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She was hardly the first potential bride who had arrived at Camelot: chattel on her father's arm to try and tempt the prince – but Merlin had a horrible feeling she might be the last. Uther and the woman's father were deep into negotiations, and as for Arthur...
He did his duty, as was expected of him.
Merlin hated it, and it was Gaius who bore the brunt of his grumbling complaints.
'Lord Arnell has huge stretches of land to the west which would extend Camelot's border by miles. Their wealth would be added to the citadel's coffers. It is a good match.'
'For Camelot, maybe! Not for anyone else. She nearly brought Gwen to tears yesterday. I thought Morgana was going to stab her with a fork. She sneers at the servants whenever she thinks Arthur's not looking. I'm sure I saw her try and kick one of the barn cats. She's awful. If she ends up queen, everyone will leave just to escape her.'
Gaius looked at him over their dinner, his gaze dropping to where Merlin worried the bread to nothing but crumbs beneath his anxious fingers.
'Even you?' That snowy eyebrow lifted as Merlin swallowed hard, trying to imagine it: putting the castle to his back, turning away from destiny...
Leaving Arthur.
'No.' The word escaped him, cracked and brittle and aching. 'No, I suppose not.'
'Fear not, my boy. There are many pitfalls between negotiations and an actual wedding day. Perhaps there'll be no need for your jealousy.'
'My what? I am not jealous!'
Gaius merely smiled at him and returned to his stew. 'Of course not. Now eat your vegetables.'
'I've never been so tempted to push someone down a well,' Gwen confessed as they made up the guest beds, switching old sheets for new ones fresh from the laundry. Her lips pursed, and there was a sharpness to her gaze that Merlin knew to heed. Of all of them, Gwen was the first to offer strangers a kindness, but it seemed even her good nature had found its end. 'Lady Felicity. There's nothing felicitous about her!'
He hummed in agreement, stifling a yawn. He'd been awake all night, staring at the cracks in his bedroom ceiling and losing himself in the twist of his thoughts.
He hated it when Gaius was right.
He was jealous, and not just because Lady Felicity's presence meant that he and Arthur couldn't squabble and banter as they always did. He missed far more than that, like how Arthur would pinch the cuff of his tunic or knock their shoulders together, ruffle his hair or smile at him in that way that made Merlin's heart surge in his chest. He missed the evenings they shared in front of the fire, now lost to feasts in their guests' honour. It would not be better once they were wed, either. Then, day's end would be their time as husband and wife, getting on with the necessary business of heirs.
Merlin's stomach gave a threatening roll, and he cursed himself for letting it come to this. Only he could fall in love with someone so slowly he failed to notice until it was staring him in the face. Only he could lose his heart to a person who could never, ever return his feelings.
Perhaps he could convince himself that Arthur could love him, but he could not believe that the son of Uther Pendragon could love a sorcerer. Arthur knew his secret; he had done for months now. At first, it had been dreadful, all cold looks and bitter recriminations. Merlin had told himself he should be grateful Arthur hadn't chopped his head off and that asking for anything more was expecting too much.
Yet as time went on, they'd managed to work their way back towards friendship. More than that? It seemed impossible. He'd seen how Arthur looked at him sometimes: all creased brows and ill-hidden dread – as if Merlin were some great monster, tame for now, but still deadly.
'Merlin? Are you all right?'
He twitched, surprised to find Gwen at his side. He had not noticed her walk around the bed. Now she watched him with big brown eyes which, he suspected, saw far more than he wanted to give away.
'I'm fine,' he lied, and wished he could make it true.
So it went on for weeks, the negotiations, the polite, distant efforts at wooing... Merlin trying to bury his feelings so deep down in himself that he forgot they existed at all. Not that it worked.
The others were worried. He declined trips to the tavern with the knights, too listless to muster a decent excuse. Any smiles he managed to summon felt wobbly on his lips. He picked at his food, so much so that the creases on Gaius' face had deepened dramatically. He attempted to put everyone's mind at rest, but it was almost impossible to speak around the ache that had taken root within his chest.
