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Chapter Text

This was the biggest mistake he had ever made.

Merlin's heart ached, fear rattling its broken pieces together as his confession coiled in the air like smoke. They stood on opposite sides of the desk in Arthur's chambers: warriors on a battlefield. He had imagined, a hundred times, how this might go, and lately, he'd started to think that everything would be all right. Now, seeing the pallor of Arthur's face and the growing heartbreak in his gaze, he knew he was wrong.

Gods, he was a fool.

'I don't believe you.' Arthur's broken voice cracked between them. 'You don't have magic. I would know.'

Merlin swallowed, taking one wild moment to wonder if he could laugh it off as a joke. He could pretend to be enchanted, or claim he had taken a blow to the head... anything to turn this around. But no, his secret could not be crammed back into the shadows. It had been beating against the hollow of his throat for months, now, desperate to be said. Keeping the truth from Arthur had been like trying to staunch a bleeding wound, draining him day-by-day. He could not return to suffering in silence.

'Leote.'

The blue orb of light swirled into existence, hovering above Merlin's palm. He did not set it free nor make any sudden movements. Instead, he watched the recognition dawn in Arthur's eyes, and wild hope surged through Merlin's chest.

A moment later, it was doused, eradicated by the clipped, hard mask that descended over Arthur's features. He looked sick, his jaw working furiously as he shook his head, just once. Rejection, pure and simple.

'Sorcerer.'

That was Uther's voice in Arthur's mouth. Uther's loathing and disgust. It drenched the single word in its ink, twisting it into a blade to slip between Merlin's ribs. It rattled his lungs in their cage, and he snuffed out the light before its draining pallor could give away the fear braiding his spine.

Arthur had never looked at him like that before. At first, when they had met almost two years ago, there had been the sheen of arrogance and sneering disdain. As the days passed, that had turned into something curious, grudging and baffled, as if he could not make Merlin out. Lately, softer things had filled those eyes, half-hidden beneath lowered lashes and averted gazes, but whispered all the same in the way Arthur touched his arm or ruffled a hand through his hair.

Now? There was only hate. That handsome, sun-kissed face, tanned from a summer on the practice fields, had lost its colour. Broad shoulders formed a bar of iron, and Merlin wet his lips, a cold sweat pricking his hairline. His gaze dropped to where Arthur's hands knotted into fists at his side, unfurling only to curl up anew, a fretful outlet.

'I –'

'No.'

Merlin's explanations rotted to silence on his tongue. His stomach churned, his entire body braced for the moment that Arthur called the guards or reached for the sword on his hip. He had only seen him this angry once before, when he had pressed his blade to his father's chest after hearing Morgause's story of what had become of his mother.

'Leave.' Arthur's throat pulsed as he swallowed, his voice shaking beneath the strain.

'Arthur, you need to listen–'

'No. You will leave, and you will not come back.' He jabbed a finger towards the door, the movement brutal, as if he longed to have a dagger he could plunge into Merlin's chest. 'I do not merely mean these chambers.' A gasp hitched in his throat, choking, and terror washed its ice across Merlin's skin. 'Be out of the city of Camelot by sunrise, or so help me, you will burn.'

Arthur's breath spilled from his lips, heavy and ragged, as if his rage was trying to claw him apart at the seams. His eyes blazed, and Merlin knew that he meant every word. Arthur, who a candle-mark ago he had considered his closest friend, would throw him on the pyre.

He was a Pendragon. Merlin should have known better than to expect otherwise.

'You're exiling me?'

Arthur scoffed, his nose wrinkling and his lips twisting in a sneer. 'Be grateful,' he rasped. 'I should call the guards. I should draw my sword and run you through. You are a sorcerer. This' – His voice cracked, and Merlin could see how hard Arthur was shaking, crumbling beneath the force of his emotions – 'This is mercy, Merlin. You would get no such leniency from my father, and if I ever find you within the kingdom's borders again, I will not hesitate to strike.'

'But –'

'You have magic!' Arthur's bellow rang around the room, the cry of a wounded animal brought to fury in its pain. Merlin had only a brief moment to thank the gods that there were no guards posted outside Arthur's door, or they would already have come running. 'Go. Go before I change my mind and have you dragged away in chains!'

They stared at each other: Merlin, frozen like a deer in the sights of the hunter, and Arthur, his shoulders heaving as if he had run from the cellars to the rooftops. The cheerful crackle of the fire sounded obscene – a fragment from another life: one that now lay in pieces at Merlin's feet. His arguments were stones in his chest, his protests unspeakable. There was no point, and the last stuttering beacon of hope in Merlin's heart went out.

His boots scraped on the flagstones as he retreated: one slow step following another before he turned away and reached for the door, his head full of panic's buzz. The skin between his shoulder-blades itched. He wondered if Arthur would cast aside all honour and simply stab him in the back, yet nothing touched him. There was no whisper of drawn steel, only the rasp of Arthur's ragged breathing as Merlin slipped out of his chambers.

He did not notice the first tear tumble over Arthur's lashes, nor how he cuffed it furiously away.

The castle passed him in a blur, his pulse too loud in his ears and his breath trapped in the awkward camber of his ribs. Everything was numb and cold, as if he had stepped out of his life and into a nightmare where nothing made sense. Outside, dusk thickened to true night. Arthur wanted him out by dawn, and something feral snarled in Merlin's chest at being so easily discarded.

Part of him was tempted to push – to stand his ground, lift his chin and force Arthur to burn him if he was so certain of magic's treachery. However, despite Gaius' comments to the contrary, he did have some instincts of self-preservation. Arthur had not been bluffing. It had not been something said in a bluster of temper. He meant every word, and while Merlin had been more than happy to give his life for Arthur, he would not throw it away for the sake of his own pride.

The door to the healing room burst open, banging on the wall before he slammed it back into the frame. His magic surged beneath his skin, tempestuous, all gleaming fang and poised claw, but there was no target for his power. He pressed it down and away as angry, agonised tears prickled at his lashes.

'Merlin?'

Swallowing hard, he sniffed, blinking back his grief as he turned around. Gaius stood by the fire, his old body tense and his shoulders hunched as if he were braced to protect himself from a mortal blow. Yet it was the young woman perched on the bench at the table who had spoken his name, her voice brittle and tremulous.

Morgana watched him. Her chin lifted, sharp and determined even as her lips wobbled. She was the reason he had told Arthur of his magic. He had been so sure that Arthur would come to accept it – that he would not lash out with his father's fire and fury. Morgana, on the other hand, had her doubts. He had wanted to prove her wrong, for her sake, as well as his own. He had wanted to show her how things would change under Arthur once it was his time to rule.

It turned out she knew Arthur better after all.

'Exile,' he rasped. 'I'm to be out of the city by sunrise.'

The bench scraped across the floor as Morgana stood up, her narrow hands clenched into fists. Anger flushed her cheeks as she heaved in a breath. For one, wild moment he feared that she would march through the castle and throw her own secret like a challenge at Arthur's feet.

'My boy.' Gaius' gnarled hand was a gentle weight on his arm. He, too, had advised caution – had begged Merlin not to take this path. Now, he wished that he had listened. 'What are you going to do?'

He shook his head, one shoulder shifting in a shrug as the enormity of what was happening hit him like a landslide. He swayed back against the door, propping his weight against it as his knees went to water, threatening to dump him on the floor.

'I was so sure...'

Morgana reached for him, her cold fingers tucking into the bowl of his palm and squeezing hard enough to bruise. He had wanted to show her that Arthur was different from Uther – that, given a chance, he would come to accept magic – but he had tipped his hand too soon. He had been so eager to be free of his secret – for Arthur to see him, all of him – that he had thrown caution to the wind.

'I suppose I'd better start packing.'

The words felt strange on his numb lips, and he blinked owlishly as Morgana made a sound like an angry cat: spit and temper and, underneath it, fear.

'You can't leave!' she managed, her hair whispering around her shoulders as she shook her head. 'This is your home!'

'If I'm not gone by sunrise, he'll put me on the pyre.'

Gaius choked down an awful noise and Morgana swore: a long, low litany of words no lady of court should utter. She denigrated Arthur's lineage, character and manhood, spitting her insults like curses as she paced, her skirts rustling.

He had confessed his nature to her months ago, speaking soft reassurances as she wept in relief to know that she was not alone. They had been training together for the better part of a year, and her control had improved in leaps and bounds. The walls she had built around herself crumbled, and Morgana had flourished in the company of someone else like her: someone with magic.

Now, she would be by herself again, and anxiety thrashed in Merlin's stomach.

'I was wrong.' He swallowed, pushing himself away from the door and scrubbing both hands over his face. 'I thought Arthur had grown more distant from his father and his beliefs, but...'

'It is the way in which he was raised. Some of the hardest falsehoods to cast aside are those we have learned at our parent's knee,' Gaius murmured, his words comforting even as disappointment shadowed his gaze. 'For your sake, I had hoped you were right, but Uther has been pouring lies into Arthur's ear every day since he was born, and he continues to do so. That, and magic has done little to endear itself to either the father or the son.'

'Did he give you a chance to explain?' Morgana demanded. 'To tell him how many times you've saved his life? Does he at least know to whom he is indebted?'

Merlin shook his head. 'He was so angry,' he whispered. 'He wouldn't even let me speak.'

Was that better, he wondered, than frigid indifference? Did Arthur's rage mean something, or was it only a grim mask for his fear of magic and all that was associated with it: a way to hide the fact that Merlin's very nature terrified him?

He supposed it didn't matter. The end result was still the same. He could only be grateful that his own, foolish optimism had not eradicated his caution.

'He'll be safe, or as safe as he can be without me by his side.' He cleared his throat, pursing his lips before he continued. 'I hoped for the best, but my mother didn't raise a complete idiot. I've been stitching spells into Camelot these past few days, enchanting everything to protect both Arthur and the citadel itself.' He'd anchored them, too, so they would last beyond death, just in case Arthur had decided to run him through there and then. 'His armour. His chambers...'

'You don't think he deserves whatever is coming to him?' Morgana's words were arch and spiteful, but he knew her heart wasn't in them.

'Not if it would mean his death. I can't –' He bit his tongue, closing his eyes and shaking the thought away. 'He's still my friend, Morgana. Even if he hates me.'

It hurt, though. That, he could admit. He had not realised how open and vulnerable he had left himself until Arthur reached into his chest and smashed his heart to pulp.

And beneath the sting of that, his bruised pride had begun to snarl.

'Even if I hate him, just a little bit.'

His jaw worked as the first sparks of anger caught in the kindling of his resentment. Some logical part of him was muttering options in the cavern of his skull: something about disguises and working in secret, protecting Arthur from the shadows. He could stay in Camelot, and Arthur would be oblivious. But was that how he wanted things to be? Could he carry on, knowing that Arthur would never accept him for who he was, nor thank him for his efforts?

Could he live with that?

No, not anymore.

He wasn't the naive boy in desperate need of a purpose. Nor was he a lost young man floundering along a path not of his own choosing. He had begun to make his own decisions the minute he told Morgana what he was, going against all of Kilgharrah's warnings. Now, he stood here, realising that the choice before him was no choice at all.

He could stay and never be anything more than this – a tool of destiny – or he could do as Arthur commanded and free himself from the chains of prophecy that bound him. For the first time in years, he could find out who he was when he no longer had to hide.

'He'll be safe,' he repeated, 'and I'll be gone.'

Pulling away from Gaius' grasp and fleeing Morgana's scrutiny, he strode across the chamber, barging into the tiny room that had been his home since the day he passed through Camelot's gates. He stared around, taking in the rickety bed and the ewer on the stool, the mess of his clothes and the tangle of his bedding. Only this morning he'd lunged out from his nest of blankets, already running late to bring Arthur his breakfast. He had not known, then, that it would be the last time he did so. That he would never be serving Arthur again after today.

The sight of Arthur tonight would be the one he was left with, too, all harsh rage and betrayal. That had been the last time Arthur would speak to him, and something painful cracked apart in his chest.

'Bastard, ignorant, arrogant clotpole!' he hissed, but the insults felt hollow. All he had was his spiteful determination, licking like a fire blazing beneath his skin. Arthur wanted him gone? Well, he would get what he wished for, and Merlin had no intention of ever looking back.

His anger sustained him as he began to pack, shoving his clothes into a bag without bothering to fold them. The spell book went in the bottom; he would not leave that behind for anyone to find. The Sidhe staff was another matter. It was hardly a subtle object, and he had no desire for something so powerful to fall into the wrong hands.

Swearing quietly, he whispered an enchantment and slipped it into the shadows under the floorboards. Arthur could turn these rooms upside-down if he pleased; he would never unearth the nook beneath the bed, not with Merlin's magic pressed over it, demanding that all questing eyes turn away.

It took very little time to pack up his few meagre possessions. It all fit into a single large bag, and Merlin slung the strap on his shoulder as he reached for the small, carved dragon his father had given him. He ran his fingers over the smooth wood, tracing its lines and the arch of its wings as his anger ebbed and flowed through him, building itself into a constant hum beneath his skin.

Part of him agreed with Morgana. He wanted to claim that Arthur deserved whatever befell him and leave him to his fate, but he couldn't do it. Not entirely. Besides, there was more in Camelot that he held dear than Arthur Pendragon. Gwen and Morgana, Lancelot and the others, even Gaius and his friends among the servants... It wasn't merely Arthur who suffered when a sorcerer came calling, it was the citadel as a whole, and Merlin could not turn his back on that.

Bringing the dragon to his lips, he whispered against it surface, feeling the wood warm as his magic spilled into its grain, leaving faint traceries of gold in its wake.

'Hréam āhāte.'

Nodding in satisfaction, he slipped it in his bag. He'd give it to Morgana before he left: another little failsafe.

Glancing once more around the room, he surveyed the bare walls and empty flagstones, taking a moment to make the bed with a muttered spell. He wouldn't be sleeping in it tonight. He doubted he could find his rest if he tried. There was too much prickling along his bones and sliding splinters between his ribs: anger and hurt and misery. All his loyalty and devotion to Arthur, and this was what he got in return.

He hadn't even had the chance to explain.

Merlin jerked his head to the side, clenching his jaw and straightening his shoulders. It was Arthur's loss, he told himself firmly, ignoring the way his heart keened and ached in his chest. He reached for the door and pulled it open, trotting down the few steps and into the healing rooms.

His anger sparked and died like a fire in the rain when he saw Gaius still sat at the bench, his gnarled hands clenched around a cup of warm cider. He looked a decade older than he had that morning, his back bent and his eyes downcast.

'I am sorry it has come to this, my boy,' he murmured, looking up when Merlin set down his bag. 'I had hoped...'

'Yeah, well. So did I.' Merlin managed a smile that felt more like a rictus than anything. 'Where's Morgana?'

'She said she would meet you in the courtyard a candle-mark before dawn with some provisions. I reminded her that confronting Arthur before you are safely away could have dire consequences. He could still change his mind for the worse.'

Merlin bit his lip. A week ago, he would have claimed that the whole idea of Arthur sending him to his death was impossible. Now?

'I should have kept my mouth shut.'

Gaius hummed, but there was nothing reproachful in the sound. 'Perhaps, but anyone who knew the secret you held could see how it pained you to keep it.' He set his mug aside, pressing his hands palm down to the table. 'For what it is worth, I do not think you are wrong about Arthur's changing attitude to magic. I merely believe that, maybe, you moved with too much haste.'

'You didn't see the look on his face.'

Gaius grunted. 'And how does Arthur show his pain, Merlin? His shock or his hurt?' A snowy eyebrow lifted. 'He does not. He presses it all into anger instead, the only emotion Uther has ever allowed him to put on display without reprimand.' He sighed. 'I suspect that this whole situation is not as black-and-white as it may appear.'

Merlin shrugged, settling on the bench and pulling a sheaf of parchment closer before reaching for the ink-pot. 'He's not going to change his mind in the next few candle-marks, Gaius. One way or the other, I have to leave by morning.'

'I know.' Gaius reached out to pat the back of his hand sadly. 'What do you need? Remedies? Coin?'

Merlin shook his head. 'I'll be fine. I must write letters to the knights, and to Gwen. They' – He pursed his lips, the tip of the quill hovering over the inkwell – 'I don't know if Arthur will tell them, and they deserve the truth.'

'Merlin –' The warning in Gaius' voice was unmissable, but he ignored it.

'They need to protect Arthur, now that I won't be here to do it.'

'They will.'

'All of them?' Merlin raised an eyebrow, watching Gaius grimace. Leon, of course, would be steadfast, but could the same be said for Lancelot and Gwaine? They were Merlin's friends and Arthur's knights, and while both men were loyal, they valued people above the power of the crown. He did not want them turning their backs on Camelot to follow him into exile.

He kept each letter brief: a confession of his magic and how he'd used it to protect Arthur rather than do harm. He did not apologise; instead, he begged them to remain at Arthur's side.

In Lancelot's, he reminded him of a promise he had made, more than a year ago now, to take up the mantle of protection should Merlin ever fail. He, at least, knew as much of the full truth as possible. In Gwaine's, he pointed out that vows forged when drunk still counted, even if Gwaine himself couldn't remember the time he'd sworn to Merlin he'd not turn his back on Camelot, no matter what.

As he wrote, his power seeped into the page, tracing its tiny enchantments around the flow of the ink. He did nothing to compel them or cloud their minds. Instead, it was magic to remove doubt and clear misconceptions: a way to help each person see the truth of his simple missives. At the bottom of each, he slipped in something more personal – a last farewell to the people he would forever call his friends, even if he never saw them again.

Finally, he set them aside for the ink to dry and drew forward one more stack of paper. He wrote quickly, spilling forth everything he had done with his magic – the good and the dubious. It was a record of his crimes, little more than a list of all that had come to pass since he'd arrived in the citadel.

It went from the moment he pulled Arthur from the path of a dagger thrown by a witch, all through Nimueh and the Questing Beast, Sigan's brief reign of terror and Morgause's efforts. It culminated in the dragon's release and the three times he had saved Arthur's life since that day. The only person he did not mention was Morgana, not wishing to condemn another alongside himself.

There were things he'd forgotten, he was sure: moments when his power rose up to stop bandits or willed the world to change and allow their escape. He glossed over his own wounds, his sacrifices, his scars. This was not about him, after all, but about the magic, and how it could be used for good, whether Arthur was willing to see it or not.

At last, the sky beyond the window turned from true night to hints of slate, heralding the approach of dawn. Merlin folded each of the missives, as well as his confession, and tucked them into his bag. He did not dare give them to Gaius. He feared that, in his desperate need to protect Merlin from himself, his uncle would merely cast the parchment onto the fire once Merlin was gone.

No, he'd entrust them to Morgana. The letters were enchanted to vanish from sight once they were set aside by their readers. The confession was not. Nor would it burn nor run from the rain. It was a testament that could not be destroyed. His magic willed it so.

With a heavy sigh, he rose to his feet, slinging the strap of his bag over his shoulder and turning to Gaius.

The old man looked heart-broken, his eyes bright and his lips twisted into a thin line. He uttered not a word as he wrapped Merlin in his embrace, slipping something into his bag that clinked: glass bottles, coins or both. Merlin folded his arms around Gaius, squeezing as hard as he dared, breathing in the scent of apples and lavender that reminded him of home.

'Goodbye, Uncle Gaius,' Merlin murmured, his throat going tight as the enormity of his departure sunk in. This was one of the few farewells that he would have to call his own. There wasn't time for anything more, and he drew a shuddering breath before retreating.

'Be safe,' Gaius urged, biting back what looked like a thousand words, each as desperate as the last. 'I hope to see you again, one day.'

'Me too.' The smile he managed was no doubt atrocious, but he pinned it to his face all the same. The world felt thick and sluggish as he peeled himself apart from the man who was like a father to him, but he did not turn back, stumbling down the stairs on legs that felt like crumbling stone before he paced towards the courtyard.

The scurry of a shadow off to his right made him twitch, and he let out a breath of surprise before Morgana's familiar pale face eased his shock. She was wearing her "creeping around" cloak, and despite himself, Merlin huffed a quiet laugh at the sight of her.

'Take this.' She thrust a heavy coin-purse into his grasp without ceremony, shaking her head before he could speak. 'Don't argue, Merlin. I know full-well you send most of your pay home to your mother, and you're leaving with nothing but the shirt on your back. It should be enough for a little while.'

'My Lady, I –'

'Don't!' She slung another bag off her shoulder, smaller and lighter than the one he was carrying, but packed with food and a water-skin. 'No arguments. Do you know where you're going? To your mother?'

Merlin shook his head. 'No – no if something goes amiss, I can't bring this down on her. Perhaps it's best if I didn't say, just in case.'

Morgana pulled a face, glancing up at Arthur's window where it overlooked the courtyard. Merlin didn't follow her gaze. He did not want to see if Arthur was watching.

'I give the fool a week before he is riding out after you,' she said, her eyes flashing. 'This isn't how it should be. I wanted to believe in him.'

'Don't let this stop you,' Merlin implored. 'Arthur will be a good king. He will be the one to bring magic back during his reign, just...' He shook his head, not knowing how to finish that sentence. 'Maybe he needed more time than I was willing to give.'

Reaching into the bag at his side, he pulled out the folded letters, pressing them into her hands. 'For the others,' he explained. 'They deserve to know. Can you – will you pass them on for me? I haven't said a word about you to anyone. That's your secret to tell, if and when you're ready.'

Her trembling fingers made the parchment rustle as she accepted them. 'You're sure?'

He nodded, finally pulling free the confession. Again, it was folded to hide what was written from view. 'This is for Arthur, if he ever asks for it.' At Morgana's frown, he blew out a breath. 'It's a chronicle of my actions since arriving in Camelot: everything I've used my magic for, one way or the other.'

'Can I read it?' Morgana asked, something sharp burning in her gaze: a need to know, maybe, or a desire to reassure herself that, despite his exile, Merlin was as blameless as she believed. He was not so sure of that himself, but he didn't deny her.

'If you wish, but keep it safe. If the wrong person saw that, I'd be hunted across all Albion.'

'You have my word.' Morgana tucked the various papers away in her cloak as if they were made of spun glass: precious treasures to be guarded with her life. A heartbeat later, she stepped forward, her slender arms banding his waist even as she pressed herself up on tiptoes, brushing a kiss against his cheek. 'Thank you for everything.'

Merlin wrapped his arms around her, tucking his head against her hair as he folded this moment away next to his heart. This, at least, was something wholly good: Morgana's confidence and delight in her abilities. Not even being thrust into exile could dampen his joy in knowing he'd made some small difference to her.

When he pulled back, he offered her one last thing, watching her eyes flicker at the wooden dragon in his grasp. She knew of his father: of Kilgharrah and what he had done. She understood its meaning and what leaving it behind cost him. 'Merlin, no.'

'It's more than it seems. There's a spell on it that will call me back if you ask, but Morgana, only use it in the most dire circumstances. There was no lie in Arthur's threats. Returning to Camelot could well mean coming home to my death.'

He pressed the small figurine into her grasp, curling her cold fingers around its form and offering one last squeeze. 'It will be all right.'

She managed a jerky nod, a tear trembling on her lashes. She did not reach up to cuff it aside but wore it like a medal as she straightened her shoulders. 'Be careful, and don't do anything stupid.'

'I can't make any promises.' He dredged up a smile. 'Goodbye, Morgana.'

'Goodbye, Merlin.'

With one final nod, he turned away, his feet charting their course over familiar cobbles as he headed for the nearest gate.

He did not look back.

Chapter Text

Arthur stared out into the uncertain light of an encroaching dawn, watching that familiar, lanky figure walk away. The stone wall at the window's edge pressed against his shoulder: the only thing keeping him upright. He felt like he had been cut off at the knees, his strength ripped from him as his heart raged and ached and screamed. Each breath was a snatched sip of air, his chest heaving and his head buzzing as a raw, cresting wave of emotion clawed at the base of his throat.

He wanted to howl at the unfairness of it all, and the taste of copper filled his mouth as he bit his tongue to hold back the noise.

He had let a sorcerer go free; his father would kill him if he knew. He had cast his best friend into exile – a traitor, a liar, a fraud – yet that knowledge did nothing to ease the pain that squeezed his ribs in its vice.

Merlin was gone, and Arthur could not begin to find the line where his rage ended and his grief began.

He pressed his curled fist to his lips, barely noticing the fresh scrapes on his knuckles. He had lashed out when Merlin left. His chambers were in ruins. Shards of pottery were the epitaph of broken cups. Tin plates gleamed on the floor, dented from their impact with the wall. His chair lay on its side, one leg split where he had kicked it, desperate for some outlet for the tempest of sentiment that seethed in his veins.

There was no release. Instead, he was left cold and ashamed amidst the evidence of his loss of control. He liked to think he had little in common with his father, but his temper told a different story.

Briefly, he thought he should tidy up before Merlin came in and saw the mess. He'd only give him that look: a fraction of disapproval and a generous portion of concern.

Except, no. Merlin would not serve Arthur this morning, or ever again. He would not be there with his cheerful greetings, or his hapless, clumsy way of getting Arthur ready for the day.

He was a sorcerer.

Perhaps if he repeated it to himself often enough, Arthur would start to believe it. Maybe, eventually, he'd see that the friendship he had treasured more than anything else in the world had been a lie. Perhaps he would convince himself that the tender moments of deeper affection that threatened to bloom between them were nothing but a trick: a way for Merlin to influence him all the more.

Had that been his game all along? Had he come to Camelot with the intention of befriending Arthur for his own nefarious purpose? His father claimed that sorcery was insidious, striking when you least expected it. Was Uther right?

In the first moment of Merlin's confession, seeing that glowing orb of blue light – one he recognised, but did not care to witness – Arthur believed his father's warnings. Fear, both of the man before him and the power he wielded, seized him in its grip. However, it was about more than just his magic. Merlin had barely left his side since he came into his service, and Arthur had let him in: into his life, his confidence...

His gods-forsaken heart!

And yet, this was Merlin, who Arthur would have sworn did not have a cruel bone in his body. He had been known to bite back tears over the animals they killed on a hunt and would run himself ragged in an effort to help others. He demonstrated every day that there was strength in compassion. Arthur had never thought him capable of anything like true deception.

But then, he'd never believed him capable of magic, either. Perhaps he had only seen what Merlin wanted to show him: a caricature of a friend over the face of an enemy.

Down in the courtyard, Morgana's slender figure shifted. One pale hand moved to her cheek while the other clutched something Merlin had given her, half hidden in the folds of her cloak.

Arthur had watched them embrace, had seen the kiss she had offered and the way they clung to each other. Jealousy only gilded the edge of his misery. He swallowed back the taste of bile as he retreated from the window to sag onto his bed, his feet planted on the floor and his hands hanging between his parted knees.

He bowed his head as he struggled to breathe, forcing himself to draw in air through his nose and let it out through his mouth. He had noticed a closeness between them, something that went beyond mere flowers and kindness. He had ignored that Merlin had frequently forgotten to called Morgana "Lady". He had turned a blind eye to the way her smiles had softened, artless and genuine with her affection.

Perhaps, in all honesty, he had not wanted to see that for what it was. Maybe he had wished to pretend that Merlin's heart was still free. The embrace he had seen them share in the courtyard rather put paid to that notion. It had not looked like a parting between friends. There had been something desperate about the way they held each other, something that made Arthur's stomach lurch and roll.

And deeper in the dark recesses of his mind, another voice whispered its accusations. Merlin was a sorcerer, after all. He could have enchanted Morgana, clouding her thoughts and stealing her heart. Perhaps he had done the same to Arthur, twisting his will towards friendship and affection where none should exist. Maybe he'd had them all eating out of the palm of his hand, and they were none the wiser for it.

Gods, but this was a mess. Yesterday, he would have said with absolute confidence that there was no one he trusted more in all of Camelot than Merlin. Now, all that lay shattered at his feet, and Arthur did not know how he was meant to move forward without cutting himself to ribbons on the pieces.

He could not say how long he sat there, the light in the room turning from fragile pearl to the rich gold of morning. He felt lost in the spin of his thoughts, dragged down by swirling currents of conflicting sentiment until he was drowning in the sea of his own miserable anger. He did not want to have to deal with any of this. He wanted it to be last week, when they had laughed and joked on a hunt with barely a care in the world. He wanted it to be yesterday, when Merlin had smiled at him, soft and sure, and Arthur's heart had fluttered in response.

He did not want it to be today, where Merlin was a traitor.

Rage flared, brighter and stronger than before, all his shock and doubt honing itself into something close to hatred. He didn't understand why he had confessed. He could have let Arthur carry on, oblivious. Instead, with a few simple words, Merlin had ruined everything.

Arthur was left facing a situation he had dreaded since he was a boy: one where the teachings of his father crushed him beneath their weight, and the fate of a friend was his to decide.

Friend? No, that was not what Merlin was. Not anymore.

Surging to his feet, he reached for his belt, tying it around his waist. The presence of his sword was a cold comfort against his hip, and he ripped open his bedroom door, marching down the corridor as quickly as he dared.

He had not slept – had not even changed clothes since the previous night. Anyone who glanced his way would know something was amiss, but in that moment, he did not care about appearances. He needed to give this barbed, awful emotion an outlet, before it could turn inwards and flay him to pieces.

It was a small consolation that no servants crossed his path. He did not have it in him to force his features into some mask of courtly control. His hand opened and closed in a spasmodic fist around the hilt of his sword, choking the pommel as he marched towards the training ground.

He did not bother with armour. There was no point, and besides, he did not think he could stand the timid, flinching touch of one of the squires. Not when he was used to Merlin's hands, steady and gentle over the outline of his frame.

The effigy wheezed in protest at the first swipe of his sword, straw and dust flying as he lay into it. His body moved through his drills with the ease that came from long practice. Fury leant each swing of his blade the power to slice muscle and split bone. Yet it was not enough. Still, emotion rose up in him, an endless font, forcing each breath to hitch and stagger.

It was the cold air making his eyes water, Arthur told himself. Nothing more.

His sword sundered the training dummy, the switch of its neck sliced apart. That was what he should have done, Arthur thought, numb and distant from it all. That should have been Merlin's fate, his head cleaved from his shoulders: Camelot's justice.

The notion of it – blood on his blade and pooling on the flagstones of his bedchamber – flashed across his mind's eye. He did not feel his weapon fall from his grasp as he reeled, his skin drenched in ice. He pressed his hand to his mouth as his stomach clenched in warning. His anger flickered out, lost beneath a tide of bitter, hard denial. He did not realise he was shaking until a tentative palm rested over his shoulder.

Spinning around, he sucked in a breath, thinking for one moment that Merlin had come back. Relief collided with fury, making him choke, but his snarl died on his lips as he saw Leon, not Merlin, standing on the duelling ground.

He wore no armour. His tunic laces hung loose beneath a rich blue cloak that had been flung around his shoulders in a hurry. His reddish gold curls were a tumble, and unless Arthur was very much mistaken, there was still a pillow-crease struck across his cheek.

He looked as if he'd ripped himself from sleep and rushed to Arthur's side, barely taking the time to shove his feet in his boots before he did so. Even the belt at his waist was bare of its usual scabbard. This was not Leon Delgrace, Knight Commander of Camelot. This was Leon as Arthur's friend, looking pale and ill as he surveyed him with washed out blue eyes.

And in his hand was a ragged piece of parchment, Merlin's surprisingly neat handwriting marking its surface in bold, black ink.

'Arthur...' Leon's grip tightened, his fingers and thumb digging in hard enough to bruise. 'Stop. Breathe a moment.'

Arthur tried to do as he was bid. He had not even noticed the stutter of air pass his lips or the burn between his ribs. The morning breeze was cold and sharp across his tongue, stabbing his chest like knives, but he relished the pain, letting it pin the whirl of his thoughts in place.

'Where did you get that?'

Leon looked down at the parchment in his hand, his grip tight enough to crease it. 'Morgana – the Lady Morgana gave it to me. There was one for each of us.'

'And what does it say?' Arthur rasped.

He wondered what magic Merlin had wrought in ink – what enchantments he had woven around his knights in the moment of his departure. Was it a spiteful punishment for his exile? Would he ensnare the minds of those he had once called his friends, or did he perhaps seek to make them forget him, leaving Arthur the only one to know what he truly was – the sole guardian against his return?

'It's a confession – one that Merlin claims you have already heard from his own lips.'

Arthur blinked, a frown pleating his brow. At best, he had thought Merlin would conjure up an excuse for his absence: called home to his mother, perhaps, or helping a friend in need beyond Camelot's walls.

Was it a protest, then? An effort to turn his own knights against him? Except no, that made no sense. If that were the case, he would not admit to sorcery. He would paint himself as the innocent party, a victim of Pendragon paranoia and tyranny.

'He speaks of his magic; how he has used it to keep you and Camelot safe to the best of his abilities. He offers a vow he has left no enchantments on us except those to aid in our safety. He bids me do as I have always done and protect you with my life.'

