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Despite what Merlin says (and what Gaius’s eyebrow implies, what Morgana’s generally patronising attitude suggests, and despite Gwen’s occasional “at-least-you’re-pretty” pitying looks), Arthur is not stupid.
At least, not completely and utterly so.
Right, Merlin’s made him a bit confused, waking him up to a whole new level of spectacularly bad personal service and an outrageous proclamation about a diet, so it’s quite understandable that Arthur’s bewildered when faced with the expanding extent of his manservant’s audacity.
And fine, yes, maybe he’s a little worried that Merlin actually thinks he’s getting fat and dislikes it.
Not that Arthur cares about Merlin’s opinion of him, or anything.
It’s just that… all right, he cares a great deal about it, so excuse him if he’s a bit embarrassed and self-conscious, and not super quick to doubt or ask questions.
However, he does notice when Merlin – who by all indications only owns two shirts and a pair of neckerchiefs (with the exception of one purple shirt that was probably the sad result of washing a red and a blue one together) – shows up in a different jacket.
Not that Arthur usually notices clothes or anything girlish like that, mind you.
Leaning back, Arthur waits for the usual long, heavily-detailed prattle about the exact circumstances and unfolding events that have led to this oddity, knowing Merlin’s (irritating, deliberately oblivious) tendency to overshare and babble on for hours about every small incident in his day. He puts on the exasperated expression he plans to wear all the while, because it’s going to take time but damn it if he won’t listen to it all.
He realizes it’s expectation that’s filling him rather than annoyance, as it leaves him with an odd, unfulfilled sensation, like skipping a stair on the way down, when Merlin is suspiciously quiet on the matter.
When it comes to Merlin, silence is always suspicious.
And, well, if Merlin’s got something to hide, it’s Arthur’s job to investigate, for the sake of everyone involved – including Merlin himself, in case he’s done something terribly wrong or over the top right, and in any case probably majestically stupid.
There is, also, the possibility of Merlin having deliberately given his usual jacket away to someone else, other than just irresponsibly losing it. It wouldn’t be the first time, and Arthur makes sure to pay attention after the time he'd asked Merlin what had happened to the new gloves he’d given him – the constant hand-rubbing was just insufferable – and his servant’s ears had turned red as he muttered something incoherent. Only later had Arthur heard from Gaius about the orphan boy who’d come for treatment of frostbite for his hands.
So it isn’t unlikely, especially considering the cold weather lately, and Arthur decides he’ll stop by the physician's quarters later, just to clear the air on that matter
In the meantime, there’s a more pressing issue to settle. It’s not for nothing that the future king of Camelot's an excellent strategist.
A bath, he concludes, will be a fine opportunity to walk around half naked and remind a certain smug, skinny-arsed git exactly how fighting fit his prince is.
Unfortunately, it turns out the infuriating twit thinks the proper way to show his appreciation for the smooth, well-defined body in front of him is by trying to cook him alive.
Really, Arthur can’t be blamed for introducing Merlin’s obviously half-asleep face to some cold water.
*
When asked, Gaius shakes his head and says Merlin was with him the entire day yesterday and they didn’t meet anyone who would have triggered one of Merlin’s altruistic impulses. Then Gaius adds, vaguely, “Except for that girl.” At this point he falls silent, looking distracted and disturbed, leaving Arthur burning with curiosity and frustration.
A girl.
Of course. Arthur sees too many of his knights losing half of their wardrobe once they start going steady with someone, so he knows the meaning of that. Only he didn’t know Merlin had… and… well, he can’t help the sudden sting of jealousy. And also, maybe, a very un-knightly urge to punch some unknown girl’s nose.
Not long after this, Uther spreads the word about the escaping Druid girl. And come on, even Halig figures it out and catches Merlin. It’s so much like his foolish, no-self-preservation servant, to try and save someone the Druids themselves turned away. So typically Merlin, to get that carried away, tripping over his own feet, both physically and emotionally, completely reckless about his own safety in the process.
Hurrying to free Merlin from Halig’s claws, Arthur hopes this demonstration of trust will encourage Merlin to do likewise.
Obviously, it doesn’t.
Even when faced with the evidence of Merlin having stolen his breakfast and then lied to his face, Arthur can’t bring himself to confront him. Truth is, he’s secretly relieved, hoping maybe the entire affair’s merely been about Merlin acting from his uncontrollable need to help – which could still easily get him beheaded, but at least in that case there’d be something Arthur could do, as opposed to Merlin being in love with someone else.
That hope is shattered to pieces by the whole dress situation.
Again: Not Completely and Utterly Stupid. Arthur figures if Merlin’s walking around with a dress, it’s meant for a girl. He just came from Morgana’s chambers so it’s not her, at least (and thank God Merlin got over that infatuation; yes, Arthur knows perfectly well that’s what it was, no matter that Merlin denied it. Honestly, Merlin gave her flowers). And weird as Gaius may be, he surely doesn’t need a dress. (To be honest, Arthur does think Gaius’s robes resembled, or even were, in fact, very dress-like, but the elegant clothing Merlin had taken would have hardly fit him).
A dress like that wasn’t meant to simply give an escaping girl something to wear or disguise her, since an outfit from the servants’ laundry room would’ve been a lot more effective for such a cause, and way easier to get. In the same way Merlin could have taken leftovers from the kitchen rather than stealing every single one of Arthur’s meals right under his nose. There is, of course, the strong possibility that Merlin’s more afraid of the head cook than his prince, but Arthur knows it’s not just that.
No, Merlin was giving the girl a romantic gift – a royal dress, no less. By all evidence, smuggled from Morgana’s closet, since he couldn’t possibly have persuaded that vain creature to willingly part with one of her pretty things. The last time Arthur tried to do that, he carried the marks from his sister’s nails for weeks afterwards.
So in order to conceal his raging envy and deal with the helplessness he faces, Arthur turns to The Pendragon Guide to Handling FEELINGS.
Chapter One: Deny Them.
Following the heading there’s a single line: “Fee-- what? We don’t have them.”
After that there are many blank pages. The next part literally drips exasperation, stating that the following chapters are meant for “stubborn, annoying cases” – and isn’t that just the definition of Merlin.
Right now Arthur’s more likely to wear Morgana’s dress himself than succeed in denying his feelings for Merlin. Plus, purple’s really not Arthur’s colour.
Execution, public whipping and the stocks are only a few of the suggested methods in the second chapter (“Aggressively Drive Them Away”). Arthur skipped those; they were meant for easy cases).
Even if his means are drastically less violent, “drive them away” seems to have been his default strategy when it comes to Merlin, ever since their first meeting. At the time, a mere glimpse of the wide-eyed, milky-skinned boy was enough to send Arthur into “full-on prat mode”, as Merlin put it later. Eager to impress, Arthur had resorted to knife-throwing at a moving target, which he figured would be a reasonable way to capture said boy’s attention and show off some skills. It had involved a bit of servant-harassment, but honestly, Arthur’s a great shot – it’s not like any of the knives would have hurt Morris. The main problem was that Arthur’d accidentally ended up bullying Merlin, too.