He kept trying to pull himself together. Sometimes he'd manage it for an afternoon, but come nightfall, it all rolled over him once more, leaving him hollow. He tried to tell himself that it was hopeless. Even if all this with Lady Felicity came to naught, there would be another. One day, a queen would sit at Arthur's side, and Merlin would have to learn to accept his lot in life. Friendship would be enough; he just needed more time to make himself believe it.
'Do not tell me you like her!'
Merlin stopped at the end of the corridor to the Royal Wing, raising an eyebrow at Morgana's command. She jabbed a finger in Arthur's direction as if she longed to poke his eye out, the two of them facing off in the hallway. Arthur was a vision of studied indifference, but even he had the sense to sway out of range of her fingernails.
'My opinion matters little.'
'Why are you doing this? You've never had a problem dodging suitors before.' Morgana lifted her chin, all bristling challenge. 'Why are you taking this woman seriously when I know someone else has lain claim to your heart?'
Merlin didn't think the ache could get any worse, but with those words, it intensified a hundred-fold. His mind raced, trying to figure out who had caught Arthur's eye. Perhaps he didn't know him as well as he had believed, if he had been pining for someone and Merlin remained oblivious.
'Morgana...' He watched as Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, his shoulders rounded and his back bowed. He looked like a man defeated: one without hope. 'I am not discussing this with you.'
She shook her head and turned away, stopping in surprise when she saw Merlin hovering uncertainly near the top of the stairs. Something sly crossed her face, there and gone again, before she called over her shoulder, 'Fine. Perhaps you'd rather discuss it with Merlin, then.'
Arthur jolted as if he'd been shot with a crossbow bolt, his eyes widening as Merlin offered Morgana a shallow bow. By the time he looked up again, Arthur had reined in his expression, stuffing that sliver of alarm behind a mask of smug arrogance.
'Eavesdropping, Merlin?' he demanded.
'Didn't really have to. It's not like Morgana was making an effort to be quiet.' To his relief, he sounded almost normal. 'I thought I had better get you ready for this feast.'
Arthur sighed, deflating miserably at the prospect before inclining his head and turning towards his chamber door. 'How much of that did you hear?' He gestured along the corridor after Morgana's departed figure.
A good servant would probably have claimed ignorance, but he had never bothered with etiquette and he wasn't about to start now. 'Do you like her?' he asked, letting his question stand in as an answer.
Arthur made sure the door was shut behind them before responding, 'Does anyone? She is rude, entitled and has very little to recommend her except the lands and wealth she would bring to the marriage. I thought her hostility might be down to her attempting to rebel against her father, but it does not seem that she had the wits for it. The only thing going for her are her looks, and they will not last forever.'
'Nor will yours.'
'At least I have a brain to compensate.'
'Do you? Where are you keeping it, under the bed?' He laughed as he dodged Arthur's half-hearted swipe in his direction, his heart lifting from the hollow in his chest. For one, brief moment, he thought it might be all right – maybe he would survive this after all. Then the rest of Morgana's words came back to him, and he felt how his own expression wobbled on his face.
Hastily, he turned towards the wardrobe, retrieving Arthur's finery from its clutches. He'd had the good sense to check it that morning, making sure there were no stains or tears that needed his attention. Now, the velvet whispered its accusations against his fingertips.
He heard the splash of water in the basin as Arthur washed his face and hands. It was a comforting, normal noise, and Merlin busied himself arranging suitable garments atop the changing screen. He would be better off holding his silence, for once, but he'd never had much luck with that. A demand hovered on the tip of his tongue, something that urged him to ask who it was that Arthur loved, but he choked it back.
'Morgana's right.'
'Never say that to me again,' Arthur retorted, his voice flat as he poked his head around the screen to glare in Merlin's direction. Yet even as he spoke, his expression slipped into grudging agreement. 'Lady Felicity is a good match, as far as such things go. She would bring a lot to Camelot.'