Leon's fingers shook as he smoothed the paper, and Arthur remembered how fond all his knights had become of Merlin. Even Leon, the most loyal to the crown, had ruffled his hair and offered soft jibes. There had been a brotherly tone to their friendship, and now Leon's throat clicked as he swallowed.

'He bids me farewell.'

Arthur pressed the heel of his hand to his right eye, trying to pretend he was not shaking. 'He left at dawn this morning on my command,' he managed, his voice choked and gravelly as Leon cast him a mournful look. 'A sorcerer, Leon,' he hissed. 'What would you have had me do?'

Leon shifted his weight, folding Merlin's letter and tucking it into the pouch on his belt. For a moment, he looked as if he were scared to question it – afraid to upset an already delicate balance. It reminded Arthur of when his father was laying down the law, and the councillors around him were wary to protest in case their words were mistaken as a challenge. The comparison sat ill upon his shoulders, and he tried to keep his voice level.

'Speak your mind.'

He bowed his head, talking more to his boots than to Arthur's face. 'It is not the punishment your father would have chosen.' He glanced up, and the look he gave Arthur felt as if it sliced his skin from his bones, rooting out every secret. 'No trial. No public condemnation. No escort to the border.' His expression softened with pity, as if Leon was looking at Arthur's actions and seeing not a display of resolute authority, but something else entirely.

Because despite everything, Arthur realised, he had kept Merlin's secret. He had wanted to lash out, to hurt him as much as he had wounded Arthur – both with the revelation of his magic and the fact that he had concealed it since the day they met. He had commanded exile, and yet he had done nothing to make it official. As far as the rest of Camelot was concerned, Merlin was welcome to come and go as he pleased: a servant who made his own choices, rather than a sorcerer banished in disgrace.

If he chose to ride out – to chase Merlin down and bring him back to the citadel – no one would be any wiser except the knights.

Arthur swayed where he stood, hating the way his heart surged in his chest even as his head hissed its denials. If he could not stick to the edicts of his own command, then what good was he as a leader? If he chose to break the laws for his own comfort and happiness, then how could he claim to be fit for the throne?

He had not exiled Merlin out of pettiness. He was a sorcerer: everything that Arthur's father reviled. He had knowingly and blatantly used magic, and his reasons behind learning a forbidden craft would do nothing to protect him from Uther's retribution.

Besides, a sorcerer could never be trusted. It did not matter that he was desperate to believe Merlin never meant them any harm, he knew better than to let himself be deceived. His words were just that – words. Who could say what his true intentions were?

A shiver raced through him, rattling his teeth. It was less about the cold that encased his skin and more about the lank misery that had taken root in his gut, but he did not protest when Leon unclasped his cloak and cast it around Arthur's shoulders.

'You are ill-dressed for the chill,' he pointed out, glancing over his shoulder towards the castle. 'If you are seen out here, your father may well have questions for you that you do not wish to answer.'

Arthur grimaced. More than once, over the hours of darkness, he had wondered if he should stand before the King and confess what he had discovered. Yet every time he tried to picture it, the image fell apart, disintegrating into a frothing sea of rage and recrimination, betrayal and grief. If Uther knew, Arthur would face the consequences of having allowed Merlin to flee. Gaius' loyalty would be called into question. Everyone Merlin had associated with would fall beneath the King's suspicion even as he launched a manhunt across Camelot's lands.

Merlin would be dragged back in chains for his execution. Despite everything, all his hurt and spiteful confusion, Arthur could not let that happen.

'Destroy that letter,' he murmured. 'In the wrong hands...' He did not bother to finish. He had no doubt that Leon knew full well how damning Merlin's small missives could be.

It made Arthur wonder that he had written them at all. Why expose his secret to others when Arthur had reacted as he had? Was it simply because he would not be here to bear the consequences of his lies, or could he truly not stand to keep his friends in the dark for any longer than necessary? 'Everyone else should do the same. Where are they?'

'I told them to wait in the chamber near the armoury while I brought you to them.' Leon made no apology at commanding his prince to attend upon the knights. In fact, there was a distinct gleam in his eye that suggested if Arthur tried to flee, he would find himself escorted like a common prisoner. 'However, I fear that at least one of them may have run out of patience.'

Arthur followed his meaningful look, swearing under his breath as he saw Gwaine marching towards them. The wind harried his long hair, sweeping it back from a face wiped free of any trace of mirth. Even from here, he could see the anger in every stride, and unlike Leon, Gwaine had shoved his sword through his belt.

Arthur reached for his own discarded blade. He did not intend to come to blows with one of his knights, but nor would he fail to defend himself.

'Hold!' Leon warned as Gwaine approached, stepping between them: the only man unarmed.

Arthur suspected it was that fact alone that halted Gwaine's rigid march, bringing him to a stop a half-dozen paces away. His dark eyes snapped with rage. Arthur thought he had seen him angry before, cold and dismissive, but this was something else entirely. He looked how Arthur felt: utterly betrayed, but it was not aimed at the absent sorcerer. Arthur was the target, and he refused to quail beneath it.

'Exile?' Gwaine spat, the single word flying as sure and true as an arrow.

'Not here.' Leon held his hands out, appeasing. 'There is the potential for too many staring eyes. Speak behind closed doors, Gwaine, or not at all.' His gaze sharpened as Gwaine opened his mouth to argue, no doubt about to say he didn't care who heard him yelling at Arthur. 'No one knows. No one but us. Think, Gwaine, because your words might be spoken to Arthur, but if they reach the King's ears, then it's Merlin they will damn to the pyre.'

Gwaine's teeth shut with a click, a muscle popping in his jaw and his nostrils flaring as he sucked in a deep breath. 'Fine,' he gritted out at last, 'but we've waited long enough.' He turned around, stamping across the dew-smeared grass and leaving Arthur and Leon to follow in his wake.

It was tempting to slip away – to delay this unexpected confrontation – but he knew it would only come back to haunt him. The other knights would hunt him down in time. It was better to get this over with.

Perhaps that was why Merlin had told them all his secret: to wrest some control from Arthur, even when Merlin himself was not here to claim it.

He shook his head, too exhausted to let his mind continue running down the warren of his fears. For every whispered warning from his father that echoed in his ear, his heart cried out in response, trying to deny accusations of treachery. For each pang of regret that found him for acting with such anger and haste, a new spectre of doubt emerged.

If Merlin could keep such a damning secret from Arthur, then what else had he been hiding?

Their boots thudded on the flagstones as they approached the armoury and the various chambers that arrayed around it. At this time of day, many of the knights had not yet descended to prepare for training. Even if they had, there was a small room with a fireplace at the building's west end. Once, it had been the quartermaster's office, but since the role fell empty, Arthur and his chosen men had claimed the chamber as their own.

The sound of hurrying, slippered feet reached Arthur's ears, and he turned to see Guinevere sprinting along the corridor, her skirts hitched up almost to her knees. She slithered to a halt as Leon opened the door, shaking her head sharply when Arthur held out a hand to steady her. Her chest heaved as she struggled to get her breath back. All it took was a wave of the piece of parchment in her hand for Arthur to realise why she was here. His knights had not been the only ones to receive a letter, and now she stared at him as if daring him to turn her away.

Mutely, Arthur stood aside. If there was going to be an argument about Merlin and his fate, then he would rather get it all out of the way at once. Besides, perhaps Guinevere's presence would reduce the chance of bloodshed, although judging from the hardness of her expression, maybe he should not count on that.

He was the last over the threshold, and he shut the door behind him, leaning back on its thick, oak panel as he scrubbed a hand over his face. He did not want to be here, picking at the edges of the wound that had opened in his chest. He did not wish to stand and defend his actions as their friends – his and Merlin's both – railed against him. Until the previous night, he had not considered himself a coward, but the moment the ingrained fear of magic had reached up to choke him, he had seen the truth of it.

He suspected Merlin was far more brave than he.

Yet when he dropped his hand, it was not to find a wall of animosity before him. Instead, he looked at the once united front of his men and marvelled at the cracks he could see. Lancelot and Gwaine had collapsed on to the same bench, almost shoulder-to-shoulder. However, where Gwaine's expression was locked in anger and, beneath that, hurt, Lancelot's was resigned and dreading, his normally tanned complexion made sallow by his emotions.

Percival crouched by the fire, feeding it kindling and staring into the flames with his shoulders drawn up to his ears. The big man was never a fan of conflict among those he called his friends. He was good at soothing ruffled feathers, but this seemed to be beyond him, and so he retreated into himself, holding his silence.

Elyan looked tense, his arms folded across his chest. He kept glancing at Arthur and turning his gaze away just as quickly. Yet his scowl appeared more perplexed than anything. Nearby, Guinevere paced, her skirts whispering as she twisted back and forth, worrying the parchment in her hands and pursing her lips. Leon, for his part, lingered at Arthur's side, though Arthur knew better than to assume it was because he agreed with his actions.

He should say something to capture their attention – to break apart the odd shell of anger and shock that filled the chamber with its fume – but Guinevere beat him to it.

'Merlin is a sorcerer.' She stopped, looking down at the letter in her grasp before shaking her head, her expression collapsing into a pinched, agonised grimace. 'All this time, he had magic.'

In her words, Arthur could hear an echo of his own betrayal, his fear, his pain. Many of the knights around him had lived beyond Camelot's borders, but Guinevere rarely went outside the citadel. Like Arthur and Leon, she had spent most of her life beneath the cloud of Uther's Purge. It was rare indeed that she had seen magic in a positive light, and now he wondered if she was looking back at her friendship with Merlin and questioning every interaction.

Just like Arthur.

'Why?' She spread her hands. 'Why did he do this? Why learn it, when he knows what happens to people with magic?'

Lancelot made a noise, and when Arthur glanced his way, he saw his eyes were shut, as if he were a man trying to gird his loins for what he knew would be an unpleasant experience. 'He did not learn it,' he managed at last, his fingers curling around the edge of the bench on which he and Gwaine sat, white-knuckled. 'He was born with it.'

Exclamations of surprise and doubt popped in the air between them, Arthur's voice among them. 'That is not possible,' he declared. 'Is that what he wrote in your letter? Magic is learnt. It is chosen. It is a path to power that ends only in corruption!'

How desperate must Merlin have been, he wondered, to walk such a road?

'He mentions nothing of that in my note.' Guinevere held out her parchment to Lancelot, only to let her hand drop back to her side as he shook his head. 'Is it what he said in yours?'

'No.' Lancelot straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin and meeting Arthur's gaze. 'It is what he told me when I found out about his magic when I first arrived in Camelot.'

Arthur stared, his heart stuttering beneath his ribs. His head jerked to the side, just once, as if he could dismiss Lancelot's words, but there was no escaping them.

'You knew?' he croaked. He did not think it was possible to feel worse, yet the stone in his stomach had broken through the floor and kept going. 'You knew what he was?'

'He told you?' There was no hiding the hurt in Gwaine's voice.

'It was before you and he met, and he never told me. I found out when we faced down the Griffin. I could hardly pretend the lance I was holding didn't erupt into blue, magical fire as I charged, and Merlin was the only one still standing to cast such an enchantment.'

Lancelot rubbed his hands together, the dry chafe of skin a whisper in the silence of the room. 'I have never seen someone so scared. He looked at me as if he thought I would sunder his head from his shoulders. Never mind that he had just saved me and probably the lives of a score of more of Camelot's knights. He wanted no thanks and insisted I took the credit.' Lancelot's dark eyes flared, his jaw set as he glared at Arthur. 'Should I pack my things, Sire, since I am as much a traitor as Merlin?'

Arthur clenched his hands into fists, not bothering to ease the power of his responding glare. If he were honest, he would be surprised if the result of this was not the loss of two of his best knights: Lancelot and Gwaine both. He wished he could claim he was shocked by what Lancelot had told him. He had always looked on the closeness he shared with Merlin and wondered at it: now he knew its root.

And yet even though it was entirely in keeping with Lancelot's character, he still could not stifle the accusing whispers that stirred his mind, nor silence the question that slipped past his lips.

'And how do you know he did not enchant you to keep his secret? How can you be sure you acted of your own free will?'

Various protests rose around the room: outright denials with no thought or caution behind them from Lancelot, Gwaine and Percival. Yet Arthur did not miss the way neither Guinevere nor Elyan added their voices, nor the worry that stained their features. Leon too, held his tongue, though there was a faint shift of his weight at Arthur's side.

'It's Merlin.' Percival met Arthur's gaze, his eyes pleading. 'Sire, we know him.'

'Do you? A secret that big, Percival? How much more of himself did Merlin hide to keep it safe? How can I trust anything that ever came out of his mouth?' He folded his arms across his chest, hunching his shoulders beneath Leon's cloak. 'Everything he did could have an ulterior motive: a way to endear himself further. Don't you see?'

'You sound like your father.'

Silence followed Gwaine's quiet statement. No one spoke up to contradict him. Even Arthur could not bring himself to deny it. Try as he might, he could not shake off the warnings Uther had impressed upon him over the years. The sting of betrayal was too sharp – too deep – to be overcome by the misery that wove its briar through his ribs.

Every expression in the room was stained with despair, while some carried deeper shadows of doubt and confusion, as if they did not know what to believe. Merlin could not have thrown them all into greater disarray if he tried, and Arthur wondered if they would ever heal from the wounds this day had inflicted – the pain that Merlin had left in his wake.

Pursing his lips, he ducked his head in mute acknowledgement of Gwaine's point. That alone seemed to surprise the man. Had he expected denials? Did he think that Arthur was unaware it was his father's voice whispering caution in his ear? 'I differ from the King in one respect, Gwaine. I did not order Merlin's arrest, and nor will I.' He swallowed, hoping he was not making a grave mistake. 'Burn your letters. Leave no proof. As far as Camelot is concerned, Merlin has left my service. That is the end of it.'

He turned away, his hand outstretched towards the door, chased off by the desire for space to think, to move, to breathe. The world felt too close around him, hemming him in, yet before he could sweep through the threshold, Guinevere's quiet question reached his ears.

'Will he be coming back?'

He did not know what to make of her tone. She sounded tremulous, warring between hope and fear, as if the rug had been swept from beneath her feet and she was left stumbling for balance in a world made afresh.

He knew exactly how she felt, and yet there was only one answer to her query.

'No.' He turned his head, not meeting anyone's eye as he glanced over his shoulder. 'There is no place for Merlin in Camelot. Not anymore.'

Chapter Text

The moonlight bled the gold from Kilgharrah's scales, leaving the dragon's gleaming hide a dull bronze. Still, the gloom did nothing to conceal the knowing look in those huge amber eyes. They followed Merlin as he paced across the clearing, his body moving in a tight, fretful line as the frost-rimed grass crunched beneath his boots.

'I'm not going back.' He sliced a hand through the air, shaking his head to emphasise the point. He stifled a snarl of frustration when Kilgharrah merely raised an eyebrow, amused. 'It's been more than a month. He's fine without me.'

The dragon harrumphed, which only fouled Merlin's temper further.

'And I am fine without him,' he added. That, at least, was true enough. If Arthur thought Merlin was out here, pining away for him, homeless and alone then he was very much mistaken.

The fiefdom of Galvistone was a narrow slice of land that nestled between Mercia and Essetir, sharing its southern border with Camelot. It was a place that fell under the power of none of the mighty thrones around it, protected from their rule by some law of the Old Religion that no one dared to challenge.

It was a town oft-forgot, and that was the way the people who lived there preferred it. They had good, fertile land to call their own, were excellent weavers of cloth, and above all else, they were quietly sympathetic to the use of magic.

His mum had considered moving there more than once when Merlin was young, but she had feared the unknown that may lie within the fortified town's walls. Not that he blamed her. Ealdor was all she had known for many years. Maybe Galvistone would have been safer for Merlin, but there was no friendly face there to greet them, and so they had never made the journey.

The people's acceptance of the old ways was subtle. With Uther Pendragon's hatred to the south, Cenred's brutality to the east and Bayard's cynicism to the west, it was not wise to have a dissenting opinion. Yet there were no pyres or executions. Druids were not driven out, and while those who lived there may not speak of it in so many words, there was a quiet delight at the careful use of magic that so often made itself known.

In time, Merlin suspected he could learn to call it home, if only he had not left his stupid heart behind in Camelot.

'Absolute clotpole!' he hissed, jamming his hands on his hips and bowing his head, wishing he could do something with the mangled mess of anger, spite, grief and concern that filled his every living moment. Since walking out of the citadel, the way he felt seemed to change as swiftly as the tides. Some days he ached so much from Arthur's absence that he was amazed he did not bleed with it. Others, he was certain the news would reach him of Camelot's downfall, which he could have prevented if only he was there.

Beneath all that, resentment festered, made worse by his own guilt.

He should have told them sooner. Not just Arthur, but Gwaine, Gwen and the rest. They deserved to know what, exactly, they called "friend". Yet it wasn't as if he'd kept quiet for his own amusement. Every week, some other poor wretch went to their doom for no greater crime than possessing magic. That was what Merlin had feared: the pyre or the axe. Part of him whispered that he should be thankful only to be exiled, but he could not muster much in the way of gratitude.

He had hoped Arthur would at least give him time to explain. It turned out he was not even worth that small concession.

'Do you think he's all right?'

Kilgharrah exhaled a stream of smoke from his nose, filling the clearing with the scent of brimstone. 'You could find out for yourself, Young Warlock. Exile is no real punishment for one such as you. Camelot's crowds are big enough to hide you, should you choose.'

It was nothing he had not thought himself. He'd considered it that fateful night, yet his mind remained unchanged. 'No. I'm not – it feels like a betrayal.' Not just to Arthur, but to himself as well. He deserved better than to be consigned to the shadows. 'He wanted me gone. To go against that seems underhanded, even if it's only scrying.'

'He would never know.'

'I would know.' Merlin shook his head, not expecting the dragon to understand. Kilgharrah's conscience seemed fickle at best. He served his own ends. Other people's feelings did not come into it.

'You are allowing pride to stand in the way of your destiny,' Kilgharrah chided. His words were low, but they still lit the touch-paper of Merlin's temper.

'Damn destiny!' he spat, clenching his fists. 'This isn't about what some old seer conjured up, or something the dragons dreamt! I don't care about any of that!'

'No. You care about Arthur. Even now, cast away from his side, your thoughts linger on him. You have found relative freedom, after the cage of Camelot, and still you think of it with longing.'

'It's my home.'

Kilgharrah huffed, enveloping Merlin in a cloud of fume, forcing him to cough and splutter before he could utter another word of protest. 'You may wish you could throw such things as fate and prophecy aside, Young Warlock, but they will not be so easily discarded.' Those eyes narrowed, the ridge of his brow wrinkling. 'Tell me, how is the pain in your chest?'

Merlin clenched his jaw, stubborn, casting Kilgharrah a hard glare. 'Fine.'

'It ails you not?' The question was knowing, as if Kilgharrah could see straight through Merlin's bullshit. He probably could. He probably knew exactly what had caused it and delighted in keeping the details to himself.

It had started a couple of days after he left Camelot's borders behind. He'd thought it was simply his own worry made manifest. Gaius had often told him how deep emotional turmoil could wreak physical havoc on a body. Yet the gnawing discomfort over his heart had only intensified as time passed, becoming a constant, leaden pain. It was a weight upon his chest, sapping his strength as he dragged it through his every waking moment.

Worse was the way his magic faltered, slipping through his grasp only to return like a whipped dog.

Merlin looked down, rubbing at the grubby band at the base of his ring finger on his left hand before hiding it away in his pocket. 'Do you know what it is?' he asked, raising an eyebrow when Kilgharrah shrugged, his wings emphasising the movement.

He rose from where he lay in the clearing, shaking out his scales like a dog flinging off water before turning his face up to the star-flung sky. The gods alone knew what he saw amidst the black, but it seemed to satisfy him. He pinned Merlin with a hard look, his deep voice a rumble that shook the earth.

'A half cannot hate that which truly makes it whole. It may try, but it will always fail.'

The thunderous boom of his wings flattened the grass, the down-draft making Merlin stagger as magic crackled all around him. Kilgharrah's great shape was nothing more than a shadow above him, dwindling from sight as the vexing beast made his dramatic exit.

'Thanks for that,' Merlin muttered. 'More riddles are just what I need.'

Heaving a sigh, he scooped up his bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. He took a moment to relish the scent of night-blooming herbs before he headed back for the track that would lead him to Galvistone's gate.

The wind moaned between the trees. A barn owl screamed, making Merlin wince before it ghosted by on moonlit wings. It made him think of time spent camping on patrol with the knights, where Elyan twitched at every noise and the rest of them teased him for it. They'd cluster around the fire, sharing a wineskin and talking among themselves of nothing in particular. In that moment, Merlin missed his friends so much he ached.

He wondered what they were doing now. Had Lancelot and Gwaine done as he had asked and remained at Arthur's side? Did they think of him at all, or were they glad to have him and his sorcery gone? Were they safe? Were they happy? What about Morgana? Was she doing all right without him and controlling her magic, or did she draw into herself once more, turning hard and bitter?

What of Arthur?

Merlin pursed his lips, his feet scuffing on the packed dirt of the road as he shoved all thoughts of Camelot and those he had left behind to one side. As always, he ignored the odd pull that tugged at his knees and bruised his thighs, urging him to march south, to head home and damn the consequences.

Yet he was not wanted. If Morgana called for him, he would go, but otherwise?

This was his life, now.

The ache in his chest flared, and he took a deep breath as he waited for the spasm to pass. Pain curled over his shoulder like a grasping hand, and ice shot down the inside of his arm, making him wrinkle his nose. He didn't bother lifting his sleeve. He knew what he would find: the large vein darkened as if someone had drawn over it with black ink.

It did not carry fever's heat or show the creeping, webbed rash of infection, and he'd read nothing about it in Gaius' books. Still, it did not seem set on killing him, and he assumed Kilgharrah would warn him if it were anything dangerous. For now, it was just another inconvenience: one he bore with poor grace.

The gates of Galvistone loomed ahead, their old oak beaten but standing firm. The walls were nowhere near as tall or grand as Camelot's, but they were serviceable, protecting the citizens that huddled within. Merlin raised his fist to knock, waiting for the panel to slide back before grinning at the man on the other side.

'Just me, Cooper.'

'Get in with yer,' Cooper grunted, his gnarled hands grappling with the bolts before he opened the smaller door set into the gate's face, standing aside to allow Merlin through. 'A foul time of night to be out.'

Merlin smiled to himself. As the watchman, Cooper's business was mostly to let people come and go when Galvistone shut its gate at sundown. He was only too happy to judge those who disturbed him from his chair in his little hut. Surly he might be, but he also knew everything about everyone, and there was no better source of gossip. Of course, as the newcomer to town, Merlin was sure plenty of folk had questions about him.

'Best time for Evening Primrose, though,' he replied, opening his bag to let Cooper peer into the depths. 'Mirinie sent me out to get them.'

The apothecary's name did the trick, the same as it always did. That was a bit of fair fortune Merlin wouldn't sneer at. He'd mentioned the first night at the inn that he had been a physician's apprentice. The next morning Mirinie had been banging on the door to his room before the sun had done more than show its face. It had been less a job offer and more of an abduction if Merlin was honest, but he had landed on his feet. Mirinie might be fierce, but she had nothing on Gaius, and she at least seemed charmed by his skill.

Cooper grunted. 'She's not eaten you for breakfast yet, then?'

'Not yet. Good night!'

'Aye, you too.'

Merlin turned his back, listening to the clank and creak of the gate as Cooper blocked the path to the outside world once more. Come dawn, they would open fully to allow in travellers and merchants alike. However, in the darkest hours, the people of Galvistone knew they made a tempting target to whatever raiders might patrol the borders of the kingdoms all around them.

Pacing the cobbled streets, he kept close to the warmth of the braziers, trying not to shiver in the too-thin jacket that he wore. Sooner or later, he would need to buy better clothes to keep out the winter chill. Galvistone was by no means poor, but compared to the opulence of Camelot, it was a more simple way of life.

Besides, Mirinie took advantage of his youth to save her old bones the trial of scurrying about the town at all hours, seeing to the patients and making deliveries. It was bad enough now. He didn't fancy braving midwinter in his current outfit. It wasn't like he could linger by Arthur's fireplace to stay warm, or pinch food from the royal plate, either.

He sighed, scowling to himself at the wave of wistful longing that assailed him. He could protest all he liked, but the Old Scorch was right. He cared about Arthur. He missed him. What lay between them felt only half-finished, with too much left unsaid. He wanted to explain, to try and make Arthur understand. Yet some part of him snarled at the thought of having to defend himself to a man who, even after all they had been through, looked at him and saw nothing but a sorcerer.

He slipped the key into the lock of Mirinie's shop. It turned smoothly, thanks to the oil he'd dripped onto the hinges and into the creaky old mechanism. Opening it, he reached up to muffle the bell over the door so as not to wake the apothecary. She was fearsome at the best of times, and worse if her sleep was disturbed.

She'd left some of the shielded candles lit, and he smiled to see a plate of cold meats and a slice of cob loaf awaited him on the table. Morgana's coin meant he could afford his share, but he was rarely permitted to contribute. He and Mirinie had come to an agreement: he worked for a reduced rate but got a warm bed and any scraps of food for his trouble. Between that and the gold Morgana had given him, he was not struggling as much as he had feared.

He would pay them back, one day. Morgana and Mirinie both.

Scooping up the plate, he hurried to the workroom, taking a bite of bread as he set about preparing the herbs he had gathered. Some he hung to dry from the rafters, to be ground up and used later. Others needed to be fresh, and he sliced the stems at an angle before placing their tips in water.

Finishing off his meal, he washed the plate before heading towards the stairs, extinguishing the candles in his wake with a single word. His magic fluttered, but it got the job done, and he forcefully shoved his worry aside as he climbed up to the attic room that had become his home.

And as Merlin curled up in a bed that still felt unfamiliar, he thought back to Camelot, and he wondered if any of those he'd left behind missed him as much as he missed them.

He should have known that, eventually, his period of grace with Mirinie would ebb. She gave him ten more days after his meeting in the clearing with Kilgharrah before she decided she'd had enough of unanswered questions.

'You need to do something about that.' She pointed to the back of his hand, indicating the bruise-like mark at the base of his ring finger. 'Soon.'

'What?' Merlin asked stupidly. It was too early in the morning for an interrogation.

Cool grey eyes pinched in annoyance, the crow's feet that spoke more of laughter than anger deepening as Mirinie pursed her lips. For all that she complained about her joints, she was closer to his mother's age than Gaius'. Threads of silver, not yet white, wove through her brown hair. Her hands were strong and capable around the pestle as she slammed it into the bowl of the mortar before reaching out to grab his wrist.

He had no time to do more than twitch before she shoved his sleeve up, wrenching his arm over to show the jagged line that etched his skin. It ran across his palm as well, connecting the band of blue-black at the base of his finger.

'That. You keep clutching at your chest, worse even than Simpkins, and you know his heart is going to give out any day now.'

'He's eighty-seven,' Merlin pointed out. 'I'm not. I'm fine.'

Mirinie snorted, incredulous, and the look she sent his way was about one-fifth pity. The rest of it was disbelief that a person could be so stupid. 'It's broken. Your heart. It's broken. Anyone with eyes can see that. Moping about, looking like you're not sure whether to scowl or cry.' She pursed her lips, her grip softening before she tapped her finger over the line charting his flesh. 'This, though... I didn't think they existed, anymore.'

'You know what it is?'

She grimaced, and that glimmer of pity grew. 'You're not going to like it. Not if I'm any judge.'

'Just – tell me?'

With a sigh, Mirinie went to the cauldron over the fire, spooning out the mulled cider that filled the air with the scent of cloves into a pair of cups. She kept some simmering around the clock; said it helped ease the blow of bad news, and Merlin's stomach sank into a pit of dread. 'Here.' She pressed a cup into his hands.

'I'm not dying, am I?' he asked, only half-joking. 'Mirinie? Am I?'

'Not yet.' She shrugged. 'A half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole.'

Merlin groaned out loud at the repetition of the dragon's words, but a look from her made him bite it back.

'You're bound to someone. Not in the eyes of others, maybe, but in the eyes of fate. A person from whom you've been sundered: forced apart by bad feeling. You want to hate them, but you can't. No matter how hard you try. This' – She patted his arm again – 'Is destiny's way of getting you to fix things.'

'It's just a mark...' Merlin muttered.

'No. It's a pain in your chest and a shackle on your magic. When I marched into your room at the inn, your power was like looking at the sun. Now, it's nothing more than a candle-flame, and even that is guttering.' She set her cup down, smoothing her hands down her skirt. 'I didn't ask who you were. No one has, though there are some of us, gifted in the old ways, who might have some idea. The druids call you by a different name, I'm guessing? I notice how you did your best to avoid them on market day.'

She clenched her jaw when he held his silence. 'I never asked where you came from. As long as you didn't train with that charlatan Filkin over the border in Mercia, the rest of it meant nothing to me.' Her voice softened. 'But if you're who I think you are, then I don't envy you a jot, because I know where you once called home. If I believe the druids and their prophecies, I might even know who is at the other end of that bond.'

'Don't.' Merlin shook his head. He didn't want to hear that name. He didn't want to make what Mirinie was saying true by giving it voice. 'I didn't cast any spell. I didn't agree to this!'

'It's not made. It simply is. A connection that's tied you since before you were even born. It's only now that you are separated by harsh feeling that it has manifested. A gift from the gods, wanted or not.'

Merlin took a large gulp of cider. He should have known that his so-called destiny would not let him go. 'So how do I get rid of it?'

'You make amends.' Mirinie shrugged when he glowered. 'I did say you wouldn't like it. The bond will always be there. If you had parted on good terms with each other, it would never have manifested. It is not activated by distance of the body, but by that of the heart. At least, that is what those who speak of such things believe. I have certainly never seen one before. Only in books.'

He perked up at that, and Mirinie rolled her eyes, getting to her feet and ambling towards the shelves. They were overflowing with all kinds of tomes that would get someone burned alive in Camelot. Merlin had stayed up late many nights reading them with Mirinie's permission. Now, she pulled down a thin, battered volume and slid it across the table. 'There, read into it what you must, but remember, this isn't affecting you alone. If the one on the other end of this doesn't have magic, it's their health that will suffer.'

Ice rushed through Merlin, locking him in its casket. 'And if we don't fix it?' he asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

Mirinie shrugged. 'If I were you, I would not wish to find out.'

With a sigh, Merlin reached for the book, parting its covers carefully before he began to read. Around him, Mirinie went about her business, and for a moment he could almost pretend he was back in the Tower Room, studying the latest magical attack on Camelot while Gaius prepared potions. The memory settled him, and even if he missed Gaius' practical advice, it seemed Mirinie was only too happy to remedy his ignorance.

He did not know what he was looking for amidst the pages in his grasp. Something to prove her wrong, maybe, but the more Merlin read, the more he realised she knew what she was talking about. Mirinie bore no druid mark. Yet she made no secret of her close ties with the various camps near Galvistone. They imparted herb-lore and knowledge, glad for any small way to keep the Old Religion alive, and it seemed she had been paying attention to even their oldest stories.

There were a couple of examples in the books of others: figures of legend, more than anything, said to have shared a similar mark, but they had lived centuries ago, and their accounts read more like fairy-tales. Both had mended the rift between them, allowing the bond to become benign once more. There were hints, here and there, that once complete, the connection allowed a greater understanding between the two, casting aside veils of miscommunication and doubt, but they were mere anecdotes.

More than once, the writer emphasised how this magic could not influence emotion, and Merlin's stomach twisted with the knowledge. He had wondered if it had caused his devotion to Arthur. He had thought that perhaps it was the bond that lit the spark of attraction and burnished their friendship into something heavy with tender affection, but it seemed not.

That was all him and his stupid, hopeless heart.

In the end, the connection could not create emotion: it could only respond to it. That's what it was doing, painting its bruised warning upon his skin: one that he wondered if he had already ignored for far too long.

Mirinie was right. His magic had faded, not a blazing sun but a distant star, winking in and out of sight. How much longer did he have before it was extinguished completely?

Maybe if it was only him who would struggle, he would let it. His power may be part of him, but it had been a millstone around his neck since the day he was born. All his life, he'd been forced to keep it hidden and shameful. Perhaps, in the end, he was better off without it.

Yet if Mirinie was right, then he was not the only one suffering. Was Arthur in Camelot, fading away as some illness stole upon him? Was the kingdom in uproar as the Crown Prince succumbed to some mysterious ailment?

His heart lurched, torn between the fitful, frantic need to protect Arthur and the bruising ache of its disappointment. He'd spent so long rushing to Arthur's aid that, by now, it was almost instinct, and yet...

And yet what could he do?

This wasn't some petty squabble, easily fixed. Arthur had looked at him with such horror. In that moment, Merlin had felt as much a monster as the sorcerers Uther spoke of. His anger, cold and fathomless, had left him stung and cringing. Rejected, and so he had rejected Arthur in turn.