Like, whoops.
“Throwing them in the dungeons” was, actually, one of the listed methods in Chapter 2.
To Arthur’s defence, it should be stated that trying to court Merlin was frustratingly difficult, even when one sticks to more common romantic approaches.
First, and most outrageously, Merlin doesn’t share the Pendragon obsession with flowers. In fact, he appears perfectly immune to their charm. The one time Arthur left a bouquet on the physician’s threshold and then “coincidentally” showed up to observe the results, he had to watch, horrified and shaken, as the cold-blooded bastard had instantly dismantled it, picking out only those flowers with medicinal benefits and crushing them.
Crushing flowers! Guess who's going to be wrecked in tomorrow’s practice demonstration.
In an utterly peasant-like manner, Merlin also dismisses the respected, widely-accepted tradition of tournaments. According to him, he sees no reason to be impressed by “sweaty men banging iron together”.
When Arthur’s king, he’ll make statements like that straight-up treason.
A love letter was considered, in Arthur’s most desperate moments, but Merlin writes all his speeches, so ironically, he’d had to go to him for help. He’d tried to sell it as if the letter was meant for some lady who’d visited a while ago, but almost gave up when Merlin launched into a detailed interrogation regarding the lady’s precise eye colour and preferences in poetry – lyric or melancholic or some other rubbish. However, Arthur could describe the shade of Merlin’s baby blues any time of the day or night (“like they’ve got pieces of some real clear summer skies stuck in them”), and “the girlish poetry kind” seemed like a safe bet both for an imaginary lady and Merlin himself.
The lousy outcome was Merlin presenting Arthur a comprehensive list of his defects, featuring lines like “although I’m a brat who treats his servants badly and looks utterly squashed in the mornings, would you please accept me” – poorly disguised by the claim that girls appreciate honesty. (Absolute nonsense; Arthur knows enough of girls to know they like the exact opposite: to be told they’re the prettiest of all and that he'd loved no one else before, the more blatant the lies the better. It's like, basic. Doesn’t even appear in The Guide.)
The second murder in so many nights since the girl escaped, catches Arthur in the middle of struggling with the infuriatingly contradictory chapter 19: “Expressing Feelings Without Letting The Object of Those Feelings Know You’re Expressing Feelings (risk-free and damage-free techniques)”. Mercifully, there isn’t much time for him to dwell on it while scanning the streets for the monster.
Except for the times Arthur’s mental shield cracks and he can no longer repress the fact that odds are, the monster is Merlin’s sweetheart.
As a total expert on Chapter 1, Arthur masters denying his feelings about 99% of the time. Only to fail spectacularly when he’s hauled to the place where the girl’s been found and sees her for himself.
And hell, knowing about her connection to Merlin (about her being the object of Merlin’s feelings, goddamn it), he can’t stop thinking about Merlin being in her place: equally pale, dark haired, skinny. Trembling in the night’s chill, still carrying the marks from being restrained in the cage.
All alone. Scared.
Her eyes catch his, and despite them being so different from Merlin’s bright blues, the look in them betrays a tender and delicate soul, painfully sensitive, just like Merlin’s.
It’s against every one of his instincts and knightly vows to attack anyone weaker than him, especially a woman, and recognising Merlin in this specific girl makes it downright impossible.
He hesitates, and then watches, utterly aghast as the girl lets out an agonized cry and transforms into a giant monster.
There’s no choice but to kill her, he knows, and every muscle in his body tenses as he holds up his shield again, automatically reacting to the threat, instinctively lifting his sword to strike and wound.
They have her cornered, and somehow the night-black beast manages to look every bit like the helpless, frightened girl. Despite having the upper hand, Arthur feels equally trapped. Seconds stretch out like hours, like a torturous spell that’s captured them in this impossible tragedy.
It breaks as the gargoyle falls from the roof, sending them scattering for shelter. When Arthur raises his head, he finds that instead of taking advantage of the situation, the creature has spread its wings and fled.
Rationally, he knows he’s failed in his mission – to eliminate the threat – but he can’t help feeling oddly relieved.
That’s when he recognises Merlin’s back, a distant figure taking off after the girl, running away from him.
The next day Arthur searches for Merlin until one of the other servants tells him he’s brushing boots in some secluded room. On his way there, Arthur’s reminded of the last time he saw Merlin performing this chore – for the entire army’s shoes.
Back then, Arthur'd gone over to tease him a bit, because there was no point in bossing Merlin around without some good banter dished out alongside it, without seeing Merlin’s cheeks flush indignantly and his eyes gleam in a way that never fails to spark a response in Arthur – something infuriating, frustrating, satisfying, joyous, and so alive.
Only, when he opened the door, Merlin already had company. Damned Gwaine, with his flawless flowing hair, charming manners and manly stubble, not even pretending to actually participate in the work, but not as he’s too stuck-up to do it, merely Gwaine-laziness. It didn’t seem to bother Merlin then, as he was diligently scrubbing a boot while listening to some ridiculous story, laughing and raising his head to counter Gwaine with a joke. Arthur had recognised that tone, that expression, but something was altogether different. Merlin had oozed serenity, warm and deep, like a child taking off running, knowing he’ll be accepted with wide open arms. Even though they both know that Arthur’s threatening or his mocking responses are a façade, the complete lack of that in the scene with Gwaine created a force field of mutual fondness, strong enough to shove Arthur back a few steps. As he turned away, he felt a hot surge of envy and resentment for Gwaine being free to show affection in ways Arthur couldn’t; of Gwaine telling Merlin everything and Merlin hiding nothing from him.
With that memory in mind, Arthur stops with his hand on the door knob, trying to balance careful nonchalance and confident steadiness in his attitude – much like the way he approaches a nervous foal.
If Arthur was in the habit of noticing Merlin’s clothes – which it's established he is not – he would’ve noticed the anomaly instantly. As it is, it takes him a few seconds to pin down what’s wrong.
Merlin’s paired a blue shirt with a blue neckerchief. Immediately, Arthur decides he doesn’t like it. At all. Merlin without a touch of red on – him to bring out his pouty lips, to contrast with his eyes, to add a splash of vivid, kicking, Pendragon colour – is just wrong. As it is, it seems almost grey, making Merlin’s face look hollow and sunken, emphasizing his paleness. He looks… well, blue.
It would take an even-bigger prat than Arthur not to notice Merlin’s grief. He has dark circles beneath his eyes and looks on the verge of crying, scrubbing away stubbornly even though it seems he might snap.