'And make everyone miserable in the process. A queen should be loved, shouldn't she? Or at least respected by her people and her king. No one is going to even try and like her when it's obvious you feel nothing for her…' He trailed off, swallowing hard. 'You shouldn't do this just because it's what your father wants.' He ducked around the changing screen, reaching out to help Arthur into a fine white tunic. It clung to his shoulders and skimmed his hips, strikingly pale in contrast to the luxurious dark trousers that clad his legs. 'Especially not if your feelings lie elsewhere.'
It felt like a stupid, daring thing to say, sending a shiver of unease rushing down Merlin's thighs. A part of him wanted to run away. The Lady Felicity was bad enough, but at least he had the consolation that Arthur seemed to hate her as much as everyone else. Now there was this other person, unseen and unknown but important to Arthur all the same.
He concentrated on tying the tunic's laces, watching the gold-encased tips of the string as if mastering a knot was the most challenging task in the world. He worried that if he looked up, Arthur would see every emotion written across his face, and it would be the last wedge between them to drive them apart for good.
'I wish it were that simple.' Arthur's fingers on the back of Merlin's hands brought a halt to his fretting with the laces before he could tangle them irretrievably.
He frowned at that, tilting his head as he tried to puzzle through those words. What did that mean? Arthur spoke as if there was more standing in his way than a potential marriage to Lady Felicity. Was the one he loved somehow unsuitable?
'You've never shied from a challenge before,' he managed at last, retreating to let Arthur tuck his tunic into his waistband even as he reached for the jacket. It was a bold, dark burgundy, almost black in certain lights. It made him look both resplendent and dangerous, not that Lady Felicity would appreciate it.
'I should be putting the needs of my kingdom before my own desires. That is what a good prince does.' He sounded as if it were a mantra he'd repeated often over these past few weeks, and Merlin finally found the courage to shoot him a scathing look.
'No, a good prince realises that what he feels, his kingdom will feel. If you are unhappy with your wife, Camelot will be worse for it. Whoever rules at your side one day should support you, not seek every opportunity to make your life miserable.' He pulled the jacket onto Arthur's shoulders, checking that it lay smooth across his back, the skim of his hand steady and sure. He tried to tell himself that it was part of his job, but Merlin couldn't help but enjoy the fleeting, guilty touch.
With a sharp inhale, he retreated, reaching desperately for something to say: a way to remind his own, stupid heart that this was an impossible situation. 'I could turn her into a frog if it would make things easier?'
'Don't you dare.' Not even a trace of mirth gathered in Arthur's face, and Merlin winced as he gripped his wrist, tight and desperate. 'No magic, Merlin. Promise me.'
'I – yes, Sire.' He swallowed hard, pulling his arm free and stepping back, pretending to ignore the familiar look of dread and horror on Arthur's features. He appeared as if the very idea repulsed him, no matter how much Felicity deserved it.
He had only meant it as a joke, but clearly Arthur didn't see the humour.
'We should go. The feast...'
Arthur led and Merlin followed, trying to ignore the heavy, bitter ache of his own heart.
Lady Felicity and her father left Camelot three days later, much to everyone's collective relief. Merlin watched them depart from Arthur's chamber window, his shoulder propped against the castle's stonework as their horses carried them out of sight. Rumour was rife, but no one had any real answers. All anyone knew was that the King's enthusiasm had noticeably cooled and that any talks had fallen apart not long after.
He should be relieved. Instead, he could only think about Arthur and the mysterious person who had won his heart, whoever they may be. Someone who made matters "not that simple", apparently. That could mean anything, but when Arthur wanted something, he usually went after it without hesitation and damned the consequences. The fact that he hesitated now...
Merlin sighed and shook his head, resuming his chores in his usual, haphazard way. It was no good dwelling on it. He'd been content, once, with the promise of Arthur's friendship, and he could be again. He could look on, benevolent and happy, as Arthur loved someone else. In the end what other choice was there? He'd already decided he could never leave, not even if Lady Felicity had been the one Arthur wed. He just needed time, that was all: space to pack away all his feelings once more and remember life before he'd looked them full in the face.
