage, but that doesn’t make the lingering mistrust in Arthur’s eyes, the carefully established distance between them any easier to bear. Merlin cannot tell the story of how he had offered his own life and then killed for Arthur without a hint of hesitation or remorse, mere months into knowing him. He can’t.

Perhaps Arthur can read the heaviness upon his shoulders, or perhaps he has grown tired of fighting Merlin for now. He clenches his jaw and says, “Tell me why your wrists are rubbed freshly raw then. Why my neck hurts like someone cut it open, and what has happened to the chest wound that I know you have had only a week ago when I carried you out of the Valley of the Fallen Kings.”

Merlin bites down on his laughter at the last moment. He isn’t sure whether this is better or worse, but at least the story stings less. “It was I who caused the rock fall, to make sure you would get away and was captured by Morgana. She healed the chest wound and implanted an artefact in my neck that, in her words, stripped everything from me that made me myself, leaving only the order to kill Camelot’s King.”

Arthur sucks in a harsh breath, his fingers flexing for a sword that is not there.

Merlin should enjoy the following words less, but there is a kind of savage satisfaction in them that makes him savour the vowels, makes him watch Arthur’s face closely as he says, “Luckily for everyone, it meant that I could not use my magic; it is tied too closely to myself, I’d assume. As it turns out, without it, I make a horrible assassin, but—”

“As if you could have killed me,” Arthur interrupts. There is a certainty to it that almost leaves Merlin breathless, that holds a weight that defies the fury still simmering in Arthur’s gaze. “How did you get rid of it, then? Considering that you are no longer yearning to murder me any more than usual, and I doubt that Morgana would have simply given up once she remembered that you are useless with a knife.”

Arthur is actually joking with him, or at least attempting to; his voice is still acerbic, his eyes a little too sharp, but Merlin can see it for the attempt at normalcy that it is.

“Gaius was able to temporarily tranquillize the Fomorroh. It bought me enough time to find the source and destroy it.”

Arthur swallows. “So you fought her.”

“Arthur—”

“Do not lie to me again.”

Merlin bites down on his first answer, then the second one until his tongue smarts. Very carefully, he says, “I did. I won.”

“You must be powerful, then.”

It has been a long time since Merlin pretended that at least amongst those with magic he could fit in. “Yes.”

Arthur nods, slow and considerate, and doesn’t ask whether Morgana is still alive.

They don’t have time to go about this slow and carefully, but Merlin reads Morgana’s name on the slope of Arthur’s shoulders, and there is no use in pushing until they tear each other apart either.

Pushing to his feet, he wraps his anger and the apologies and the explanations up in the tattered fabric of his heart and pushes it down.

“Goodnight, Arthur,” he says, and leaves the room before Arthur can stop him. It isn’t quite relief that he breathes once the door closes between them, but it does feel awfully close.

Once he lies in bed, he traces his fingers over all the places where his own scars would be and creates a map out of how they cross and interlace with Arthur’s own—as if between them, they could make the imprint of suffering into a chart leading to something worthwhile, instead of something merely blood-soaked.

Their days unfold like that. Servants bring them food and water while keeping their distance, making it easy enough for Merlin to maintain the haughty air of a prince that Arthur glares at him for.

That aside, though, he keeps trying to teach Arthur how to control the magic. It is rather less successful than both of them would like.

Merlin never had to actively think about it, and the magic keeps jumping to life on its own, as eager to please Arthur as it has ever been.

Unfortunately, Arthur is not much more receptive to it than he has ever been.

Whenever they are not staring at the fireplace to avoid looking at each other, Arthur keeps asking about the scars. Every time he does, his mouth twists into a tight, unhappy line as if the testament of pain is a greater betrayal than the magic confining them both to here.

Some inquiries, Merlin answers: mostly the simpler ones—the graze of a blade in a skirmish, or getting thrown around in a fight. Stumbling down a flight of stairs, if only to see a hint of fond exasperation soften his own face.   

Others, he refuses to explain, even though he struggles to put his finger on what makes the difference.

Arthur swallows the rebuffs with all the dignity of a prince who is used to getting whatever material good he could ask for and being refused most of the things that matter.

Merlin wishes it weren’t so, but helplessly, he loves Arthur all the more for it.