Perhaps he should have stayed after all, ignored Arthur's command and forced him to listen, but when it came down to it, he was so very tired of fighting to even exist.

'I can't go back.' He stared into the fire, not daring to meet Mirinie's gaze. 'It's not like I left by choice. I'm exiled. If I show my face...' He shook his head, pursing his lips. 'You said it's not about distance. Going home won't help my magic, and I won't be able to defend myself. I'd be on the pyre before I got more than a few paces inside the gate.'

A shudder unravelled along his spine, coalescing to nestle, cold and coiled, in the pit of his stomach. He could not even be sure if Arthur would say a word to stop it. Would he stand by as Merlin was bound in chains? Would he watch as he burned?

A couple of months ago, he had believed Arthur was beyond that. Now, he had not an ounce of hope left in him.

No. He had not known this would happen. It wasn't something he had lain upon them, or even a consequence he had realised existed! If Arthur wanted to fix it, he could either call Merlin back to Camelot or come looking for him.

'You're being stubborn,' Mirinie warned him, watching him from her workbench with a knowing eye, as if she could read every thought off the inside of his head. 'And I've no doubt he's being just as bad. Fools. Maybe you deserve each other.'

'What would you have me do?' He shoved the book aside, spreading his hands in question. 'Go running back to his side and throw myself on his mercy? I already did that once. Look where it got me!'

Mirinie scoffed, reaching out a hand and grabbing the crown of his head, giving him a gentle shake. 'It's still attached, isn't it?' she asked. 'No burns on you. That's more than most can claim.'

'So I should be grateful?' he demanded. 'Glad for the fact that as soon as I told him what I am, he threw me away like I wasn't worth another moment?' His voice turned ragged, each breath straining between his ribs as he fought back the angry, miserable sob that threatened to hitch in his throat. Even after all these weeks, it still hurt, and he didn't know what to do with all the emotion that tangled in his chest.

Mirinie sighed, mumbling something about being young and stupid before she corked a bottle and set it aside. When she turned to face him, it was with an expression like iron.

'Seems to me that you're both to blame. You went to him hoping for his acceptance, despite him being told his whole life that magic is evil. As for him? He thought he knew you, all of you. He thought you could be honest. And then the both of you decided the situation was about loyalty, or lack thereof, and refused to make allowances.' She sighed as if she deeply regretted inviting such drama into her home.

In the end, she ran her tongue over her teeth, giving him a pinched, unhappy look. 'Well, then you'd better hope he swallows his pride and comes looking for you, because if he doesn't, we can all kiss that Golden Age goodbye.'

Merlin clenched his jaw, shaking his head as he got to his feet. He grabbed the bag for herbs before hurrying out of the door, ignoring Mirinie calling his name. He needed to get out – away from the prophecy that had been ruining his life since the moment he heard it.

Mirinie was wrong. Arthur would not come looking. He would not trouble himself to seek Merlin out. He was too proud, too stubborn, too much Uther's son, despite all Merlin's hopes to the contrary. Whatever they had once been – two sides of the same coin – was over. Destiny could bind them and punish them all it liked, but it would make no difference.

It could not mend what had been broken the day Arthur cast him out from Camelot.

Chapter Text

Pain struck Arthur like a lightning bolt, robbing him of breath. Weakness forced his blow wide, and he went to one knee on the training ground. His chainmail chimed as he clutched a gauntleted hand over his chest, stifling a grunt as a tight fist squeezed around his heart.

At first, he had thought it was nothing but a phantom discomfort: a symptom of the dread and misery, rage and confusion that plagued his every moment since Merlin's confession. He had told himself it would pass, and instead...

Instead, he woke each morning feeling like a corpse trying to rise from the grave, his limbs leaden and his eyes burning with exhaustion. Aches bit at his muscles, and there were some days he could barely even lift his sword.

Worse, it had become impossible to hide. He had done his best, claiming poor sleep and leaving it at that. His first collapse on the training field he had blamed on a too-rich breakfast. He was not sure if the knights had ever believed him, but now, as he struggled for breath, he knew they would not be fooled.

'Gods curse it, Princess!' Gwaine's sword sheathed itself in the ground with a hiss before his hand curved over the hub of Arthur's shoulder. The dark shape of Gwaine's glove falling to the floor was a passing shadow in the corner of his vision before two hot fingers pressed against the pulse in his throat. It was the gentlest Gwaine had been with him since Merlin's exile. The constant anger that hardened his words cracked to reveal true concern.

If he was honest, he was amazed Gwaine stayed. He'd asked why, more than once, when he found himself bearing the brunt of the man's fury on the training ground. He had never received an answer. Now, he wondered if maybe the fault lines that had emerged in their group of friends upon Merlin's departure were not as clear-cut as he had first believed.

'It's all right,' Arthur croaked, wheezing hard as another wave of malaise made a liar of him. 'I'm just tired.'

'Horse-shit. We're taking you to Gaius. Can you stand?'

'…Give me a minute.'

He sensed the knights cluster around him, talking casually amongst themselves as they hid him from any onlookers. A sick prince sparked speculation, and any sign of weakness would be picked over by the gossips like a carcass mobbed by crows. Arthur hated it. He could not even be ill in peace.

'I don't need Gaius,' he managed at last, taking a few deep breaths as the worst of the pain receded. 'I'm fine.'

'Forgive me, Sire, but we have been silent on this matter for long enough,' Leon stated flatly. 'Either you walk with us, or Percival will carry you.'

Arthur grunted, grabbing his sword and digging its tip into the ground before bracing his weight on it. The world gave a sickening lurch, and he swallowed hard.

'Maybe I should carry him,' Percival suggested, dropping his folded arms and reaching out to steady Arthur with a solid hand on his elbow. 'You don't look good, Sire.'

'I can walk.' It was surrender, abject and absolute. If he were honest, he should have gone to Gaius long before now, but he had avoided the prospect. Partly, it was because he had hoped that, whatever this was, it would go away by itself. However, most of it was because he was too much of a coward to face the old healer when he had exiled the man he thought of as a son. He knew Gaius was too good a physician to allow personal feelings to stand in the way of care for a patient, but that did not mean he would not make his disapproval known.

It was a long, slow walk to the healing rooms. The knights did their best to conceal Arthur's stumbling steps and hovered nearby to catch him in case he succumbed once more. It was a trial of endurance, every stride a struggle. By the time he got to the top of the wretched stairs up to the tower room, Arthur's breath had turned thin and ragged. A stitch pinched between his ribs and pain flared across his back. He felt like a man three times his age, and he doubted he looked much better.

'Sit him down,' Gaius ordered. 'Get that armour off of him.'

'Should we go?' Guinevere's quiet question made Arthur blink. He had not even noticed himself cross the threshold, never mind that Gaius was far from alone. Guinevere hovered near the fire while Morgana sat at the table. The cold, furious expression she had worn since Merlin's exile had slipped, revealing a flare of genuine fear.

She shook her head, glaring a challenge in Arthur's direction. 'I'm not going anywhere,' she declared, pursing her lips.

Arthur considered protesting. He was the prince, after all, and he hardly wanted an audience for whatever this was, but he did not have the strength to argue. The words churned in his chest, but they found no release as Elyan eased his chainmail off over his head before peeling aside the gambeson. He left Arthur in his tunic and breeches, and it was with stiff fingers that he tugged free his gauntlets, dropping them on the floor as he swayed where he sat.

'Sire? Can you tell me what's wrong?' Gaius' voice was gentle but firm, his withered hands clasping Arthur's shoulders. 'Do you need to lie down?'

'No. I – no. Tired. Heavy. Weak.' He screwed up his eyes before adding, 'Dizzy.'

'He clutches at his chest sometimes,' Elyan added. 'It comes on sudden.'

'And how long has this been happening, Sire?'

Arthur bit his lip, wishing he could fib. However, one of the first rules he had learned, back in his childhood, was that you never deceived a healer. In some cases, it could mean the difference between life and death.

'Weeks,' he admitted at last. 'It started not long after Merlin... After Merlin.'

It had been almost two months now, marked by judgemental silence from Morgana and fractured relationships with his knights. He had not permitted them to speak to him of the situation, preferring to hide his head in the sand. This was the result, a hollow life shadowed by a pain that would not fade.

Gaius' fingers around his wrist made him twitch. He blinked, noting the deeply furrowed brow and the way those thin lips had parted. He was not sure if the expression on Gaius' face was one of surprise or horror. The linen of his tunic whispered as Gaius shoved his sleeve aside, revealing the dark, inky line that etched its wobbling path up the inside of his left forearm. At first, Arthur thought it was just dirt, but it refused to come off no matter how hard he scrubbed.

'It goes over the front of my shoulder,' he murmured, too exhausted to dissemble, 'and joins up with this.' He tugged the loose collar of his tunic down, revealing the odd bruise that had formed high over his heart. Although perhaps that was not the right word. He had poked it often enough to realise that it didn't hurt, and he had never known a bruise to look like that: a ring of black surrounding clear, unblemished skin.

'Ah.'

Gaius had many tones of voice, from the chiding to the incredulous, but Arthur had never heard that one before: an odd mix of realisation, dread, and disgruntlement.

'You know what it is?' He clenched his right hand hard around the bench on which he sat, trying to rally his wits. He was not the only person watching Gaius. He was the subject of numerous stares. The knights looked granite-faced in their concern, while Guinevere's brow had pleated upwards as she twisted her hands together. However, it was Morgana's expression that caught his eye. Not harsh and cold, as it had been, but a mixture of pity and exasperation.

'I have never seen one before,' Gaius conceded, 'but I have heard of them.'

'Can it be cured?' Leon asked, folding his arms across his chest like a man bracing himself for bad news.

Gaius pursed his lips before he inclined his head. 'In a manner of speaking. It is at least possible to stop it from causing the ill-effects under which Prince Arthur suffers, but –'

'But?' Elyan urged, raising his eyebrows as Morgana got to her feet, the skirts of her gown sweeping the floor as she approached.

'But he needs Merlin. This' – She gestured to Arthur, pitiful in his reduced state – 'is caused by what happened with Merlin, isn't it?' She glanced at Gaius, who looked pinched as he gave a slow nod of agreement.

Arthur's heart lurched, buffeted by the tempest of harsh sorrow and polished anger that surged through him. Yet when he spoke, his voice was far from strong, robbed of all its power. 'Merlin's... cursed me?'

He suspected it was only the fact he made it a question that restrained Morgana from grabbing whatever was closest to hand and bashing him over the head with it. All trace of her sympathy fled like chalk swept from a slate. A mighty scowl cleaved her brow as she threw her elegant hands in the air in disbelief. 'No!' she cried. 'He's right! You really are a clotpole!'

'Sire, while it is true that it is in Merlin's power to lay a curse, he never would,' Gaius said, speaking to Arthur as if he were a child. 'This is not something Merlin did, it is rather something that has happened because of the bad blood that lies between you.'

'It's your fault,' Morgana added. 'You're the one who threw him out without even giving him a chance to explain. You're the one who cast him aside as if he meant nothing, after everything he has done for you!'

'He is a sorcerer!'

'He is your friend!'

Morgana's words sounded like a battle-cry, something wrenched from her heart and given voice. Furious tears brightened her eyes, but they didn't fall. Instead, she clenched her hands into fists, giving her head a single, quick shake. 'A better friend that you ever deserved, Arthur Pendragon.'

She swept out of the room, the door banging behind her. In her wake, an uneasy silence fell. No one, Arthur noticed, hurried to reassure him that she was wrong. There were no sycophantic attempts to appease him. Not that he thought there would be. Proper friends never hesitated to tell a man when he had made a royal mess of things, even if the man in question would someday be their king.

'So, we find Merlin,' Percival decided. 'We find him, bring him back and whatever this is goes away.'

'What if he doesn't want to return?' Lancelot asked, lifting his chin as he met Arthur's gaze, the look in his eyes unyielding. 'Camelot is not a safe place for someone like him. He sacrificed much to stay at Arthur's side. What if he would rather remain where he is?'

'Even if we can get him to come home, the very act of doing so is treason,' Leon pointed out. 'We would be knowingly allowing a sorcerer into the kingdom. If it were ever discovered, it would not only be Merlin who faced the pyre.'

'Maybe not, but it's a risk I would take. A risk I did take.' Lancelot shook his head, his shoulders sagging in defeat as he went to sit on the bench next to Guinevere. 'Besides, I don't think we can leave this situation as it is.'

'Will it get worse?' she asked, speaking up for the first time. 'Is Arthur going to –' She swallowed, cutting herself off.

'I cannot be sure,' Gaius replied. 'You have to understand, this phenomenon is so rare that it is practically legendary. In every case I know of, the rift was healed and the symptoms vanished.' He rose to his feet, moving to his desk and opening a drawer.

He emptied out various trinkets and tools before lifting out a false panel and tugging free a book. It was not very thick, but the covers were scorched at their corners and the pages appeared brittle with age. The tome looked as if it had been snatched from a fireplace, and Gaius treated it with care as he parted it to the relevant place.

He paused, his nostrils flaring as he sighed. The look he cast in Arthur's direction was one of irritation, underscored with just a touch of fondness. It made Arthur feel like a child again, foolish in his brash confidence and hurting underneath, eager for answers and left to clutch at the half-truths his father told him.

'You are bound to Merlin by destiny. You always have been.' Gaius spoke each word clearly. 'Prophecy is a tricky thing; it shifts and changes, but there is often a central aspect to it that remains as strong as iron. The fact that you and Merlin are linked is that core, and this only confirms it.'

He flicked his fingers towards Arthur, indicating the mark upon him. 'It is not about physical distance. Merlin could be in Francia and this would not have happened as long as you were still on good terms with each other. It is not a leash or chain. Rather, it is a reminder that a half cannot hate that which truly makes it whole. Not without suffering the consequences.'

Arthur blinked, his head feeling like a sodden sponge as he tried to absorb Gaius' words. He felt thick and slow, grappling with the notion of prophecy and destiny but getting stuck on what Gaius had said last of all.

Did he hate Merlin? Really? Back on that fateful night, he had wanted to believe it possible. Merlin was everything that Arthur had been taught to revile. The sheer fact that he had magic should have outweighed all else, yet even in that moment, the greater wound had been the years of lies that lay in their past. He had looked at Merlin and thought he knew everything about him. To discover that he had been so deceived...

In hindsight, he wondered what had been the true driving force behind getting Merlin out of Camelot. Was the sorcery merely an excuse: a reason to push him away for good in the hopes of protecting the ache of his wretched heart? In the end, did the magic really matter?

Arthur swallowed, bowing his head. He was a fool. Even if he cast aside his father's teachings, he had the evidence of his own eyes. How many times had Camelot or its people suffered beneath sorcerous attacks? How many times had cruel enchantments or unnatural creatures almost stolen his life, or that of his father? Magic held no love for his kingdom or for the Pendragons. It knew only loathing. Why should Merlin be any different?

Why would he not hate Arthur? What was there, after all, to look on with a kind eye?

The door banged open, interrupting the morose circle of his thoughts. He'd lifted his right hand to press it over the mark on his chest. Now, he dropped it back to his lap, distantly embarrassed.

'I need to speak to Arthur alone.' Morgana's words were crisp, but Arthur didn't think he was the only one who noticed a faint tremor beneath them. Her face was flushed, as if she had sprinted through the castle, and there was a bundle of paper caught in her clenched fist.

'Another of Merlin's letters?' He was too weary to sneer. 'Should I expect it to disappear before my eyes?' The others, the ones Merlin had written to each of the knights and to Guinevere, had vanished as soon as they were set aside. There had been panic at first – fears that they were merely lost to spread their damning truths around the castle.

It had been Morgana who explained what had happened – how Merlin had enchanted the missives to disappear when they had been read. Arthur had not been sure whether to be outraged or grudgingly impressed. He had been too caught up in his own head, sullen and trying not to show it, because Merlin had left nothing for him.

'He told me to give it to you if you asked. He must have forgotten what a stubborn fool you are.' She bared her teeth at him, more snarl than anything. She looked half-wild, her anger a shield for her fear, and Arthur glanced at Leon, nodding his exhausted acquiescence to Morgana's command.

'Do you want me to stay, My Lady?' Guinevere pursed her lips when Morgana shook her head. 'All right. I'll be just outside if you need me.'

'No.' Morgana swallowed. 'I'll find you later.' She reached out a hand, squeezing Guinevere's arm as if it were a lifeline, and unease prickled down Arthur's spine. This was about more than whatever the letter said. There was something else at work here, and he twitched when Gaius spoke, his old voice firm and strong as the others filed out.

'I believe I will remain.'

He settled in a seat by the fireside with all the gravity of a man who had no intention of being usurped. To Arthur's surprise, Morgana merely nodded. He thought he saw a glimmer of gratitude dart across her pale face before she steeled herself, her shoulders rigid and her back an iron bar.

'This letter won't disappear, though it would condemn him a hundred times over.' She thrust it forward, looking as if she wished she could stab the sheaf straight through his head. 'Except probably not for the reasons you might think. Every one of these is a crime according to your father's laws. You can judge for yourself how much of it is actually "criminal".'

Arthur reached out, accepting the papers like a man receiving his own writ of execution. Part of him did not want to know. He was not even sure what scared him more, the idea that he might find a route to forgiveness written in those lines, or justification for his actions.

He was just so tired, so lost inside his own head. He wanted to talk to Merlin, because Merlin had been good at giving Arthur certainty when he faltered. He had always been there with a quiet word or a nudge in the right direction.

He had been trying to convince himself that it was all manipulation – Merlin's friendship a ploy to further his own ends – but he'd had very little luck in that regard. He could think many ills of Merlin, but believing them was another matter.

The letter was not addressed to him. It was just a list, starting from the day they met in the marketplace and unravelling forward, staggering from one page to the next. Merlin didn't try and excuse the things he had done, nor, Arthur noticed through bleary eyes, did he condemn anyone else. He mentioned the griffin, but gave no hint of Lancelot's role in it, for example.

Yet it was not a solitary boastfulness. He wrote none of this seeking approval. It was bland in its delivery. Matter-of-fact, whether he spoke about bargaining for Arthur's life with a High Priestess or releasing the thrice-cursed dragon Arthur had not even known was chained up under the castle.

That was the one event that truly gave him pause. He could still remember the smoke and the smell. He recalled the crushing hopelessness of knowing his kingdom was doomed and the light-headed relief of his salvation. That was the only point at which sentiment bled onto the page, three words scratched deep, as if the hand that wielded the quill had trembled with emotion.

“I'm so sorry.”

Arthur pressed his thumb against those letters, scuffing over the parchment as something lurched in his chest: his battered heart smashing itself against the crumbling cage of his anger.

'What did you hope this would prove?' he asked, ignoring the listlessness of his own voice as he waved the papers at Morgana. 'Except that he's everything we have been taught to fear? A powerful sorcerer.'

'A corrupt one?' Morgana's question was like a whip, lashing out to flay him. 'That is what your father would have you believe. He has told you that magic is bad, and that those who practice it are evil beyond salvation, and you have believed him. Even when the man in front of you was Merlin, and you knew better.'

Her voice cracked. 'Does that look evil to you? A man who saved your life time and again? Who saved Camelot? Who saved us all? And if Uther ever found that, what would he do?' She was shaking, now, and Arthur struggled to his feet, alarmed. 'He would burn him. No matter that anyone else would earn a place in court for their triumphs. He would kill him for nothing more than the magic he was born with!'

'Morgana –' There seemed to be more to this heartfelt defence than whatever tender feelings she might have for Merlin. There was an urgency beneath it all that he didn't understand, but that made the hairs on the nape of his neck prickle upright in anticipation. His hand rested gently on her wrist, and he tried not to wince as she flinched from him.

'It's my fault,' she said at last, speaking as if she were dredging the words up from the pit of her belly. 'He – he was trying to prove to me that you weren't like your father. That you could accept magic, and instead –' She shook her head, and Arthur rounded his shoulders, feeling the full weight of disappointment, not just from Morgana, but from Merlin, too.

'I don't...' Arthur sighed. 'Why would it matter? Why would he do that?'

Morgana's mouth wobbled, her eyes darting to the door before she seemed to dig deep into herself. 'Because he is not the only one with magic.'

Arthur felt the blood drain from his face as Morgana held out a hand towards the unlit candles on the workbench. With a single whispered word, she ignited the taper in the middle: a tiny flame, docile and tame. Ruddy amber glowed in her eyes – and Arthur distantly noted that they were different from Merlin's crisp, clean gold. Morgana's were like a sunset, all rich hue.

'Will you exile me too?'

Her question curled in his ear, leaving him breathless as he covered his mouth with his hand, staring at her without really seeing the woman who awaited his judgement. His mind was an absolute cacophony. This latest revelation left him dizzy, and he closed his eyes, trying to wrestle his thoughts into something that made even a fragment of sense.

'Did he – did he teach it to you?' he demanded, not wanting to believe it but having to ask all the same. He did not want to imagine Merlin training Morgana in an art so resolutely forbidden in Camelot, but a voice in his head that sounded like Uther whispered that it would be the ultimate revenge.

'No.' Morgana lifted her chin. 'He taught me how to control what was already there. I have dreams, ones that come true. They scared me and made my power lash out. Uncontrolled. Unpredictable. It was only going to be so long before I hurt myself or someone discovered what I was.' She shook her head and shrugged. 'I thought I was losing my mind. Merlin promised that I wasn't. We were, neither of us, alone in what we could do.'

She stepped forward, hesitant, as if she were trying not to spook a wild woodland animal. Or perhaps she was the one at risk. Her gaze kept flitting towards his sword where it lay on the flagstones, and Arthur drew a deep breath, lashing out with his foot to send it skittering to the far side of the healing room.

'I won't hurt you.'

'You hurt Merlin.' She said it softly, but it did not make her words any less true. 'You may not have lifted a blade to him, but you hurt him all the same.'

He pursed his lips, loathing himself with an intensity that took his breath away. 'That was different,' he rasped, wishing he could bundle up all his emotion and press it down inside – be the strong prince that his father expected – but it was impossible now. 'He hurt me first.'

He looked up at her, meeting her gaze with the sheen of tears in his eyes. There was no point hiding them, and no amount of blinking would chase them away. 'He was my friend.'

Morgana did not huff and ask what she was. They both knew that what they shared was not any sort of typical friendship. Most of the time, they could barely stand the sight of each other, yet they had one another's loyalty without question. Or they had done, before Arthur had exiled Merlin.

Morgana's skirts whispered as she closed the space between them, resting her hand cautiously on the back of his wrist. 'He still is. Not all hope is lost, Arthur. Fix it. Beg if you have to, but you can't carry on like this.'

Arthur stared at her fingertips, thinking of the power that had wreathed them only a short while ago. He should be scared of her, and yet what he felt was not nearly so simple. His first thought had not been about protecting himself, but about shielding her from Uther. That was how it should have been with Merlin, and instead...

Instead, he'd fucked things up royally, too lost in the shriek of his hurt to do more than lash out in turn.

'I don't even know where to find him.' It was a forlorn statement, little more than a whisper. The thought had bubbled in his mind like marsh gas as he lay awake at night, wondering where Merlin might have sought refuge. Ealdor was the first answer, and yet the least likely. Merlin would not want to bring the wrath of Camelot down on his mother's head, but where else did he have to go? Arthur had cast him out with nothing, and his own guilt had soon devoured his anger, smothering it to embers.

'I can call him here.' Morgana reached into her gown, pulling out a small statue of a dragon. Arthur was surprised that Merlin had left it behind. He did not have many possessions, but there had been a significance to that little figurine that Arthur had never understood. 'There's a spell on this that can summon him home.'

'My Lady –' Gaius' warning tone went unheeded as Morgana clasped the dragon, her eyes flaring bright. Arthur's heart skittered like a spider: fear and fascination, and he flinched as a sudden wave of something unrolled through the room.

It was not danger, nor threat, but rather like the slamming of a door, final and absolute. All along the shelves, the glass bottles of Gaius' trade hummed and groaned, and with a sharp little "crack" the dragon statue broke clean in two.

Morgana looked as if she had been punched in the gut, her alabaster skin turning an uncomfortable, deathly shade. She shook her head, her hair rippling around her shoulders. 'I don't understand.' She stared at the pieces in her hand, only looking up when Gaius gave a soft, mournful sigh, levering himself up from his chair and shuffling to her side.

'The bond that ties Merlin and Arthur to one another is seeking to bring them together. Arthur, with no magic to sustain him, is losing his strength. Merlin is losing his power.'

Arthur blinked, a jolt racing through him as a fresh, new fear unfurled in his gut: one that had nothing to do with sorcery and its ills. 'What do you mean?'

'If you are already in such a weakened state, there is no reason to believe Merlin will be any better. His magic will have almost left him by now. It's probable that he could not even sense Morgana's call.'

A noose of worry hitched around Arthur's throat, and he was too exhausted to resent it. He had tried to cling to righteous anger, but with every passing day it had whittled itself away. He thought of Merlin, who wore no armour and carried no sword. He had told himself he was safe because he had magic. Now, if Gaius was to be believed, then Merlin was somewhere out there with no way to protect himself.

'What will become of them?' Morgana asked. She kept placing the pieces of the dragon together, making it whole again as if she hoped she could somehow fuse the fault line that had split it in two. 'If they don't do something about it, what happens?' Her voice shook, and Arthur remembered the dreams she had mentioned. Did she already know? Were her nights painted with visions of whatever lay at the end of this rocky, painful road?

Gaius' grave expression said it all. 'I cannot be certain, but nothing good can come of a breach like this.' He turned his gaze to Arthur, and though the blue of his eyes was milky with age, there was a blazing intensity in those depths. 'Arthur, Sire, you must find Merlin. This is a matter you have ignored long enough.'

'And how do I do that?' He spread his hands. 'Gaius, he could be anywhere by now.'

'I may know of a way. Since we are all admitting to our own kinds of treason…' Gaius heaved a sigh, opening a cupboard and rummaging in its depths. 'There is a clearing not far from the south edge of the Darkling Woods. Place this in its centre, strike it with your sword, and wait.'

Arthur stared as Gaius pushed a heavy rock into his hands. It was no small object, and it felt cold to the touch. Beneath his fingertips, he could make out the ghostly remnants of what might once have been carvings, now worn smooth by time. 'Wait for what?' he asked.

'Answers.'

It was no more than a candle-mark's ride from the North Gate to the clearing that Gaius had spoken of, and Arthur slid from Llamrei's back as he cast his eye around the open space. Behind him, Lancelot and Gwaine dismounted. He had told his father that they were going on a hunting trip, begging a few days leave to do so. He had sensed the hesitance in Uther's decision – felt the way those pale eyes dragged over his frame, taking in every frailty – but he had, at last, conceded.

It was only a lie in spirit. In truth, they had a quarry of sorts, but tracking Merlin was likely to be no easy feat. There would be no trail left now, almost two months after his departure. Their only hope was the artefact Gaius had offered them, its surface greasy with power.

Magic. It turned out it was everywhere, despite Uther's best efforts to drive it out. He wished he'd had time to put Morgana at her ease: to offer her more than a swift promise of his secrecy, though she did not seem to blame him. Instead, she had seen him off, her gaze fierce and her chin a harsh angle as she urged him to fix it, no matter what.

She made it sound so easy.

He wet his lips, setting the stone down in the middle of the scrubby grass and unsheathing his sword. His muscles shook with the effort where they would once have been strong, but the blow he dealt still chimed, echoing with a noise unlike anything he had ever heard: sonorous and deep. It seemed to ripple through the air, and he felt the breeze stir, carrying it further as he stepped back to slump against a tree.

The bole of its trunk supported him as he sagged to the ground, hating the sweat that beaded his brow and the greasy nausea that clenched in his guts. The dark line up the inside of his arm itched, and the mark on his chest prickled and throbbed. He rubbed his fingers over it, wishing he could scrub its stain from his skin.

Leathers creaked as Gwaine and Lancelot sat either side of him. He had wanted to make the journey alone, but Gaius had soon discouraged that, citing Arthur's failing strength. Not that he was wrong. Arthur suspected he had as much chance of keeling over in a ditch as he did of finding Merlin before it got any worse.

'Why did you stay?' The question bubbled out of him, and he pressed his head back against the tree. The bark scraped his scalp as he stared up at the sky, hazed as it was with mid-afternoon sunlight.

Lancelot's sigh was a quiet thing. 'I made a promise.' His profile was steady and true, honourable to the core. 'More than a year ago, around the time of the Questing Beast, Merlin asked me to keep you safe, no matter what happened.' He sighed. 'I have no idea what he was doing, only that he looked like a man going to the block.'

Arthur touched the papers tucked into his jacket. 'He was bargaining with a High Priestess. My life for his.' The thought made him feel sick. 'She broke the deal. He... objected.' Blood on Merlin's hands, and all in Arthur's name. It was not the first time, and nor had it been the last.

'Same reason as Lance,' Gwaine grunted, 'though when I see him again, we're going to be having words about oaths obtained when a man's in his cups.' He nudged Arthur's boot none-too-gently with his own. 'Can I read it?' He tilted his head towards the pages tucked in Arthur's pocket. 'Sort of want to know what I owe, if I'm honest.'

'Nothing.' Lancelot shrugged. 'It's what he'd say to both of you. You owe him nothing.'

Arthur made a hoarse noise as he pressed his hand to his brow. 'I suspect I owe him everything,' he murmured, tugging the letter free and surrendering it to Gwaine. Lancelot shifted around so he could read over his shoulder, and it didn't take long for the exclamations and curses of surprise to start slipping from their lips. It gratified him, in some ways, that these men had no idea of what Merlin had done. Even Lancelot, who had known what he was, appeared stunned by the revelations.

'I should have let him explain. I should have listened. I should have –' He shook his head, wishing he could spin the wheel of the months back to that moment when Merlin had stood before him and surrendered his secret. 'I should have been the man he thought I was, the friend he trusted, despite everything, rather than my father's son.'

It was Gwaine who nudged Arthur's waist, his voice softer than it had been for weeks. 'Better late than never?' His dark eyes bore into Arthur's, piercing him with their scrutiny. 'You can't just do this because of what's happening to you, though. If this is all about you, rather than Merlin – about making yourself well again at whatever cost – then it makes you no better than your father.'

Arthur wearily shook his head. 'It's not.' He stared down at his left hand, rubbing at the black mark at the base of his ring finger. 'It's merely given it a sense of urgency. I was already thinking of...' He trailed off, too tired to continue.

He felt so spent: his strength ebbed and his anger burnt out until all that remained was a shell of a man, cursing himself and his foolishness. His dreams had lingered on thoughts of hunting Merlin down, of offering up his forgiveness like it was the only thing that mattered. He'd imagined Merlin coming home and life going back to the way it had been, but that was a mere fantasy.

For a start, it had become plain that Merlin was not the only one that needed forgiving. It was Arthur's own stubborn fury and helpless hurt – his hasty actions borne of fear and rage – that had to be judged.

Even then – even if Merlin could find it in his heart to look beyond that – there was nothing in this world that could put them back to how they had been, and Arthur wasn't sure that was what he wanted. Perhaps ignorance had been bliss, but he would rather know Merlin, properly know him, than continue to live with a half-friendship: all that Merlin's secret would allow them to have.

'We must find him if I'm to have any hope of fixing this,' he rasped. 'We're wasting time. I don't even know what we're waiting for.'

A hitched breath caught in Lancelot's throat, and he pointed a trembling finger at something above the horizon: an indistinct shape rapidly growing bigger and closer as they watched. 'That.'

The dragon's arrival was all calamity, a rushing swoop and the thunder of wings. The horses squealed, bolting for the shelter of the woods. Arthur lunged to his feet, ignoring the way his body swayed as his hand tightened around his sword.

Merlin had confessed the dragon was not dead: merely sent off. There were times he wondered if he had embellished the size of it in his memories, smeared as they were by smoke and fume. Now, it was clear that he had diminished the beast, making it something that he could comprehend.

'Bugger me,' Gwaine breathed, his shoulder jammed against Arthur's and his sword in his hand. They all stared as it furled its mighty wings, talons as long as Arthur's arm shredding the grass as it took its ease, unconcerned. Of course, what could three knights do against a beast such as this? All of Camelot had fought it to no effect.

'I see Gaius has been offering his guidance,' the dragon rumbled, its voice low and thunderous. It flicked one claw towards the stone that still sat in the clearing's centre. 'I have not heard the call of something such as this for a very long time, Young King.' Amber eyes narrowed, watchful. Smoke curled from its nostrils as it gave a huff of mirthless laughter. 'Though your reason for calling me is obvious to anyone who cares to look. You seek my Dragonlord.'

'I seek Merlin.' He was not hunting down an exiled sorcerer or a missing Dragonlord. Whatever other titles he claimed, Merlin was, above all else, himself. 'Gaius seems to think you might be able to tell me where he is.'