For the first time, and much to the dismay of his very-much-male-thank-you psyche, Arthur finds himself wishing he was a girl, if only for a couple of minutes. Damned Morgana makes it seem so easy to express fondness for her maid, and for other girls in general: Arthur envies her ability to press a friendly kiss to a cheek, to give them a brief hug.
On second thoughts, to hell with girlish expressions of platonic friendship.
Arthur wants to be able to ask what’s going on in Merlin’s head whenever he wishes, because they both know that head’s more precious to him than his own. He wants to know Merlin’s burdens because he takes half of them on his own shoulders. He wants to be able to walk in and out of Merlin’s soul because he’s a household member there.
He wants to soothe a finger over the troubled crease between Merlin’s eyebrows, to gently lift his chin, to take his face in both hands and kiss away every last bit of unhappiness.
Although every fiber of his being screaming about it’s not being enough, Arthur settles on closing the door behind him and sitting crossed-legged beside Merlin.
“Something has been upsetting you, hasn’t it?” Arthur knows "upsetting" is not nearly enough, even as he utters it. He just can’t bring himself to really raise the subject. It’s too close, too achy. (Once, when Gaius treated him for an open injury, he’d explained that some wounds need to set before advancing with treatment). That’s why, when Merlin says “Maybe”, Arthur doesn’t press him.
“Was it when I threw water at you?” he asks, and is instantly rewarded with a glimpse of a smile on Merlin’s face.
“It wasn’t very nice,” Merlin says, and Arthur’s heart breaks a little as he thinks about all the “not very nice” things Merlin's endured recently.
“It was a bit unfair”, he says, and the words don’t come anywhere near to describing the experience for both of them – it’s a terrible, horrible understatement. But it feels like using more precise words would only make it more painful.
Still, even then Merlin manages to spark Arthur’s indignation and the usual infuriation, and Arthur overflows with helpless affection. He catches Merlin in a headlock and rubs his knuckles against his head until he gives in. He looks so cute with his hair all ruffled, and Arthur can’t help but smile, especially when Merlin does, too. Then Arthur teases him, and Merlin smiles again, and it’s enough. For the moment it’s enough.
Arthur leaves, but he feels he would’ve given everything if he could’ve stayed there, stayed seated next to Merlin, and simply joined in with his work in silence.
Arthur’s never been Gaius’s favourite. He knows the court physician thinks he’s too arrogant and boastful, and he’s probably right because Arthur never used to care about his opinion. Morgana’s always been Gaius’s spoiled little girl, but then Merlin came along and there was no contest; Gaius wasn’t just sharing space with a part-time apprentice – he’s wholeheartedly adopted him.
Nowadays, if Arthur happens to ask something from Gaius after he’s been particularly nasty to Merlin, the glare he gets is so stern that Arthur would rather put up with whatever ache troubles him instead of taking the draught Gaius eventually hands out.
But Arthur knows Gaius is aware, far more than Merlin, of how extraordinary the treatment the young manservant receives is. Merlin can grumble all he wants, but the truth is that if he had any other master he’d probably get whipped daily, spend his weekends in the stocks and get put in the dungeons at least once a month, assuming he was still in possession of his head that long.
The most irritating thing about it is that ever since day one, despite Merlin’s obvious lack of respect and his many flaws as a servant, Arthur couldn’t help but feel oddly fond of him, a feeling that only grew deeper. Arthur himself wasn’t sure when his fantasies about Merlin’s neck changed from wrapping his fingers around it to enchantedly trailing his fingers along its delicate curve. Sure, he still wants to throttle Merlin at least once a day, but he’s also definitely, most certainly madly in love with him. Gaius, it seems, figured it out long before him, and Arthur can tell he appreciates it.
Perhaps that’s why when he goes to Gaius – after he makes sure Merlin will be far away and occupied for the rest of the day – the old man looks at him seriously as Arthur asks what he knows about the latest happenings, and then obliges.
Gaius, it turns out, suspected from the moment Arthur mentioned the jacket. When he heard about the girl’s escape he tried to confront Merlin, who blatantly lied to him - and apparently, unusually convincingly.
The mere thought hits Arthur hard. He loves his father, despite Uther’s constant demands and strictness, but sometime he wishes for what Merlin has: domestic warmth, plain and solid, and the ability to come home to a father figure who’s constantly there to give advice and comfort. The certainty that someone’s on your side no matter what, willing to cover for you (he’s lost count of the times Gaius made absurd excuses for Merlin’s absence), even as they reprimand you for whatever stupidity you took part in. The combination of scathing tongue-lashings mixed with deep-rooted confidence of their unconditional affection and care.
For Merlin to lie to the person who was closest to him, he’d have to be heavily invested in another – possibly stronger – emotional connection. Arthur's heart sinks more and more as Gaius describes Merlin’s behaviour: humming to himself, randomly declaring he feels great, announcing he’ll be back late. Asking Gaius for oddly specific locations that must include fields and cows, but also wildflowers, a lake, and mountains nearby.
Arthur’s been to Ealdor, and “fields and cows” more or less sums the place up, but the rest of the description’s clearly someone else’s childhood landscape.
According to Gaius, Merlin had already packed supplies before returning home defeated, collapsing on his bed after Gaius reported to Uther and the girl went on the run again. The thought that Merlin would’ve left him in a heartbeat, without even saying goodbye, spears Arthur like an un-blunted javelin in throwing practice when he’s not wearing armour.
It isn’t hard to picture Merlin lying on his bed, inconsolable yet refusing to give up, charging out when the city bells rang. Arthur presses the heels of his palms to his eyes as the events from yesterday flood back.
Gaius doesn’t know where or how Merlin spent the night, only that he came back in the morning and told him the girl was dead. Arthur wonders if Gaius’s hug could possibly exceed the sadness he sees in his eyes, both for the girl and Merlin.
He thinks about Merlin dressing the girl in the fancy gown and then walking all night with her in his arms, probably to the place she’d wished for, with flowers and the lake and the mountains surrounding it, as if standing in eternal guard.
Something within him rises in protest, railing against this story of impossible love and a dead lover, one he can’t ever compete with in a fair fight.
Gaius watches him silently, gravely. “I don’t think he was in love with her, sire,” he says.
“No?” It sounds nakedly bitter, as he’s too gloomy and desperate to try and hide his feelings on the matter. “Then what would you call it?”
He doesn’t get an answer right away. Gaius mulls it over, gazing at his stained, wrinkled hands. “Do you know what the most powerful connection between people is?” he asks, eventually, as he raises his eyes, wise and thoughtful in the old face. The question takes Arthur by surprise, and he shakes his head slightly, listening intently.
“Empathy. It’s a personal, even intimate feeling, since it involves identification. The ability to put yourself in someone else’s shoes. And I believe Merlin strongly identified with this young girl. He told me I wouldn't understand.”
Arthur doesn’t understand, either. “But Merlin’s not a Druid. Not an outcast. He’s not cursed.”