Of course, neither of them has been made for peace. Neither of them has been made to spend day in and day out holed up in Arthur’s chambers, with only the weight of secrets and betrayal and the lingering threat to the kingdom for company.

Gaius comes by at least once a day; it takes a week until he brings news that finally forces something to give.

“The court is getting restless with your absence, my Lord,” Gaius says, and he still struggles to address Merlin’s face when talking to the King, not that Merlin can blame him. “Even your nobles know that harmless illnesses rarely last longer than a handful of days.”

Arthur grimaces, and Merlin catches the goblet that tries to shiver off the table with Arthur’s concern.  

“Do you think equipping Agravaine with more power would reassure the court? Most of their wariness stems from my father’s recent—”

“No,” Merlin says, the word slipping out before he can stop it.

Arthur raises a brow; behind him, Gaius shakes his head in warning.

Merlin ignores them both, his fingers flexing around the goblet. “You cannot give Agravaine any more power than he already has. If you do—”

“Merlin—”

“Morgana is going to stand at Camelot’s gates the next day,” Merlin snaps, his frayed patience finally snapping. What are his secrets finally unravelling good for if it doesn’t afford him more honesty?

Nothing, apparently; he watches the anger spark in blue eyes as Arthur turns to face him properly. “Do you really think that you of all people are in a position to accuse people of betrayal, Merlin?”

The step that Merlin takes back is involuntary, the words like a punch coming out of nowhere. The aftershocks of it transform into anger hot enough to burn this godforsaken castle down.

“Leave us,” Arthur throws in Gaius’ direction, perhaps recognising the brewing storm. Gaius obeys after a beat of hesitation, neither of them looking away from the other.

The door clicks shut, and Merlin wants to speak, wants to cast a challenge between them, but the fury burns so brightly that it is scalding his throat.

“Explain,” Arthur orders. Hearing it in his own voice after what Arthur just said to him severs something vital within Merlin’s chest.

His voice sounds neither like his own nor like Arthur’s when he speaks. “Agravaine is responsible for your father’s death; he and Morgana both. Well, and I am, too, because while I tried to heal him—for your sake, and your sake alone—it was still my magic that killed him.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“But I did; I was the sorcerer who made demands of you and killed your father anyway. Of course, I did not do it on purpose, but I’m afraid that you will have to choose what you want to believe—who is more likely to betray you like this; Agravaine or I.”

It takes a moment, two, and then Arthur’s face crumbles with something so wildly, irrevocably hurt that it seems to reshape the foundation of him.

Merlin has been doing this—lying and hurting and finding excuses—for a long time. No matter how much he has tried to steel himself for this moment, he could have never prepared himself for the betrayal pressing itself into the corners of Arthur’s soft mouth, how fury would curl his merciful hands into fists.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says again, his voice softened by the pain in Arthur’s eyes alone. “I tried to save him; truly, I did. I’m sorry, Arthur.”

He isn’t sure whether it is the truth; he hasn’t mourned Uther, hasn’t looked back on his time at Uther Pendragon’s court and felt anything other than dreadful resentment.

Ultimately, it has never been about Uther, though, and if there had been a single way to alleviate the grief that Arthur has been carrying around, piece after piece of his family taken by death or betrayal or both, Merlin would have done it.

“Leave me,” Arthur says, his voice a heart bled dry of everything that made it human.

“Arthur—”

“Leave.”

Merlin is burning, but he knows better than to try and battle Arthur’s grief.

When he closes the door to the servant quarters behind himself, he wonders for the first time whether they will be able to come back from this.

Chapter Text

They do not speak for two days.

He tries to give Arthur time. He tries to give him space, too, but even a king’s chambers are only so big, and they still have to keep up appearances for the servants and potential visits from nobles.

Merlin chews his lips bloody and clenches his hands into fists until his fingers cramp, to keep himself from speaking. To keep himself from casting accusations, from begging for forgiveness, from spinning more lies around the half-truths and the diversions.

He feels Arthur’s eyes on him whenever his back is turned; he feels his magic, ebbing and cresting through the room as if trying to bridge the distance.

Despite everything, this remains the worst of it; the absence of the familiar warmth. How Merlin can almost sense its confusion, how it hurts just as fiercely as the two of them.