'And what do you intend once you find him? Are you the arm of your father's law, or do you hunt him on your own terms? Do you wish to mend the rift between you so that you can live your lives, separate and sundered, an affront? Or do you hope to take control of your destiny?'

'I don't give a damn about destiny!'

'Yet you linger in its grasp, or you would not find yourself in such a situation.' One scaly eyebrow lifted. Arthur had never known a creature could look so judgemental. 'Do you even know the details of the fate that you rail against?'

He shook his head, baring his teeth in a grimace. 'Does it matter?'

The dragon rumbled to itself: a thoughtful noise. The intelligence in its eyes was an unnerving sight. 'Your father would certainly think so. It has been foreseen that you will be the one to undo Uther's laws and bring magic back to Camelot. It is with that act that you will set foot on the road to uniting all Albion under your care and kingship, but it can only be done with Merlin at your side.'

'Why him?' Lancelot blanched, offering a short bow when the dragon pinned him with its glare. 'Why Merlin?'

'He and Arthur Pendragon are two sides of the same coin. Two halves of a greater whole. Men in their own right, but together they are something more. Or they will be, if they come to their senses.' There was an archness to the dragon's tone: a challenge, as if he knew full-well that the blame for this mess sat firmly on Arthur's shoulders. Fume clouded the air between them, and the dragon watched them through the haze.

Arthur shook his head, pitching aside the creature's words. Gaius himself had spoken of destiny, but Arthur could not bring his thoughts to bear on the nebulous future, not when he had more immediate concerns. His worries ricocheted between his own physical pain and the deep, dank fear of Merlin somewhere out in the world, vulnerable and powerless. 'That's not what this is about,' he managed, trying not to sway where he stood. 'I'm not here because of your prophecy. I'm here for Merlin.'

'You're here for yourself,' the dragon corrected him. 'When all hope is lost, you turn to what you once reviled for help. You turn to magic, just like your father.'

'Magic did this to me!'

'You did it to yourself!' The dragon's roar seemed to shake the sky, the beat of its wings stirring a wind that lashed the long grass and sent dust flying into Arthur's face. Yet no flame erupted from those jaws, despite the bellows-heave of its mighty chest. Its huge teeth were bared, but it did not surge forward to attack them. Instead, it looked at them from on-high, as imperious as any king. 'You have failed him, Arthur Pendragon, in ways you may never understand.'

'And you're failing them both.' Gwaine stepped forward, his sword lax at his side as he pointed back at Arthur. 'He's a lot of things, but he is better than his father. Name me a time that Uther has ever admitted that he was wrong. Arthur, at least, is trying to fix this, and no stupid, great lizard is going to stop him. Either tell us where to find Merlin, or get out of our way.'

'And where would you go, Little Knight? How long would you roam the land searching, while your future king withers away?' The dragon's tail lashed. 'Look at him, and tell me: how much time do you think he has left?'

Lancelot joined Gwaine, shoulder-to-shoulder, his spine straight and his head held high. Compared to the dragon, he looked about as threatening as a bantam hen, but Arthur appreciated the gesture all the same. 'If time is of the essence, then perhaps you should stop wasting it?'

'Please?' The word cracked between Arthur's lips. 'If nothing else, I owe Merlin an apology. Just tell us where he is?'

Those golden eyes narrowed, and like a snake shedding its skin, the mask seemed to slip from the dragon's face, revealing the defeat that lay beneath. The look Arthur received was steady and thoughtful, rife with judgement, but it seemed that, in the end, the great creature found him worthy of an answer.

'Galvistone. You will find him in Galvistone.'

Chapter Text

Merlin blinked at the encroaching gloom of dusk, flicking his hand towards the candles and scowling when nothing happened. The last spark of his power had stuttered out five days ago, leaving a sucking hole in its wake.

It spread cold through him like fingers of frost, making him shiver, exhausted and miserable. He had lost weight as well, as if the food he ate no longer stuck to him. This morning, he'd woken to Mirinie shaking him, cursing his name as he refused for long minutes to rouse himself from sleep's clutches.

She'd stomped off to the tavern two candle-marks ago with threats that if she returned to discover his corpse, she'd cut it up to find out if the word "stubborn" was written on his bones.

He believed her, as well.

Reaching for a splint of wood, he lit it from the fire, carrying the small flame around from one wick to another as he coaxed the candles and lamps to life. Back when Mirinie had spoken of the risk of his magic leaving him, he had foolishly thought it might be a relief to be free of its burden. He had not realised it would feel like losing a limb and having his insides scooped out all at once. It was as if something essential had been ripped from him, and what was left was nothing but an open wound spilling blood upon the ground.

If he was in such a state, then what was it doing to Arthur?

His gaze fell on the bag, packed and waiting, by the door. In some ways, things were coming full-circle, his scant possessions once more bundled together and a long road awaiting him. He'd hoped that Morgana would call for him, but her summons never came. Or maybe it had, and his lack of magic made him blind to it. What if she'd reached out for help, and Merlin hadn't even known it?

That was why he intended to leave at first light. He would return to Camelot and whatever fate awaited him. It was possible that he would walk through those gates and find Arthur whole and hale, untouched. Perhaps his arrival would only doom him to the pyre, but he would rather die in the citadel that had become his home than fade away in exile.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Merlin turned back to the table, resuming his work. He'd promised Mirinie he would try and restock her elixirs before he left, and now his knuckles ached from grinding herbs. A raw patch on the heel of one palm was threatening to become a blister, and his muscles cramped from hunching over the workbench.

Another candle-mark, he thought, and he would be done.

He did not know how much time passed before a knock came at the door. Not a genteel tap, but the bash of someone hammering at the threshold. The hinges creaked in protest, and Merlin wiped his hands on his tunic, blinking in surprise when a familiar voice hollered from the street.

'We need some help, here!'

'Gwaine?' Merlin lunged for the door, pulling it open and staring at the two knights who stood on the doorstep. At a better time, he would have noticed that Gwaine and Lancelot looked just as surprised by his presence as he was by theirs. Yet, in that moment, his gaze fell on the figure supported between them, and his heart dropped down to the soles of his boots.

'Arthur?'

'He collapsed not a quarter of a mile from the town,' Lancelot told him, his normally tanned face pallid with fear. He grunted his thanks as Merlin stood aside, giving them space to drag Arthur into the shelter of Mirinie's workshop. 'Would have fallen right out of his saddle if we hadn't been flanking him.'

'The old salt at the gate said he'd take the horses to a stable. Pointed us to the apothecary.' Gwaine's grin looked brittle. 'Should have known we'd find you here.'

'Get him laid down,' Merlin ordered, leading the way through to the back room. He gestured to one of the beds Mirinie kept made up for the patients who needed more care than a quick potion could offer. 'What happened? Any wounds?'

'Nah, this is all because of that.' Gwaine tapped Merlin's left hand, indicating the dark band at the base of his ring finger. It was no longer grubby and hazy, but instead looked as if it had been inked there like one of the tattoos the druids wore, its lines sharp and absolute. 'He's been ill for a while. Tried to hide it, up until the point he couldn't any more. We came looking for you. He wanted to set things right.'

Something stirred in Merlin's chest, a seed threatening to flourish, and he squashed it down ruthlessly. He was not about to give in to hope. Arthur had come because his health was failing. It was not as if the connection between them had given him any choice in the matter. If not for all this, he would never have left Camelot. What lay between them would have been broken forever, and no doubt soon forgotten, at least on Arthur's part.

Some bitter, brittle piece of him was almost tempted to turn his back: to damn Arthur to the consequences of his actions, but it was a brief, petty urge. He might be angry and hurt, but Merlin had always done his best never to be cruel. No matter what had happened, Arthur needed him now, and though Merlin didn't know if he could help, he knew he had to try.

His hands shook as he went through the motions of basic care, noting the clammy chill of Arthur's skin and his thready pulse. Each breath seemed shallow and quick. A grey pall robbed him of his colour, and there was a blue tint around his mouth.

'Gwaine, stoke the fire as high as you can. Lancelot, go to the tavern – the Saxon's Head. Look for Mirinie. Tell her I need help. If she doesn't want to come, pick her up and carry her here.'

Merlin left the room, grabbing one of the bottles of elixir he'd just finished mixing before returning to Arthur's side. It was a basic restorative: honey, water, willow bark and feverfew. It covered a lot of basics when it came to illness, easing pain as it gave the body strength. That, more than anything, was what Arthur needed right now. Merlin had never seen him so reduced, his frame honed to skin over muscle and little else.

He dripped a dose carefully between Arthur's lips before reaching for extra blankets, piling them up to trap the heat. At least Arthur was wearing hunting gear, rather than his armour, and while it might not be the most comfortable clothing to sleep in, it would help keep him warm. That seemed to be part of the problem. It was as if Arthur simply didn't have enough strength to spare for more than a tripping pulse and shallow, stuttering breaths.

Gods, this was his fault. He should have done as Mirinie said and left for Camelot the moment he'd realised something was amiss. He should have gone back, no matter what, if only to try and stop it getting this bad.

What would have happened, he wondered, if Arthur had kept his promise to condemn him? What would have become of him if Merlin were bound and burned? Would he have succumbed too, or would the bond have broken, freeing Arthur from its clutches as their destiny blew away like ash in the wind?

Cautiously, he reached out, loosening the laces on Arthur's tunic so that he would not throttle himself on his collar while he slept. He could just make out the edge of the same mark that adorned Merlin's own chest: a hollow, empty ring. It was a black wreath high over Arthur's heart, the size of Merlin's palm. He eased the linen away, trying to get a better look. As he did so, one finger brushed, soft as eiderdown, against the image.

Pain cut Merlin off at the knees, a surging tide that rushed through him with ravening claws. It clasped at his joints and plunged deep into his guts before smashing its way through his ribs. His next breath hitched, airless, and the room gave a threatening whirl as Gwaine's cry of alarm bubbled in his ears.

Shadows popped in the corner of his vision, and he just had time to curse destiny in general and his own in particular before the darkness claimed him.

Wakefulness was a slippery thing. It came and went, its tatters fluttering like a flag of surrender harried by a storm. There were voices, some he recognised and others he didn't.

Mirinie spoke in a tone that reminded him of Gaius. They both had that unflappable calm that descended over them when things got really bad. After, when they were sure they would not be seeing to funeral rites, it shattered apart into shouting and insults. Lancelot and Gwaine were there, too, their questions little more than murmurs at the edge of his mind, but he could hear the fear in their words.

A warm hand, smelling of herbs and wood-smoke in a way that reminded Merlin of the druids, pressed to his brow. A cracked voice spoke, carrying an air of authority. 'For a bond such as this to proceed so far in its destructiveness? It's almost unheard of. Emrys did the right thing. It was too late for anything else. Keep them close to each other, side-by-side. He is pulling his king back from the brink, and it is taking all his strength to do so.' The unknown man fell silent, but he heard the words in his head loud and clear.

You have bought yourselves one last chance to set things right. Do not waste it.

He wanted to argue, to complain that it wasn't fair how every single problem seemed to be his to solve, but his protests died in his throat. They popped like bubbles, unspoken, as the inky tide of sleep rose once more.

Uther's voice boomed across the courtyard, ringing in his ears. He stood in his father's shadow, dwarfed by his tall frame. He tried to keep his face impassive. Below, a girl was being led to the executioner's block. He knew her. He'd snuck out of his lessons to play with her, laughing as she spoke with the birds in the trees and made up stories about what they said in return. She had befriended a crow, and now people were saying she was a witch.

'It is insidious,' his father told him, his words meant only for his ears. 'It creeps in, makes itself a nest, and poisons from within. Anyone can be a sorcerer, my son, even those we believe are our friends. Never let your guard down.'

The axe fell. The sound disturbed the birds from the rooftops, sending them clattering into the sky with raucous caws of reproof.

'Yes, Father.'

The image faded, turning to mist at its edges, yet Merlin did not wake. Some part of him knew the dream, and the ones that followed, were not his. He had not been there during the raid on the druid camp, when the knights ran wild – more monsters than men – and panic gripped a young prince's heart. He had not been the boy who witnessed executions and lost his dinner in his chamber-pot after.

He was not the youth who had pushed down every doubt that dared to stir the waters of his mind until his thoughts were like ice, as good as any solid ground, utterly unyielding.

Right up until his best friend confessed to magic, and it all cracked into pieces.

Arthur. These were Arthur's dreams – or worse, his memories – and try as he might, Merlin couldn't escape them.

He witnessed sorcerous attacks and magical beasts ravaging the kingdom, yet no blow hurt as much as those that struck down his people. He would gladly take a blade himself if it spared them, but there was no mercy in hatred. Magic at its worst – power unchecked, bent to harm rather than help – paraded before his mind's eye with nothing to redeem it.

There were one or two glimmers of nuance: a unicorn's beauty, as well as the curse and guilt that came with its slaughter. An orb of light coalescing to show a safe path up a cliff face.

Yet still, Arthur looked at magic and witnessed little more than a source of fear.

Then, he saw himself through Arthur's eyes, and understood exactly what he had done with his confession. He had always hoped that he and Arthur shared a friendship. He had prayed that it would be enough to stay Arthur's hand and make him think, the day he finally found the courage to confess – but he hadn't known the full of it.

Quietly and without acknowledgement, Arthur had come to rely on him as a building relies on its foundation. His magic was the crack that brought the edifice of Arthur's certainties crashing down around his ears.

Steadily, the miasma of images and emotions faded. He did not notice his own awakening. It came upon him like the dawn, drawing back the shadows of sleep until he found himself blinking across the pillows, taking in the lines of Arthur's face where he lay at his side.

Merlin had no idea how much time had passed since the knights arrived on his doorstep. His skin felt stale with the dried sweat of a fever, and his thirst was like an iron band around his throat. Someone had pushed a pair of the healing cots together, heaping the rushes high over the frame. It was still perilously narrow, barely big enough for two grown men. It meant there was no more than a hand's span worth of space between them.

A faint memory of someone saying they needed to be kept close wobbled through Merlin's mind, and he vaguely wondered what would happen if he staggered off in search of a cup of water.

'If you try and rise, I will geld you.' Mirinie's hissed whisper made him flinch. He looked over his shoulder in surprise, groaning as the movement stirred awake a battalion of aches and pains. Part of him wished he could return to blissful oblivion, but no such relief found him. Instead, he had to lie there, pinned by the weight of her gaze. Yet for all the harshness of her words, it was worry rather than anger that lined her expression, carving hollows in her brown eyes. 'Can you turn onto your back?'

He could, but the very act of doing so birthed a sweat of exertion along his brow. He felt as if he'd been scoured out with sand and left, raw and bleeding, beneath the open sun. 'What day is it?' he rasped, trying to pin himself to reality rather than drifting, untethered, through it. 'How long...?'

'Two days, three nights, including the one he turned up and you collapsed like a tick of straw in a gale. Drink.' She propped up his weight, bracing him so he could sip from the rough cup she held to his mouth. 'I called in a druid friend. This is a bit beyond me.' She tapped his chest, right over the mark. Only his tunic separated her finger from his skin – the same one that he had been wearing the night Arthur had shown up.

'I remember. Sort of.' Merlin sagged back, managing a weak show of thanks as she eased him down onto the pillows. 'They spoke to me. Said it was a last chance to fix it.'

'I've never seen a druid look so aghast. Everyone else afflicted with one of these had the good sense to set it right before it tried to kill them.' A hint of "I told you so" underscored her words, and Merlin mustered a frail glare in her direction. 'I think the druids are somewhat perturbed that their almighty Emrys is a stubborn ass.'

He was too tired to muster more than a flicker of outrage. 'They can always choose someone else,' he murmured, twitching his fingers as Mirinie opened her mouth to argue. 'Has he been unconscious this whole time?'

She pursed her lips, her gaze shifting to take in Arthur's sleeping form. The shake of her head eased some of the fear that had caught Merlin in its fist. 'He reaches for you on waking, but pulls himself up short. He doesn't stay with us long. Enough to drink a little water and look at you like his heart had fallen straight out of his chest and landed at his feet, but he drifts off again soon after. Not that it's been restful.'

Even as she said it, a soft noise caught in Arthur's throat: a tiny pulse of protest as his smooth brow creased into something fretful. The sound curved a hook in Merlin's guts, and he reached out, clumsy and weak, to rest his hand over the back of Arthur's. The moment their skin touched, it was as if the thorny tangle of his discomfort lost its sharpness. It was still there, twisting vines through him, but it lacked bite.

'You need to try. Forget about destiny and all that rot. Do it for you.' She patted his shoulder, pulling Merlin's attention from Arthur's face. 'You can't keep going on like this.'

'What if I don't want to go back?' The question wriggled its way out of him, scraping up his throat. 'To Camelot, I mean?' To a place where his very existence was illegal and the one man he had truly stayed for couldn't bear the sight of him.

'It's not about physical distance, if you recall? This whole mess is caused by an emotional rift.' Mirinie gave him a very gentle shake. 'Whether you return home, stay here or give it all up and travel across the Strait, as long as the two of you are on good terms, no harm will come to either of you.'

Her look was edged with sympathy, as if she knew her words made it sound simple when it was anything but. 'Face one problem at a time,' she advised. 'Get yourself to a point where you can gain your feet without going into a swoon. That'd be a start.'

She stood, tucking the blanket around him. 'I'll fetch you both some broth. See if he'll rouse. I've put those friends of yours to work with deliveries and such. Better to keep them out from underfoot. They worry like barn hens over a pair of lost chicks.'

The image made Merlin smile, though it didn't surprise him. All of Arthur's knights were good men, and none of them relished any situation where events were out of their control.

Mirinie bustled from the room, letting the relative peace envelop them. A fire crackled in the hearth, and various candles peeled back the shadows. It meant that he could get a proper look at Arthur, comparing him to the wraith-like man that Gwaine and Lancelot had dragged over the doorstep.

His colour was better, less sallow and sick, but he bore the marks of a long illness, leaner in the jaw than Merlin had ever seen him. He was still strong, but to Merlin's eye even that had started to erode. Arthur's chin was bristled with a scattering of gold stubble, and his hair was longer, as if he'd not bothered to cut it since Merlin's departure. The lines in his face looked deeper too, as if he'd aged a handful of years in the space of a couple of months, and Merlin's stomach gave a guilty twist to think that he had, at least in part, been to blame.

'Arthur?' he murmured, tightening his grasp over Arthur's hand, attempting to nudge him out of the shallows of sleep. 'You need to wake up and eat something.'

The noise Arthur made took Merlin right back to Camelot, to the days when he was trying to drag Arthur's backside out of bed in time for training and being met with bad-tempered grumbling from within the cocoon of the blankets. Sandy lashes flickered as Arthur turned further into the pillow to hide from the meek light, and when he finally peeled his eyes open, they were hazed with sleep and murky with half-remembered dreams.

'How do you feel?' Merlin asked cautiously. He couldn't imagine it was a comfortable thing, to wake up sharing a bed with something you had been raised to hate. It felt as if they were standing in the wasteland where their friendship had once flourished, worse than strangers. If he could get up and give Arthur some space, he would, but he doubted that would end well for either of them.

That full mouth twisted in a grimace, his gaze finding its focus as he blinked at Merlin. For a moment, he said nothing before he eased his hand out from under Merlin's gentle grip. 'Weak,' he managed at last. 'Tired, despite doing little more than sleep.' He drew a breath as if to add something else, but bit the words back as he tucked his hands close to his own chest, making the most of the scant distance between them. 'I came looking for you.'

'Because you had no choice.' It wasn't what Merlin had intended to say, but it slithered out of him anyway, poisonous. 'Not because you wanted to.'

'Do not speak as if you know my mind. You lost that right when –' Arthur cut himself off sharply, the strained hiss of his words falling silent.

'When you found out what I am?' Merlin scowled, ignoring the aches that savaged his bones as he rolled over, putting his back to Arthur and folding his arms across his chest.

'When you lied to me.'

'I didn't do it for fun!' Merlin spat before biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. This was a terrible idea. They were like two cats in a sack, ripping each other to ribbons and unable to escape. The pair of them barely had the strength to move, and what little they did have was wasting itself in words.

'When should I have told you, Arthur?' he continued, forcing his voice steady and smooth when he felt like shouting or crying. Possibly both. 'When I saved you from a dagger thrown by a witch in front of your father's eyes? When you thanked me for reminding you that magic was evil? The day after we'd witnessed yet another execution for someone who did nothing worse than casting a protection spell on some armour?'

He pulled his knees up to his chest. The truth was, he had told Arthur at the earliest opportunity, lost in hopes of proving Morgana wrong and the dazzling promise of a friendship unmarred by secrets. Instead, they were here, barely able to look at each other as resentment seethed between them.

The door creaked open, and Mirinie hesitated on the threshold. Merlin could feel the judgemental weight of her gaze, but he ignored it as she crossed the room to set a tray on the chair at his bedside. There was a small, steaming cauldron, two bowls and a pair of spoons.

'You'll have to sort yourselves out,' she said to Merlin. 'I've other patients to see.' The look she sent him could have turned a living man to ice, and he sighed as she swept out, shutting the door in her wake.

If they were both truly helpless, she would not have left them to suffer. He knew what she was doing. She was a good judge of a man's strength, and she believed that Merlin, at least, had energy enough to see both him and Arthur fed. More to the point, she realised the only thing that might win against his anger was the healing instinct Gaius had trained into him. The one that meant his personal feelings for a patient didn't matter. He would help them all the same.

'Why did you tell me?' Arthur's question was quiet, shorn free of the harsh, angry edge that had honed the rest of his words. 'You've played me for a fool for years. Why now?'

'I wasn't trying to hurt you. Not with the secret, or the telling of it.' Merlin propped himself on his elbows, deliberately not looking at Arthur as he struggled into a sitting position and corralled the thin pillows back against the wall. 'Can you sit? You need to eat. Either you can do it yourself or I could feed you.'

'I wouldn't trust you not to tip the bowl over my head,' Arthur grumbled.

'Tempting.' Merlin tried to ignore how hard his hands were shaking as he managed to dole out some of the soup. Mirinie had called it broth, but there was a bit more substance to it than that. It was probably just as well. Moving even a matter of inches left Merlin feeling as if he had been running for days, pained and exhausted to the point of collapse. They needed sustenance.

He waited until Arthur had shuffled into a weary slump against the wall, pale and clammy. He held out the bowl, patiently making sure Arthur's grip on it was secure before letting go and helping himself.

His stomach roared in furious approval at the first mouthful. The hot liquid chased off the chill and the scraps of meat provided some more substantial nourishment. By the time it was gone, he felt passably human. Not hearty and hale, not by far, but at least he might just manage to survive another day.

Setting the bowl aside, he checked on Arthur, noting the way the spoon shuddered in his grip. He could feed himself, but it was a painstaking process. Merlin couldn't recall ever seeing him so frail. Even with the bite of the Questing Beast, once Arthur was awake that core of strength within him had burned bright. Now, it was as if it had dimmed to nothing but embers, and neither food nor potions could stoke it back to life.

'As for why I told you, there wasn't just one reason. Partly, I wanted to prove that you were more than your father's prejudices. I didn't like hiding it from you, and I thought maybe –' He shook his head. 'Maybe you were ready to hear it.'

'Morgana said you were trying to show her that I wasn't like my father.' Arthur's voice was a tired rasp. He leaned down, placing the empty bowl on the floor. 'She showed me her magic.'

Something complicated shifted in Merlin's gut. He should have known better than to underestimate Morgana's reckless bravery. To expose the truth to Arthur, who had already exiled him for the same secret... 'What did you do to her?'

He did not mean the question to come out quite like that: low and lethal. In the folds of the blankets, his hands clenched into tight fists. If he still had his magic, it would be flared wide around him, poised and ready. Instead, he only had the taste of his fear at the back of his throat, underscored, as always, by the same hope that had urged him to tell Arthur what he was in the first place.

'Nothing.' Arthur shook his head, his lips wrenching in a grimace as he lifted his eyes to meet Merlin's gaze before looking away. 'I didn't do anything. She's safe.'

'No one with magic is truly safe in Camelot.' Merlin swallowed, not sure what he was feeling. The fact that Morgana had told Arthur and not suffered any consequences struck at something in him, ripping the scab off a half-healed wound and letting the blood flow once more.

He did not care about his own logical arguments: that Morgana was Uther's ward, too prominent to exile. That she and Arthur had practically been raised together, their bond more that of siblings than anything else. All he could think was that she had been granted the clemency of which he had been unworthy, and if he weren't already lying down, the ache of it may well have brought him to his knees.

Arthur's gasp made him flinch, and he looked up to see him clutching at his chest, right over the design that stained his skin. Merlin's didn't hurt. Instead, it was like a cold had bloomed there, utterly numb. Yet Arthur's face was locked in a spasm of agony, the air catching in his throat as he struggled to breathe around the obvious torment that had snatched him in its grasp.

'Arthur!' Merlin reached out, instinct taking over where logic failed him. He shifted, scrambling free of the tangling bedcovers to kneel in front of him, awkwardly straddling his thighs. His right palm pressed against Arthur's back as he dug his left under the swathe of Arthur's tunic, pressing hard as if he were trying to staunch the flow of blood from a wound.

He wasn't expecting the curl of Arthur's grip at his collar, nor the brush of trembling fingertips beneath the fabric of his own clothes. Yet the moment he touched the matching mark high on Merlin's chest, something blazed between them: a wick catching alight to fill the room with its glow, weak, but present all the same.

Arthur's next breath was clear, and his body lost the curl of its guarded, agonised hunch. He gasped like a man who had run until he thought his heart might give out. Sweat stuck strands of hair to his brow, and Merlin could feel it slicking the skin beneath his palms, but he could not let go. Not when it felt as if his touch could be the only thing keeping Arthur alive.

Shudders of pain and panic raced over Merlin's body, leaving him weak. They sagged together, too spent to maintain any real distance.

Merlin expected Arthur to wriggle and protest, as he usually did when Merlin crossed some invisible boundary under anything but the guise of horseplay. Instead, he just accepted it, clinging to Merlin with equal fervour.

'I'm sorry.'

Arthur's voice was like a prayer between them, a whisper of sound that throbbed with sincerity. There was nothing sulky or petulant about it; he sounded wretched, as if he couldn't understand how his life had brought him to this point, lost and conflicted.

One apology was never going to make up for any of it. It could not undo the turmoil that had ensnared Merlin's heart in its grip, nor soothe the pain and disappointment, but it was still more than he had ever expected.

Arthur offered him an olive branch, and hesitantly, Merlin accepted it.

Chapter Text

Merlin's heart beat beneath his hand: a warm, steady rhythm that eased the frayed edges of Arthur's misery. He had not meant to reach out and touch, but in that moment, it was as if something else had driven him. Perhaps he should resent this strange magic for its interference, but even he could grudgingly admit that, without it, he and Merlin kept getting lost in their own anger, sniping and snarling and shielding their wounds even as they lashed out at one another.

His apology floated between them, as soft as goose down. He half-expected Merlin to throw it back in his face. He wasn't sure he would blame him if he did. He didn't anticipate Merlin slumping further, some unknown tension leaving him as if he were conceding defeat.

'I need to lie down.' Merlin's fingers twitched where they were still pressed against Arthur's chest, and a wash of panic rushed through him. He wasn't an idiot. He knew it was Merlin's touch that had stopped the pain that consumed him, beating it back with gentle heat. Now, the thought of him letting go sent a rash of unaccustomed fear down Arthur's spine, and a rough sound caught in his throat.

Thankfully, Merlin seemed to comprehend his concern, which was just as well. Arthur didn't have the strength to voice it. He already felt vulnerable, rubbed raw and left half-dead in Merlin's company. He had no wish to crack himself open further for his critical scrutiny.

Slowly, he eased himself down at Arthur's side. The two of them shuffled around in an awkward tangle, trying to get comfortable without shifting their left hands from their respective resting places over each other's hearts.

Even Merlin looked frustrated by their situation, as much a victim of the magic's strange web as Arthur himself. That realisation dispelled the last of his suspicions. He had heard Gaius' denials and absorbed the dragon's words, yet some small, suspicious part of him still whispered of corruption and curses wrought by Merlin's own hand.

This, however, was different. Arthur might not understand it, but in Merlin's presence, he could sense that whatever was at work on them was not inherently malicious. Nor was it something of his creation. If nothing else, Merlin's obvious annoyance gave that away.

'What are you sorry for?'

Arthur closed his eyes at Merlin's question, ignoring his father's voice in his head that told him men in power did not apologise, least of all to a sorcerous servant.

He did not give his answer with haste. He was a diplomat and a statesman: he had learned the art of manipulation at his father's knee, though he was loathe to use it. He had always favoured honesty, and that was not about to change.

'That I wouldn't listen and didn't give you a chance to explain. That then I dug in my heels and pretended I was fine until everyone around me ran out of patience. That I had to be forced to face this, rather than seeking you out myself.'

For a little while, there was silence. It settled over them without reproach, reminding Arthur of evenings spent in his chambers with Merlin at his side. He wanted that back: the faith they'd once had in each other, but he didn't know how to get it. He wasn't sure it was even possible.

'I think the first bit's the only thing I blame you for,' Merlin murmured at last. 'It's not like I behaved any better. Mirinie told me what this was when it emerged. She warned me what could happen, but...' He shook his head. 'I was too angry to listen. Part of me didn't believe her; I didn't think losing my magic would be so bad. It's caused so much trouble.'

Arthur grimaced, thinking of the dreams that had painted his slumber. Rough, grown hands on his young body, holding him under the churning eddies of a river, waiting for him to run out of air until the water ran out instead. People he had once thought of as friends looking at him with fear and suspicion, even when he did something good. Death by a thousand, invisible cuts as the world told him again and again that he was a monster to be slain for the simple act of existing.

It was tempting to write them off as nothing but figments of his imagination, but Arthur suspected differently. Deep in his heart, he knew they were snatches of Merlin's life. He couldn't imagine growing up like that, having to hide what he was for fear of retribution.

In Essetir, on Cenred's lands, magic had not been punishable by death, but Uther's paranoia paid no heed to borders. Suspicion ran deep, and Merlin had suffered more than once at the hands of those who believed as Uther did, that magic was inherently evil: a stain to be banished.

And Arthur was no better

He swallowed hard, feeling sick at himself. Perhaps he had not raised a blade to Merlin. Maybe he had not sought to extinguish his life, but his horror had been the same. He should have considered what he knew in that moment: Merlin's loyalty and compassion. Instead, he had leaned back on all his father had told him of magic, added it to the welling pain of Merlin's deception and allowed the worst parts of himself – his anger and spite – to boil to the fore.

Worse, he had then tried to justify it. Even now, old lessons murmured that he had been in the right, and their insidious voices were difficult to ignore.

'I didn't think you'd be this ill.' Merlin's shoulders jerked in a shrug. 'And I thought, if you were, you'd call me back to fix it, and possibly throw me on the pyre when I'd done as you asked.'

'No!'

'You said –'

'I know what I said!' Arthur recoiled from the hiss of his own words, swallowing hard. He had nightmares about following through on his threat that he would see Merlin burn if he ever defied his exile. He'd woken up more than once with the scent of the pyre cloying in his nose and bile burning his throat. Even in the moment he had uttered that threat, he had hated himself. He had been wounded and meant to wound in turn. Nothing else had mattered.

It was no good protesting he hadn't meant it. That wouldn't undo the fact that – when Merlin had put his trust in him and hoped he would be different – Arthur had threatened to end his life just as his father would have done.

'I'm sorry. I – I wanted you gone. I couldn't – I didn't –' His words fell to pieces around him, hacked up syllables that did nothing but cut at them both. He wasn't sure he could explain it – the depth of betrayal he had felt in that moment. He had looked upon the years they had known each other and questioned everything. Every moment. Every look. Every kindness. His quiet, longing heart had shattered into a thousand pieces and cut them both with its shards.

'I wanted to go.'

Merlin's response shocked Arthur out of the mire of his regret. He blinked at him across the narrow sliver of bed that separated them. There was a hardness to his expression, though his gaze was focussed on the memory rather than Arthur himself. 'It hurt, more than I thought it would. I'd convinced myself it would be all right and instead...' He shrugged, the blankets whispering around them. 'I could have defied you and hidden somewhere in the town, disguised myself, but...'

But why should he? Arthur heard that trailing question loud and clear, though Merlin uttered not a word of it. Why should he go out of his way, under the continuing threat of execution, to linger near Arthur's side? Why should he sacrifice anything, when Arthur had discarded him so absolutely?

'I'm just so tired of hiding.'

Arthur swallowed hard. Maybe he wasn't meant to hear that last whisper, nor the wretched hollowness that underpinned it. Merlin sounded so young in that moment, lost and hurting, desperate for acceptance only to find rejection once again.

And it was all Arthur's fault, because when Merlin had uttered those words – had told him what he was – Arthur had been blinded to the friend he had and saw only everything he had been taught to fear. He had acted like his father: rash, impulsive and prejudiced.

