Chapter Text
Clamouring voices lilted the midsummer air, brimming with laughter and the cries of those selling their wares in the market. The morning was only just underway, the heat of the day nothing but a promise. Merlin grinned to himself as he slipped among the stalls, a bag slung over his shoulder and his coin purse comfortably full.
Incense, herbs and cooked meat fragranced the air, making his belly growl. He bought himself a pasty – game and seasoning baked in a pastry parcel – to break his fast. Once upon a time, he would have wandered around while eating it, indifferent to spilling food down his tunic. Now, those days were behind him.
Unfortunately, being court sorcerer carried with it many burdens, from an expensive new wardrobe to a frankly terrifying manservant named Peter, who had a tendency towards pointed silences whenever Merlin made his job any harder than it had to be. With that in mind, he propped himself against the corner of the tavern, happy to watch the world go by as he ate.
In truth, he was still stunned, sometimes, about what could change in only two short years. Uther had died, taken suddenly by a sickness no one could have foreseen. In the wake of its mourning, Camelot had come alive once more.
And it was all thanks to Arthur.
He had kept the promises he had made when he found out about Merlin's magic, back when Uther still reigned. They had struggled through the aftermath of the revelation together, and the man who had emerged on its far side had been tempered into the king Merlin had always hoped he would be. There had been a risk that Arthur would only tolerate Merlin's power. Instead, he altered the very fabric of Camelot, and this was the result.
Grimoires were sold alongside treatise on horse care and herblore; magical lights nestled in market-stall canopies and charms for fair fortune clattering in the idle breeze. Druids mixed happily with the townsfolk, greeting each other as old friends, sharing in their goods and knowledge without a flicker of hesitation. Even as he watched, a young man was using magic to grow fresh wood over the split timber frame of the bakery stall, helping the frazzled woman selling pies.
It wasn't perfect: he could acknowledge that much. There were still pockets of resentment, but generally, the townsfolk had welcomed magic back with open arms. What had begun as a hesitant truce had bloomed into genuine peace, and Camelot was stronger for it.
Up in the castle, matters were more complicated. Uther's old guard were a stubborn lot, free in their opinions and challenging to oust. It did not matter that there was a court sorcerer among them, or that more than one knight wielded magic alongside the weight of their sword. Even the fact that their crown princess was a seer was met with grudging tolerance at best. They were venerable men who liked their power, and they saw sorcery as a challenge to their control.
The world was still changing, but it was down here among the people that Merlin could see magic as it was meant to be, joyful and uninhibited.
Brushing the crumbs from the close-cropped stubble that clouded his jaw, he eased towards the stalls, slipping through the throng. Nobody bowed or hurried out of his way, which was a relief. Perhaps if he'd been wearing more than a plain white tunic and dark breeches, they might have done so. If he'd had his usual escort of at least one knight, they would have definitely taken note. That was part of the reason he had given Lancelot the slip this morning. Sometimes it was nice to just be "Merlin" for a bit.
Of course, down here in the market, it was easier to get away from the trappings of rank. He knew most of the traders, and they understood well enough that he was no different from them. They used his title only to watch him roll his eyes, sharing a grin as they gossiped and tempted him with whatever treasures they've found on their travels.
'There you are!' Moira cried in greeting when he sauntered up to her counter, breathing in the scent of parchment and well-oiled leather. There were dozens of volumes, some as long as his arm and others no bigger than the length of his palm. Each one was lovingly bound. Moira employed an army of scribes to help make copies of old or damaged texts, then stitched and bound them herself.
Her fingers were callused from wielding needle and thread, and she always had some small cut or other where she had slipped with a sharp blade. Her sleeves were rolled up to reveal wiry forearms, strengthened by stretching leather over wood, and she made no apology for the dots of ink staining her kirtle. 'I was beginning to think I wouldn't see you again until next year. How's the ankle, Your Excellency?'
Her grin was all teeth, her hazel eyes sparkling wickedly. Mirth pressed crow's feet into her face, and they deepened when Merlin grimaced in disgust.
'Who have you been talking to?'
'That Gwaine. Who else?' She flapped a hand. 'Ruthless charmer that he is. He was entertaining me with the story of what you did.'