It is its own kind of revelation; if anyone had asked him three weeks ago what he would be willing to give up for Arthur’s sake, Merlin would have barely hesitated to cast his magic into the lot of it, reckless and ready.

Now he enters Arthur’s chambers and sees flowers blooming from the castle’s rough stone, wonder unmistakable on Arthur’s face before it is wiped away at the notice of him. Now he watches twinkling lights spin constellations against the ceiling, refusing to blink out no matter how much Arthur scowls, and the yearning inside of him tries to swallow him whole.  

When he wakes up on the third day, Arthur is leaning against the door of his room, watching Merlin.

“No one ever told you that it’s creepy to watch people sleep?”

Arthur doesn’t laugh, not that Merlin had much hope. When he does speak, his voice is softer than Merlin expected, though. “Tell me about another scar.”

The truth is that Merlin doesn’t understand why this matters to Arthur; why he would care in the first place.

Something tells him that asking would not go over well, and so he tilts his head at the space beside him. His heart is doing its best to beat right through his lungs when Arthur finally moves away from the door and settles down beside him.

It feels like an offering, and so perhaps Merlin can make his own concession.

Not the burn scar, though. Not yet.

He says, “When your father fell into madness the first time, and Cenred and Morgause attacked Camelot, it was Morgana’s doing.”

He is watching Arthur closely enough to see his jaw clench, Morgana’s name a fuse always just waiting to catch.

“It is… a long story. But I suspected that she was plotting against us—”

“How do you do this,” Arthur interrupts, and it is uncharacteristic for him. The lines of his posture are strung taut with frustration, his hands clenched—fingers searching for a ring that isn’t there. “How do you always know whom to put your trust in?”

The question slides right past the haphazard walls Merlin has tried to erect around his heart over the last few days, the burn of them almost enough to bring him to his knees.

Arthur; Arthur, with his trust and his forgiveness, and more betrayals notched into his belt than some knights have battles on theirs. Arthur with his unshakable grief and his desperation to understand how they have found themselves here, Merlin yet another groove in the leather.

Arthur, believing that Merlin is handling this with a shred of dignity instead of painful, honourless scrambling.

“I don’t,” he admits, closing his eyes against the truth of it. “Gods, Arthur, I have so many regrets; if I were to list them all, we would be here for days.”

There is a pause, just long enough for Merlin to wonder whether he has fucked it up yet again. When Arthur speaks, his voice is unsteady. “Did you ever… Do you ever wish you told me?”

“Every single day. I wanted to tell you, Arthur; I hated lying to you more than—well, more than anything I have ever done in your name. If you believe nothing else about me and my magic…”

He is horrified to find the words trembling, to see the softening of Arthur’s eyes.

“It’s not about the magic,” Arthur says, touching his fingers to the fragile skin of Merlin’s wrist. The contact is brief, just a short, warm brush, but Merlin feels it all the way down his spine. “Now tell me about the scar; whichever one you were planning to talk about,” Arthur says after the pause has dragged on for a moment too long; his voice tries to sound certain but doesn’t, and Merlin loves him so much that it burns.

And so he tells Arthur; about following Morgana and finding Morgause, about getting caught and questioned and staying silent.

“You’ve always been utter shite at stalking anything,” Arthur says, but his fingers find Merlin’s pulse once more.

Merlin swallows his smile and keeps talking. He recounts the Serkets and their sting, glosses right over all the implications, and explains how he had called Kilgharrah to save his life as if that is a perfectly normal thing to tell the King of Camelot on a muggy morning in October.

Arthur’s fingers leave him there, the entirety of him drawing back into himself. He doesn’t look at Merlin when he says, “I’m glad that someone was there to save you.”

Then he is gone, and Merlin stares at the door, his heart and his anger and his fear getting caught up in the thicket of Arthur’s gentle tenacity.

Arthur asks three more times about the scar that Nimueh has left on Merlin; each time, his hand is pressed to his chest, and his face looks as it does whenever his mother’s name falls.

Each time, Merlin denies him; each time, he understands less why he does.

In silent agreement, Merlin goes back to teaching Arthur how to control the magic. October is well on its way, and if nothing else, Gaius’ patience is visibly running out.

Fortunately, Arthur is finally making some progress—as if every part of himself that Merlin reveals aids Arthur in drawing up a map for previously concealed territories, allowing him to understand, at last.  