Gaius gives him a cryptic look. “We all have our own curses, Arthur,” he says eventually, and Arthur’s caught by surprise at the tenderness in the personal address. “We all have a burden to carry. I’d say you’re familiar with the feeling,” he says gently, and Arthur thinks about the loneliness of growing up as Crown Prince, always having to set an example, to stand out, to lead. How he could never be sure about people's motives in befriending him, about how much of their behaviour was to please him, out of ambition or fear. How hungry he’d been for someone like Merlin, who treated him as an equal.
“But Merlin wasn’t raised like you, since childhood, conscious of his responsibility and duty. His life in the village was very different, and he didn’t fit in there, either. He came here in search of a place where he would belong, would be safe, physically and mentally. A search that's common to all living creatures.”
Arthur’s eyes leave the wooden table, polished from years of use, and meet Gaius’s. In the space between them stretches the question, did he find it or not?, and Arthur thinks, almost frantically, that he must, he really has to, because he mustn’t go anywhere else to search. He has to stay here, with me.
“And one thing that's certain about Merlin is that no matter what state he was in he could never refuse a fellow seeker, could never offer less than his everything in order to help.”
“But he didn’t save her.” Arthur’s voice comes out hoarse, his part in Merlin’s failure burning hot and painful in his chest.
“Didn’t he?” Gaius’s expression is cryptic, combining sorrow and sage acceptance. “There are many ways to save a person, just as many as to hurt one. Some people spend their whole life seeking for the very things Merlin gave unreservedly: care, affection, acknowledgment, comfort, the confidence of being loved and looked after and the reassurance that one is not alone. That girl didn’t get to stay and live with it, but she did get that. Don’t underestimate it.”
Gaius pauses for a few seconds and then goes on. “I assume it was easier with her, since she was being chased and hunted. Maybe Merlin felt safe to open up to her, to be exposed. For someone as vulnerable as Merlin, to be given the chance to help someone else, less fortunate – it’s almost unfathomable. For someone who’s so exceedingly aware of injustice and misdeeds it’s natural that he’d be determined to do whatever he could to fix it, that he’d grasp the opportunity in both hands. He got to encourage her from a stance of strength, of giving aid; he got to be confident with his own difference. They accepted each other. That’s powerful. It’s not difficult to see how it would have an overwhelming effect on a boy like Merlin. But then again, it doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with romantic sentiments. There wasn’t much time for them to get acquainted, much less reach the level of familiarity and closeness he shares with… others close to him.”
This time there’s a slightly mischievous spark in Gaius’s eyes, but his smile is warm.
Despite what Arthur often says, he knows Merlin’s far from being an idiot. (He is, sometimes, sure, but he’s Arthur’s idiot, and that changes everything).
Merlin was never like the other servants, never quite acknowledging the boundaries between him and Arthur, not to mention respecting them. Even when he was repeatedly reminded by Arthur’s condescending remarks and bossiness, he didn’t seem humiliated or put off in the slightest, always quick to return an insult in spades, calling bullshit or just beaming at Arthur insolently, brightly, with his the rules don’t apply to me because you like me too much to sack me look. Arthur seriously thinks that their enemies mustn't ever find out about the knee-buckling effect of Merlin’s smiles on him, otherwise the kingdom will be in grievous trouble from this weakness.
Merlin was way too confident, independent-minded, and extremely sharp and witty, as he relentlessly proved with cheeky answers and sarcastic comments. He had a habit of mumbling things at the exact volume to make Arthur uncertain about what he’d heard (it took him days to figure out that Merlin did not say “The sun’s very bright”), and Merlin’s always had his own way of saying “Right” or even “Yes, sire” while clearly transmitting “You’re an arse”.
Being the Crown Prince, Arthur’s popular all right. People seek out his company, compete for his attention, laugh at his jokes. He’s got enough self-confidence to be sure it isn’t just his royal birth – to acknoledge that he is brave, charismatic and loyal. But when it comes to people, Merlin’s got a whole other level of charm.
There’s something oddly captivating about Merlin, all impish with his sticking-out ears and prominent cheekbones. It’s in the way he whistles cheerfully and carelessly, walking around so boyish with those dimples and sparkling eyes. His smile comes readily, open and honest and good-tempered and he’s willing to put in a good word. The devilish bastard works his charm on everyone, it seems, and he makes friends way too easily, from sweet Gwen to harpy Morgana, from noble Lancelot to slob Gwaine, from Arthur’s own knights to the servant girls who’re always chatting and giggling with him. It seems there isn’t a living soul who isn’t fond of Merlin – perhaps with the exception of the head cook, but she hates everyone.
So Arthur never really thought of Merlin as someone who carries a burden. But it’s like Gaius’s words have sharpened his gaze, and over the following days Arthur catches Merlin as he shows all kinds of weird behaviour, which might have passed before as him being moody or tired – and wasn’t Arthur just blind, because now it’s downright alarming.
Thinking it’ll do Merlin good to shake off the recent events and the surroundings of the castle, Arthur declares they’re going for a hunt. “Spreading Charm Through A Hunting Quest” was yet another failure in Arthur’s list of wooing attempts. A failure firstly since bringing Merlin along is a sure recipe for catching nothing, as he always manages somehow to sabotage the kill, chasing the prey away. It took Arthur way too long to see how Merlin used his clumsy oaf image in order to get his way – making sure no animal got hurt, like the godammned girl he is. Secondly, it's a failure as he was a snarky pain in the arse about the entire time.
“What kind of sport is it where one side has dogs and spears and crossbows and the other has nothing?” had been his precise words. To which Arthur had replied, “The kind of sport that takes skill to track down a target and put meat on the table” and that if Merlin was so keen on vegetables, a day in the stocks was always an option.
This time, Merlin doesn't speak out a word of protest or an insult about blokes who need to establish their masculinity by winning unfair battles. It’s the shadow that crosses Merlin’s face once Arthur utters the word hunt that stops Arthur on his tracks, as he’s forcefully reminded of the chase after the girl.
He suggests a picnic instead.
Merlin, who’s shameless about appropriating Arthur’s food even when he isn’t smuggling it to someone in need, looks practically sick when Arthur offers him strawberries.
Trying yet again to reach out and maybe cheer Merlin up a little – and in a very unlike-Arthur-Pendragon-y attempt to share his inner world – he tells Merlin about his dream to run off somewhere and be a farmer.
“Of course I’ll bring you with me, though, to do all the hard work –" He glances sidelong to check Merlin’s response because hell, he explicitly said it, that he’d want him for company over anyone else, and even if Merlin’s being obtuse about the hinted feelings, Arthur would’ve expected a biting retort. He puts on his best “sass me” expression, only to be shot down when Merlin gets all stiff and his face turns blank. It’s so unlike Merlin, whose features are always transparently expressive, revealing amusement or enthusiasm or anger, that Arthur apologises, despite not being certain what exactly he’s saying sorry for, but damnned if he’ll be held accountable for brutally erasing the liveliness from that face. Merlin just nods in response. Only later does Arthur remember that farms have fields and cows.