Now, looking back, he could see that if he'd only taken a few more moments to listen, maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe they could have taken the first step on the road to forgiveness together, there in Arthur's chambers, or at least begun to purge the wound. Instead, he had cast Merlin aside, and everything had been left to fester.

And what had pained him the most – what still turned his heart leaden, even now – was far less about the magic, and more the realisation that he had shared so much with Merlin, over the years. He had spoken of his hopes and fears for the future, the quiet doubts he harboured and his uncertainties. Arthur had taken Merlin into his confidence, and Merlin had not done the same.

Considering his reaction, Arthur knew he had no one but himself to blame for that. Merlin had been right to be cautious, but that didn't stop the hollow panging that resonated through his chest.

'You're right,' he rasped, staring at his fingers where they rested high over the steady beat of Merlin's heart. The best time to have done the right thing would have been that very night, a mistake unmade, but this, now, was all he could offer. 'Morgana showed me your "confession".' He made sure to emphasise the word, his tone indicating how little there was within its bounds worthy of the epithet.

'She was only meant to give you that if you asked.'

'She ran out of patience.' Arthur's smile was a wry thing, delicate and uncertain, but something in him eased to see a twitch of a response on Merlin's own lips. 'Not that I blame her. What I'm trying to say is I didn't give either of us a chance the night you told me. You didn't get to explain, and I didn't allow myself the space to question anything. I just ...' He shook his head.

'And now?' Merlin asked, drumming his fingers meaningfully over the mark on Arthur's chest. 'If this weren't forcing you, would you have done anything, or would you still be in Camelot, glad to be rid of me?'

'Don't.' Arthur bit his lip, hating the crack in his voice. Every time he thought he got himself under control, it was like another seam split beneath the strain. 'I –' He hesitated, because the temptation to make excuses and diminish his own feelings was almost overwhelming. He wanted to fix this, but he could not do that if the foundation he set was made of nothing but dishonesty.

The truth was that the harshness of his fury had been a poor mask for everything that lay beneath it. If he stripped it all down, peeling away the layers, what rested at the heart of it all was that he had missed Merlin.

Not just physically, either. He had missed the role Merlin filled for him: that quiet devotion and the needling of his taunts. He had looked at what was left of his life without Merlin there and realised how desolate it was. Only his stubborn pride had stopped him from riding out at first, petty and childish. Then, when his health began to fail, it had already been too late.

'I was not "glad to be rid of you", Merlin.'

'No? Just my magic then.'

His mouth did something strange, an awkward, horrible twist like he was trying not to cry. It made Arthur desperate to deny it, even if what he had said was true. He was looking at all this from the wrong angle, trying to separate Merlin the man from Merlin the sorcerer. Even if Gaius had not hesitantly explained how magic was more than something Merlin did, it was something he was, Arthur would have realised the truth. The two could not be separated. Not if Merlin was to thrive.

Whatever power wrought itself upon them, it had stolen Arthur's vitality while draining Merlin of his power, and the man left in the wake of that loss looked like a shadow of his former self. Merlin's skin was like parchment, sallow and brittle. His bones pressed too close to the surface, and the light in his eyes, the one that made Arthur's heart jump every time he caught sight of it, had turned dull and listless. There was something fragile about him, and Arthur had the desperate urge to yell, if only so that the spark of anger's gleam brought some life back to Merlin's face.

'I was scared.' Arthur pursed his lips, wrinkling his nose as the confession seeped free of him. He could picture his father's disdainful sneer and feel the weight of his judgement. It felt like a betrayal to his upbringing to admit even that much, but he did not try and call it back. 'Of you. Of your magic. Of what you might do to me. Of what you might already have done to me...' He shook his head, cutting off Merlin before he could interrupt. It felt like if he stopped now, he would never get the rest of it out, and the ruins of their friendship would crumble to dust.

'My first thought, though, was not that you had enchanted me, but that everything we had shared was a lie. That I'd built a – a friendship – and you had just played a part.'

He was talking to the space between them, his eyes downcast. He did not want to look up and see anything like confirmation on Merlin's face. The press of Merlin's brow against the crown of Arthur's head was a surprise, a gentle thump as he breathed a response. 'You are such an idiot.'

Arthur looked up sharply, nudging his brow against Merlin's. Part of him felt he should retreat and reclaim what scant space there was to be had, but he was too exhausted to give the impulse any credence. He was tired of fighting it. Tired of feeding his anger and outrage when really, this was what he wanted. Merlin right there, listening, speaking... working with him to try and find their way back to what they had once had.

The tips of their noses almost brushed, and this close it was hard to focus on anything but the weary, sad amusement in Merlin's gaze. 'You really think I was pretending when I saved your life by drinking poison? When I washed your socks and polished your armour and followed you on every stupid quest even when you told me not to? You think I was that committed to some sort of plot? It's not like I made any secret about what I thought of you when we met.'

Arthur drew in a shuddering breath. 'You know my father's speeches, how sorcerers thrive on deception. I've heard those words, and others like them, at least once a week for twenty years.'

'And you believed them.'

Arthur sighed. 'Once, yes. Now?' He wanted to say no, and yet his actions spoke otherwise, because the moment Merlin had confessed, every one of Uther's warnings had rolled over him like a tide. 'I suppose it's one thing to question my father's words on a normal day, and another entirely when someone who has been by my side for years tells me he has magic.'

Merlin held his silence, letting Arthur ruminate on it – the strength of his reaction and the myriad reasons that lay at its core. Some of them were valid and others were rooted in old prejudices that had been instilled in him since infancy. Perhaps, in the end, what it came down to was that his mistrust of magic was not without cause, but he should have done better to have a little more faith in Merlin.

'I'm sorry.'

Merlin's sigh was a sound drenched in regret, heavy and burdened. 'I am too. Maybe I – I don't know. I hated keeping it a secret from you. There were so many times I almost said something. Then, when I found out about Morgana – when I started helping her to control it – she was so scared and defiant. She gave voice to every doubt I've ever had, and I was desperate to prove both her and myself wrong.'

'And instead I proved you right.'

'Not entirely.' Merlin grimaced when Arthur looked askance at him. 'You could have chopped my head off there and then, or had me dragged away in chains. That is what your father would have expected – what he taught you.'

'I drove you out,' Arthur reminded him.

'It's easier to come back from exile than it is to come back from the dead.'

Arthur ran his tongue over his teeth, hating that Merlin was doing this – excusing his behaviour despite the clear hurt he had caused. He refused to be that kind of man – that kind of king – one who could not take full responsibility for his mistakes. 'You deserved better from me.'

Merlin did not answer that, choosing instead to stroke his thumb idly back and forth across the mark staining Arthur's chest. Neither one of them had tried to withdraw, yet. In truth, Arthur didn't want to. There was something reassuring and steady about the thud of Merlin's heart beneath his hand.

'Would you have come back to Camelot?' he asked at last. 'If I hadn't come to find you?'

A faint huff escaped Merlin's chest. 'My bag's by the door. I was planning to set out at dawn the day after you arrived. Though it's pretty obvious I'd already left it too late. The Gods alone know what might have happened.'

Arthur shuddered at the thought, not for himself, but for Merlin, making his way across dangerous terrain to Camelot's gates with not even his magic left to protect him. Despite everything, that was part of what had driven him here, that underlying concern for Merlin scrabbling its way to the fore.

'I should have reached out for you sooner,' he murmured, knowing even as he spoke that it was a hopeless wish. He had been in no state to listen or compromise, soaking in his hurt and outrage. He had refused to even acknowledge the situation that lay before him, as if anything got better by being ignored. 'You're right, if this hadn't happened, I don't know how long it would have taken me to come looking for you.'

He wanted to say that it was an inevitability, but if Arthur knew nothing else, he knew the flaws in his own character. He held grudges far longer than he should, and too often let pride get in the way of his personal conflicts. The chances were good that, without any impetus beyond his own misery, he would have let the rift between them stretch and fester until there was no way back.

'Do you think we can fix it?' Merlin traced an idle finger around the halo of Arthur's mark, apparently oblivious to the prickles of heat and shivers of awareness that his touch spawned down Arthur's spine. 'I have been lectured about letting it get this far. I didn't mean to, but you didn't give me much choice. I know I should have come to you earlier but...'

But Arthur was not the only one who had his pride. The Gods alone knew what it had cost Merlin, all this time, to keep his secret and play the fool, to live without the respect of others when there was nothing he deserved more. Arthur did not know how he could have born it.

'I don't think we have much choice, considering the consequences.'

Merlin pulled a face at that, a wrenching grimace that Arthur recognised. He'd sported it himself, now and then, when his duty to the throne narrowed down his options until there was nothing left. Now, Merlin looked the same, more angry at being forced into a certain course of action than outraged by its necessity.

'I hate this,' he murmured, low and soft so that only Arthur could hear. 'Being made to do something, like some stupid prophecy is the only thing that matters. Like there aren't real people involved, just pawns. We can't even be left to fight in peace.'

Arthur looked at him then, wondering how many times Merlin had been driven to go against his own nature for the sake of some far-off destiny. How often had he frozen on the cusp of something, paralysed by his own uncertainty? How many times had he been forced to choose between his own morals and the highest likelihood of a positive outcome?

A flare of anger on his behalf surged through Arthur's chest. He remembered Merlin in those first, uncertain days of their acquaintance, when he had been doing his best to drive this irritating, irreverent boy from his life. Back then, he'd seemed so light: carefree and naive in a way Arthur didn't know whether to pity or envy. If he believed his written confession – and he did – Merlin had been struggling under his secret even then, but he had not bent beneath its burden.

Now, it was easy to see the strain he had suffered. He still laughed and joked, but there was a gravity and seriousness around him now. Some days it was fierce and proud, confident and powerful in a way Arthur had to tell himself he didn't find attractive. Others, like now, it looked like a weight crushing Merlin beneath it and hollowing out the last sparks of happiness, until he was nothing but a man of duty.

That, more than anything, was something Arthur could not bear to contemplate.

'I think this was a bit more than a "fight", don't you? From what Gaius said, these marks are rare, and only come to life in dire circumstances. Otherwise, they'd have shown up the first time I tried to fire you. Or before that, even, when we wrecked the marketplace.'

'You wrecked the marketplace,' Merlin corrected him, making Arthur smile. 'Still, doesn't it bother you? That we've basically been strong-armed into fixing this, not because we want to, but because destiny tells us we must?'

Arthur pulled back so that he could get a better look at Merlin's face. 'Do you not want to fix it?' he asked, carefully editing all trace of emotion out of his voice. He held his tone level and tried not to think how Merlin must be able to feel the sudden scared race of his heart beneath his palm.

'Of course I do!' Merlin replied, and if he noticed the way Arthur sagged in relief, he didn't mention it. 'I just wish we'd come to each other willingly, rather than because you were about to drop dead and my magic had vanished.'

Even as he said it, there was a flicker of the same doubt that Arthur felt: a silent acknowledgement that maybe, if left alone, they would never have seen each other again. He would have passed his days as prince and then king while Merlin faded into obscurity, living a life of quiet acceptance far from Arthur's side.

'I don't believe in destiny,' he managed at last, tracing his finger back and forth over the curve of the ring that marked Merlin's chest. 'I think our choices, even ones that are pushed upon us, are still our own.'

'I don't think "Do this or your best friend dies" is really much of a choice,' Merlin muttered, his scowl focused somewhere in the middle distance. That, at least, was a mercy, because it meant he didn't notice whatever Arthur's face did at the mention of the words "best friend".

It was said so artlessly, as if he didn't even have to think about it, and the wavering fortress of Arthur's doubts and paranoia took another blow. Back in Camelot, with the edifice of his father's prejudice all around him, it had been easy to fall back on ways he had learned by rote. He had given in to his instincts of fear and revulsion, painting Merlin in hues of cruelty and corruption.

Here, in this pokey little apothecary, far from the forbidding walls of the citadel, it was easier to see the truth. Merlin had kept his secret out of necessity, but in the end, he had trusted Arthur enough to surrender it with no guarantees of his safety. In return, Arthur had acted as his father taught him, and left Merlin's faith in pieces with his response.

That he could still speak of friendship after that loosened the knot in Arthur's throat. For the first time since he had watched Merlin walk away, he felt as if he could breathe.

A prickle on his chest beneath Merlin's palm made him wince. It was not the deep, abiding ache that had rattled his bones, but something sharp and light, like a scald. It made him twitch back without thinking, not sure if he wanted to hiss in discomfort or scratch at it.

Merlin was no better. Pain pinched his face as he backed away from Arthur's touch, tenting his tunic to keep it away from the sensitive skin. With a scowl, he peeled aside the wide collar, slipping it down one shoulder and glaring at the black ring. It gave Arthur a view of the line that travelled over the curve of Merlin's shoulder and down his arm, unrepentant. It was the perfect match for the one that stained Arthur's skin. Magic, it seemed, did not see the point of subtlety.

'It's changing.' Arthur reached out without thinking, the urge to touch written in his bones. Was that sorcery as well, he wondered – destiny tangling them in its web – or was it just him, seeking out the reassurance of Merlin's skin, warm and alive against his own? 'Look.'

He traced his finger over the stain that had bloomed in the centre of the hollow ring. It was small, no bigger than the nail on his little finger, and formless. Arthur didn't even need to look to know the same thing now marked him, itching and irritable, but there all the same.

'Is it – do you think it's a good thing?'

Merlin cocked his head, giving Arthur a thoughtful look. 'Can't you feel it?'

It was tempting to scoff and point out that, unlike Merlin, Arthur did not have a magical bone in his body. Even the thought of it sent a rash of shivers down his spine, but something stayed his denial. If he really wanted to try and fix the rift that had yawned between them, he had to make an effort to set aside his ingrained distaste. He had to at least try and meet Merlin halfway.

'I wouldn't even know how to begin,' he confessed.

'Just focus. Think about the mark. In any magic, intent matters. It gives spells a sort of feeling. Ones meant to cause harm feel hot and harsh in the senses of the target, like ash and smoke.'

'But you're a sorcerer. I'm not.'

'Warlock, and you don't need to be one for this. Magic is everywhere in the world, despite Uther's best efforts to banish it, and even people who possess not even a trace of ability can still pick up on it if they know where to look.' Merlin watched him across the tatty pillows, and Arthur wondered if this was some kind of test – a way for Merlin to see if Arthur could flex, even a little, in the face of what he had been raised to hate.

Well, he would not be found wanting.

He tried to do as Merlin asked, concentrating his thoughts. At first, he only felt foolish, more aware of the clamour of his mind and the ache of his body than anything else. Yet he persisted, reaching out with some nebulous part of himself until he came across something other.

It was not pleasant, exactly, at least not at first. Instead, it felt like stretching out his hand in the dark and finding a wall: an anchor point in a world that made little sense. It felt dependable and stalwart, like stone, but beneath that there were other glimmers, dreamlike and vaporous, things he was not sure he could put into words. It made him think of a warm hearth and hearty food, sanctuary: a place where he could be himself, rather than the crown he wore.

'Determination and... home?' He blinked open his eyes, not realising he had shut them the better to concentrate. Merlin's soft smile greeted him, not just the curve of his lips but the gleam in his eyes, the first hint of that old affection Arthur had missed beyond bearing.

'Told you that you would be able to feel it,' he said. 'It's mostly neutral: power with a job to do and little emotional component. That's the determination. The feeling of home is protection magic. It's –' He hesitated, considering his next words. 'I think it's maybe the start of it settling – of things getting better. After all, it's not like they can get much worse.'

Relief was a blooming flower in Arthur's chest, unfurling delicate petals beneath hope's fragile light. He knew that what had torn them apart could not easily be healed. A hundred questions still boiled in his mind, and the phantom of doubt lingered. He and Merlin had a long way to go, but it seemed they had at least taken the first step forward.

And it was a journey he intended to see through to the end, whatever that may be.

Chapter Text

It was strange, being this close to Arthur. Merlin didn't just mean the physical proximity. There was something raw and vulnerable about the murmurs they shared, his secret laid bare for his judgement.

He itched to shy away from it, but that would not help their situation. This was necessary, like purging a wound, and he would bear the discomfort. For his own sake, and for Arthur's. Mirinie was right about one thing: they could not carry on like this.

They slept when they needed to, ate whenever they were bid and otherwise stayed abed except to make use of the chamber-pot. Neither of them had yet regained the strength to stand for any meaningful length of time, but the enforced bed rest gave them the opportunity to talk in a way they never had before.

For once, it was not just Arthur taking Merlin into his confidence. The great, damning secret that had forced them apart had been uttered, given shape and voice. Here, far from Camelot, it was easier to meet each other as equals, as Arthur and Merlin, rather than master and servant, or prince and sorcerer.

He expected Arthur to demand answers – to pick over the list Merlin had left detailing his magical acts and judge each instance, weighing up some tally in his head before declaring his guilt or innocence. It was an unfair belief, and Arthur soon proved him wrong.

He asked not about the spells Merlin wrought, but the events around them, requesting context. He seemed to go through his own memory, picking out instances where he thought magic could have been at work. With each one that he found, Merlin saw the rigid walls of Arthur's rejection beginning to crumble away.

His view of sorcery had always been unbalanced, because he did not know what Merlin had done in his name. He did not see it being used, day-after-day, for his protection and comfort. When Arthur knowingly witnessed magic, it was used by an enemy. Now, it was as if he sought to redress that balance within himself.

It warmed Merlin's heart, chasing off the sting of his resentment and the chill of his misery. This was what he had hoped for when he first told Arthur what he was. He had never expected immediate acceptance, but he had prayed that Arthur would try and understand. Now, he was doing just that.

Better late than never.

'Where did you get this?' Arthur's fingers hovered over the silver starburst of the scar in the middle of Merlin's chest. It wasn't as if he could miss it, since Merlin's tunic was unlaced. They no longer needed to touch each other's marks to ease their pain, but both he and Arthur had reached out more than once, taking comfort in the heat of skin-on-skin. 'It looks like a burn.'

'It is. When I went to barter my life for yours after the Questing Beast, Nimueh threw a fireball at me. I didn't dodge in time.'

Arthur's face did something complicated, his brow dipping into a scowl as his lips wrenched into a grimace. 'I noticed you were rather vague about that in the list you made. I suppose this is why. What you offered – your life for mine? No, I –' He swallowed, hard, and a dim echo of dread and misery traced its path through Merlin's mind. 'I would never ask that of you.'

'I know. It doesn't mean I wouldn't give it, though.'

'Because a dragon told you to?'

Merlin sighed. It was not the first time that Arthur had made a similar comment. Not that he could blame him, not when there was a very real manifestation of destiny currently making their lives difficult. Yet this was about more than what was happening to them. Arthur's concerns seemed to focus less about the intent of Merlin's magic and more on why he had remained at Arthur's side.

'He's why I stayed, initially.' There was no point in denying it. If not for Kilgharrah's words, there was a good chance he would have caved to Arthur's constant attempts to drive him off. There was only so much of Prince Prat he could stand, after all. 'But once you got your head out of your arse, I realised you weren't so bad. Also, people kept trying to kill you, and I took offence at that. I didn't drink poison for you out of duty, Arthur. The same as you didn't defy your father and dash to the Forest of Balor out of obligation to your useless manservant.'

'You were useless,' Arthur admitted. 'You still are.'

Merlin jabbed him with his elbow, getting some small satisfaction at Arthur's grunt. 'Oh, I'm sorry. Do you prefer George and his jokes about brass? He must have been delighted when I left so he got the job.'

Arthur sighed, and Merlin watched him scrub a hand over his face. 'He didn't.'

'What?'

'He didn't get the job. No one did. It felt – wrong.' Arthur was not meeting his eyes, choosing to lie on his back and scowl up at the ceiling. 'I managed well enough.'

Merlin doubted that, but he restrained the urge to argue. Instead, he horded that tiny bit of joy, relishing it along with the other fragments that Arthur's quiet words had given him, these past couple of days.

A rattle at the door interrupted before he could speak, and he winced as Mirinie swept into the room, a bowl of steaming water in her hands and spare clothes slung over her shoulder. She had checked on them repeatedly, though it was food, rather than elixirs, that she forced past their lips. Now, her face was set in a determined mien that Merlin had grown to fear, and he struggled not to clutch the blanket to him like a shield.

'I sent those knights of yours to catch some rabbits this morning. They proved themselves not entirely useless. I expect the two of you to be washed, dressed and sat at the table in a candle-mark. You've lain abed long enough.'

'Recovering!' Merlin pointed out.

Mirinie sniffed, but conceded the point. 'Try. If nothing else, you need to wash. The smell is putting off my customers.'

Merlin glared at her, but she paid him no mind, setting down the basin behind the rickety privacy screen before draping the clothes over the end of their make-shift cot.

'A candle-mark,' she repeated, and something in her tone suggested that if they were a moment late, they would be lucky to get gruel for their dinner.

'She's terrifying,' Arthur whispered once Mirinie had departed. 'Makes me grateful for Gaius.'

'Gaius is just as bad. It's only because you're a prince that he bothers to try and be polite.' Merlin pressed his palm to the rushes, easing himself upright and waiting for his sluggish body to get to grips with the change. 'Can you actually stand up?'

'Maybe.'

Arthur's doubt was not unfounded. The few times he had managed to use the chamber-pot he had been as unsteady on his feet as a new foal. Now, he did the same as Merlin, moving like an injured man afraid of rousing his pain anew.

It was a dreadful effort, like being born again, emerging from the chrysalis of the blankets to face a cold and brutal world. Merlin hobbled around to Arthur's side, bracing himself on the wall whenever his balance began to tilt. It was embarrassing, being so weak, but there wasn't much room for pride between the two of them now – not when they had shared a sick bed for days.

A stool sat behind the privacy screen, and Merlin nudged Arthur down into it, watching him curl his fingertips under the seat like a man clinging to a piece of driftwood. He was pale, his skin clammy, but despite that he still looked a good deal better than he had when Gwaine and Lancelot had dragged him over the doorstep.

'All right?' Merlin asked, his hands curled around Arthur's shoulders.

'Fine.' It was the snap of a wet twig, but Merlin heard the anger there all the same. He knew how Arthur hated to be brought low, and his guts writhed in sympathy. 'What about you? You're not much better than I am.'

'I'll manage.'

'Liar.' Arthur said it without rancour, but Merlin winced all the same as he turned to the bowl, dipping in two cloths and wringing them out. He surrendered one to Arthur before blotting at his own face and the back of his neck, relishing the feel of the hot, clean water even as the weak shakes seemed to grow stronger and more painful with the effort.

There had been an ague in Camelot last winter. It had knocked most of the citadel off its feet, leaving everyone abed for a week or more. In the aftermath, Merlin had felt like this, as if his strength had all gone.

A quick look at Arthur suggested he was in no better state, struggling to lift his arms and pressing a hand to his forehead as if he were dizzy. Gods-forbid Arthur ever know it, but he looked pitiful, and Merlin's heart gave a soft pang.

'Come here.' He took the cloth from Arthur's unresisting grip, wetting it again before kneeling in front of him. It put them on the same level and spared Merlin some of his strength. Cautiously, expecting Arthur to protest, he reached forward, dabbing across his brow and blotting at his cheeks, moving down the column of Arthur's throat to the fragile splay of his collarbones.

He stifled a smile when Arthur sagged into his touch, telling himself fiercely that it didn't mean anything. The road to forgiveness was long and hard. Arthur probably trusted him because he had little other choice, and because Merlin was about as magical as a lump of rock, right now. He could not so much as light a candle, let alone cast a curse.

It felt easier washing Arthur than it did himself, like swimming with the current rather than fighting against it. He lost himself to the simple task, only flinching in surprise when Arthur reached towards the bowl and grabbed the other cloth. He wet it before sweeping it gently across Merlin's brow.

'You've lost weight,' Arthur murmured, his fingers trembling as he gripped Merlin's jaw to steady him. 'And you didn't have much on you to begin with.'

'It'll come back,' Merlin promised. 'As long as we sort things between us, we'll both be as we were. Physically, at least.'

'And the rest of it?' There was something fragile at the foundation of Arthur's question, soft like gossamer. 'Can we ever get past this? Sometimes I think we can, and then I remember that night and it –' He bit his lip, bleaching the flushed pink beneath the pressure as if he wished he could choke his words down. 'We hurt each other. Badly. It keeps coming back to me and I just... Pendragons have always been good at holding grudges.' He drew away, looking into Merlin's eyes. 'What if we can't find our way to forgiveness?'

'I think we have to want to. That's the first step. If all this is only about punishing each other –'

'It's not.' Arthur stared at him before dunking the cloth again, reaching out for Merlin's hands and dabbing at his palms, his knuckles, his wrists. It was the most tender Merlin had ever known Arthur to be. In that moment, it was easy to forget everything else they were – crowns and duties alike – and simply exist in their most fundamental iterations: two men trying to find their way back to a treasured friendship.

'Then we'll manage.' Merlin said it with quiet defiance, reaching up to tweak aside the open collar of his tunic. 'It's already changing. We have to assume that's a good thing.'

Arthur tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at it. 'I swear, Merlin, if this turns into a flower or something equally girly…'

Merlin threw the wet washcloth in his face, but he was grinning when he did it.

Getting dressed was twice the challenge, but Merlin was glad to be free of his stale old clothes. Mirinie had mercifully provided clean under-garments as well, and he and Arthur managed to at least cover themselves enough for their own dignity before requiring each other's help.

'I'm not sure rabbit stew is worth it,' Arthur confessed, sagging back to sit on the bed with his trousers unlaced around his hips. His chest was bare, the muscle still there but every trace of comfort whittled away until it made him look hard and lean. His skin, unnaturally pale with illness, was detailed with the occasional scar, and the black of the mark that trailed up his arm and bloomed over his heart looked stark.

A small, petty part of him was amused about the floral shape of it. Arthur was an ass when it came to anything that challenged his perception of manliness, one that Merlin knew Uther had drummed into him from a young age. Still, a more practical aspect was worried about the darkness of the mark. Most of it could be hidden under Arthur's clothes, but the stain over his left palm and banding his finger were blatant. How long would it be before Uther noticed and started bleating about sorcery?

'What are we going to do about that?' He tapped Arthur's hand meaningfully. He had managed to put on his own clothes, but the effort had cost him, his arms lead-heavy. He slumped on the mattress, close enough that their shoulders brushed. 'I'm a servant. I can pretend it's dirt.'

'It won't fade?' Arthur asked.

'Honestly? I have no idea.' Merlin plucked Arthur's tunic off the bed, guiding it over his head and pulling his wrists through the cuffs. A moment later, Arthur's fingers smoothed up the vee of Merlin's collar, tingling against his skin before they grasped the laces and tied them in place. 'Mirinie has a book. Maybe it has some answers.' The thought of trying to bend his mind to the task of reading exhausted him, but he had to offer.

'Not yet.' Arthur shook his head, reaching out to stop Merlin before he could try and move away. His blue eyes looked pale and flat, drained after so little effort. 'We've got a bit of time.'

'Not much,' Merlin argued. 'Whatever excuse you've given your father will only last so long. It's been almost a week since you left Camelot. He'll raise the alarm and come looking, eventually.'

'We'll have to do something. It's not as if either of us are in a fit state to ride.' Arthur winced, glancing towards the door as the clatter of crockery reached their ears. 'Later. We'll think about it later. Come on, rabbit stew.'

'You might want to do your trousers up first?'

Arthur huffed: it was a tired little sound of mirth, but Merlin would take it. With a grunt he got back to his feet, holding out a hand to help Arthur up before they stumbled their way towards the door.

'Thank the gods,' Lancelot murmured when he saw them, his dark eyes brimming with relief. 'Mirinie swore you were getting better, but...'

'The term "better" is relative,' Arthur protested, not bothering to hide his sigh as he eased himself onto the end of the bench closest to the fire. Merlin didn't blame him. The distance from their room to the fireside was further than either of them had moved for days.

'It's an improvement on "almost dead", which is what you were when we got here,' Gwaine argued, his grin a poor shield for his concern. 'Now you're only half-dead.'

Mirinie waited for Merlin to take a seat opposite Arthur before setting two plates down in front of them, brimming with rabbit stew. It was hearty fare, and the fresh, warm bread steamed in the air.

'What about us?' Gwaine asked when she served herself and sat primly at Merlin's side.

'You've got hands and the strength to serve yourselves,' she replied, unconcerned. 'They're patients.'

Gwaine pressed his palm to his heart as if grievously wounded before Lancelot laughed and nudged him towards the pot over the fire.

'We sent a rider back to Camelot with a message for the King stating we were investigating rumours of sorcery to the east,' he explained. 'It was the best thing we could think of to allay any concerns, and if he sends an additional patrol, they will find nothing of note.'

'Including no prince.' Mirinie's expression took on a grim slant as she jabbed a sharp elbow into Merlin's side. 'Nobody knows he's here, yet, but if word gets out it could bring a world of trouble down on our heads. We don't want Uther and his men stomping through these streets. They'd find plenty to burn.'

'Galvistone is not on Camelot's lands,' Arthur pointed out.

'That's never stopped him before.' Mirinie shook her head, her expression grim. 'There's a place for Merlin here, if he wants it, but there isn't one for you. Not as the law stands, and I cannot risk the town's safety.'

Merlin met her eye, guilt flaring in his stomach as he took in the lines of strain upon her face. Mirinie was full of bluster, but underneath she had a good heart. Galvistone was a tiny haven, but its protection was tenuous. If Uther decided it was worth his while, he would damn the Old Religion and set it to the torch. For the first time, he realised what a risk it had been taking Arthur in. If he had died here, it could have doomed them all.

'I need that book. Maybe there's some way to speed things up, or... something.'

'The druids think not.'

'The druids don't know everything.'

Mirinie pursed her lips, but she didn't argue. Her shoulders shifted in a sigh before she gestured to Merlin's bowl. 'Eat. Then, if you can still keep your eyes open, I'll let you have it.'

'Don't push yourself.' Arthur's command was soft, but firm, and the look he shot in Merlin's direction was far too knowing. 'You're not much better off than I am, and even if you do find something, you'll need your magic to make it work.'

'Maybe the druids could cast it.'

'No.' Arthur shook his head. 'No one but you, Merlin.'

Perhaps if he did not know Arthur so well, he wouldn't have noticed the glimmer of fear in his gaze. It was a subtle thing, tucked away as if it were a source of shame, but he'd had years to learn Arthur's moods. Now, he remembered the dreams that weren't his – the terror that had been drummed into Arthur from the time he was old enough to walk, the smell of blood and vomit after executions and the ceaseless rage of sorcerers that targeted him for the crime of being his father's son.

He saw magic through Arthur's eyes, and he knew that fear was justified.

Yet he did not miss the significance of what Arthur had said. Sorcery may scare him, but in Merlin's hands, at least, he would try and trust it.

'All right.'

Mirinie seemed pleased when they managed to eat everything she put in front of them, yet despite the warmth of the meal, a pervasive chill nibbled at his bones. Part of him longed to go back to bed, but Mirinie had said that the sheets, at least, needed to be changed, and if they could stay up a little longer it would do them good in the long run. It was how he and Arthur came to be sat on the hearth rug by the fire, sharing a blanket wrapped around their shoulders as they soaked up the heat from the flames.

Lancelot, chivalrous to the bone, had offered Mirinie his help, leaving Gwaine to keep an eye on them. They were chatting quietly about the excuses they planned to tell Uther on their return while Merlin flicked through Mirinie's book. He'd read it before, but he had been more focussed on understanding the details of what had happened. Now, he tried to bring his exhausted mind to bear on the intricacies of it. He already knew there was no quick fix, but there had to be a way to buy them enough time to get back to Camelot.

He'd have to go with Arthur and the others, he realised. Mending the rift between them was no small task, and it was not something they could do if Arthur returned home and Merlin lingered here.

An anxious fist clutched tight in the pit of his belly. Not because he thought Arthur would stay true to the threat he had made, back on that fateful day. He did not believe that a pyre would await him. Only a lot of people he had once called “friend”, who now knew what he was. Maybe Arthur would not betray him, but what about Leon or Gwen, Percival or Elyan? Would they be happy knowing a sorcerer was in their midst?

'What's wrong?' Arthur's warmth leant against his shoulder, teasing him free of his concerns and leaving him blinking at the flames that leapt up the chimney.

'When I wrote those letters to everyone, I didn't think I'd be coming back.' He blew out a breath. 'I wanted to be honest, but I didn't think I'd ever have to face them again.' He hitched his shoulders up around his ears, protecting his neck from the swing of an imaginary axe. 'Now it looks like I'm not going to have a choice.'

He looked up, seeing the tail end of the look Gwaine and Arthur had shared between them. There was a hint of amusement in it, underneath the concern, and it was Gwaine who spoke up.