It is only at the start of the third week, though, that Arthur’s control is finally solid enough to attempt reversing the spell. Or at least, Merlin hopes so—it might just be his cabin fever speaking.

“Are you sure about this?” Gaius asks before he leaves them to it, a deep frown between his brows.

“I think we’ve been stuck like this for long enough,” Merlin mutters, and he fails not to sound petulant.

“And are you sure that…”

When he gets what, exactly, Gaius is not saying, he winces. “Not much I can do but hope, is there?”

He wants to believe that they are going to be alright; mostly, he does. Another part is all too aware that they have skirted many of the issues for the sake of keeping at least some semblance of peace. He still hasn’t told Arthur about Ygraine, and he still hasn’t told Arthur about what he did to Morgana.

He still hasn’t told Arthur about the burn scar; as if just thinking it may leave an imprint that Arthur will be able to pick up on, once they are back in their own bodies.

“Merlin—”

“It’s fine,” he cuts in. “At least I’ll have my magic back.”

Gaius sighs, long and drawn-out, and squeezes Merlin’s shoulder. “I do hope that it goes well, Merlin. Do let me know if you need anything, will you?”

“Of course,” he says, both of them knowing it for the lie that it is; if any of this goes wrong, he is not going to drag Gaius further into it than he already has.

Watching him go, Merlin waits until the door falls closed behind him and then turns towards Arthur.

Before he can speak, Arthur looks up at him, something hard and, beneath that, so fiercely hurt in his eyes that Merlin forgets how to breathe.

“If you still believe that I could let any harm come to you, much less execute you, you are a far bigger fool than I have ever taken you for,” Arthur says, his voice low and unsteady. “Do you really think so little of me?”

Merlin swallows the instinctive surge of anger and reaches for the explanations instead, the well-worn fear. “Arthur—”

“Actually, don’t answer that,” Arthur cuts him off, and mostly, he looks exhausted in a way that he has not allowed Merlin to witness in a while. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Arthur.”

Arthur stops where he is making his way around the desk, but he avoids meeting Merlin’s eyes. “Look, you don’t trust me, Merlin. In many ways, you’ve had no reason to, and I understand that; it’s… I understand it, at least. But the fact of the matter is that nothing I can say will convince you otherwise. So the—”

“What makes you say that? I’m wary, yes; it doesn’t mean that I don’t trust you at all.”

The smile he receives in return is a mirthless, washed-out thing. “You can’t even bring yourself to tell me who hurt you so badly that it is a miracle you are still alive. I’ve known you long enough to suspect that it is not a story of betrayal but one of sacrifice; and yet.”

And yet. Merlin swallows.

Mistaking his silence—or perhaps, Merlin has to admit, taking it exactly the right way—Arthur settles down in front of the fireplace. He tips the gleaming artefact out of its pouch, the flames of the fire reflecting and dancing across the smooth surface.

Merlin hesitates, reaches for all the words and the reassurance, and cannot get them past his teeth.

In the end, he merely sits down next to Arthur and, with desperate boldness, presses their shoulders together.

Arthur doesn’t react, but some of the tension leaves his shoulders, unwinding until he seems a little softer around his edges.

Three weeks have done nothing to make it any less weird to look at his own face, but there is reassurance to be found in how he recognises Arthur beneath it all.

“Ready?” Merlin asks, and his heart is picking up its pace now, all the possibilities of how their future could go unfolding around them.

Squaring his shoulders, Arthur lifts a hand in front of himself, and it is Merlin’s face, but the determination right before a fight is all Arthur.

He falters. Staring down at the artefact, a muscle in his jaw jumps before he says, “Promise me one thing.”

Anything, Merlin wants to say, and doesn’t. No more lies, he had vowed to himself.

“If I can,” he says instead, and watches the tension settle back into every line of Arthur’s body.

His heart aches.

“If—when this is done… Promise me that you will stay, that you won’t leave Camelot. You have my word that no harm will come to you, just—”

Arthur’s voice breaks, a horrible sound. “Just don’t leave. Not you, too.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, again, but this time it sounds stricken, sounds like a plea, like something that Merlin wants to shove back down his throat for how raw it comes out. He ignores the impulse and presses their shoulders together more firmly. “I am not going to leave. I wouldn’t—”

“You said to Gaius—”

“I am not going to leave,” Merlin says, weaving it into a vow or a prayer, something irrefutable. “I’m not going to let you burn or lock me up, but as long as you don’t try to do either, I’m not going to leave. It would take far more to get rid of me.”