They return to the castle in silence and Arthur feels like a failure. A complete and utter one.
The thing is, Arthur’s not used to being around sad people.
Sulky, grumpy, grouchy – that’s practically the Pendragon cup of tea. Quite literally, in fact, since no Pendragon has ever been a morning person so breakfasts usually pass in drowsy, sullen silences, communicated mostly through half-grunts and dirty looks. To be honest, Morgana’s attitude doesn’t improve much through the day, either. Uther’s eternal cloud of dissatisfaction is carried with him, too, broadcasting loud and clear that everyone will soon feel the consequences. But the Pendragon general bad temper is nothing like Merlin’s quiet distress.
Even before this, Arthur has always found Merlin’s quietness unnerving. Even though there were times when he thought he’d do anything to shut up the endless prattle, any actual silence was – well, disquieting.
When Arthur was a child, one of his nannies had a father working in the mines and she told him about the canary they used to take with them into the tunnels. Every time Merlin shuts off, Arthur can’t help but feel that it’s just like the bird, where silence is against its nature and foreshadows a disaster. He’d never realised how much he’d grown accustomed to the chatter filling the space in a way that means companionship, ease, safety. More often than not he found himself tuning out the words so that it was like bees buzzing happily on a lazy, sun-soaked summer day.
Over just a few nights, Merlin’s posture changes completely. His carefree stride gives way to a hunched walk, as if he’s carrying a massive weight or his bones have grown heavy inside his body.
Arthur’s easy-going, endearing manservant is no more. The boy that used to get so bored at council meetings – having to just stand there and listen, occasionally pouring someone water, waiting for Artur to finish – got all the mischief sucked out of him, and he no longer makes ridiculous faces at Arthur behind the nobles' backs.
The overly excited, coltish boy seems to have been forcefully grown up, his long limbs making him seem taller and withdrawn. His usually open face is pulled into hard lines: the straight eyebrows are constantly knitted together, creating a small, unhappy crease, and his plush, laughing lips are sealed. Sometimes Arthur can’t help but wonder if that is the looks of someone who does read poetry, and ceaselessly pondering the most tragic parts of it.
There are times when Merlin stares as though he’s looking into the void, as if he’s seeing something others don’t, and it makes Arthur want to throw something at him, shake him out of it, because he’s intimidated by this flash of a world far from his, much more complicated and subtle than the reality Arthur can offer – the world of horse riding and fighting and sweat. It scares him when Merlin gets that distant look, caught up and haunted by something Arthur doesn’t understand and that can’t be solved with the slash of a sword or a manly punch to the shoulder.
It’s like Merlin’s folded into himself, curled in and rigid, and his baggy, large shirt seemingly trying to hide him from the world. Something in his overall appearance gives the impression that he’s standing in heavy rain, head bowed against the sting of the drops and the cold, but otherwise unmoved, as if he has no choice and has lost all hope.
One evening Arthur goes out to the roof to get some air, only to find Merlin standing next to the railing. Arthur’s first instinct’s to warn him away from the edge, like pulling back a child. Then he recognizes Merlin’s specific position – right next to the broken gargoyle. Merlin's head’s lowered in the manner Arthur's recently become accustomed to, which has nothing to do with the bite of winter wind. The long, elegant line from the curve of Merlin’s jaw to his pale neck and down to his sloped shoulder conveys a degree of pensiveness and misery that even his neckerchief can’t conceal. Despite the freezing weather, Merlin’s wearing his shirt – the blue one, again – with no jacket at all. His shoulder bones are outlined through the fabric, striking Arthur with a vision of wings mercilessly amputated, leaving behind only pathetic, aching stumps. Arthur finds himself paralysed by this image: an angel grieving the loss of his wings next to a headless gargoyle that triggers the memory of a girl who transformed into a winged monster. It’s distorted and horribly world-tilting and wrong.
As a trained warrior, Arthur can read body language, and the obvious vulnerability in Merlin’s posture all but kills him. He’s familiar with the protective urge to throw his body in front of someone to fend off harm; he feels it about every one of Camelot’s people. This image of Merlin evokes an altogether different urge, far stronger and unfamiliar. It’s the need to protect this being with his entire essence, to wrap himself around him to ensure no harm will ever come to him. The mere possibility of something hurting Merlin, body or soul, is physically nauseating. Arthur’s insides clench, twisting in knots and aching like he’s taken a kick to the gut. His chest tightens, and for a few moments he finds himself struggling to breathe.
After that Arthur can’t stand it anymore, and he decides whatever it is, he could understand, he would, if only Merlin would explain.
He waits until Gaius goes to do night rounds of his patients, then determinedly crosses the main room of the court physician's chambers and opens the door to Merlin’s room without knocking – something Merlin does to him regularly, the only person who’s entitled to.
Walk right up to ‘em and spit it in their face, was scribbled as a footnote at the very end of the feelings guide.
Merlin’s sitting crossed-legged on his bed, facing the door, and the first thing Arthur notices is that he’s got The Look again, enigmatic and obscure, his watching something far away and riddling look. Only that this time it can be explained, as in the air in front of him there are candle flames floating.
Correction: Merlin's floating the flames. That much becomes clear from the way they jump back to their natural place on the candles the second Merlin notices Arthur’s presence.
Arthur’s not sure if he’s more shocked by the discovery that his manservant's a warlock, or that this is what he gets up to as a pastime, or that he does it without even bothering to lock the door.
On second thoughts, he supposes he shouldn’t be too surprised by any of it. It makes zero sense – therefore, fits Merlin perfectly.
Arthur knows, objectively, all this needs a long discussion. And possibly yelling; he definitely wants to yell at Merlin. For hiding it from him. For coming to goddamn Camelot – a kingdom well-known for its harsh treatment of magic users – in the first place. For being so lax about his safety.
He should think about that. He really should.
But Merlin’s body is frozen, even his chest has stopped heaving, and Arthur’s hunter mind flashes an image of a terrified prey animal, grasping at the faint hope of not being seen if it keeps perfectly still. Suddenly all he can see is the girl, shaking with cold and fear, her agonized expression as her body tore open from the inside. Merlin’s eyes lock with his and Arthur’s heart cracks at the haunted look in them, a painfully accurate replica of the girl’s screaming helplessness when she knew there's no way out.
He wants to grab Merlin by the shoulders and shake him, because he just stares at Arthur, tense and afraid of his reaction.
As if Arthur would hurt him, ever.
But above all, Arthur wants to prove himself worthy of Merlin’s full trust.
He thinks about something Gaius said, of how Merlin had saved the girl in the deepest meaning of the term. About him making her feel special and cherished and looked after.
Arthur wants to make Merlin feel safe and loved; to let him know he is safe and loved, every inch of him, from his clumsy movements to his ridiculous ears.