'I don't think it will be as bad as all that.' He leant forward where he sat in the chair nearby, his hands dangling between his spread knees. 'Things might be a bit tense, but they'll come around. Some are like me, far less fussed about the magic than the fact you never trusted us enough to share it.' He held up a hand before Merlin could protest. 'We know you had your reasons, and they were bloody good ones, but that doesn't stop it from hurting.'

'And the others?' Merlin rasped.

'Have spent too long under Uther's rule and seen a bit too much of what magic can do in the wrong hands.' Gwaine shrugged. 'Can't blame them for having their doubts, but that's all they are – doubts. Ones that you can ease far better if you're there to explain yourself. They're still your friends. All of them. There's not a soul you told who would dream of turning you over to Uther's justice.'

'He's right.' Arthur's confession was a quiet rasp, his weight a warm seam down Merlin's side as he leant closer, offering comfort with his presence. 'The King knows nothing about any of this, and I don't intend to tell him.' He hesitated, chewing on his bottom lip. 'I can't say you're safe in Camelot, though, not with the law as it stands and my father on the throne. Not like you are here.' He indicated Galvistone as a whole with a tilt of his head: its narrow streets and its permissive attitude towards magic.

'I'm in no more danger than I was when I first walked through the citadel's gates.' Merlin shrugged, trying his best to believe it. He did not want to think that those now aware of his secret might betray it. He trusted them all, and yet the price of even a careless word could well be his survival. 'The only difference is that now you all know what I am.'

He took a deep breath, his thoughts lingering on destiny, and friendship, the shell of a life he had built for himself in Camelot and the first taste of true freedom he had found here in Galvistone. Yet for all that he could be himself in this small haven on Camelot's border, it was still not home. Not without all the people he thought of as his friends.

Not without Arthur.

'I can't promise I'll stay.' It was as much an oath to himself as it was a warning to Arthur and Gwaine: a vow to remember that, despite the dragon's dire warnings to the contrary, he had a choice. 'I'll come back until this is sorted.' He tapped his chest, indicating the silhouette that was taking shape against his skin. 'After that...'

He felt torn, unable to commit to being at Arthur's side once more when everything between them remained so tentative, and yet unwilling to condemn himself to a life held separate. How could he, when it felt as if his heart had only just started to beat again after long weeks of silence?

Arthur's touch on the back of his wrist was gentle, feather-light, like the kiss of a butterfly's wing. It was shy, as if Arthur was unsure of his welcome, and when Merlin met his gaze it was to see shadows of sadness underpinning the meek curve of his smile.

'That's all I ask,' he murmured. 'Once this is fixed...' He shrugged, shaking his head. His lips parted more than once, as if he had something more to add, but each time he swallowed back the words, allowing silence to reign.

Merlin stamped down on the fluttering ache in his chest, telling himself not to be stupid. What had he expected? Had he wanted Arthur to beg him to stay in Camelot? Had he wanted him to fight for what they'd once had? If so, then he was as much of a fool as Gaius often claimed.

He could dream of a better life – one where Arthur welcomed him with the friendship and subtle affection they had once shared, but it was nothing more than a fantasy. They could shore up the damage they had wrought, but they would always bear its scars, and there was no going back to the way things were.

He was a sorcerer, and Merlin feared that was all Arthur would ever see.

Chapter Text

Patience had never been Arthur's strong suit, and his tolerance for his own poor health was limited at best. He had been taught from a young age not to show weakness: such a thing could be the downfall of a kingdom. Rest and recuperation were notions that chafed at his temper, especially when there was nothing so substantial as a fever nor any visible wound to bring him low.

Progress seemed achingly slow. It was only when he looked back that he realised that any had been made, wrought in quiet words shared with Merlin and soft touches both given and received.

No longer did he languish in bed, caught between the veils of the sleeping and waking world. Instead, he managed to rise at a reasonable hour and stay upright for the better part of the day. He and Merlin were always under the watchful eyes of Gwaine, Lancelot and the indomitable Mirinie, but their recovery inched along in the smallest of increments.

In truth, perhaps Arthur would be more resigned to his fate if it didn't leave him with so much time to think.

Two days ago, Merlin had made it clear that his return to Camelot was unlikely to be permanent. He would follow Arthur back to his kingdom to ensure the spell that bound them found some element of stability and freed them from its crippling clutches, but after that?

Arthur's hands knotted into fists atop the table. The tools of Mirinie's craft were arrayed around him, their gleam dimming as dusk gathered beyond the window, but he paid them no mind. Could he blame Merlin for his reluctance to linger in a realm that would see him dead? Was anyone but himself at fault for Merlin's uncertainty?

If he had stopped to rationally consider the matter when Merlin made his confession, then perhaps all of this could have been avoided. If he'd acted like a king, rather than a coward, then maybe they would not be left picking over the rubble of their friendship, trying to salvage what they could from the ruins.

Now, he faced the prospect of a life without Merlin, not because of exile, but because he had decided to leave of his own free will. After all, what was there for him in Camelot except a death sentence waiting in the wings and a clutch of faltering friendships?

'You have to give him a reason to stay,' Lancelot murmured, the bench creaking quietly as he settled at Arthur's side. He and Gwaine had been working and chatting, carrying the conversation rather than allowing the silence to fester.

In the privacy of the room they shared, he and Merlin talked plenty, hammering things out as best they could and easing over the hurts that had flourished between them. Yet outside, the world felt too raw and urgent. It made it harder to look at Merlin and see him as a friend, rather than a sorcerer.

Even now, Merlin was curled up by the fire once more, poring over another magic book. A frown pinned his brow and his lips were wrenched in a grimace. There was no sign of the teasing, graceless, foolish man Arthur had grown used to over their time together.

'Like what?' he whispered, aware of Gwaine edging closer to wedge himself into the conversation. Mirinie worked at the far end of the table, her hands competent as she sliced herbs, but he noticed her pause, the better to listen. 'I cannot exile Merlin one moment and imprison him the next. He should be free to make his own choices, and that includes whether he stays in a place where he cannot be himself.'

'It's his home,' Lancelot protested.

'It's his cage and a death sentence all at once' – Arthur swallowed the sour taste in the back of his throat – 'and I do not have the power to change that.'

'Would you?' Mirinie asked, her usual harsh tones smoothed away as she met Arthur's gaze. 'If you were the one on the throne, would you make Camelot a haven for him?'

Arthur closed his eyes. He knew what she was suggesting: changing the laws, making reparations for the Purge and welcoming magic into Camelot once more. Before the start of all this mess, the best he could claim was that, when his time came, he would be more lenient in punishing sorcery. Yet the idea of taking the fabric of the realm his father had built and tearing apart one of its central tenets at the seams was enough to slick his spine with sweat. All he could think of was the terror that those who wielded such power had rained down upon his people and the scars it had left in its wake.

'I don't know.'

Mirinie harrumphed, but he thought he saw the glimmer of a smile on her lips. 'I suppose I have to give you credit for being honest. Besides, I imagine when you first found out about what he is, your response would have been a resounding "no".' She sighed, squinting at the work in front of her before lifting her voice. 'Merlin, light the candles.'

Arthur began to rise to his feet, half thinking of helping, but before he could do more than shift his weight Mirinie pointed her scalpel at him: a silent command to stay put.

Merlin, lost as he was in the dense text of the book, waved one idle hand, and every candle wick blossomed with golden flames.

It was not the sudden bloom of light that snatched Arthur's breath away. A subtle heat washed through him, rolling outwards from the mark on his chest and setting his nerves aglow. His skin prickled with awareness from an invisible caress, soft and tender: unspeakably loving. It was as if Merlin was right there in front of him, rather than on the other side of the room. Not Merlin-the-sorcerer, but Merlin-his-friend, with affection blazing sure and true behind his smile.

'Your magic's back.' He felt stupid for stating the obvious, but it needed to be said, if only because Merlin did not seem to be aware of what he had done. It appeared his power had returned, and with it, everything that Arthur's father insisted made him dangerous.

He should be afraid, Arthur realised. Instead, there was only a strange mix of hunger and fascination. His sole glimpse of Merlin's magic had been what he'd shown him in his chambers: visceral proof that his confession was no lie. In that moment, Arthur had only known a soul-deep horror. Now, he shivered, torn between his learned prejudice and breathless with something else entirely, eager for more.

'Just in time, too.' Mirinie set her scalpel down and folded her arms across her chest, turning a glare on Merlin. He had lifted his head from the book to stare at the candles, and he turned his scowl in her direction. 'Now you can use that spell you discovered yesterday.'

'You found something that could help us gather the strength to get back to Camelot?' Arthur asked.

'Yeah.' Merlin drew the word out, the tone of his voice giving away the underlying "but". 'It acts like a stabiliser, easing the side-effects of what's happening for a short while.'

'So, what's the downside?' Gwaine shrugged. 'Sounds perfect.'

Merlin wrinkled his nose. 'It has to be cast on both of us, which makes sense since we're both marked, but I'd hoped to spare Arthur from any more magic. He's already suffered enough with all this. Unfortunately, it doesn't look like there's any alternative.'

'And do you have the strength?' Mirinie challenged, speaking before Arthur could respond to Merlin's gentle thoughtfulness. 'Or will you keel over as soon as you try?'

'Well, there's only one way to find out. If we do it tonight, we can leave at first light tomorrow and be back in Camelot in only a few days.'

'And if something goes wrong?' Arthur asked, unable to stop himself. Anxiety coiled its vines between his ribs, squeezing tight. His pulse skittered while his hand itched to curve around the pommel of his sword, but there was nothing here to fight. Nothing but Merlin and the magic he wielded with such casual grace.

'I don't think it can. It's not that kind of spell. The worst that would happen is that it wouldn't take, and we'd have to try and ride home as we are, with barely enough strength to walk across a room.'

Arthur clenched his jaw, knowing they did not have much choice. He would not bring Uther's wrath down on Galvistone if he could help it, and he doubted he and Merlin could make it safely back to the citadel as they were. Finally, he nodded his head, turning to give orders to Gwaine and Lancelot as Mirinie went to Merlin's side, speaking in low tones.

'Pack what you can tonight, including enough supplies to last us a few days. Inform the grooms at the stable that we'll need the horses tomorrow at sun-up. Merlin will have to ride with me.'

'And if the spell doesn't work?' Lancelot asked. 'If you're still unwell?'

'Then we have to try anyway. You know as well as I do that we can linger here no longer.'

His two knights inclined their heads, their expressions grim, but it was Gwaine who rested a hand under his elbow, helping him up from the bench before nudging him towards the room he shared with Merlin. 'Whether it works or not, you need to get some rest. Enjoy a comfortable bed while you can, Princess.'

The door eased aside under the splay of his palm, and he realised with some astonishment that the candles within were already lit, called to life by the wash of Merlin's magic. It was such a benign bit of power: useful, not dangerous, though he supposed summoning flame had the potential to do harm. Yet Merlin had stirred them without a word. It was as if he had simply willed it so, and the world had leapt to obey him.

'Are you all right?' Merlin asked, stepping across the threshold behind him and closing the door.

'You made it look so easy,' Arthur murmured, still staring at the nearest candle. 'When Morgana showed me what she could do, she used a word and lit a single taper. You...'

'She came into her magic a couple of years ago and has only recently learned to control it. I've been doing spells since before I could talk.' Merlin shrugged. 'I've had more practice, that's all.'

Arthur looked at him, not bothering to hide his doubt. What he'd felt just now was a mere echo of Merlin's strength. According to Mirinie, he had still not recovered, magically speaking, and yet Arthur had sensed the potential of it, blazing and powerful.

It should have been terrifying. At first glance, it was, but Arthur could not forget the sense of warmth and safety that had curled him in its grip. It had felt like stepping into a sun-drenched meadow: a sanctuary. Was that how magic could be when it wasn't bent on destruction? Was that what his father had driven out with his Purge, leaving nothing but hate in its wake?

Merlin shrugged out of his jacket before pulling his tunic over his head, going through the motions of getting ready to go to bed. It was still early yet, but neither one of them was at their best. It was strange. By the very nature of their relationship as master and servant, Merlin had seen Arthur in every state of undress, but until this happened, he could not say the same.

Now, while he hadn't seen all of Merlin, he'd witnessed a good deal more of the pale skin stretched over his lithe frame. Baggy clothes made Merlin look constantly waif-like at first glance, and Arthur was captivated by the truth of the muscles that lay beneath.

He was no knight, but there was a strength to his body that Arthur could read with ease. It spoke of hard, manual work and not quite enough food to sustain it, especially now, in the ebb of what had happened to them.

'What about the spell?' Arthur cleared his throat, watching Merlin splash water on his face before ducking behind the privacy screen. 'Are you doing it tomorrow before we leave?'

'No.' There was the whisper of more clothing being shed. 'It's better to do it tonight. At least if the magic exhausts me, I can curl up under the blankets. You should probably do the same. Just because you're not casting anything doesn't mean it won't affect you.'

Arthur pursed his lips, trying to push down the trepidation that ensnared him in its briar. His silence, however, did not go unnoticed, and when Merlin re-emerged, his face was locked in lines of apology.

'If I could find another way, I'd use that instead.'

Arthur shook his head, moving to do as Merlin had suggested and prepare himself for bed. It did not take long to peel off his clothes and change into a loose tunic that stopped halfway down his thighs. The cambric was old but comfortable, and Arthur rolled up the sleeves, washing his face and making use of the pot before he emerged once more.

'I trust you,' he managed, wincing as he realised it sounded like the words were dragged from him by force. Merlin cast him a look from where he sat cross-legged on the mattress, his disbelief evident.

'I want to trust you,' he amended. 'There are two of you in my head. The man I've known for years, and the one who has the power to bring my kingdom to its knees. I still don't know how to reconcile them. I want to believe that you would never do me harm, but you are the first sorcerer I have met who hasn't actively tried to kill me or throw Camelot into disarray. Perhaps it is more accurate to say that I trust you, but I don't trust your magic.'

'That's like saying you don't trust a sword,' Merlin murmured. 'Magic is a tool to be bent to another's will. It does what I tell it, and I have no desire to hurt you.' He sighed as Arthur climbed on the bed next to him, mirroring his position. This close, their knees knocked, and Arthur rubbed his clammy palms on his tunic.

'What do we need to do?'

'Put your hand over my mark,' Merlin instructed, waiting for Arthur to do as he was bid, his fingers brushing the warm skin over Merlin's heart. A moment later, he mirrored the gesture, his touch easy and familiar.

They'd fallen asleep in a similar position every night, reaching out for each other. There was solace to be found in that simple exchange of physical contact. Now, however, there was a greater awareness, and Arthur swore he could sense the warm buzz of the magic at work.

'It might feel a bit strange, but try not to fight it. You'll only make it more difficult for both of us.'

Arthur nodded, sucking in a deep breath and trying to calm the race of his pulse. Every warning his father had ever given him burgeoned through his mind: a frantic litany about treachery and corruption. This was what Uther feared: the surrender of power to another and the helplessness that came with it. Merlin could do anything to him – compel him to relinquish his throne or plunge a dagger into his own heart – and Arthur could do nothing to stop him. All he could do was sit there and pray that his shaken trust was not misplaced.

'Ancor anweald bealuléas.

Arthur stared at the golden gleam of Merlin's eyes, breathless and captivated. He had expected the power to strike him like a sword blow, all violence and calamity. Instead, it was soft and coaxing, dipping beneath his skin and tracing the outline of the mark that stained his flesh. It trailed up his arm and pooled under Merlin's palm, easing the thud of Arthur's pulse. Pleasure spread through his belly, heady and lethargic as his eyelids slid to half-mast. He felt slightly drunk, all his worries smoothed away as he sagged forward, resting his forehead against Merlin's brow.

Yet beneath that there was something deep and eternal, both resolute and fragile. It felt important, as if he could fix everything wrong between them if only he could bring it into focus. Yet it slipped through his grasp: elusive. He wanted to chase after it, but his mind was untethered, floating in a sea of beatific tranquillity. Magic's tide rose within him, filling him to the brim before draining away.

Arthur let out a shuddering breath, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. The hairs on his arms shivered upright, the ones at his nape prickling with awareness. He could feel lingering trails of power running its fingers down his spine and clutching at the curve of his hips, an almost-physical presence. Not a stranger – a third party, uninvited – but an extension of Merlin himself: an extra facet to the man in front of him that Arthur had only just begun to notice.

'Sorry,' Merlin murmured, the single word slurring from his lips. He sounded how Arthur felt – intoxicated – and he could feel him trembling. Merlin's breath whispered between them, and Arthur had never been so aware of his own body: where it ended and Merlin's began, the heat pulsing in his veins and thickening between his legs.

It was not, he realised, any sort of enchantment inspiring this feeling. He had not been ensorcelled to experience something he would otherwise never have considered. Instead, for the first time, he was seeing Merlin as he truly was – all of him, unobscured by secrecy.

And despite his lingering doubts about magic as a whole, Arthur could not deny that Merlin was a sight to behold: powerful and unashamed. It stirred up all that old desire and affection from before, feelings he thought had withered to ash in the wake of their dual betrayal. Yet now they flourished all over again, seeds blooming anew, more vigorously than ever.

Gods.

It was Merlin who found the strength to ease back, his fingertips skimming Arthur's mark and sending a ricochet of sparks through his chest. He looked wrecked, Arthur realised, his cheeks flushed and his eyes glittering. The wide collar of his sleep tunic threatened to slip off the curve of one shoulder, and Arthur stared at it, licking his lips and struggling against the urge to set his teeth to the column of Merlin's throat.

Merlin's gaze dropped to Arthur's chest, where his own sleepwear was in similar disarray. If he had hoped to hide the heat in his eyes, then he failed miserably, but there was a glimmer of something else there, too: realisation or resignation, Arthur could not be sure.

'It's not a flower.'

Arthur blinked, his addled wits taking far longer than he would have liked to understand what Merlin was talking about. Once he did, he looked at the picture on Merlin's chest, his fingers easing aside the edge of the fabric so he could stare.

There were no delicate petals etching themselves over his skin. Instead, it was a distinctive starburst in a familiar pattern. There was one just like it on the face of the very expensive compass his father had gifted him for his natality.

No letters marked out the cardinal directions, but Arthur could feel the potential of them, the same as he could picture the various hues waiting to emerge if the spell ever reached its fulfilment. Whatever Merlin had done had clearly pushed it into the next stage, giving it definition, but there was a sense of something unfinished about it, as if there was more yet to be realised.

'No,' Arthur acknowledged, not sure what to say. It felt like there was too much in him, all tangled together and trying to get out: those same old arguments about Merlin's lies, all knotted up with the desire to reach for him, to pluck all his secrets out into the open with fingertips instead of words and worship the man left in their wake.

In the end, however, it all remained unsaid. Arthur withdrew, turning away to stare blankly around him at the glowing candles as he tried to root himself in the mundanity of the chamber.

'We should get some sleep,' he managed at last, dropping his hands to the blankets beneath them and tangling his fingers in their weave. He stared at the band around his finger, noting that it and the line across his palm had faded to a delicate silver, barely visible. At least that was one less thing to worry about. 'It'll be long few days' ride to Camelot. Are you all right?'

'Hmm?' Merlin blinked at him before seeming to come back to himself, managing a jerky nod. 'Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I feel better than I have in ages. You?'

It was hard for Arthur to focus on his well-being. The clamour in his head was too loud and the sulky want that simmered in his veins gave him little peace. He felt as if he had been torn up and scattered thin, directionless, but he managed to turn his mind to the absence of pain cramping his muscles and the way his uncooperative body seemed to have recovered some of its strength.

'Better,' he rasped. 'Much better.'

There was a moment of tranquillity as they both shuffled around, getting under the blankets rather than sitting on top of them. Normally, they would face each other as they slept, giving in to the demands of the magic that bound them, but right now Arthur did not think he could tolerate that sort of intimacy. Not when he was so painfully aware of Merlin's presence. It felt too much like stepping over some shaky, uncertain boundary. One he had drawn for himself long before all this started, and that had eroded to little more than a line in the sand.

He shuffled into his pillow, his lashes fluttering as the candles went out simultaneously. There was no fume of smoke. It was as if they had never been lit at all. If he got up to touch their wicks, would they still be warm, or did magical fire work differently?

It felt like such a small, innocuous question, but it only served to highlight how little he knew. He had been taught from the time he could understand the words that magic was evil and its eradication was unquestionable. He still remembered the beating he had received for asking his father, at the age of six, whether there was any exception. He had never raised the subject again, not even when there were children younger than him being taken to the headsman for their crimes.

And it was in that field of ignorance that his fear had grown, watered by magical attacks on Camelot and tended by his father's ever-present paranoia. Now, he thought of the man who lay at his back, of his magic and how it felt against Arthur's skin, and he understood what he had to do.

He could not be like his father, clinging to false precepts and meting out his justice. If he wanted to fix things with Merlin – not just patch the wounds and ignore them, but scour them and allow them to heal – then he had to learn about magic. The good and the bad. Without that, they had no foundation on which to rebuild.

'You've been teaching Morgana.' He spoke into the darkness, knowing from the tension of the body behind him that Merlin was still awake.

'Control. Yeah. She was setting stuff on fire by accident when she got scared or angry or both. It was only going to be a matter of time before someone saw. The magic itself, though... that was something she always had – not something she learned. It's as much a part of her as her skin or her hair.'

Arthur turned that thought over in his head, staring into the gloom. 'And you've been doing it since you were an infant.' No wonder Hunith looked kind but harried, even now. You could not explain to a baby why sorcery was dangerous. 'It goes against everything my father's ever said.'

'Because he's wrong.' Merlin shifted, the blankets rustling as he turned over. Arthur could feel the weight of his stare on the back of his head. 'It's rarely a choice, Arthur. Killing people for the simple act of having magic is like killing them for having blue eyes.'

'And that's what you face every single day in Camelot.'

'Me and Morgana both.'

Arthur grimaced. There had been a time, months ago now, when she had been a ghost of herself, pale and brittle. He would bet the contents of his coin-purse that she found her strength again thanks to the simple knowledge that she was not alone in Uther's Camelot: monstrous in the eyes of others.

Monstrous in his eyes, just as Merlin had been, the moment he had confessed.

And yet, when Morgana had shown him what she could do, he had not recoiled from her as he had done from Merlin. He had not sought to punish her for the ability she possessed. That, more than anything, hammered home the realisation that most of his distress over Merlin was not about his sorcery, but about the lies. That was what he struggled to get past, even now, and he sighed miserably into his pillow, heart-sore.

'I don't know what to do.'

His confession stirred the still night air, and the tentative press of Merlin's fingertips brushed against his shoulder-blade. It felt wrong that Merlin was the one offering comfort to him when it should be the other way around. Apportioning blame did no favours to anyone, but in the back of his head Arthur suspected his was the lion's share.

'Here, at least, we can talk about it. In Camelot –?' A pulse of worry tightened his throat. 'If even a whisper of it gets out, my father will kill you. How am I meant to understand if I can't speak of it for fear the wrong person might overhear? We have to go back, but...' For the first time in his life, he looked upon his kingdom not as a proud prince, blind to its flaws. Now he saw it as Merlin must: a place of great danger. 'I don't know how to keep you safe.'

A small noise from behind him reached his ears: a tattered little breath of surprise. 'Do you want to? Keep me safe, that is?'

Arthur bit his lip, hating himself for putting doubt in Merlin's head. Even in that moment of genuine anger, when his threats had spilled out of him like poison, they had sickened him. Now he could feel how deeply it had wounded Merlin to hear it. The sensation of it echoed back to him, carried along on a ripple of magic until he struggled to breathe around the ache of it.

'Yes, you idiot!' He turned over, jostling the bed as he reached out to grip Merlin's shoulders, trying to at least press that small fragment of certainty into his skin. It seemed like such a sad little promise, and Arthur hated himself for reducing them to this awful uncertainty. 'If you came back to Camelot and something happened, I – I –' He stammered to a halt, shaking his head in the darkness. 'I don't think I could ever forgive myself.'

Merlin's sigh was a soft curl of sound in the air. 'Nothing will happen. I can make it safe for us to speak of it in your chambers. Things like that are easier, now that you know. Besides, if Uther catches me, I have no intention of sticking around to let him burn me at the stake or whatever.'

'You could get away?' Arthur tightened his fingers in Merlin's nightshirt. He had always wondered why, when faced with death, the other sorcerers did not flee. After all, they already stood accused. Only now did it occur to him that many of them probably did not have the strength for such great magics. The truly powerful ones were never captives. They died in battle, fighting for their cause, not at the whim of Camelot's king. 'Even when you're weakened by what's happened?'

He did not need to see Merlin's face. His doubt was written in his silence. Maybe before destiny had hobbled them both, he could have escaped. Yet Arthur could not forget how, only a matter of days ago, Merlin had been too weak to light a candle. Perhaps he had recovered some of his strength, but would it be enough to flee Uther's justice?

'It'll be all right,' Merlin promised, as if he thought Arthur would believe that frail reassurance. 'We really should sleep. The last thing we need is you dropping off in the saddle and falling off your horse.'

Arthur hummed in response, but he did not shut his eyes. Instead, he watched as Merlin, little more than a suggestion in the gloom, seemed to settle deeper into the mattress. His fingers still curled gently in the front of Arthur's tunic, as if he thought he might slip away in the night.

He wondered at how Merlin could have lived as he had, always presenting a more acceptable copy of himself to the world for its approval. How he could get up each morning, knowing full well that if even one person suspected him of performing magic, he would end the day on the pyre? He considered what he was asking of him now, going back into that danger weakened by all that had come to pass, less able to defend himself than ever.

That had to change. Arthur could grudgingly tolerate what the spell had done to him. In some ways, he deserved it for his foolishness, but to strip Merlin of his magic when he had only obeyed Arthur's edict of exile felt almost cruel. More to the point, in Camelot, it could well be a matter of survival.

Merlin needed his power, and there, in the shadows of the night, Arthur resolved to see this through to the end. As much as the idea hurt him, he would rather have Merlin strong, powerful, and far from his side than restrained in Camelot's confines, forever leashed by destiny's cruel attempts at forcing them together again.

They would get through this, and when they did, Merlin would make his choice and Arthur would honour it.

Chapter Text

The return ride to Camelot passed almost without incident. They bid a grateful farewell to Mirinie – who saw them off with a mixture of fondness and relief – and began the long trip home. Carrying four men between three horses meant the journey was slower than it could have been, but with Merlin changing who he rode behind, they managed to avoid tiring any of the mounts beyond endurance.

When they made camp at night, it was Lancelot who quietly encouraged him to use his magic. The whole notion sent a prickle of thrilling unease marching up and down his spine. His mother's warnings joined those of Gaius in his head, and he struggled against them.

At last, he set aside his caution. He lit the fire without bothering with the charade of flint and steel and gathered firewood with a few soft words. Each time, he caught himself waiting for cries of horror, but there was never any outrage. Lancelot merely looked pleased, as if it lifted his heart to see Merlin unburdened by his secret. Gwaine was fascinated, asking a dozen questions about it and plucking out those moments in his memory where Merlin had used magic to save their skin.

Yet it was Arthur's reaction that Merlin could not help but notice, time and again. Uther's son, who had been taught to fear all manner of sorcery, did not flinch or shy away. Instead, whenever Merlin uttered a spell, he seemed to relax, his tension spooling out of him. He did not grimace or try to pretend it wasn't happening. Rather, he watched with the kind of intensity that left Merlin feeling naked even when he was fully clothed, flushed all over beneath Arthur's scrutiny.

'It's beautiful,' Arthur whispered one night when they were sharing the narrow space of a bed-roll. 'Your magic. It's beautiful.'

So are you, Merlin thought, but he had not the courage to utter the words out loud, no matter how much his heart cried out for him to do so. It all still felt too tentative, the wounds the two of them had inflicted on each other too raw to allow further vulnerability. Besides, there had never been a good time for his stupid feelings for Arthur, and that had not changed. Now, with the mess of all this between them, it seemed impossible.

And so the four of them rode on, carefully finding a new kind of balance. It warmed Merlin through, how Lancelot, Gwaine and especially Arthur made room for his magic. They were careful what they said, of course. Even out in the wilds, it paid to be cautious, but none of them tried to ignore it or appeared disgusted by the small enchantments he wrought.

He meant to keep things that way, to confine his power to harmless conveniences. He did a fine job of it until the moment a group of bandits jumped out at them, and he reacted without thinking.

'Sweffe!'

They dropped where they stood, their bodies hitting the ground with meaty thumps as their weapons fell from lax fingers. There was a brief, stunned silence from the others. Merlin froze where he sat behind Arthur, his breath halted in his chest and panic clawing at his ribs. There hadn't been time for anyone to do more than reach for the hilt of their sword, and now Merlin was aware of how those hands lingered there, white-knuckled.

'They're asleep,' he managed, forcing the words out through the vice of fear that had clamped around his throat. 'That's all.' It felt like a poor consolation, even as he said it, but Arthur relaxed. The iron rod of his spine softened once more as his right hand slipped away from the pommel of his sword and returned to its grip on the reins.

'Have you been able to do that all this time?'

'Yeah, but –' Merlin gestured at the sleeping men now littering the road. 'It's not subtle.'

'Are we just going to leave them here?' Gwaine asked in the cautious voice of a man faced with two options, neither of which appealed: to slit the throat of an unconscious enemy or let the potentially murderous criminals go on to become someone else's problem.

'Look at them,' Arthur advised. 'They're farmers.' His fingers fumbled in his saddlebag for his coin purse, and he tossed it on the ground where they would find it. 'There have been raids this year, and my father has been too indifferent to offer more than occasional patrols. They're desperate.'

'They could have killed you,' Lancelot pointed out, but there was no censure in his voice. Merlin could see, echoed in those dark eyes, the same pride that curled beneath his ribs, inspired by Arthur's mercy.

'It is far more likely we would have killed them, even without the protection of armour. Come on. Let's keep going.'

They rode into Camelot the next day, the horses' hooves clattering over the cobbles as they picked their way through the Lower Town towards the castle. Merlin pursed his lips, trying to subdue the trepidation that fluttered in his belly. He had walked out of the citadel one pearly dawn wondering if he would ever return. Now, he wished his homecoming could be an easy thing. He felt like a whipped dog slinking back home, afraid of rejection all over again. Not from Arthur, who had at least made it clear he planned to see this through, but from everyone else he had once called his friend.

'I'll need to speak to my father,' Arthur explained, clambering out of the saddle before reaching up to help Merlin down, his hands firm around his waist as he steadied him. 'Go and let Gaius know you're all right, and then attend me in my chambers.'

Merlin nodded, clutching the strap of the bag with his meagre belongings in it. 'Yes, Sire.'

He turned away, leaving Gwaine and Lancelot to follow Arthur. Uther would not care what the knights had to say, but as Arthur's companions on the journey, their presence was expected.

Merlin was left to make his way to Gaius' tower on his own. He dredged up answering smiles to those servants who greeted him and murmured excuses about being needed by family to the few who asked about his absence.

The healing room was the same as it had always been, unchanged. It soothed him to step into its familiar confines and breathe in the usual fug of herbs and potion fumes. Gaius looked up at him, his grim expression softening into lines of relief.

'My boy.' He spread his arms, and Merlin didn't even hesitate to welcome the embrace, swallowing around the lump in his throat as he clung to that bony frame. 'I'm glad to see you.'

'Me too.' He sniffed, blinking to banish the threat of tears. His anger had staved off much of the homesickness in Galvistone, but that didn't mean it hadn't been there, festering away. Now, Gaius' gnarled hand patted his back knowingly, rubbing a quick, soothing circle between his shoulder-blades before retreating.

'Let me take a look at you.' Those milky blue eyes were eclipsed by a frown as he took in Merlin's appearance, no doubt noticing the looser fit of his clothes. 'I'm assuming your presence here means Arthur found you?'

'Yeah, although it was more Gwaine and Lancelot. Arthur collapsed before they got to Galvistone.' He let out a shaky breath. 'It was a close thing. I don't think either of us could have lasted much longer.'

'Yes. Destiny can be a bit of a blunt instrument, at times. Are things better, now?'

Merlin shrugged. 'Better than they were, but we need more time. It needs to be completely stable, or we'll just end up back at square one.'

'Ah,' Gaius murmured, reaching out to take Merlin's pack and giving a sage nod. 'Forgiveness is rarely something that can be rushed. May I see?' He gestured towards Merlin's tunic, humming in interest as Merlin untied his laces and peeled the collar aside to reveal the mark upon his skin. It looked better, less like the result of some injury or disease now that it had found its definition. The compass rose was easily the size of his palm, surrounded by two rings, one inside the other.

'You have anchored it.'

'We needed to be strong enough to make the ride home,' Merlin explained. 'It was the only way I could think of to speed things up a bit. It'll fade off soon.'

Gaius hummed, tilting his head in brief acknowledgement. 'Or perhaps not. I do not know much about these marks, rare as they are, but it is clear you and Arthur have already made steady progress. If you had not, it would have remained a stain, rather than finding its shape.'