He aims for light-hearted and fails miserably, and Arthur’s expression only draws tighter in response.

“Gods, but I never wanted you to be afraid of me,” Arthur says, running a hand through his hair. He looks more exhausted than during the year he had spent searching for Morgana. “Of all people…”

He doesn’t finish, but he doesn’t have to; Merlin yearns to reach for him, to take back his words and spin them into something devoted and sweet instead.

Shaking himself, Arthur sits up straighter, determination pressing itself into the lines around his mouth once more. “Come on, let’s do this. The sooner we are back to our proper places, the sooner I can prove to you that I wouldn’t… that I wouldn’t.”

The fabric of Merlin’s heart that has been made for loving Arthur wants to tell him that he knows. The guilt and the regrets and the faces of people he had to bury keep him silent, allowing him only to nod.  

The first attempt fails. The magic races through the room, unfocused, throwing windows open and making candle flames surge with hissing sputters. A pitcher of wine bursts on the table.

Arthur makes a noise of frustration but otherwise doesn’t react. He centres himself like Merlin has shown him countless times, breathing steady, and tries again.

It is more focused this time, and Merlin can feel something tug at him; it teeters out before it goes anywhere.

“Once you have the focal point, I think that you have to let the magic loose again,” Merlin says, keeping his voice low. “You have to make up for the fact that you are not using a proper spell with power.”

Arthur nods sharply and tries again. His eyes burn a bright, incandescent gold, and his hands begin to tremble. The air in the room twists and snarls, brimming with glistening magic until it becomes impossible to breathe.

It gets to the point where panic crawls up Merlin’s spine, and he wants to reach for Arthur, wants to dig his finger into soft skin and reassuring muscles. He wants to tell Arthur to stop, that it is alright, actually, they can find another way. Arthur turns to look at him, eyes wide and just as scared, and Merlin—

The magic crests, a kaleidoscope of gold and blue and silver and red, and then everything goes blessedly dark and silent.

It is the second time in so many weeks that Merlin wakes to the sensation of an ill-fitting body. If he never has to experience the feeling again, it will be too soon.

The stone floor is supremely uncomfortable, but he allows himself a moment to blink up at the familiar ceiling and slowly, tentatively, reach for the magic that should simmer at the core of himself.

It surges up in response, eager; Merlin just about keeps himself from weeping in relief. He lifts his hands, slow and careful, and cups them together. He thinks of strawberries, and almost—almost—laughs when a rose appears in his palms.

“I should have known that you would be a bleeding heart about your magic, too.”

Arthur’s voice still sounds tired. It sounds close, too, sounds unbearably kind, and Merlin isn’t quite sure whether he can deal with this right now.

He lets the rose vanish and sits up, putting some distance between them in a way that he hopes is subtle but knows is not.

“It worked,” he says, useless.

“Indeed,” Arthur agrees; he is sitting in front of the fire, knees pulled to his chest and arms wrapped around them. He looks painfully young, watching Merlin as if waiting for something.

“I’m not—I’m not going to attack you. Gods, Arthur, do you really think that I—”

Arthur scoffs. “I don’t think you would. I’m expecting you to run, Merlin.”

The words land like a punch, and Merlin can’t help but flinch back. “I told you I wouldn’t.”

“And yet, you are waiting for me to draw a knife.”

Merlin opens his mouth and closes it again. He looks into the dancing flames of the fire, and then he cannot bear the sight and lets his gaze travel through the chambers instead.

“It’s hard not to,” he finally allows, curling his hands into fists. “It’s not on purpose, it’s…”

“A habit.”

“Can you blame me?”

“No.”

Merlin cannot remember when he started to mistrust Arthur so much that such a simple announcement makes hope stumble through his chest, precarious. Although perhaps he does; perhaps it started when he could no longer trust himself, his choices braiding a noose around his neck without needing a Pendragon to lend a hand.

It is an altogether uncomfortable realisation, and Merlin ducks his head before getting to his feet. “Right. I should let Gaius know—”

He has made it three steps before Arthur’s fingers close around his wrist; they are warm and familiar, hopeful, and Merlin’s breath trips through his lungs.