The creak of the door made him look up to see Arthur step over the threshold, already unbuttoning his jacket so he could cast it aside. The warm fire chased off the chill of a blustery day, and Arthur moved to stand near it, stretching his hands out towards the flames. He had been down on the castle steps to bid their guests farewell, bestowing upon them all the grace of Camelot hospitality. Now, that handsome face seemed relaxed and soft: relieved.
He could hold his tongue, Merlin knew that. He could enjoy the peace while it lasted, but he'd never been good at following his own better judgement. Instead, he painted a tone of studied indifference over his words as he asked, 'So, will you pursue them, then? Whoever it is who has caught your eye?'
'Merlin...'
'Now that Lady Felicity is no longer a problem and you're not torturing yourself with the idea of duty.'
'Merlin!' Arthur sighed, pressing his fingertips to his brow as if fighting off the sudden bloom of a headache. 'I've told you before: it's not that –'
'"Simple". What does that even mean? Is it just that your father wouldn't approve? He doesn't need to know. He hasn't, in the past.' Arthur did not indulge in dalliances often, but when he did, with ladies or the occasional, visiting knight, discretion was always his primary concern.
The noise that escaped Arthur was a ragged, mirthless scoff. 'To say my father would disapprove is an understatement, and it's not just that. What could I offer them? A secret relationship? One that we would have to hide from a gossiping court? One where I could not make any promises, not until the throne was mine...' Arthur trailed off. 'No. I – no. I respect them too much to ask that of them.'
Merlin pursed his lips, frowning into the depths of the wardrobe as he hung up the clean washing. He could say nothing, agree with Arthur's assessment and leave it at that. Maybe if he liked Arthur just a little less, he would, but he hated seeing him like this: grim and pale as he faced down what he believed to be the impossible. Besides, that wasn't Arthur talking about a quick tumble. That was him considering the future: someone else in the place that Lady Felicity had coveted.
He was thinking of forever, or at least the hope of it, and deciding it was something he could not have.
'Isn't it up to them, as well as you?' He fiddled with the seam of the tunic in his hands. 'You don't know the lengths someone will go to for you unless you ask. If they cared for you, I think they would understand.' If they didn't then they weren't worth his time, Merlin thought uncharitably. 'They should at least get the chance to make the choice, shouldn't they?'
His words appeared to be the wrong thing to say. Arthur's pallor only intensified. He turned away from the fire, moving towards the window. 'That would involve informing them how I feel, and – I –' He stuttered to a halt, which was unusual enough, and Merlin's heart wrenched miserably.
He had never seen Arthur like this. Clearly, whoever he was enamoured with was more than just a passing fancy. He had hoped that maybe Morgana had been mistaken about the depths of Arthur's sentiment, but she obviously knew what she was talking about. She had seen something that Merlin himself had overlooked, and he felt even more a fool.
'I do not think that they love me in turn. I'm not sure that they ever could, and any confession may well push them away from me forever.' He shook his head, his hands clenching into fists where they hung at his side. 'No, it's better this way. Perhap once I take the throne – once I have the power to prove to them the kind of man I am... But not before.'
With a soft sigh, Merlin set aside the washing and drifted across the room. If Arthur did not appear so genuinely broken up about this, he would let it slide, but he could not. He'd been the occasional voice of reason for far too long. He was not about to stop, even if it broke his heart to advocate for another when he wished he could claim Arthur's love for himself.
'That could be years, and if they are unaware of what you offer, they will not know to wait for you. They could find someone else, or leave the citadel. Something could happen to them...' Merlin flinched, because now Arthur looked positively sick.
'Stop.'
The plea was quiet but heartfelt, and Merlin claimed his silence anew, at a loss for how to make any of this better. It didn't help that his own feelings had become a churning mess, aching and grieving, envious and pained. He wanted to hate this nameless, faceless beneficiary of Arthur's admiration and respect, but he could not muster the energy for spite. Instead, he merely felt stupid and defeated, because he had thought he'd known Arthur better than anyone and it turned out he was completely clueless.
'Will you at least tell me who it is?'