'It could fade again: go back to the way it was.' Merlin couldn't say how he knew. He merely had the idea that it was like a bud yet to open, one that could wither at the first touch of frost.

'I'm sure I don't need to tell you that would be less than ideal,' Gaius warned him. 'Arthur's decline in your absence was slow and steady. If it repeats, it may be far quicker and more brutal for you both.' He sighed, resting a hand on Merlin's shoulder as he re-fastened the laces of his tunic. 'I do not envy you, my boy, but I know you will make the best of it. Now, are you staying for dinner?'

'I can't. I promised Arthur I'd be in his chambers when he's done talking to the King.'

'Then you had better get going.'

Merlin hesitated, chewing his lip as Gaius watched him curiously. At last, he gathered some of his courage, his voice a touch strained as he spoke. 'Is it safe?' He swallowed, almost hating himself for asking, but more people knew about his secret these days than ever before. He felt exposed, eager to hitch his shoulders up to his ears and find somewhere to hide. 'The others – Gwen and Leon – they're not going to...?'

Gaius sighed, reaching out to take Merlin's hand in his, giving a quick, firm squeeze. 'You left me in the rather unenviable position of being the one they came to when they had questions, and they all did just that. They did not leap to a snap judgement or condemn you as soon as they knew the truth. More than anything, I think each of them merely wished to understand. And there is guilt there, too, though it is misplaced. I believe Guinevere, especially, is sorry that you never felt safe enough to confide in her.'

'I never felt safe enough to confide in anyone. Not on purpose,' he pointed out.

'I know, my boy. For now, focus on Arthur, and give everyone some time. Your homecoming may stir up some uncertainties, particularly among those who have grown up beneath Uther's rhetoric, but I do not think they wish you harm.'

Merlin grimaced. He wanted to believe Gaius, he truly did, but acceptance while he was exiled was one thing. Now, he was back: a sorcerer in their midst.

'You know them,' Gaius reminded him, giving him a tiny shake to add emphasis. 'Arthur has surrounded himself with compassionate, intelligent people. His inner circle is not the kind to act first and ask question later.' A wry tone entered his voice. 'The Prince is still learning from their example, as this whole mess has rather demonstrated. They are your friends, Merlin. Some of them may merely need a little time to remember it. Others will welcome you back with open arms. The Lady Morgana, in particular, has missed you.'

A warm prickle bolstered Merlin's uncertain heart. Morgana, for all her sharpness and occasional spite, had become as good a friend to him as Gwen, in her own way. That, and because of the secret they shared, there was no one else in all of Camelot who could understand his frustrations. It had hurt, leaving her behind, but he was sure she had born it all with her usual grace.

'I'll go and talk to her as soon as I get a chance,' he promised, more to himself than Gaius, though he still said it out loud. 'She's been all right?'

'She has indeed. A force to be reckoned with, of course, especially when it came to helping Arthur see sense.' The expression on Gaius' face was one of subtle pride. 'She was very brave in her defence of you, revealing what she was in the hopes it would sway Arthur's decision.'

'I heard.' Merlin smiled. If he was honest, he thought Arthur should count himself lucky Morgana hadn't singed his eyebrows off. 'I'd better get going, or Arthur will send out a search party.'

'Be off with you then, and Merlin? It's good to have you back.'

He ducked his head to hide his flush of pleasure, letting out a shaky breath as he slipped from the healing rooms and padded down the stairs, already running through the things Arthur would require in his mind. No matter what had happened, Merlin was still Arthur's manservant, and he knew enough by now about tending the Prince's needs.

There was a routine they went through when Arthur returned from a trip or patrol, and any deviation would be noticed and frowned upon by the other occupants of the castle. If nothing else, they would be waiting for Merlin in the kitchen, no doubt with a sumptuous meal ready for Arthur's enjoyment.

A hand on his arm almost made him jump out of his skin, and he wrested himself from his thoughts to blink at Gwen. He wasn't sure what to expect. Her hair had escaped some of its style to flutter around her face, and she looked as if she had dashed across the castle. For one, awful moment, Merlin wondered if Gaius was wrong: perhaps the guards were coming for him. Yet before he could so much as speak, Gwen managed a small, soft smile, her eyes over-bright as she dragged Merlin into a shockingly tight embrace.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered, her voice hitched and quiet, but carrying a wealth of meaning. 'That you couldn't tell me. That it – surprised me. That I wasn't sure how I felt about it all, even for a moment.'

'Hey, it's okay.' He wriggled about until his arms were no longer pinned at his sides before returning the hug, breathing in the scent of rosemary that clung to her hair. 'I wish I could have told you.'

'No.' Gwen eased away, sniffing and cuffing at her nose with the back of her hand. 'I know why you didn't. I think, in your shoes, I wouldn't have done anything different. I'm just happy to see you home. We've been worried. About Arthur. About you.' She gave him a critical look, just like Gaius, and Merlin offered a sheepish grin. 'Are things... better?'

Merlin thought about the complicated knot of it all and managed a quick nod. 'They're getting there,' he promised. 'Though that might change if I don't get Arthur his dinner.'

'Of course. I also wanted to say thank you.' Gwen shrugged at his confused look. 'You didn't have to tell us. You could have just left.'

Merlin drew in a breath. That temptation had lingered with him, but he had resisted. As it was, he'd had to depart without saying goodbye. 'I didn't want you to worry,' he explained. 'Besides, once I'd told Arthur, there was no reason to keep it from the rest of you, and you deserved to know the truth.'

Gwen touched his arm, her grasp silent but comforting as she smiled. 'Off you go.' She tilted her head towards the kitchen. 'Shall I get the chamber maids to haul buckets for Arthur's bath?'

'No, it's all right, I can spare them the trouble.'

Gwen's frown cleared when he subtly wiggled his fingers, realisation dawning. She lifted her eyebrows, and any caution she may have felt was eclipsed by her curiosity. 'Is that why you always take the back stairs?' she asked before lowering her voice. 'Because you're not actually carrying any buckets?'

Merlin ducked his head, laughing when Gwen flapped the corner of her apron at him. He was glad that she didn't chide him or warn him to be careful. It was good, for once, to have someone seem to understand he did not need any advice. Instead, she cast him a fond look – a touch wobbly at its edges, perhaps, but there all the same – as she ushered him towards the kitchens.

It took far too long to wrangle Arthur's dinner tray from the cook. Down here, where the servants congregated, there were plenty of questions for him. He kept his story consistent, talking about family in need, and made his escape as soon as he could.

Arthur's chambers greeted him, empty and derelict. They looked as if no one had dared to come in and tend them beyond the absolute basics. The sheets, at least, were fresh, and there were logs lain in the grate, but there was a pervasive chill that spoke of long days of absence and indifference.

Part of him, selfishly, warmed to realise Arthur had not replaced him, cutting Merlin from his life and moving on. Another, more compassionate bit ached at the thought of Arthur isolating himself. His duties did not just encompass ensuring he was fed, bathed, punctual and organised. Before all this, they had talked long into the night, Merlin listening as Arthur worked through the trials and stresses of being heir to this kingdom.

More to the point, Arthur had listened. He had taken an active interest in what Merlin had to say and even heeded his advice. Now, he wondered if they would ever be able to recover that easy camaraderie. He had hope, but it felt fragile, like the first sprouts after a hard winter. They would need far more effort to nourish them into something hale and hearty.

Making sure the door was locked, Merlin let slip the reins on his magic, breathing a gentle sigh as his power unfurled through the chamber. He had used it to help out with chores before, but it was always secretive and subtle. Now there was nothing holding him back. Arthur knew, and something fluttered in his chest: exhilaration mixed with uncertainty.

It felt forbidden, as if he should be careful and tuck it out of sight for fear of Arthur's disapproving looks, but at the same time he was reluctant to return to the way things had been. He had spent so long living with secrecy that the act of restraining himself, at least away from watchful eyes, seemed like blasphemy.

Besides, it was good to have his magic back. Gone was the hollow, leaden feeling of its absence, and now he relished its gentle flow. A soft, contented warmth prickled at his skin and curled its comfort around his heart. The fire crackled to life in the grate and the flagstones warmed underfoot, chasing off the Arctic bite in the air. Arthur's dinner sat waiting for him, the food kept hot and the wine the right temperature. Merlin got out the copper bath from the cupboard in which it was stored, barely needing to twitch his fingers to fill it with steaming water.

He had just started unpacking the saddlebag that some servant had carried up from the stables when the rasp of the key in the lock announced Arthur's arrival. He stepped over the threshold and shut the door behind him, leaning back on its panel as he gave Merlin a long, slow, unreadable look.

For once, he was not scowling or bad-tempered, as he so often was after speaking with Uther. Instead, a healthy flush coloured his cheeks, and his eyes sparkled. His hair was tousled, as if he had run a hand through it, and he shifted where he stood, restless. 'You know I can feel it when you do that?'

'Do what?'

Arthur gestured around the room, indicating not the furniture, but the ripe feeling of magic that gilded the air. Merlin was used to sensing the expectation of his power. It had always been like sunlight to him, warming his skin, with no weight to call its own but a presence all the same. He had not realised that Arthur would feel it too, no doubt thanks to the connection that had flourished between them.

He went to tuck it away without thinking, pulling it in next to his body rather than letting it sprawl all over the place. Yet before he could do more than take a breath, Arthur's hand on the back of his arm stopped him. It was a firm clasp, the tightness of his fingers hinting at desperation, and Merlin blinked as Arthur shook his head.

'Don't. Leave it.'

Merlin almost argued with him, because he could see the volatile conflict of Arthur's emotions. As much as he would never admit to being scared, fear lingered in the pinch of his eyes and the pleat of his brow. Yet there was determination there, too, and Arthur's lips, rather than being pale and pursed, remained relaxed, pink and slightly parted.

'You sure?'

'Yes, I –' Arthur brushed his hand over his mouth, stepping away from the door and making his way to the table. Merlin frowned, noticing there was a fractional wobble to his step. If it were Gwaine, he would have decided he'd stopped off at the tavern for a drink, but Arthur didn't tend to prioritise his mead. His second thought was that he felt weak again, his strength ailing after the long journey, except that didn't seem right either. Not when he looked healthy and vibrant, taking his seat and reaching for his dinner.

'I need to get used to it. I want to get used to it. It's part of you. It's –' He shook his head, trailing off as he apparently ran out of words to try and explain. Instead, he turned his attention to his meal, eating with the focus of a man who knew that if his mouth was full of food then he couldn't say the wrong thing.

They needed to talk, and Arthur was right. They both had to come to terms with their new reality here, beneath the shadow of Camelot's soaring towers. The kingdom and its expectations formed the bedrock of Arthur's character, and that would always inform his decisions, both political and personal.

It was not just Arthur, his friend, but the prince, the knight and the king-in-waiting that Merlin needed to convince about his magic. It seemed like a monumental task, but he took a deep breath, trying not to get ahead of himself.

Magic's future in Camelot wasn't the issue. Not yet. This was not about sweeping social change and the eradication of the laws that had persecuted magical people for far too long. This was about the two of them: Merlin and Arthur. It was about finding common ground, solidifying the connection and getting to the point where they could both live comfortably.

Yet even that seemed like too vast and momentous a thing. There were times when Merlin wondered if Arthur would ever be able to set aside the dictates of his upbringing and move beyond the prejudice Uther had instilled in him from a young age. Still, he was trying. Merlin had to give him credit for that. Maybe his reaction when he had first heard Merlin's confession had been disastrous, but at least Arthur was putting in an effort to make amends.

And not just because of the magic that forced their hand. That, Merlin hoped, had only hurried them along. He wanted to believe, with all his heart, that Arthur would have come looking for him sooner or later, and he refused to give any doubts the chance to take root.

'You should be careful. You'll strain something, thinking that hard,' Arthur teased. On the surface it hinted at their normal banter, but there was a strained edge to it that they both dutifully ignored.

'I'm surprised you recognised the signs of deep thought, Sire. You indulge in it so rarely yourself,' Merlin replied, laughing when Arthur threatened to throw a bread roll at him.

'Shut up and sit down. You brought up far too much food, as usual. Eat, before you fade away.'

It was a peace offering, of sorts, a tentative effort on Arthur's part to try and get back to something approaching normality. They had done this before their whole friendship fell down around their ears. The kitchens filled up the plates to overflowing, and Arthur shared his leftovers with Merlin under the guise of not letting food go to waste. Maybe some people would have let their pride be pricked, but Merlin wasn't one of them. As far as he was concerned, he got a decent meal, and it relieved the strain on Gaius' purse at the same time.

He perched on the seat at right-angles to Arthur, dragging the plate over in front of him and doing as he was bid. His magic settled around them, thick and soft, sinking into the nooks and crannies of the room. It was a lazy sprawl, like a cat lounging in a sunbeam, with no trace of urgency or anger about it, and Merlin watched Arthur react out of the corner of his eye.

It was subtle, but he could see the tension ebbing from Arthur's body, loosening its grip on his shoulders and easing from the lines on his face. He held his wine goblet idly in his grasp as he sprawled back in his chair: every inch the handsome, indolent prince.

Slowly, the last whispers of uncertainty melted away from Arthur's frame. Merlin wondered if he was doing it on purpose – consciously erasing the signs of strain – or if it was Arthur taking comfort in the feeling of magic surrounding him, drawing strength from its stalwart, silent company.

'No one else can feel this, can they?' Arthur gestured around the room with the hand holding the goblet. 'If my father walked through those doors, he wouldn't be able to sense your power?'

'Gods, no.' Merlin paled at the thought. 'Not unless he had magic himself and was actively looking for it. Most people who practice sorcery can only identify other mages when they do a spell. It makes things hum. Otherwise, Morgana and I would have known about each other from the start.'

'You didn't?'

Merlin shook his head. 'I guessed about hers when Gaius let slip that some of her dreams come true. I told her about mine. Showed her.' He shrugged. 'She needed to know she wasn't alone. She was already terrified of being found out. She needed a friend – someone who could understand how hard it is to live in Camelot every single day, knowing one wrong move could see you end up on the pyre.'

'That would never happen.'

'Do you really think being Uther's ward is enough to keep Morgana safe?'

Arthur straightened, lifting his chin in pure defiance. 'Maybe not, but I won't let him hurt you – either of you.' He waved his other hand. 'I know what I said when I first found out, and there's no excuse for that, but Merlin – even then, I couldn't have gone through with it.'

'Are you sure about that?' The question slipped out of him, a desperate plea for reassurance, and he held his breath as he watched Arthur consider it. He didn't just barrel on, but gave Merlin's query the consideration it was due.

At last, Arthur inclined his head, and behind the look in his eyes there was an undeniable sense of honour and compassion – a certainty that eased something deep inside Merlin's heart.

'I'm sure.'

Out in the world, it felt like a promise that could be easily made. Far from Uther's tyranny and the kingdom's demands, Arthur had uttered similar vows. Yet to hear that same sentiment here, within the citadel's hallowed halls, banished the worst of his doubts.

For the first time since all this began, Merlin believed. Not in the magic that bound them or the destiny that connected them, but in the man who sat within arm's reach.

He believed in Arthur.

Chapter Text

In the weeks that followed their return from Galvistone, Arthur and Merlin talked endlessly. Out in the castle, they had to restrain themselves to the mundane, but even then, Arthur found himself turning to Merlin more than ever before. He glanced his way during council and tried not to laugh when he pulled a face, or sought out his opinion on some political annoyance or other. They simply existed in each other's space, no longer striking sparks off one another, but finding anew all the ways in which they fit together.

In the privacy of his chambers, it was different matter. Then, Arthur said no more than a few dozen words. Instead, he bent himself to listening, hearing not only Merlin's answers to his queries, but the unspoken truths that lay beneath. He heard Merlin's desperation and devotion as he outlined what he had done over his time in Camelot. He detected the underlying hints of his struggles as he tried to balance the dragon's warnings with his own compassion. Often, he succeeded, but Arthur suspected it came at great personal cost.

It was humbling to realise the man he had always seen as a bit of a fool – clumsy and hapless and only moderately intelligent – had been putting forward a copy of himself for everyone's approval. He had played up his harmlessness so that no one looked too closely. Not that Arthur could blame him for that. Now, looking back, he realised that he'd seen glimpses of the real man. Those times when Merlin spoke with particular wisdom or passion – those were hints of his true depths, the ones he rarely put on display.

And he'd shown them to Arthur, albeit briefly, even before his magic had been revealed.

He wanted to know that version of Merlin. It wasn't that he thought he was a stranger, but rather that there were nuances to his character that he never realised existed. Aspects that, if Arthur had known about, he would have cherished, because there was something dazzling about Merlin's loyalty. It was neither blind nor readily won, and yet still, Arthur possessed it. That simple fact gave him the courage to ask even the hardest questions about Merlin's magic, and that, in turn, helped them both to heal.

There were moments of anger on both sides. The dragon, and Merlin's role in its release, was perhaps the worst of it. That day their conversation fell to silence, and the mark on Arthur's chest blurred at its edges as he tried to reconcile all that destruction and death with Merlin's actions. He spent longer than he should out on the training grounds, beating the starch out of the straw tick effigies, hating the world and its calamities, his father and his prejudices, himself and his cowardice...

Yet he always found himself back at Merlin's side. Neither one of them, it seemed, was willing to let the bumps in the road to forgiveness curtail their journey.

However, there was more to all this than just the two of them. Percival, Lancelot, Gwaine and Guinevere had been the most accepting of Merlin's revelations. They had, each of them, in their own time and their own way, found a moment to speak to him of it and to guide their friendships back on to the right path.

The same, Arthur realised, could not be said for Leon and Elyan.

Neither man was outwardly hostile. Instead, it was as if they were both reserving judgement, taking their cues from Arthur himself. They watched Merlin, cautious, and Arthur knew the breach in the camaraderie caused Merlin almost as much pain as a physical wound. He saw the way he would slump around them, making himself look smaller and non-threatening – which was ludicrous, as both men were stronger than Merlin by far.

Except, of course, that he had magic. He did not need to be a powerful knight when he could put the whole citadel to sleep with a single word.... or worse.

Not that he would. Merlin was on their side; he just wasn't sure how to prove it to those among his men who still clung to their reservations.

'I want to believe him,' Leon confessed one day in the armoury, 'and so does Elyan. He's our friend, I just...' He ran out of words, shaking his head and spreading his hands. 'He has magic, and I have never seen that be a force for good.'

In the end, fate solved that problem with a simple, brutal accident.

At first, it seemed like nothing out of the ordinary. Elyan fell to a blow on the training field. Perhaps if he had twisted his weight, it would have only been a bruise, but the tip of his sword got caught as he went down, and the crack of breaking bone was audible from more than a dozen paces away. There was blood and a shocking spar of white sticking out through brown skin. Elyan's face was tense with agony, his pallor drab and sallow as he dragged in deep, hissed breaths through clenched teeth, clearly trying not to scream.

'Gods! Get Gaius!' Arthur roared, unsurprised to see a servant sprint away even as Merlin ducked under the fence and hurried over. The other knights were all huddled around with the shocked helplessness of people who didn't know what to do for the best. Staunching the blood from a wound was one thing, but touching an exposed bone seemed like a terrible idea. Even Arthur, who had seen his fair share of awful injuries, felt a little sick at the sight, and he turned to Merlin.

'What do we do?'

'We need to set that break as straight as we can, stitch the injury and hope he doesn't get an infection.' Merlin glanced over his shoulder before turning back and kneeling at Elyan's side where he lay, cupping one hand gently around his elbow. 'I don't know if he'll still be able to wield a sword once it heals. If it heals.'

The noise Elyan made was a helpless, miserable keen of sound. They were, to a man, knights of Camelot. It did not matter that most of them had not been born into the nobility. Fighting for Arthur and their kingdom had given them purpose. Now, Elyan faced losing that, and Arthur's stomach clenched in sympathetic horror.

Once, he would have had to bow to the healer's judgement. Once, they would have all had to accept this cruel twist of fate, but then, they had not known there was a sorcerer among them.

'Is there anything you can do?' he asked, raising a meaningful eyebrow as Merlin met his gaze. He did not need to explain himself. Merlin knew he was talking about magic. His eyes took on a guarded shadow, and he tilted his head to the side before offering a cautious nod.

'I can try, but only if Elyan says it's all right.'

'Yes!' he managed to bite out, sweat beading his brow and top lip. It was an unfair situation to put him in, pain making his decision for him. They all knew as much, but no one protested, choosing instead to form a loose ring to block out the curious gaze of any witnesses.

'It's going to sound vile,' Merlin said in warning, reaching out with a wavering hand before seeming to find his courage. He curved his fingers a few inches above the ghastly wound, and with a handful of whispered words, his eyes flared dazzling gold.

Almost immediately, there was a horrible, meaty snap as the bone slid back into alignment. Arthur expected Elyan to scream. He would not have blamed him, but instead he blinked, his neck bent up at an awkward angle as he watched the faint wash of golden light cloak his arm and sink down into the bloody mess of his flesh.

Arthur sucked in a breath. He'd grown used to how Merlin's magic felt over the past few weeks: a constant awareness like sunlight upon his skin. Now it rippled through him, tiny, frothing waves that ebbed and flowed.

Briefly, he wondered if Merlin was using him to somehow fuel the spell, but a moment later he realised that wasn't what was happening. It was hard to put into words. He only knew that Merlin was not taking something from him. Instead, it was as if some part of Arthur tethered Merlin place, stopping him from being lost in the surge of his power. In doing so, it allowed Merlin to reach deeper into himself, dredging up the strength to mend bone and flesh.

'Careful. Don't do too much, Merlin.'

Arthur flinched. He'd not noticed Gaius approach, and he cast a frantic glance around, prickling with shocked awareness at the potential for other witnesses. A quick look from Leon suggested that his Knight Commander, at least, had been more aware of his surroundings. He was the one who had allowed Gaius to join them. Now, he offered a nod: a promise that he was guarding Merlin's secret when Arthur himself had not the wits to think of it.

'Too much?' he managed, his gaze falling to where Merlin still worked, his eyes the colour of polished brass and his focus on the wound in front of him. He wasn't even sure he had heard Gaius' words.

'Healing magic is challenging for those few practitioners who are capable of it. Merlin's efforts have been hit or miss in the past.' Gaius tilted his head in acknowledgement. 'Though perhaps those days are behind him.'

Those milky blue eyes dropped to the level of Arthur's heart, no doubt picturing the mark that stained his skin beneath his armour and tunic.

'Even without the concern of Merlin spending too much of his strength in this endeavour, there is the issue of how we explain all this fuss when Elyan doesn't have even a scar to show for it.'

'Bad sprain.' Merlin's lips barely moved as he framed the words. 'Wrap it in a bandage and excuse him from training for a bit. Claim your potions caused a quick recovery.'

Gaius harrumphed, but it sounded as if he was more annoyed at the idea of taking the credit than helping in the deception. 'Are you all right, my boy?'

Merlin shrugged, which didn't put anyone at their ease. Arthur didn't miss how Lancelot and Gwaine both shifted where they stood, and Percival looked over his shoulder, scanning the people who hung back near the fence.

No one dared approach. There was a breathlessness to the air, and Arthur winced, hoping that Merlin's excuse would be enough to satisfy the gossips. No witnesses had been nearby to see the true damage to Elyan's wrist, and as long as nobody saw what he was doing, they wouldn't ask any questions.

'How do you feel?' he asked the knight on his back, noting that his colour had improved. He still looked wide-eyed and shocked; his body braced for a rising tide of pain only to find that it was ebbing away instead.

Elyan managed a jerky nod, his breath hissing between his teeth as the spell on his skin vanished from sight, leaving nothing but a jagged, pale scar where the gruesome injury had been.

'May I?' Gaius asked, waiting for permission before he gently felt along the bone, nodding to himself as he did so before reaching into his pack for some bandages. 'We'll go back to the healing rooms. Cradle your arm against your chest when we do. Merlin's fixed it. I doubt there's any lasting damage, but it might feel tender for a while. It takes time for the body to catch up with the fact that it is healed. Do you understand?'

'Yeah.' Elyan cleared his throat, sucking in a steadying breath before his dark eyes shifted to Merlin. A worried frown creased his brow, and he reached out as if to touch him before thinking better of it. 'Are you all right?'

'Tired.'

Arthur looked at Merlin sharply, searching for a hint of a lie upon his face. His shoulders sagged beneath his baggy tunic and an exhausted sweat stuck his hair to his brow. He sat back on his heels, spent, and Arthur pursed his lips. 'Come on. Training's over for the day. Elyan, do what Gaius tells you. I'll check on you later. Merlin, with me. I need your help in my chambers.'

He waited for Merlin to get to his feet, noticing how both Percival and Lancelot inched closer to steady his uncertain sway. He looked like a knight who'd spent too long in the duelling ring, dazed and a little punch-drunk.

'I'm all right.' Merlin drew in a deep breath, giving himself a too-brief moment to pull himself together, slipping on a familiar mask for the distant spectators. Arthur winced, knowing that he must have done the same thing for him hundreds of times over the course of their acquaintance, tucking his hurt and exhaustion out of sight and praying Arthur never looked too closely.

And like a fool, he had done just that, ignoring dozens of tiny hints that all was not as it seemed.

He kept his pace slow and steady, a languid amble rather than a determined stride. It meant Merlin did not have to scurry to keep up and gave Arthur the opportunity to watch him out of the corner of his eye.

He moved with the careful grace of a man who was trying to hold himself together, waiting to get behind closed doors so he could stop shielding his frailties. It made Arthur's heart hurt to realise Merlin must have been like it in the past: hiding from them all.

Now, it wasn't just that Arthur was paying attention. Even if he'd been oblivious, the connection they shared would not have kept him in the dark. The same as he had felt the ebb and flow of Merlin's magic as he healed Elyan, he could sense the weight dragging at his limbs and the haze that fogged his mind. A pale echo of it lingered on Arthur's mental horizons like a warning, urging him to take note.

'Can you manage the stairs?' he murmured as they got to the entrance hall of the castle, careful to make sure his voice did not carry to the guards standing sentry.

'I don't think I have much choice.' Merlin pulled a face, a grimace of pain locking his features as he clenched his right hand into a fist before cradling his arm against his chest: a perfect mimicry of what Elyan had been doing.

Arthur almost reached for him, panic painting his spine as he wondered if Merlin had somehow taken the injury onto himself. His hands fluttered at his side, his steps faltering, and it was only the knowing look that Merlin sent in his direction that held him back.

'It's fine,' he promised, glancing over his shoulder before sliding his cuff up and showing whole, unblemished skin. 'Just an aftershock. It happens.'

Questions built behind Arthur's lips, but he swallowed them down. It was not safe to talk about such things out here in the hallway. Instead, he eased closer to Merlin's side, cupping one hand under the hub of his elbow to offer support as they made their way up the endless, sweeping staircase that led to the royal wing.

'What did you need?' Merlin asked when they crossed the threshold of Arthur's chambers, looking around blearily as if he were trying to work out which of his duties required his attention first.

'Nothing, unlike you.' Arthur didn't let himself think twice as he ushered Merlin towards the sprawling expanse of his bed, bullying him to sit down on its edge before kneeling in front of him and wrestling with his boots.

'What are you...?'

'You need to lie down before you fall over.' He said it with as much arrogant command as he could muster, knowing that if he tried to coddle him, Merlin would protest and fight his way upright out of sheer stubbornness.

'I'm all right.'

'Liar.' Arthur tucked Merlin's boots under the bed before shoving at his shoulder, toppling him down to sprawl on the mattress.

For one, intense moment, his body hummed with the desire to crawl in after him, to curl up around him and hold him close as they'd done back in Galvistone, but he could not. Then, they had needed to touch each other's marks to banish the pains of their bodies. Now, he had no excuse. Nothing beyond his own, quiet longing, which only got louder and more difficult to ignore with every passing day.

It seemed that, with each secret that came to light and every small wound between them that healed, Arthur's hopeless heart swelled further. He had thought, back when Merlin first confessed, that his feelings for him had gone up in smoke, too fragile to weather the betrayal. Now, they flourished from the ashes, sure and quick, filling him with the soft brush of their petals and ensnaring him in their vines.

He caught himself reaching for Merlin a dozen times a day, hiding the desire to caress hands along his skin with gentle nudges and shoves instead: his affection bleeding out of him any way it could. He lay awake at night, staring up at the canopy of his bed and wanting so desperately that he felt feverish with it. Yet it all stayed caged within his ribs: a secret of a different kind. One he was too scared to put on display.

With a sigh, he squashed the temptation down, trying to school his features as he reached over Merlin, dragging at the covers and ignoring his squawking protests until he was cocooned in them. He could probably get out if he tried, but the slumped surrender of his body suggested he didn't have the energy. Instead, he lay there like a lump, looking petulant, though the strength of his expression was rather diminished by the way his eyes kept slipping shut.

'Rest, Merlin.'

'Bossy.'

'I'm a prince. It's my job to give people orders.'

Quietly, Arthur set to work grappling with his chainmail, trying to ease himself free of it without making too much noise or scraping his face with the harsh metal. It was a graceless effort with no one to help him, but after a few moments of struggling, he managed it, setting it aside before toeing off his boots.

The flagstones were warm beneath his socked feet thanks to the fire that roared in the hearth. He doubted anyone had been in to tend it. Merlin's magic kept it going. These days, it was curled into the very fabric of Arthur's chamber: a constant, silent presence.

Not that long ago, it would have terrified him. It was here, in this very room, that Merlin had stood before him and confessed. A handful of paces away was where Arthur's life had crumbled to pieces around him, and he had made one of the stupidest mistakes of his whole existence.

In retrospect, he could see how lucky he was. They had been given a chance to set things right. The magic had not allowed him or Merlin to linger in bitter stubbornness, and in doing so, it had forced them to face the pain that bled between them.

Now, the sensation of his power was a comforting warmth. It told him Merlin was close and that he cared for Arthur's safety and well-being. Yes, it could be a volatile, dangerous force, but it was still just a tool, one that was beautiful when placed in the hands of someone he trusted.

Someone who had said nothing further about whether he intended to stay in Camelot.

To stay with Arthur.

He glanced back at the man in the bed, looking as if he belonged there amidst the crimson covers, his dark hair tousled and his lashes painting fans across his cheekbones. The fingers that had curled in the blankets went lax as Merlin lost himself in the shallows of sleep. It made Arthur's heart pinch and thrum to look at him and realise that, one day soon, he might walk away. He could head for a kinder kingdom, where every moment did not carry the chilling threat of a life cut short, and how could Arthur blame him?

Part of him was desperate to be selfish and ask Merlin to stay. While the connection had still been growing, he'd had an excuse. Merlin couldn't leave, not without setting them both back to square one. Now, though, it would hold steady. When Arthur focussed on it, he could feel a strength that would survive any distance. Yet there was also a feeling of something more, some further potential that would lie forever unattained if Merlin walked away.

His hand dropped to his own chest, his fingertips pressing against the design that charted his skin. He was a prince. He could command Merlin to remain in Camelot, but even as the thought slunk across his mind, he dismissed it. It was Merlin's decision, and one he would not take from him. Besides, he wanted Merlin to want to stay, not because of destiny's ridiculous demands or the prophecies of a dragon, but because he chose Arthur.

And that seemed like a hopeless wish.

A creeping sense of melancholy haunted his steps. It lingered when Merlin roused from his sleep, soft and warm and perfect amidst the nest of Arthur's sheets. It draped its weight over his shoulders as he tried to drift off that night, alone once more. It chased him through the days that followed, scrabbling at the edges of his mind and whispering doubts in his ear.

Selfish sadness nipped at him as he saw Elyan and Leon take Merlin aside, their body language both honest and repentant, ashamed of the fear they had grappled with. He should be happy for Merlin that their friends accepted him. Merlin had longed for that kind of connection all his life. He had been desperate for people to see him, all of him, and still welcome him with open arms.

To Arthur, however, all he saw was another loose end neatly tied off. If Merlin had been staying in Camelot to set things right, then he was one step closer to achieving a clean break. How long would it be before there was nothing left to keep him here – until he was free to turn his back and find his freedom far from Arthur's side?

Every passing day felt like some invisible countdown in his head, and Arthur didn't know what to do about it. Part of him was tempted to offer rash promises: to swear that, once he was on the throne, he would make Camelot a welcoming place for Merlin, Morgana and anyone else like them. He could vow to legalise magic once more, and yet... That was an act that should be done for the good of his kingdom, not merely to patch the wounds in his breaking heart. It needed forethought and care. It was not something he could forge in haste, or for the wrong reasons.

And so the words stayed locked inside his chest, unspoken.

'He was right.'

Morgana's quiet voice broke into his thoughts, and he blinked at her. He'd come up to the battlements to get some air, hoping to find some clarity up here where the castle stretched up to meet the vault of the sky. Instead, the cold wind robbed him of heat, leaving him hollow and fretful.