It feels like a question, the grip loose enough that Merlin could pull out of it if he wanted to.

“Tell me about the burn scar,” Arthur asks, a request certain of its denial. “Please, Merlin; it was for my sake, was it not? Shouldn’t I know?”

It doesn’t sound like Arthur; it sounds like despair, cutting too deeply. It sounds like self-loathing and guilt, and Merlin is familiar with those; after all, he has made them his companions for years now.

He knows that Arthur has, too, for far longer than he can remember. That Merlin has only added to their weight, Ygraine’s name acidic at the back of his throat.

He never had any right to twist the memory of the one person in Arthur’s family that had loved him without betrayal. So, then, what right does he have to keep his own secrets for fear of what they might reveal? Out of everything that he has done, isn’t loving Arthur one of his lesser sins?

So he twists his hand until he can hold on to Arthur’s wrist in return. He tilts his chin up, lungs constricting, and ignores the relentless thrashing of his heart.

So he tells Arthur, right there in the middle of his chambers with their bodies still feeling slightly misfitting. He tells him of the Questing Beast and of the fear, of Gaius and Kilgharrah and the Isle of the Blessed. He talks about how he was willing to sacrifice his life for Arthur, and it feels like alleviation. It feels like being able to breathe for the first time since he stood in Arthur’s chambers and said a goodbye that would have never been enough.

Arthur’s fingers clench around his, and Merlin cannot look at him.

The story spins on, his first encounter with Nimueh and how it seemed too easy even as he offered up his own life. Arthur’s building anger becomes a tangible, prickling weight against his skin.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, at some point between Merlin’s mother turning up in Camelot, and the gruesome, luck-drenched resolution. He sounds hollowed out, and Merlin knows what the following words will be. He knows, too, that he could not bear them.

He shakes his head and keeps his eyes fixed on where Arthur’s sun-kissed fingers are still pressed against Merlin’s pulse point.

“I killed her,” he says, and there should be regret ringing through it. There should be guilt, but Merlin has never once been able to dredge a piece of it up. “I didn’t even know that my magic could do that. But you lived, and so did Gaius and my mother and myself, and so I don’t regret it. I don’t think I can.”

The following pause drags and twists, and he still cannot bring himself to look at Arthur. Arthur with his sense of right and wrong, how he will sooner throw a fight than kill someone if he can help it. Arthur, with—

“That is what worries you?” Arthur finally asks, and he sounds—baffled, actually.

Merlin bristles. “She might have been a High Priestess, but that doesn’t make it any less—"

“Oh, will you give it a rest? You and I both know that this is not about her magic. This is about the guilt you carry around like penance—as if by punishing yourself ahead of time, you will be able to keep me from judging you.”

Once the words hit their mark, Merlin staggers back, pulling his wrist out of Arthur’s grasp; his heart feels like an open wound.

“That’s not—”

Arthur scoffs, harsh and dismissive. It sounds like the voices in Merlin’s head, and Arthur closes the distance once more to tangle his fingers in Merlin’s tunic.

“Oh, but that is what all of this is about, isn’t it? You cannot genuinely believe that telling a soldier about the sacrifices you were forced to make will turn them away, but it is far more bearable than being judged for something you have no control over. And you don’t, do you? You said it yourself; you were born with magic. So if I were to reject you because of that, it would be out of your control, and isn’t that such a terrifying prospect?”

On the inside, Merlin burns. His mouth refuses to form words. His skin is blazing where Arthur is touching him. He wants to raze this entire kingdom to the ground, and he wants to pull Arthur closer, wants to—

“I’m not going to make it that easy,” Arthur presses out, his entire body shaking as he cages Merlin against the nearest wall. “You killed for me? Well, so do my knights. I never wanted you to; you were never supposed to take that kind of burden on for me. But who am I to condemn you, after the atrocities I have committed in my father’s name? You know of them, and yet, here you are, still.”

And yet, here Merlin is, still.

He stares at Arthur, the tangled threads tying them together straining and shuddering as he digs his nails into the frail skin of Arthur’s wrist.

“That’s not fair,” he chokes out. A child’s defence.

“No,” Arthur agrees, and something in his expression softens. “But war never is, is it?”