He wants Merlin to be completely open with him as his true equal, to be his own self, honest and innocent and sweet, laughing and crying and spilling over with emotions.
He thinks how close he's come to losing this forever, and shudders.
Arthur holds Merlin’s gaze as he moves towards him, slowly and non-threateningly, as he would approach an injured animal.
His hand reaches out for Merlin’s face, thumb brushing the angular cheekbone, its base touching the plump lips, fingers resting on the sharp jawline. He can feel the exact moment when everything in the universe falls into its rightful place because he has the most precious thing in the world literally in the palm of his hand.
Merlin still doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, stays completely unresponsive and blank and it’s unacceptable. Arthur’s so full of everything and he has to portray it somehow, so he leans in to close the distance between them and pulls Merlin into his arms. Still completely silent, Arthur lets his broad shoulders and strong chest, his body, alive with pumping blood, to transmit what he can't form into words. He doesn’t relent until Merlin’s tautened body sags, slowly melting against him and into the embrace as he buries his face in Arthur’s neck, his breathing hitching. His own heart rate picking up, Arthur slides his fingers in Merlin’s hair, cradling his head and pulling it even closer. Arthur can feel his heart beating fast as he whispers, “Don’t ever keep secrets from me again, Merlin. Do you hear me? There’s nothing you can't tell me. No matter what or where or when, I’ll never turn my back on you, never let any harm reach you, always come for you.”
As he speaks, he’s filled with the truth of these words, as if it’s running through his bones, passing to Merlin through their bodies.
Merlin doesn’t answer, but he lifts his arms and returns the hug.
After they pull apart Merlin wipes his eyes with his hand and Arthur says, “Tell me everything,” and Merlin does.
Arthur learns the girl’s name for the first time, and Merlin’s voice breaks as he speaks about Freya’s promise to pay him back someday.
“I couldn’t save her, Arthur, she was dying in my arms and still in her last moments she was grateful for the iota of kindness I could offer, and focused on her desire to give something back. It tears my heart out.” Merlin chokes, closing his eyes, damp eyelashes long and very black against his pale skin.
Arthur caresses the wet tracks on Merlin’s cheek and wonders how the people he was raised to believe were naturally evil because of the power they possessed have turned out to be more compassionate than anyone else he knows. More truly powerful, too, judging by Gaius’s words about empathy being more the real force in existence.
“Show me something? some... magic?” He asks quietly.
Merlin swallows and nods, yet looks nervous and when he opens his mouth nothing comes out. “Sorry. It’s just… ‘m not used to... too accustomed to hiding it, I guess.”
“It’s all right.” It’s not really, it hurts, the thought of Merlin getting so used to hiding from him. Arthur’s about to suggest the trick with the candles again, then catches himself. The expression on Merlin's face while performing it had spoke clearly of the memories it stirred up. Nudging Merlin gently with his shoulder, he says, “Try something you know well. Your favourite.”
Instantly, something’s flickering over Merlin’s features, easing them and lighting a spark in his eyes. A second later he holds out his fist and slowly unfolds his fingers, revealing a real live butterfly. Its wings are the exact shade of Merlin’s eyes, clear, bright blue, responsive to the slightest fluctuations in the air.
“This is the first magic I performed consciously,” says Merlin as Arthur’s blinking at the sight, trying to absorb it. “I mean, my Mum always told me I made things swirl over my crib as a baby, or that I retrieved my fallen toys, but this is the first thing I recall doing purposefully. I was about two at the time, and I remember walking up to Mum and just saying, ‘Do you want to see something?’”
Arthur can imagine it, the earnest, innocent toddler with the butterfly on his chubby hand. It seems ever more fitting that this would be Merlin’s semi-unconscious choice of something to create: a harmless, fragile little creature, useless apart from its beauty and grace.
“It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen,” he finds himself saying, both to the child-Merlin in his mind and the present one. “This is incredible. You are incredible.”
Nothing in his life prepared him for how impossibly easy and natural it could be to say these words. Nor for what felt like the the next intuitive step.
He leans in, Merlin tilting his head in response, and when their lips touch it’s soft like the flutter of the wings Arthur can feel against the back of his hand. For the first few moments it’s just a heart-stopping, faint sensation, then the kiss steadies, becoming more passionate and firm in an all-consuming wave of certainty.
When they break apart, Merlin’s eyes are closed, his serene face washed by the warm glow of the candles. Then he smiles, and it’s like another light turns on inside him, infinitely strong, like his soul shining from within his body, visible and breath-taking. Drinking it in, Arthur’s torn between impulses, wanting to physically shield Merlin from the rest of the world, forever guarding him, and at the same time wanting to stay where he is forever and ever, kneeling in front of this unfathomable, magical being.
The accumulated weight of his dread for Merlin, coming to a peak with the shocking revelation about his magic and the immeasurable, spectacular relief at their new togetherness, falls on Arthur like a heavy blanket of exhaustion. Judging by the weariness engraved in Merlin’s features, visible even through the lingering faint radiance on his face, he's drained, too. Wordlessly, Arthur manoeuvres them both into lying on the bed and pulls the covers over them. They curl into each other, pressed together by of the narrowness of the bed but also by a persistent drive, a need to be as close as possible, to offer and receive the comfort of nearness and touch. As Merlin’s warmth seeps into Arthur and their breaths mingle, Arthur thinks the luxurious big bed in his quarters is seriously overrated.
At a wave of Merlin’s hand, the candles go out. Wrapped in the darkness, complete save for a few moonbeams and the glint in Merlin’s eyes, Arthur places his hand back on the side of his face.
“It goes without saying, Merlin, but if words mean anything, I swear to you that when I’m king, I’ll lift the ban on magic. Nothing like this should ever happen. Starting now. No more executions. My father can arrest whoever he wants, but he’ll find that they disappear, each and every time.” He speaks quietly and intently, certain of his words despite not having any formulated plan, as he feels the force of his oath settling into his bones like forged steel.
Holding his gaze for a few moments, conscious of the depth of this vow, Merlin nods once, acknowledging and accepting. Witnessing. The unspoken feelings filling this brief exchange – commitment, trust, love – tighten Arthur’s throat and surge in his chest as their lips come together once more, and he closes his eyes, basking in the feeling.
To his credit, Gaius keeps an impressively straight face when he comes to wake Merlin and finds a golden head next to the dark, tousled curls. Without losing one bit of his usual composure, he calmly states, “Good morning, sire. Merlin, get up. Chores.”
Merlin groans, turns on his side and shoves his face into Arthur’s shirt. Arthur thinks he could get used to this. Unable to resist the temptation, he digs his fingers into Merlin’s soft, thick hair, ruffling it even more. Merlin makes a small satisfied hum in the back of his throat and Arthur knows they risk never leaving this bed. He flicks Merlin’s ear to keep him from going back to sleep. Merlin yelps and swats his hand away. He raises his head indignantly, a peevish objection already half-formed on his lips, when Arthur grabs the back of his neck and pulls him in. The belligerent words are muffled against his mouth as Merlin gives way to the kiss.