Arthur looked up at him, his lips pink and parted as something unknowable shadowed his gaze. For a moment, Merlin hoped perhaps he had made some sort of breakthrough – that Arthur would confide in him again, as he had done before the secret of his magic came spilling out. Yet the brief flutter of his hope was short-lived. A jerk of his head snuffed it out, and Arthur's reply closed the door on the conversation.
'Just leave it, Merlin. It doesn't matter now.'
He couldn't leave it. Arthur's words were like a scab in his mind. He kept picking at them, turning them this way and that to try and find a place where they all fell apart and started to make sense. Perhaps, if Arthur had reclaimed his usual prattishness, he would have managed to set it to one side, but it was obvious to anyone with eyes that something weighty trouble Camelot's prince.
The stormy anger of autumn bled into the solemn chill of winter. Ice frosted the windowpanes and grim sleet made the world an inhospitable place. It drove the knights from the training ground, and they conducted their drills in the great hall instead, their swords chiming like clarion bells. Arthur, in particular, threw himself into the activity as if he were doing battle with his inner demons each time. The knights met him, men of equal in force and fervour, letting him expend his energy upon them until they were bruised and aching from the effort.
'Fix him?' Gwaine begged, his hand heavy on Merlin's shoulder. He gave him a gentle shake, his eyes huge and imploring. 'Before he breaks us?'
Merlin managed a faint snort at that, shaking his head in disbelief. He was propped against the wall, trying to ignore how the cold seeped through the stone and made its nests in his bones. He felt no warmer than something found in a crypt: entombed and wretched. Even Gwaine's usual dramatics didn't do much to raise a smile, and it did not pass beneath his friend's notice.
'Maybe you can fix yourself while you're at it. You've not had a fight, have you? The pair of you?'
'No, nothing like that.'
Gwaine grunted, casting Arthur a narrow-eyed glare across the room. Not that he noticed. He was too busy battling Percival, harrying the larger man with the silver sweep and spark of his blade. 'He's been out of sorts for weeks, and you've not been much better.' He slung an arm around Merlin's shoulder, giving him a quick shake before curling him into a clumsy embrace that smelled of sweat and chainmail.
'Gwaine!' Arthur's command was more a snarling snap than anything else, all clenched jaw and bared teeth. 'I don't recall giving you leave to stop training.'
Gwaine sighed, casting Merlin a look and lifting one eyebrow meaningfully. 'See what I mean? He'll be the death of me.'
Merlin managed a little twist of a grin, shoving him playfully back towards where the knights worked in their pairs. Gwaine had only been joking, but it wasn't like Merlin had failed to notice how hard Arthur pushed himself these days. Even now, his efforts only seemed to redouble as if something drove him ever onwards, chasing at his heels and offering him no peace or rest.
That would not do. What had happened with Lady Felicity had clearly been a catalyst, taking Arthur's equanimity and stirring it into something he struggled against, day and night. Merlin had done as he asked and held his silence for several weeks, but it only seemed to make matters worse.
He had been selfish, Merlin thought grimly. Arthur's insistence that he dropped the matter of whoever had won his heart had come as a relief. It let him live in this frozen moment, one where his desperate hopes had not been crushed brutally underfoot. It was nothing more than a fantasy, and it did neither of them any good. Arthur could not carry on as he was, and Merlin? He could not keep fooling himself that his own feelings ever stood a chance of being requited.
With a sigh, he tipped his head back against the wall, staring up at the distant rafters as he resolved to set his own heart aside. It was what he should have done, right at the start. Now?
Now he had to hope it was not too late to make Arthur see sense.
The fire crackled in the hearth in Arthur's room, adding its glow to the candlelight. A thick, winter's night had settled beyond the windowpanes, and the wind howled around the turrets, making its voice heard. The wreckage of dinner lay upon the table, and Arthur sat in the fur-shrouded chair in front of the hearth, a cup of wine dangling from his hand and his gaze fixed on the flames in the grate.
Merlin busied himself with his usual chores, trying to find the words to broach the subject. He stacked dishes and left them outside the door, promising himself that he would take them down to the kitchen later. Tidying Arthur's desk, he skimmed the documents on its surface, but they offered him little in the way of inspiration. In the end, before he could decide on an angle of attack, Arthur shifted in his seat, stirring himself from his thoughts and asking a question of his own.