The tension snaps all at once, and Merlin lets his head drop back against the wall. The only point of contact between them is their hands, still.

“You should hate me,” Merlin says. He aims for derisive, and lands on desperate.

Arthur shrugs and presses his thumb more firmly against Merlin’s pulse. “So should you; I’ve heard sorcerers are not in the habit of protecting Pendragons. Yet here you are.”

There are a hundred things Merlin could say to that. He twists his hands until he can slip his fingers between Arthur’s; when he says, “Yet here I am,” it is a vow.

They hover there, time turning honey-thick like gold-soaked summer days. Arthur’s eyes are dark and intent on Merlin’s face, and Merlin has missed this, has missed looking at Arthur with all the unspoken truths that Merlin knew of but never allowed himself to acknowledge.

When Arthur speaks, his voice is hoarse, and yet it is still more a demand than it is a request. “Show me.”

At first, Merlin thinks that he means the magic, and it strikes him as a strange request. It might have only been three weeks, but beyond a display of power, there is little that Merlin could show him that he is not already intimately familiar with.

But Arthur’s fingers are still pressed firmly to Merlin’s pulse point, and the grief in his eyes is a palpable, suffocating thing.

The air crackles, and Merlin’s throat goes dry. The earlier anger has drained from Arthur’s face, but Merlin can still feel it, brimming hot against his fingertips.

All his life he has been taught to avoid the flames, but then, Arthur has always made him want to tempt the fates. As it turns out, this is no different.

He holds Arthur’s eyes as he uses his free hand to pull the strings of his tunic loose, the fabric folding away.

Arthur’s eyes follow him, blue and dark and heavy; it is nothing but pride and stubbornness that keeps Merlin from shivering.

He pulls the cord out of the last eyelet and the fabric falls open. He does not have to look down to know that the scarred, knitted skin is on display now; he is familiar with it as he is with none of his other scars.

Even if he weren’t, he can read it on Arthur’s face; the tight, unhappy twist of his mouth, guilt and anger and something Merlin recognises but doesn’t dare name etched into the lines of his skin.

He wants to reach out, and curls his hands into fists; all he can do is force his breathing to stay even.

“You have done more for me than any of my knights; you have bled for me as if—”

At the back of Merlin’s mind, an ancient voice taunts destiny. Taunts, that is what you were made for.

He grits his teeth and buries his nails into Arthur’s skin. “I don’t do it out of duty, Arthur. I do it because I choose to; it is and always has been a choice. There is nothing—”

He swallows whatever else he was about to say when Arthur brushes his fingertips against the scar tissue. It is a strange sensation, numb but too intimate, and Merlin sucks in a breath as if something as simple as air could sustain him when all of Arthur’s attention is on the cage that guards Merlin’s heart.

“So then,” Arthur says, contemplative until he flicks his gaze up to meet Merlin’s eyes. “So then, if that is the truth, you carry them for me, do you not? If that is the truth, these are mine as much as your sacrifices are.”

Something in his voice annihilates any kind of protest Merlin could have had. This is Arthur, not entirely human, the way that sometimes, Merlin knows he himself is not. This is Arthur, born to be greater than life and kingship and destiny. This is Arthur, bending the world to his will, and Merlin has always been the only one refusing to bow. He has always been the only one not needing a command to lay his devotion at Arthur’s feet.

“They are yours,” he allows, tilting his chin up as if daring Arthur to falter in the face of it. “And you know it already, too.”

Arthur nods, a sharp, smooth movement. He presses his fingertips more firmly to Merlin’s chest; slowly, carefully, trails them up to Merlin’s throat and along his collarbones, leaving the burning trail of an oath behind.

It feels like an eternity until his hand reaches the nape of Merlin’s neck, warm fingers curling into his hair; feels like an eternity until Arthur meets his eyes again, something satisfied and heavy lingering in the slant of his lips.

He steps closer, and when he speaks next, Merlin can feel his breath against his own mouth.

Arthur says, “So if your sacrifices are mine, then so are your sins, are they not? All that guilt you carry—should you not share it with me? I am familiar with the weight of it, after all; I would not have you carry it for me.”

Merlin’s head swims; beneath his fingertips, Arthur’s pulse races. Words keep pressing against the back of his teeth, and yet he fails to get them out, to form them into something he understands in the first place.