Arthur thinks he could really, really get used to this.
He could, however, do without Gaius knocking on the wall.
Over breakfast Arthur finds out more about the day-to-day routines and consequences of Merlin’s magic. As he shovels food into his mouth he discovers he’s equally hungry for food and for information.
He demands to know who else knew about the magic before he did – it’s an alarmingly long list – and resents each one of them a little. (He supposes he could forgive Merlin’s Mum, and there’s nothing he can do now about Will, and Gaius knowing is probably the only reason Merlin’s still alive, but Lancelot’s about to find himself saddled with a few extra training sessions in the very near future. Pettiness isn’t a good trait in a king, but Arthur considers it justice).
He learns about the countless times when he'd thought things had just somehow worked out, while it was actually Merlin “saving your royal arse”, as he put it. Arthur’s too stunned to be insulted. His fork stops midway. “So all those times you could barely keep your eyes open, and I thought you'd been in the tavern–"
“I’d most likely been up all night trying to figure out a solution for whatever trouble you'd got yourself into. And I’m actually not sure where the tavern is,” admits Merlin.
Arthur huffs out a laugh, helplessly astouned. “I’ll take you there one day. We’ll play some drinking games.”
“You’ll lose.” There’s that familiar twinkle in Merlin's eyes.
Arthur snorts on a mouthful of water, earning a disapproving look from Gaius, who's been sitting there mostly quiet. “Lose? To you? I bet you’re like, the lightest of all the lightweights in the world.”
“I have a few tricks,” replies Merlin loftily.
Something in the way he says it catches Arthur’s attention, ringing bells in his head. “Wait a second…” His eyes narrow, and he points his still-loaded fork at Merlin. “When you say ‘tricks’...“
The alarm on Merlin’s face betrays him, but it’s too late already when he tries to backpedal.
Which is how Arthur learns about the times Merlin used his magic for what he calls “helping you correct your brattish ways”, which include – among other things – tripping him on the training field and making him issue involuntary brays long after the goblin’s curse was broken.
“You little–!” Jumping to his feet, Arthur’s halfway to the other side of the table as Merlin bolts around it just as quickly, squawking, “Gaius agreed to that one!”
Stopping dead in his tracks, Arthur turns to level his most aghast, betrayed look at the old man.
Gaius, at least, has the decency to appear guilty. “I may have allowed it to go on for an extra day, sire,” he admits.
“An extra day? He kept that up for at least a week! Merlin, you piece of–" Turning back, Arthur resumes the chase, to the sound of Merlin’s breathless laughter.
True to his word, Arthur starts to undermine his father’s rule where magic is feared and eliminated.
At first it’s just him and Merlin, but soon they confide in Morgana and Gwen.
“You're a what?” Arthur doesn’t care if he's shouting.
Did he mention Morgana’s patronising, insufferable you are stupid looks? She gives him one now. “Get over it, brother dear. I’m only the greatest Seer alive. Now, don’t we have work to do?”
Gradually, they form a team. They find allies in occasional wanderers, in newfound trusted servants, in some of Arthur’s closest circle of knights. Merlin contacts the Druids, and Arthur goes personally to make an official alliance, vowing to keep it when he’s king.
They start by making sure no death sentences are followed through. Arthur and his followers sabotage every attempt, whether it’s by freeing magic-users from the dungeons or during the arrest process, and sometimes even in the middle of the actual execution.
Being more than familiar with his father’s methods, he’s expecting Uther’s response of sowing fear among the people, warning of dire consequences from the growing number of escaped magic-wielding criminals.
Aware that they have to counter this fear campaign, Arthur and Merlin arranges for displays of magic in different places around the town. It’s all harmless, amusing stuff, like fireworks in spectacular shapes like flowers and animals, or colourful items juggling themselves in mid-air. Each time, the warlock or witch operates the magic from safe distance, while a few others stand nearby on watch. Anyhow, the displays are always short and then they take off, not wanting to push their luck and risk getting caught.
Merlin and the others leave small magical items at street corners for people to find. Mostly just useful household-management spells like one to dry damp firewood, or to make a door stop creaking, or to make a heavy laundry basket feather-light. There are also magical items like dresses made of colour-changing fabric, and flowers that rhythmically open and close their petals.
Arthur makes sure they stick to trifles, to ordinary things, as he doesn't wants people to think magic will make everyone immortal and spare them from ever working or milking cows again. What he wants is to show people the beauty and enthusiasm that magic can bring, and as life goes on, to use magic to ease their burdens a little, so that they can lift their heads from mundane everyday labour and be reminded of the surprising, vibrant joy of life.
People are afraid at first, of course – of the sorcery, of getting caught using something charmed. Arthur sees mothers pull their kids away from the enchantments, but he also sees the wonder in the children’s eyes, filled with trust in the world and its ability to bring them excitement and happiness. And he’s certain, in some inside-driven auspicious way, which will win out in the end. (“Life cannot be contained; it will always find a way to break through,” explained Gaius to Five-year-old Arthur who was marvelling at the herb Gaius was collection from what seemed like a perfectly solid rock.)
In the tavern, men drink and argue about the dangers versus the opportunities in sorcery. Members of Arthur’s rebel group join in sometimes, turning the loud shouting matches into serious discussions of magic, of the steps that should be taken and the limits that should be set. Arthur welcomes it. The subject of magic, that had been taboo for so long, buzzes around the kingdom.
Uther is seething, obviously. His authority's been undermined and he’s well aware of it. He publishes more and more restrictive proclamations and recruits more men to try and stop the uncoiling process, but the men are under Arthur’s direct command. For so long Uther's been the one ruling from afar and making rules and public announcements, while Arthur's walked among the people in the streets and personally trained the soldiers. People may fear Uther, but it's Arthur they trust. They may be King’s subjects, but the Prince is the one who has their loyalty and goodwill.
Uther's not blind, though. He’s probably suspected for a while now that Arthur's not wholly invested in fulfilling his orders, only preferred not to acknowledge it, waiting, gathering more information and damning evidence to back up his suspicions.
When he's summoned to be publicly confronted over what Uther sees as siding with evil, Arthur has seen it coming, and he’s ready. They couldn’t keep up the covert plan forever. It’s time, and he has to seize the opportunity.
“There’s no built-in evil in magic," Arthur states clearly, to both his father and the crowd. "Only in people's hearts and deeds. Like condemning people for abilities they had no control over developing, abilities that harm no-one.
“No law can stop those who truly wish to hurt others, magic users or not, and a policy of eradication ties the hands of the honest ones, too. Unreasonable laws serve only to invoke a growing rage where there was once goodwill.