'Is it Gwaine?'
'Is – what?' Merlin blinked. He'd frozen like a deer in the hunter's sights, unsettled by the shadows that gathered in Arthur's eyes and grappling to understand the thread of the conversation.
'You've been miserable for weeks. Normally, I can't make you shut up, but these days you barely string two words together. You don't laugh, either. You don't wake me up with ridiculous, trite, chirpy nonsense.' Arthur pursed his lips tight, jerking his head to the side as if to dismiss his own little tirade. 'Guinevere thinks you're heartsick. Is it for Gwaine?'
Merlin blinked. He had not realised that his own behaviour had been so obvious or that Arthur could be so observant. Gwen was no surprise; she could read people with ease. Of course, she'd taken one look at him and decided he was pining. He hated that she was right. The fact that she'd discussed it with Arthur? He did not know what to do with that information.
'Gwaine's a friend. A good one.' He felt like he was fishing the words out of himself, dredging them up for Arthur's approval. 'He flirts with everyone. You know that.'
He wasn't sure what he expected, but it wasn't the tight, anxious way Arthur pursed his lips or the frown that puckered his brow: something twitching and wretched that he quickly tried to hide behind an impassive mask. 'But you are heartsick?'
It was unlike Arthur to talk about emotions. He normally avoided sentiment, couching any affection in horseplay and banter. He was certainly not the type to bother with a heart-to-heart. Yet here he was, making an effort for Merlin's sake because despite everything – his arrogance and his pride – Arthur was a good man. A good friend.
Why couldn't that be enough?
'It doesn't matter,' Merlin managed, clearing his throat and shaking his head. 'I'll survive, which is more than I can say for the knights if you keep thrashing them in training. Elyan's not walked right all week after what you did to his knee, and Leon's started to flinch every time you pick up a sword.' He hesitated, moving around the front of Arthur's desk before leaning back against it, curling his fingers over its edge.
'They are warriors,' Arthur pointed out. 'They can take it.'
'But maybe they shouldn't have to? You've been like it ever since Lady Felicity left. Since I assume you're not pining for her –?' He smirked when Arthur shot him a dark look. 'Then I guess it's over whoever Morgana was talking about.'
'Merlin... Please.'
That was what did it. Not his name, spoken in such a low defeated tone, but the "please" that followed. That, more than anything, told Merlin that he could not leave it alone, no matter how much Arthur begged for his silence. He'd already surrendered once and look at the result: Arthur lost and hurting, punishing his knights even as he punished himself for wanting someone so fiercely and, in his head at least, so helplessly.
'What if they said yes?'
'What?'
'The person, whoever it is. What if you're wrong? What if you miss out on a relationship with them just because you were too afraid to speak up?'
'Are you calling me a coward?' Arthur demanded, incredulous. His empty goblet hung from his fingertips, tilting in a mimicry of his disbelief.
'Would that work?'
'No!'
Arthur sighed, setting the cup down and rising to his feet. He turned his back to Merlin, bracing his arm on the chimney breast. For a long time, there was a prickling, brooding sort of silence, and when he spoke, it was directed at the hearthstone like a confession. 'I would fight for them. If they said that they felt the same way, I would upend all of Camelot to make them happy. I would weather any storm, but...' He trailed off with a shake of his head.
'But you're afraid to ask them, because you think they'll say no.'
'I'm not afraid,' Arthur retorted, glancing over his shoulder. 'Not for myself, anyway.' He looked Merlin up and down, something sharp honing his gaze. 'All this advice you offer me, but you don't take it for yourself? What's stopping you from pursuing the one you want?'
It was a pathetic attempt at deflection. Merlin wasn't even going to credit it with an answer. 'This isn't about me.'
Arthur turned back to the fire, and his next words were nothing more than a whisper, so quiet that Merlin almost believed he imagined them.
'Yes, it is.'