He shivers when Arthur’s grip on his hair tightens, swaying forward; with a last-ditch effort of his self-restraint, Merlin keeps himself still, just out of reach. He says, “Arthur,” not knowing whether it is a plea or a demand.

Whatever it is, Arthur does not grant it; he makes a noise in the back of his throat, low and desperate, and then he presses his open mouth to Merlin’s as if starving for it.

Any remaining air is punched out of Merlin’s lungs, and he scrambles to get his hands on Arthur. He doesn’t know where to start first—the gold-spun hair or the sun-kissed skin—and tries to reach for it all at once, his fingertips searching out the firm strands of muscles and the ridges of bones, the dips of skin and the warmth of Arthur’s body against him.

He cannot think, and it is terrifying in its simplicity, how he can no longer keep track of the words that drip from his lips whenever Arthur allows him to breathe. How he cannot seem to retain the promises Arthur presses into his skin with rough, calloused hands and his terribly gentle mouth.

It is almost too much, is not enough, and he pushes against Arthur until they are stumbling through the chambers blindly, incapable of pulling away from each other—as if something will irrevocably break if they do.

Merlin finds himself stretched out on soft covers before he knows how he got there, their clothes lost somewhere on the cold stone floor.

He blinks at Arthur’s golden head, and follows the path that Arthur’s mouth traces across his skin; a sacrifice in the centre of his chest; an accident at the side of his ribs; Arthur’s own weapon at the back of his shoulders. Arthur’s lips against his fingertips, whispering reverent, as if to absolve Merlin of all his sins.

All Merlin can do is close his eyes and hold on, and still, he fears that he might be flying apart at any given moment, Arthur’s body hot and firm and too much, too much, too much. Not nearly enough.

He flips them around when he can no longer bear it; presses Arthur into the mattress with breathless laughter and a teasing remark they both know he doesn’t mean, and Arthur lets him. He lets Merlin’s mouth take him apart, methodical, even as his fingers keep finding the marks on Merlin’s skin, unerring as if he has made a map out of them.  

Merlin looks at Arthur when he conjures oil, the gold in his own eyes a dare that Arthur answers with nothing but an exasperated huff. He keeps looking at Arthur when he sinks a finger inside of his body, for as long as he can bear it before he has to watch his own hand and marvel at the wonder of it, of Arthur letting him take and take and take.

When Merlin pushes inside of him, the tight tangle of fear and guilt and secrecy finally snaps within his chest, as if the pleasure of Arthur around him was enough to salvage him.

He finally bends down to kiss Arthur’s mouth, to pour all his confessions down Arthur’s throat now that he can let them go; Arthur clings to him, swallows it down, an offer of sacrament and absolution.

They fall together like this, bitten-off promises and silent forgiveness as their hands etch devotion into flesh. When Merlin comes with his face pressed into the sanctuary of Arthur’s neck, the salt of Arthur’s skin tastes like reinvention.

The morning light is tentative where it filters through the heavy curtains of Arthur’s chambers. Every bone in Merlin’s body aches pleasantly. Arthur is sprawled half on top of him, still fast asleep, and Merlin almost forgets that he once knew how to breathe.

He runs his fingertips lightly across Arthur’s back, up his neck and through his hair. He presses them to where Arthur’s pulse beats, steady, and closes his eyes against the enormity of it.

Beyond these chambers, he knows, a thousand things are still thirsting for their blood. Beyond these chambers, Merlin still carries secrets that he will have to lay bare, and Arthur carries guilt that Merlin cannot absolve him of.

But right here, for the first time since Uther’s death, hope simmers bright and golden inside of Merlin’s chest, almost as warm and reassuring as the weight of Arthur’s head tucked beneath Merlin’s chin.

He buries his nose in Arthur’s hair and, for the first time in three years, believes that it could be enough. That it will be.

Arthur makes a low noise, lazy and content. His fingers find Merlin’s wrist, unerring, and press against his pulse.

“Stay,” Arthur murmurs, his lips brushing against Merlin’s throat as if to make a petition out of it, and the love spills into Merlin’s mouth as if intent to choke him.

He breathes Arthur in, the familiar, soothing scent of him. Promises “Always,” and believes it for the first time since he set foot into Camelot.