“Look at the knights of Camelot. They’re chosen because they’re the strongest, bravest, and finest of all. We don’t punish them for the advantages they have over others; we welcome and appreciate their abilities, enlisting them for good, and for the benefit of all.
“In the same way, on the other side of the argument, we don’t abandon our old and weak as some barbarian civilizations do. We’re strong enough to care for all the members of our society. Just as no mother casts off her baby, no matter that the child has differences or challenges.”
Arthur runs his eyes over the crowd, coming to rest on Merlin, who’s standing nearby, as always, at his side.
“We will not convict people solely on the basis of their being other than what’s common and so-called normal. Being different is nothing to be afraid of.”
Merlin’s answering smile and soft eyes are gratifying. So are the relief and gratitude Arthur sees in many faces in the crowd.
On Uther’s face there’s only disbelief, betrayal and anger. There’s no hesitation or doubt, not one second of wavering. It’s what Arthur's dreaded the most – that despite everything he's strived for and succeeded in showing to the people, Uther won’t open his eyes, won’t change, and the inevitable battle will tear the kingdom apart.
Arthur will win, he knows he will, and not only because the Druid Seers’ whispers about the Once and Future King”. But the price will be high, both in human lives and in personal cost. No matter their disagreements, and Arthur’s abhorrence of Uther's cruelty, he’s never wanted to stand across from his father in battle.
It’s Morgana who settles it, like so many times before when her presence shifted the balance in their relationship, as she steps forward to Arthur’s side and revealing herself as a witch.
Arthur watches the emotions crossing Uther’s face. His disbelief, betrayal and anger darken, and burn deeper. They flash through his features like lightnings or earthquakes cracks, tearing them up, leaving his face riven and ravaged, frozen in irremediable, fatal heartbreak.
Men like Uther don’t change; they stand firm or fall apart. Arthur knows Uther won’t recover from this shattering of his life-mission, that he won't be able to sustain the impossible conflict between his fundamental beliefs and the love for his child.
It seems as though Uther’s rage and hatred have burned through him in a moment, leaving him incinerated, like wood reduced to a desiccated, twisted piece of charcoal in the wake of a fire. This inner struggle, draining the blood from his face, took his spirit and his fierce, self-assured brutality with it as well, leaving only blankness.
Slowly, Uther reaches up and removes his crown, putting it aside. Without uttering another word, he leaves the room, his steps slow and uncertain. The once-powerful king looks bereft, spent, and immeasurably old.
It's terrible to watch, and Arthur nearly regrets everything, but then he remembers all the deaths of sorcerers that he's been forced to witness. It feels like he’s just seen another man burnt at the stake, another punishment that leaves him with no sense of justice or satisfaction, just heavy sorrow for the agony human beings cause each other.
As Uther walks outside the room, Arthur hears whispered words from the crowd: “The king is dead, long live the king.”
When he goes to his father’s rooms, Uther is seated by the window, unresponsive, his eyes unfocused and hazed.
“Is there anything we can do, Gaius?” Arthur asks as the physician kneels to examine Uther.
“I’m afraid there isn’t, sire.” Gaius’s voice is quiet but steady, as if he sees no point in hiding the ugly truth. “Sometimes a mental blow is just as deadly as a physical one, or worse, as a broken spirit is harder to restore.”
Arthur tries to swallow past the lump in his throat as he stands there staring at the ruins of the man who was once his father and the ruler of the land.
“May I suggest something, sire?”
Arthur nods, still not trusting his voice enough to speak.
“There’s a small estate that once belonged to your mother, at the border of the kingdom. That’s where Uther met Ygraine, courted her and proposed. It's possible that this is the place where Uther was happiest in his life. Perhaps… perhaps returning there, with a small staff of servants to take care of him, would be the best outcome. Maybe this place will be able to provide him some… peace.”
Peace. Even for the man who had made it his goal to declare war. Gaius’s words about the universal human search for a safe haven echo through Arthur's head as his tears finally spill, and he nods again.
On his coronation day, Arthur has the broken gargoyle replaced by a statue of a girl with spread wings. At the base there’s an inscription: “Being Different is Nothing to be Afraid of”.
Although by now Merlin practically shares Arthur’s chambers since he sleeps there almost every night, he insists on keeping his old room at Gaius’s, so the old man has to set an additional sign at the door: “Court Sorcerer".
Mostly he uses the room for sleep when he stays up late working for too long, or when he and Arthur have a rare, grievous fight. Occasionally Arthur joins him after he comes to persuade Merlin to go to bed or to reconcile. That’s how he knows how often people come and go, even at unreasonable hours, to consult Merlin or ask for his help in urgent matters. Merlin always accedes, whispering an apology as Arthur groggily moans his protest at having been woken and deprived of Merlin's warmth beside him. Merlin pours tea and listens patiently, and sometimes pulls on his jacket to go out.
On nights like these Arthur stays up, too, until Merlin’s return. More often than not he finds himself still awake long after Merlin has drifted back into slumber, raptly watching his peaceful, relaxed face; mesmerised by his gracefulness and the staggering fact that it’s Arthur's to have and dote on. This is his - this extraordinary being who has elder Druids bowing to him in awe and street children chasing after him giggling, enthralled by the butterflies that flutter from his opening hands.
“Hey, Merlin,” Arthur says one day as he enters their rooms. “I’ve figured out the reason for your thing with butterflies.”
“Is it because I’m a girl?” drawls Merlin, not lifting his head from his book.
“No. Well, yeah, obviously, but not just that. Check this out.” He shoves Merlin’s book away and places another one, open, in front of him. “The life cycle of butterflies begins as an egg, from which the caterpillar hatches. At this stage, it’ll spend most of its time ingesting as much as food as it can so that by the end of that stage its body mass has increased thousands of times. Then it enters the pupal stage, in which it creates a cocoon and basically does nothing as the transformation to the adult butterfly occurs.” Arthur lifts his eyes from the book to meet Merlin’s, practically vibrating with what Merlin likes to call Jerkish Excitement. “Calculating the relative length of the three preliminary stages, it turns out this creature spends about seventy percent of its life just eating or being a formless lump. Kind of suits you, doesn't it?”
Eyebrows high, Merlin almost seems impressed. “'Calculating'? Wow. Honestly, I wasn’t even quite sure you could read.”
“There were pictures,” admits Arthur, returning Merlin’s bright grin.
Arthur knows that even with everything they’ve achieved they’ll still come across wrongs they sometimes won’t be able to right; that they’ll do their best and sometimes it won’t be enough. Arthur knows they’ll still feel helpless frustration, clench their fists in the face of injustice, of cruelty, of greed; in the face of people who hide true monsters inside.
But each time he thinks about this he remembers Merlin, the strongest sorcerer ever to have walked the earth, using his magic for harmless antics, simply to provoke a smile, creating butterflies and making small spots of lights dance.