He froze, his hands tightening reflexively around the edge of the desk. The polished wood offered him no splinters, which was a small blessing. He was not sure he would notice the pain if it had. His mind was too busy racing, shaking off its frantic, fruitless whirl of self-pity and plunging forward into the bright light of desperate, breathless hope.
Perhaps he was never meant to hear those three words, spoken as softly as a confession could be. Maybe they had simply slipped out of Arthur, impossible to suppress, but now that they had been uttered, Merlin could not let them pass unnoticed.
'What does that mean?' He swallowed, pushing himself away from the desk and taking one shaky step forwards. A thousand questions tangled in his throat like a briar, and his next breath was an unsteady shudder in his chest, torn between elation and the soul-deep fear that he'd heard him wrong or somehow misunderstood.
He did not think he had ever seen Arthur look so pale, the colour seeping from his face as he realised his murmur had reached Merlin's ears. He glanced towards the door as if, for the first time in his life, he was contemplating running. Yet it seemed he mastered the urge. Instead, he lifted his chin, folding his arms across his chest.
'Nothing. It doesn't matter,' he rasped, tearing his eyes away as Merlin took another step closer. 'Forget I said anything.'
Merlin managed a slow shake of his head. He kept remembering what Arthur had said back when Lady Felicity made her departure, going over those words again and again, but now it was as if he heard them for the first time. Arthur had not merely mentioned that he feared that they did not feel the same way; he spoke as if it was an impossibility – almost unthinkable. He talked of taking the throne, of having the power to make change, and now Merlin couldn't think of anything else.
'No.'
He had told Arthur, when Lady Felicity put Camelot to her back, that he should confess his love for whoever it was who had stolen his heart, regardless of his doubts or the troubles they may face. He'd given that advice to Arthur as his own chest ached and squeezed, but he'd not thought to take heed of it himself. He had written it off as impossible because he'd believed that Arthur loved another.
But what if he had been talking about Merlin all along? What if they'd both been stupidly pining away, craving each other and never realising that everything they wanted was within arm's reach?
And all either of them had to do was ask for it.
'Arthur... Why do you think they couldn't love you?' He swallowed hard, snatching in a sharp, startled gasp before forcing himself to press on, terrified that he had misunderstood but so very desperate to believe he'd got it right. 'Why do you think I couldn't love you?'
It was as if someone had cut Arthur off at the knees. He visibly sagged, reaching out to steady himself. Every last scrap of his mask fell away, revealing the turmoil beneath: the ebb of his choking despair and the rising tide of his wretched hope. He looked at Merlin as if he could barely believe what he had said. His response was a long time coming, and when it did, it was a wreck of misery.
'Because you have magic, and I stood by as my father slaughtered people like you. I helped. You were so convinced that I would send you to the headsman that you hid what you were from me for years – and I cannot blame you. If our positions were reversed, I don't think I would have done anything differently.' He bowed his head, speaking to the flagstones beneath his feet. 'I consider myself deeply fortunate that you're forgiving enough to call me a friend. To think you ever might feel anything stronger...' He pursed his lips, cutting himself off.
'You prat,' Merlin breathed, trying not to shake. He felt like he'd been holding back this great, heaving tide of emotion, and now the dam had broken. Except rather than leaving devastation in its wake, the rising waters restored everything to life. A world that had turned drab and dreary filled with colour once more, and his next gasp of air felt as if it might actually sustain him. 'What about me? How do you think I felt, looking at you and knowing that you couldn't possibly love someone you've been taught to despise?'
Arthur was already shaking his head, jolting forward to reach out. His fingers plucked at Merlin's sleeves and hooked over his shoulders, cradling him as if he were something precious. 'No. No, that's – I don't hate anything about you.'
'You look sick every time I mention my magic.' That was the thorn that still struck him to the quick: the one niggling doubt that would not give him a moment's peace.
'No.' Arthur crowded closer, hesitantly reaching up to cup Merlin's jaw. 'No, that's not why. It's not because of what you can do, but because of what would happen to you if you were ever discovered. It's not safe. It won't be, not until my father's reign has reached its end. I thought that, once I was king, I could prove to you that those times are over. I could make Camelot safe for you again: your home, truly.'