'Who?'

'Merlin. All this – he was trying to prove that you were a better man than your father. He was right.'

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head. 'How can you say that, considering what I did?'

Morgana gave him a cool look. 'You admitted you were wrong, and you fixed things. Do you think Uther would have done that? That he would ever acknowledge his mistake or choose to reconsider?'

She sighed, folding her hands in front of her. He remembered the way they had curled over the broken dragon figurine, and the lost, hopeless slant to her expression. She had given the pieces back to Merlin when they returned from Galvistone, and he'd fixed it with nothing more than a whispered word, leaving the wood glowing and whole. The relief on Morgana's face had been both visceral and beautiful, as if Merlin had healed something broken in her at the same time.

She sighed when he didn't answer, her hair whispering around her shoulders as she shook her head. 'I know that the magic forced your hand – that maybe if not for necessity, you would have sulked for months – but Arthur, you can't tell me you only left Camelot for your own sake. You went for him, as well. You would have taken your pain and weakness, but as soon as you realised Merlin might be vulnerable, your mind was made up.'

He said nothing, listening to the wind whistle around them. His head felt like a sodden rag, weighed down. Maybe that was why he didn't censor his next question, one that took flight from his lips: a fear spoken into being.

'You and Merlin... Do you love him?'

When Arthur dared a glance in her direction, it was to realise he was the subject of her vicious scrutiny. For once, there was no tormenting smile curling her mouth. Worse, he thought he saw a flicker of understanding in her gaze. More than once, she drew breath as if to speak, and each time Arthur's heart stuttered. It took her a while to find the right words, and when she finally did so, her voice was more fond that he felt he deserved.

'Oh, Arthur. Even if I did see Merlin as more than a very good friend, which I don't, I would be out of luck.' She pursed her lips, as if debating the wisdom of offering clarification. 'His heart belongs to you.'

'Don't.' The word ripped itself out of him, cracked right through with the kind of pain only false hope could bring. 'Please.'

Morgana made a pitying noise, though it sounded as if it were being wrenched from her by force. 'Why? Are you going to lie and say you don't feel the same? That you haven't loved him in some way or another since he drank poison and you disobeyed your father hoping to save him? Are you going to claim that feeling hasn't grown since? Do you really think that he told you his secret for my sake, when keeping it from you hurt him every single day?'

She shook her head, huffing out a breath of pure irritation. 'Talk to him.'

'I've done nothing else!'

'Not about the magic, Arthur. Tell him how you feel, before it's too late.'

Ice crackled through him at her words, and he straightened where he stood, bracing his palms on the cold stone of the battlements. His heart, bruised, battered and bloody, felt as if it was tearing itself to shreds as he heard the warning that gilded her voice. 'You think he'll leave, don't you?'

Morgana's shoulders shifted in an elegant shrug. 'Not today or tomorrow, but one day soon? It's an option for him, isn't it?'

'His choice,' Arthur rasped. 'A choice in a life where he has had so few. I should be doing all I can to make sure it's open to him, but...' Gods, what kind of man was he? Selfish to the bone. 'I don't want him to go.'

Morgana reached out, resting her fingertips on his forearm. 'If you keep quiet about how you feel, you'll never forgive yourself, and there's no guarantee you will ever get him back. He deserves to know, Arthur, so that he can make his decision with all the facts in-hand.' She sighed, soft and remorseful. 'So he knows everything that he's leaving behind.'

Arthur sucked in a breath, the air so cold it made his teeth hurt. Butterflies thrashed in his stomach, torn between terror and exhilaration. He had faced down monsters and armies without flinching, but as he stood there, the wind toying with his hair, it felt as if there had never been so much at stake.

Yet, though he hated to admit it, Morgana was right. He may not like it, but he owed Merlin the truth: the fullness of it. He could not pretend that what he felt limited itself to friendship. Not when the affection that had first bloomed long ago had flourished, strong and sure.

Maybe it would end in disaster – perhaps Merlin did not feel the same – but at least he would not spend the rest of his life wondering about what might have been.

Merlin had unearthed his biggest secret, bringing it into the light and offering it up to Arthur's harsh judgement. The aftermath had almost broken them, but they had fought their way back to friendship and been stronger for their efforts.

Now, he could only hope that he would show mercy where Arthur had not. He would reveal his own secret – his bloody heart that beat for Merlin alone – and pray that he did not break it.

Chapter Text

Arthur was being... strange. Merlin would have to be blind not to notice it. They had been doing better. Arthur had been reaching out more, clasping a hand over his arm or nudging at his shoulder, constantly demanding his attention in a hundred little ways. They had talked long into the night, sharing wine in front of the fire as he explained about his magic and all that he had done to keep Arthur safe. He had thought he understood, but something had changed.

Now, Arthur was like a horse shying in its stable, full of fretful energy that made Merlin's heart sink. He kept parting his lips as if to speak only to choke the words back. His fingers would twitch, his arm reaching out before he withdrew, stifling the impulse to touch. Worse, more than once Merlin had caught sight of the dreading, hopeless look in Arthur's eyes.

He should have known it would come to this. He had tried showing Arthur that his magic was a tool – that while it could be a weapon, it could also be put to a thousand different uses – but it seemed it was not enough. Uther's teachings had gone too deep, leaving Arthur anxious and trying to hide it, struggling to show acceptance when all he felt was lingering horror.

Now, he had been summoned from the armoury to attend Arthur in his chambers, and Merlin's feet dragged along the corridor as he tried to delay the inevitable. The bond between them had found its balance point. It lay, strong and stable. Arthur was healthy once more, every inch the gleaming prince, and Merlin...?

He didn't need Merlin. Not anymore.

Maybe Arthur would not cast him out into exile again, but that didn't mean he could bear to stand at his side, knowing Arthur longed for distance between them. He could not see him, serve him, love him and survive off the paltry crumbs of Arthur's hollow smiles that never pushed aside the uncertainty in his gaze.

It was possible, he supposed, that he could leave Arthur's service and remain in Camelot, but the idea of seeing him every day but being more distant than ever rasped like thorns across his skin. This was his home, he had friends here, but he could not bear the thought of being outside Arthur's life and looking in, keeping him safe from a distance.

He could strengthen the enchantments he'd left in place when he was exiled. They would assure Arthur's safety, and Merlin? Merlin would go. He'd head back to Galvistone so that Arthur could live and rule in peace, and Merlin would not have to watch him try not to flinch whenever he set eyes on him. He would not have to feel his heart break as he witnessed Arthur's struggles. He was a strong man. He would be a good king, but there were some lessons that could not be unlearned.

And it seemed Arthur's fear of magic was one of them.

The tall, oak door to Arthur's chambers stood before him, and Merlin stared blankly at its panels. He wet his lips, letting out a shaky breath. The threat of tears pricked at the corner of his eyes, his mouth wrenching into a wobbling grimace. For a minute, he rested his splayed hand against the wood, wrestling his misery under control. He steeled himself, squaring his shoulders before easing his way over the threshold and closing the door behind him.

'You sent for me?'

Arthur looked up from his desk, the sun splashing in from the window nearby, casting golden beams across the room. It caught in his hair, crowning him in its glory, and Merlin's heart gave a leaden little thump. The design on his chest resonated with it, a tingling buzz that made him shiver where he stood. Did Arthur feel it too? Was it just a reminder of magic's existence – another thing to look at with distrust and uncertainty?

'Yes, I – I wanted to talk to you.' Arthur's next breath hitched. His hands were clasped in front of him on the surface of his desk, and he was spinning his mother's ring: a nervous gesture Merlin knew far too well. It was a tell Arthur had almost trained himself out of, but here, now, it was on full display. Those blue eyes followed Merlin's gaze, and he clench his fingers into quick fists before getting to his feet.

His boot-steps were steady as he came around the desk, choosing to lean against it and fold his arms over his chest. He did not meet Merlin's eyes. In fact, he seemed to look everywhere else: at the fire in the hearth, the table where he ate and a brief, fleeting glance, hastily redirected, towards the smooth, crimson sheets on the bed. Again, he took a breath, and again, no words escaped him.

Merlin felt the last trickle of his hope drain away.

'It's all right. I know what you're going to say.'

Arthur twitched at that, finally looking Merlin in the eye. He froze where he stood, all the small, shifting motions of a body at repose wiped clean. Now he looked like a deer caught in the hunter's sights. 'You do?'

Merlin nodded, curling his fingers around the too-long cuffs of his tunic. It wasn't true. He did not know how Arthur was going to put it into words – his inability to look at Merlin and see anything but the stain of magic upon him. Would he try and offer excuses? Would he dismiss Merlin now, bringing years of servitude to an end just to get him out of his sight? Somehow, the thought of that was too much. He couldn't stand here as Arthur drew a line under everything they had once been.

'I think it would be best if I went back to Galvistone.'

The sharp hiss of Arthur's indrawn breath seemed loud in the room. Merlin winced as the buzz of magic beneath his skin grew stronger, less a bee's gentle hum and more a swarm's thick drone.

'Oh.'

Merlin blinked, frowning to himself. He had stared at the toes of his boots as he spoke, not wanting to witness the relief on Arthur's face, but that single syllable had not sounded right. It was small and pained, and when he risked a glance up it was to see that Arthur was pinching the bridge of his nose, his head bowed and his shoulders slumped.

'It –' Arthur choked himself off, swallowing hard. He seemed tense, like he was trying to hold the words back, but they were forcing their way out of him. 'It's your choice, of course. I won't stop you if it's what you think is best.'

He dropped his hand, curling his fingers around the edge of the desk as if it were the only thing holding him up. It looked as if it cost Arthur more than he could spare to meet Merlin's eyes, and when he did, his expression was one of absolute defeat. He looked as if Merlin had sunk a knife into his gut, rather than offering a reprieve, and all Merlin's certainty crumbled to dust.

'I can't stay here!' He didn't mean it to sound like that, an almost-wail, and he bit his lip hard. 'Not when you don't want me. Not when you flinch away. You're scared of my magic – of me. I don't think time will fix that, and you shouldn't have to live each day in fear!'

'What? No!'

Merlin sucked in a breath, taking half a step back and colliding with the door as Arthur lunged forward, desperation lining his features. He strode across the room to grasp Merlin's arms – not tight and fierce, but determined – as if he wanted to shake him until he understood.

'That's not – I don't –' Arthur shook his head, his grip slackening as he brushed his thumb up and down, his touch whispering over the fabric of Merlin's tunic. 'I was scared of your magic, back at the start. Considering everything, that's no surprise, but that's not what this is about.'

'These past few days you've barely even looked at me,' Merlin murmured.

'Because I'm afraid of what you might see if I do. I've been trying to think how to tell you. Of how to say it without making you feel as if you owe me anything.' Arthur's brow pleated, and Merlin could not recall the last time he had seen him so desperate. 'I don't want you to feel as if you have no choice. I want you to be happy, even if that means letting you go.'

Merlin gave his head a tiny shake. It was obvious he'd misread the source of Arthur's withdrawal, but now he was left clueless, scrambling to understand. 'What?'

Arthur's right hand shifted, hesitant, skimming up Merlin's arm to cup his shoulder. Warm fingers brushed against the column of his throat, and Merlin's pulse staggered, picking up its beat as Arthur gently grasped his chin. The pad of his thumb swept over Merlin's bottom lip, just once, before retreating.

That was all it took for the tremulous wings of realisation to unfurl.

Gods, he was an idiot. Here he had been, thinking that Arthur was trying to conceal his fear. Instead, he had been trying to hide this: eyes that darkened with want and gleamed with affection; the heat of his body as he eased into Merlin's space; the subtle tremor that Merlin could sense at every point they touched – hope and uncertainty blending together to leave Arthur torn between the two.

Merlin's fingers twitched where they still pressed against the door, clinging to the wood as if it could anchor him. Clumsily, he reached up, fumbling at Arthur's hip and catching in the fabric of his tunic, holding him in place. There would be no retreat from this. He would not let Arthur step back and build his walls once more, but nor could he leave it here, the two of them lost in a briar of everything unspoken.

'Say it?' He wished he was strong enough to do it himself – to lay bare his heart's cries – but he didn't dare. He'd made a different confession, months ago, and it had nearly broken them. He didn't have the strength to speak of this.

Closing his eyes, he leaned forward, pressing his brow against Arthur's. Like this, their feet shared space and their noses brushed. They breathed the same air, and when Arthur licked his own lips, nervous, he could almost taste it.

'Please, say it?'

Arthur made a noise as if he were dying: a pained little gasp as if he didn't know how to put everything he felt into words and was afraid to even try. How could Merlin blame him? Uther had done far more than teach prejudice to his son. He had taught him, in a hundred different ways, that he was unworthy of affection. That to want it – or, gods forbid, ask for it – was a weakness rather than a strength.

And yet, just as he had worked so hard to accept Merlin's magic, to listen and understand and learn, so Arthur rose to this new challenge. His voice may be soft, little more than a whisper, but it was there, shaping words Merlin had never dared to hope for.

'I love you.' Arthur gasped as if he had been stabbed, quick and sharp, but he pressed on. 'I love you as far more than a friend, Merlin. I want you here by my side, you and your magic. I have no right to ask it of you, not when every day you are here you are at risk from my father's twisted idea of justice, but please. Please stay?'

A shiver raced through Merlin's body, stirring up the fine hairs along his arms and pooling molten gold in the marrow of his bones. It struck up the symphony of his magic beneath his skin, turning it into a bright, joyful cascade that left him dizzy and glad for the door at his back. It meant he could lean against it, his fingers curling tight around Arthur's hip as the other hand drifted up to his nape, teasing at the soft hairs there as he closed that last bit of distance.

Their lips brushed, and the final piece slotted into place.

Power was a living thing between them, the thread that had tied them together weaving itself into a tapestry as the connection reached its full potential. Yet Merlin could barely pay it any mind, not the tingle of the skin on his chest nor the heat of its triumph. He was too lost in Arthur, the warmth of his body and the taste of his lips, the chaste press of closed mouths parting to go deeper as they sagged against one another, their hearts falling in and out of rhythm.

He felt as if he might come undone, his outline blurring away without Arthur's hands there to confine him. A candle-mark ago, he had been certain that his time at Arthur's side was coming to an end. Now, a wealth of possibility had unfurled before them. He could see into Arthur's heart – his devotion and desire, his fading uncertainties. The gentle wash of magic created nothing new. It merely brought it out into the light, and Merlin knew his own feelings were equally exposed.

He could taste Arthur's relief in his kiss. He could feel the answering tremors in his body as he pushed himself closer, consuming the last distance between them until they were joined in a breathless seam of straining ribs and shifting hips. Merlin moaned, gasping and giddy. It was as if the far-flung horizon had drawn in, pressing down until the whole world was no bigger than this chamber. Here, the air was bright and glorious, brimming with elation and the steady burn of emotions long-denied.

This had nothing to do with destiny. It was just the two of them with no secrets left to hide. Merlin felt reborn, made anew and whole at last, because Arthur saw him for all that he was and he did not turn away.

Arthur drew back a fraction, staring into Merlin's eyes, his hair tousled from the unsteady passage of Merlin's fingers and his lips sinfully swollen. He looked at him as if he could not believe his good fortune, but there was one last glimmer of uncertainty that Merlin was eager to refute.

'Clotpole,' he murmured, unbearably fond. 'I'm not going anywhere. I never wanted to; I just thought you wanted me gone.'

Arthur huffed, dipping in for another kiss – fleeting and brief, but hypnotic. 'I always knew you were an idiot,' he replied, his voice an intimate rumble. 'When you said you knew what I was going to say, I thought you meant you knew how I felt and you wanted no part of it.'

'We're both idiots.' Merlin groaned as his hips hitched, involuntary, finding a hint of friction that left him and Arthur gasping in unison. The heat pooling through him was almost unbearable. He'd kept it in check for far too long. He may have desired Arthur, but he would never have gone to his bed with the secret of his magic still between them. Now the dam had burst, and there was nothing holding him back.

Arthur wanted him, and not just the magicless mask he had put forward: benign and acceptable. He wanted Merlin in his entirety, and Merlin felt like he might shake apart at the seams.

The loose fabric of Arthur's tunic shifted at his touch, unimpeded by the restriction of his belt. It meant he could rest his palm against the line of Arthur's bare waist. It felt daring, to caress him like this, not as a man attending to the dutiful care of his prince, but just as Merlin-and-Arthur, the two of them meeting as impossible equals.

Yet the moment his fingers moved, his hand shifting to skim across Arthur's skin, he found his courage. It was curled up in Arthur's quiet little gasp. He looked at him as if Merlin were offering him the world, and Merlin would happily give it.

'I was going to court you,' Arthur confessed, sounding dazed, the secret shared on a breath between them as their lips met and clung, heady. 'Properly. Gifts and flowers...'

Merlin tipped his head back as Arthur's mouth shifted sideways, planting a kiss with a hint of teeth at his jaw before moving lower, down the fragile line of his throat, striking sparks beneath Merlin's skin as he went. A brief fumble, and the scarf around his neck fell free. It whispered to the floor: irrelevant. He was too lost in Arthur – the scent of his skin, his heat, his strength – to pay it any mind. His thoughts felt like tatters of fabric fluttering in a growing storm, but he gathered a fraction of his wits, his words escaping him in a breathy little rush.

'You already brought me flowers. One, anyway.' He grinned up at the ceiling. 'Went all the way to the Forest of Balor to get it.'

Arthur made a rough noise, humid against Merlin's neck. The press of his body meant Merlin could feel him, hot and hard. It was shocking to see Arthur like this: a man who so often prided himself on control stripped of it, and all because of Merlin. There was a power there, too, one that he would never abuse. Arthur could be honest with him, and Merlin would only ever reach out in kind.

He tangled his fingers in Arthur's hair, tugging gently so that he looked up, his cheeks flushed and his lips parted.

'You don't need to court me, Arthur. I think you already have. Bloody years of it.' He pressed their brows together, thinking of the thousand myriad ways their devotion had bled out in to their everyday lives. Each glimmer of affection they had shown one another, each sacrifice they had made: it all added up to this.

'I just want you.'

His whisper curled around them, cocooning them both in its sincerity. He saw the moment that the last of Arthur's uncertainty melted away like ice before the spring sunshine. Its lingering remnants dissipated to leave him looking younger and softer than Merlin had seen him in recent months. It was as if layers of misery and strain had finally been peeled back to reveal the man beneath.

The man Merlin loved.

'You have me,' Arthur promised, his hand shifting to rest over Merlin's heart. 'Always.'

Merlin leaned in, claiming Arthur's mouth in a searing kiss that sent shock-waves racing through him, rippling down his thighs and stretching up to the top of his head. His magic hummed in happy symphony, and Arthur's moan was music to his ears: all heat and approval.

Arthur's hands were everywhere, igniting fires wherever they brushed Merlin's skin. For his part, he did not know where he wanted to touch most, from cupping Arthur's jaw to stroking down the column of his neck, grasping his shoulders or clutching at his hips. All he knew was that he needed more – to press closer than the chaste barrier of clothes would allow.

A hoarse, protesting sound caught in his throat as Arthur stepped back. Merlin followed without a thought, matching each small pace, meeting to kiss and touch before Arthur retreated once more, leading them inch by tortuous inch towards the luxurious sprawl of the bed.

It was the kind of playful, teasing game that lovers played – a new frontier when it came to each other – but Merlin felt drunk with it: dizzy and hot. His body had turned into one giant pulse, and the tenuous thread of his patience snapped when the backs of Arthur's legs hit the edge of the mattress.

Merlin pounced, delighting in the bright pop of laughter that escaped Arthur as they both tumbled down to the sheets. He pinned him neatly to the bed so he could devour that tempting mouth without mercy, warm mirth dissolving into the soft rush of shattered breathing and quiet, needy noises.

It lasted for long moments, until Merlin's grip went slack. Arthur eased himself free, wrapping strong fingers over his hips before grinding up, firm and hard, to send stars of pleasure shooting between them.

'Gods!' Merlin choked, admiring Arthur through hooded eyes. His roving hands had unravelled the laces of Arthur's tunic. The fabric hung wide, revealing the lines of his collarbones and the tendons in his neck as he threw his head back, revelling in the friction. He looked beautiful; wrecked; free of all his masks and roles and naked in his desire.

'Off,' Arthur gasped at last, the scrabble of his fingers at Merlin's belt adding context where his words did not. 'Get this off. I want to see you. I want to feel you. All of you.'

Merlin managed some vague noise of eager agreement, his attention shifting back and forth between his own clothes and Arthur's. He could not decide what to shed first. Their hands caught, tangled, clasped, greedy for each other, and mere buckles and laces had never been so complex.

It took several moments of impatient grappling to shuck free of anything. He got his trousers loose only to realise he still had his boots on. A faint snarl escaped him, snagged on the clumsy cusp between amusement and aggravation as Arthur grinned, wanton and wild.

They kept getting in each other's way, leaning in to kiss and lick and taste. Shaking fingers traced the outline of each scrap of skin they revealed, sketching the details as they lost themselves to their worship.

Clothes fell around the bed like the leaves of autumn, easily discarded. If Merlin had the presence of mind to look, he would have noticed the crackle of magic that laced along their seams, mending the occasional rip caused by their clumsy desperation. As it was, he was lost to it: indifferent to anything in the world that wasn't Arthur, naked and glorious, sprawled and reaching for him.

'You're sure?' Arthur whispered, his hands almost unbearably hot as they trailed over the camber of Merlin's ribs, charting a line across his quivering stomach to inch downwards. 'We can stop, if...'

'Don't you dare.' Merlin shook his head, tightening the reins on the desire that threatened to storm through him. 'Not unless you want to.'

'Gods, no.' Arthur let out a breath, his chest heaving as if the air was no longer enough to sustain him. Blunt fingernails scratched gently across Merlin's treasure trail before his hand slipped between them to wrap around his length.

Merlin keened, losing himself to the pleasure of Arthur's touch. They explored each other with fingertips and lips, sweeping palms and questing tongues: an exquisite torment. He felt like he was constantly approaching the brink, only to stagger away from its edge. Every noise that escaped Arthur's mouth only drove the fire in him higher, and he was more than happy to burn.

'Please!'

Cool sheets pressed against his back. He hadn't even noticed Arthur roll them over, not beyond the exquisite sensation of that body over his, pressing him down into the mattress. Arthur's erection rutted against the crease of his thigh, his skin sticky with precome as he clutched at Arthur's hips and arse, leaving bruises.

Not that Arthur seemed to care. He was as lost to this as Merlin, wanting to do everything and unable to choose. Every touch was both clumsy and exquisite, reduced to little more than instinct until Merlin grasped Arthur's wrist, guiding his hand away from his throbbing cock and back, past his balls.

Arthur might have his moments of being spectacularly dense, but this wasn't one of them. His groan sounded rapturous in Merlin's ear as his fingers brushed in a light tease, shy and hesitant for the first time since he had claimed that initial kiss.

'You – I...' His chest jerked as he huffed out a breath. 'We need –'

A sudden chill against Merlin's thigh made him gasp, and he groped among the folds of the quilt, a snort of laughter escaping him as he held up his prize. 'This?'

'Did your magic do that?' Arthur sat back on his heels with a blink, his astonishment rapidly fading into a wicked little grin as his voice turned rough and deep. 'Keen, aren't you?'

'Shut up,' Merlin breathed. 'Like you're any better. I can feel you shaking.' He reared up, his stomach straining with the effort as he set his teeth to Arthur's collar bone, just to hear him try and stifle a cry as he sucked a mark there: claiming him. 'Are you going to use it, or what?'

'Bossy. I'm the one who's meant to be giving orders.'

Arthur pressed his brow to Merlin's, nuzzling at him. He urged him down with biting kisses as slick fingers skimmed back, circling in a maddening little tease as Merlin collapsed onto the pillows, surrendering to it.

He was so intent on that tight spiral of sensation that he realised a moment too late that Arthur had shifted. It was only when hot, wet heat engulfed the head of his cock that he cried out, his thighs flexing against the urge to thrust. He reached out blindly to delve his fingers into Arthur's hair, and he uttered some vague, blasphemous prayer to the canopy high above them.

Do you know how to walk on your knees?

Arthur's words from back at the start, one of their first meetings, drifted through his mind. If he'd known then that this was how they would end up – tangled together in wrecked sheets without a single secret left between them – he would have thought the world had gone mad. Yet here he was, with Arthur a willing supplicant to Merlin's pleasure, wringing out every soft, embarrassing sound until Merlin felt flushed through from soul to skin.

A flick of Arthur's tongue distracted him from the first press in. In a better state of mind, he might have noticed and appreciated how gentle Arthur was being. However, right now Merlin was a creature of want, rendered down to little more than basic need as Arthur took him apart with devastating patience.

Two fingers curled in him, questing and beckoning, brushing up against that sharp so-good spot inside him. Merlin jolted hard, not sure whether he wanted to move forward or away, torn and held captive on the edge of almost-too-much by Arthur's sensuous mouth and clever hands.

The pleasure-cum-pain stretch of a third finger threatened to shove him right over the brink.

'Arthur,' he warned, his voice a tremulous little shiver of sound. 'Arthur, if you don't stop...'

Arthur hummed, low and deep, and Merlin screwed his eyes up tight: a willing victim to the exquisite torture of it all. Except it wasn't what he wanted, Arthur both intimate and distant, cradled between his thighs but also exiled to his fingertips. He needed Arthur over him, in him, part of him, and he made a demanding little noise, nudging at Arthur's shoulder with his knee before reaching down to grip his arm and hauling him up the bed.

He came willingly, his kisses tanged with salt. Clumsy fingers fumbled with the vial of oil, half empty already, and Arthur's hiss as he slicked himself up bordered on a sob. It wasn't going to last, not for either of them, but Merlin didn't care. There'd be time to do it again, in a dozen different ways or more if they wanted. This wasn't a stolen night of pleasure. He could feel that certainty brimming in Arthur like a guiding light on the horizon: firm and true. Magic gilded it, defining its outline, and surprised tears pricked the corners of Merlin's eyes: overwhelmed by the intensity of everything Arthur was putting on display.

'You all right?' Arthur asked, checking, even now.

'Yes, just –' Merlin shifted meaningfully, his thighs splayed and hitched over Arthur's hips as he lined himself up. It would be better, maybe, if he were on all fours, or if Arthur was the one on his back while Merlin sank down on him. That would give Merlin the control, but that was not something he craved. Not right now.

He wanted Arthur unrestrained, claiming him even as his magic claimed Arthur in turn, coiling between his ribs and running invisible fingertips over the marks that connected them. He could feel it: a scatter of tiny shocks that coalesced as Arthur pressed slowly, steadily in.

They were both breathing as if they had raced across the citadel, each gasp like the crash of waves against the shore. The steady glide of pressure made Merlin bite his lip, and he grunted as Arthur finally sheathed himself, buried to the hilt and shaking like a leaf.

They lay there, motionless, suspended in a moment of connection that whited out Merlin's mind. The almost-discomfort soon faded beneath the throbbing pulse of his own arousal, drowned out by the demands of need, and he shifted, silently urging Arthur to move.

The first steady, rolling thrust made Merlin's lashes flutter, his left hand gripping the sheets as he and Arthur found their rhythm. He moved carefully, as if he thought Merlin might break, or perhaps he feared he would be the one to shatter apart. Yet before long he hit the perfect pace, leaving Merlin whining and breathless.

His cock bobbed against his belly, smearing precome, and he reached down to take himself in hand. Arthur's gaze was a hot, hungry weight upon his skin. Merlin peeled his eyes open, desire curling tight as he realised Arthur was watching him, matching his thrusts as best he could to the pump of Merlin's fist.

It fell apart all too quickly, any poise either of them could claim soon vanishing. All Merlin cared about was chasing his completion as Arthur gripped his hips, pressing possessive bruises into his skin as he surged forward, inexorable.

The knot of pleasure at the base of Merlin's spine pulled tight, delicious tension humming through him. Heat flashed up his thighs as the wave threatened to crash down over him. He just barely made out Arthur's breathless, groaning curse before ecstasy consumed him, blazing outwards as he threw back his head and came with a cry.

Dimly, he was aware of his magic spilling through the room. It whirled in eddies around Arthur, catching in his hair and sweeping along his skin as he spent deep in Merlin's body, his cock twitching. Aftershocks caught Merlin in their ripples, leaving him feeling as if he'd been taken apart and reassembled in a different, better configuration.

Arthur's weight on him drove the air from his lungs with a huff. He made a hoarse, contented sort of noise as he buried his face in the curve of Merlin's throat, his shoulders heaving as he got his breath back.

'You're heavy,' Merlin slurred, grinning stupidly up at the canopy. 'Squashing me.'

Arthur grumbled something in response, groaning as he pulled out before collapsing on the bed at Merlin's side. Immediately, his arm wrapped around Merlin's body, pulling him close as if he wanted not an inch of space between them. He only twitched when Merlin's magic banished the sticky mess from them and the sheets that lay in a twisted catastrophe beneath their bodies.

'Don't move,' Arthur ordered when Merlin shifted onto his side, reaching out to brush a hand down Arthur's ribs. 'Stay.'

'I'm not going anywhere,' Merlin promised. 'Don't think my legs work.'

He smirked as Arthur preened, only protesting when he moved away to drag the blankets out from underneath them and trap them both in their cocoon. Almost immediately, Arthur wrapped Merlin in his embrace once more, firm and steady: safe harbour against any storm.

The night passed in patchy sleep and heated kisses, desire stirring anew as the darkest hours began to fade. Dawn found them soon enough, soft and sure. Meek, silver light blossomed outside beyond the parted curtains, pooling on the flagstones and lending the room a subtle, blue pall. It was peaceful, like they were the only two people in the world, and Merlin basked in Arthur's company, sated and a little sore.

Arthur's head rested on his shoulder, one leg thrown over Merlin's thighs as his breath puffed gently against his chest. Broad, blunt fingers traced the shape that had etched itself there: the precise twin for the design that had settled over Arthur's heart, no longer sketched in black and white, but alive with colour.

Shades of red and blue, silver and gold decorated its eight points. It exploded like a starburst, roughly the size of Merlin's palm, and the cardinal directions were scribed in a delicate, swirling script.

Yet there was more to it than how it looked. Merlin's magic felt as if it collected there, pooling its warmth and strength beneath the mark. Whenever he thought about it, there was a sense of Arthur: something both nebulous and immediate. He got the feeling that Arthur could be half the world away, and with a moment's consideration, Merlin would be able to point in his direction, sure and true.

'It's finished, isn't it?' Arthur murmured, apparently unwilling to disturb the peace by speaking at a normal volume. 'This, I mean.' He skimmed a brief caress over Merlin's chest.

'Yeah, it has.' Merlin sighed, turning his head so he could nuzzle his nose into Arthur's hair, breathing in the scent of him. 'It would have been fine, before. It didn't need this to happen. Whether we'd gone our separate ways or not, it wouldn't have hurt us. This is something extra, I think.' He wet his lips, his pulse giving a nervous flutter. 'Last night wasn't about any of that. Not magic or destiny – just us.'

'I know.'

He sensed the curl of Arthur's smile against his ribs. The whisper of a kiss followed it, making the mark sing in tune to the rhythm of Merlin's heart. They touched each other with less urgency now, but it still felt good to be pressed together, skin-to-skin, naked but far from vulnerable. He trusted Arthur with him like this – all his scars on display – and Arthur trusted him in turn. They saw the truth in each other, and neither one of them was inclined to look away.

They had survived the rift that Merlin's confession had ripped between them. They had weathered each other's anger and disappointment, baring their hidden hurts, and at last they had emerged the other side of it all, stronger than ever. More than friends; more than lovers.

The magic that tied them together gleamed bright and strong in his mind's eye, laying them both bare to one another. He could feel Arthur's contentment and affection as if it were his own, and he knew those same feelings were echoing back to the man in his arms.

Whatever the future held, whatever struggles they would face, he could bear them if he had Arthur at his side and in his heart. He would make the world anew if Arthur asked it of him, and there, in the growing light of a golden dawn, Arthur promised the same. In halting, hushed words, he explained how he had been thinking about magic, about its exile from Camelot, and how one day his father's time would come to an end.

'We can change it,' he whispered as the first birds began to chorus in the courtyard below the bedroom window, shrill and piping and full of hope. 'We will change it, but I don't think I can do it alone.'

'You won't have to,' Merlin promised, the covers whispering as he shifted, rolling on his side and resting his palm over the starburst on Arthur's chest. Beneath his touch, he could feel the steady beat of Arthur's heart, honourable and true. 'I'll be here. I meant what I said. As long as you want me, then I'm not going anywhere. Me, or my magic.'

Arthur's lips were warm over his, soft and yielding: a sacrifice and an oath. Plenty of challenges lay ahead, but they would rise to meet them. It did not matter what destiny had in store. He and Arthur chose their own path to walk, side-by-side.

They had each other, now and always.

That was more than enough.