'It already is my home,' Merlin managed, though he could barely hear his own voice over the thud of his pulse in his ears. He had assumed that getting Arthur to return magic once the crown was on his brow would be the work of years. He had been prepared to spend time and allow compromise – to show him, piece by piece, how magic was integral to the world, both the good and the bad. Instead, Arthur stood before him, promising him everything.
'How can you think that, when every moment your life is at risk simply because you exist?' Arthur's fingers flexed against Merlin's cheek as if he were savouring the feel of his skin and heat even as he considered pulling away.
'Because it's where everyone I care about lives. My friends, Gaius and you. It's more "home" than I've ever known, Arthur, because of the people who share it with me.'
He tangled his fingers in Arthur's tunic, twisting the fabric so that he could not make his retreat. He could see it in his eyes, that accursed nobility that suggested he would try and turn his back on this for Merlin's own good. He wasn't about to let Arthur destroy this before it had begun in the name of Merlin's safety.
'Don't get me wrong,' he managed. 'You absolutely should allow magic's return when you take the throne, but don't do it for me. Do it for your kingdom, and for yourself, and for everyone else who suffers its loss.'
A frail smile curled Arthur's lips, and the look he gave Merlin was both fond and a touch baffled, as if he couldn't understand how Merlin's mind worked, sometimes. Yet it faded a moment later, dimming even as the silence between them grew.
'When I found out about your magic, I knew I should have been furious. I was, on the surface at least, but underneath that? I've never been so scared. Not of your power, but of the very thought that I might lose you.' Arthur's voice was little more than a strangled whisper spilling from his lips. 'That my father might catch you, or that you would choose one day to walk away and live the life you deserved… That you looked at me and saw nothing more than an enemy.'
'Arthur…' Merlin swallowed, trying to think, trying to breathe – trying to find the right thing to say that would make Arthur see how wrong he was. They hovered on the cusp of something, and maybe it would not be easy. Perhaps they would have to fight for it every step of the way, but a life at Arthur's side and in his arms would be more than worth it.
'I love you, you idiot.' It escaped him in a rush, and he rushed on before Arthur could do more than blink at him. 'It's you I'm heartsick over, because first there was Felicity and then someone else – someone I didn't know and you'd never mentioned, and I hated it. Hated them, because I would rather see you happy even if it meant I never got to have you and –'
Arthur's fingers brushed against his lips, soft and hypnotised, stemming the spill of his words and beckoning him back to silence. His touch felt like a brand, and delicate tremors raced through Merlin's body as if Arthur were stirring him to life.
'You love me?'
Merlin's heart shivered with joy. He could hear Arthur's disbelieving hope, as if he had thought the world was fixed and certain, only to find some new facet within it, shocking and vivid.
He suspected that Arthur's upbringing had been harsh and devoid of affection – that he had been taught that sentiment was a sign of weakness. And yet in this, just like the magic, Arthur was struggling to overcome what he had learned at his father's knee. He was fighting to be the good man Merlin believed him to be and the best king that Camelot would ever have upon its throne.
He leaned forward, pressing their brows together so that Arthur could see the truth of his response in his gaze. His answer was a whisper brushed against Arthur's lips: tremulous and fragile but growing with strength at every moment.
'I do.'
Arthur's sandy lashes fluttered as if he were absorbing Merlin's confession, folding it away next to his heart. It was like watching him come back to life – a wound healed – and golden wings of elation rushed through Merlin's frame as Arthur's response whispered against his lips: a beautiful benediction.
'I love you too.'
The kiss was soft and thrilling, shy and daring in equal measure. It felt like both the start and end of something, and Merlin was happy to take that step. He'd spent so long thinking that Arthur would be lost to him. To realise that, instead, Arthur's heart had been his all along?
It was almost too good to be true.
And there, in Arthur's warm chambers, the love that had been flourishing between them took firm root. Nothing would tear it asunder, nor shake the foundations of the kingdom that they would build together when the time came. They had each other, heart and soul.
That would never change.