'I fell down three stairs,' Merlin replied, trying to ignore how red his ears felt. He'd been clumsy all his life, and his elevation in the court had not gifted him any poise. 'It was nothing.'
'That's not how he tells it. He's still impressed by the new swears he learned that day.'
Merlin sighed, because that, at least, was true. It had been his own fault. He'd had his nose stuck in a book, ambling down the great staircase at Arthur's side, and then missed a step. If he had been paying attention.... Well, it was too late to change it now. Gwaine had giving him a round of applause when he'd stopped swearing long enough to draw breath, and even Arthur had looked at him in wry amusement, as if he hadn't realised the depths of Merlin's depravity. Never mind that he'd taught several of them to Merlin that time he'd dropped a mace on his toes.
'It's fine. Healed nicely.'
'Hmmm.' Moira raised an eyebrow. 'That's not what Gaius said.'
Merlin tensed, forcing himself not to look around like a frightened rabbit sensing the approach of a hunting hound. 'He's not here, is he?'
Her laugh was contagious, making him grin as she shook her head in disbelief, waggling her finger at him. She was younger than the venerable healer but older than his mother, and she would be more than happy to snitch on him. 'Aha, so now the truth comes out! You're not meant to be up and about yet, are you?'
'Gaius is being overly cautious,' he grumbled, raising one eyebrow. 'What's the price of your silence?'
Moira's grin turned shrewd. This, after all, was a game they both played well. She knew the name the druids gave him and the power that was in his grasp. When they had first met, he had tasked her with recovering magical texts and bringing them to Camelot, and she had never once disappointed him. Perhaps she had a hint of magic herself, to be able to unearth such rarities. They came at a price, of course, but he was not about to begrudge her. Not when it meant the citadel's library was slowly filling once more.
She showed him her finds, not just those where she had tended to the bindings, but others, with scorched pages and split spines. They had been ferreted away in the dark corners of Albion, saved from the flames of Uther's Purge and his complicit allies.
To Merlin, they were more precious than all the gold Camelot had to offer, but Arthur had put his foot down. There was only so much of the kingdom's coin he was allowed to spend in a given season on magic books. So it was that he had to pick and choose, trying not to feel as if he were casting poor orphans back out into the cold. Moira watched him with increasing amusement, shaking her head as he dithered.
'Up to the castle?' she asked, when at last he had dealt with the whole heart-rending business.
'Please, Moira. Thank you.'
Normally, she would have joked that he was her best customer, but this time, she simply offered him a gentle nod. It made her appear years younger, a maiden in her youth once more, and Merlin blinked in surprise. Yet when he next looked, she was utterly herself again, soft cheeks and smile lines. 'I'll get them packed in a crate. One of the lads can carry them.'
They carried on talking as she stacked them away. Merlin leant on a clear patch of her counter, giving her all the best bits of gossip. The traders lived off of it. Some was practical, such as which rivers in the kingdom and beyond had grown impassable with the rains, or where the bandits had made their nests. Other crumbs were nothing more useful than the usual salacious chatter of the court.
'I heard the king is besieged with young ladies vying for his hand.'
Merlin's heart gave a wretched little twist in his chest, and he rubbed at the pain absently. He would love to say it was an exaggeration, but there was no lie in Moira's words. Worse, now the look she gave him was limned with pity. It made her seem far wiser than her gathered years would suggest, as if she could see right through him.
'It's to be expected. He's young, unwed and will need a queen.'
Moira harrumphed at that. 'What a man, any man, needs, is love. Nothing more and nothing less. A life where the heart is not cherished is no life at all. Besides, is the Lady Morgana not his heir?'
'She is, but half the council are displeased with the fact she's a woman, and the other are unimpressed by the notion that she is a seer. Not that they would ever say as much to her face.'
'They cannot force the king to wed, can they?' Moira shook her head, leaning across the counter and lowering her voice. 'That said, prattle about the marketplace is that he has had a ring commissioned. I suppose that must mean something.'
Merlin's stomach went into freefall, swooping down to the soles of his boots. He had no idea what his face was doing, but it was enough to make Moira rush onwards, her words almost tumbling over each other.
'It is just idle rumour. You know what this lot are like. Half of it is nothing but tall tales!'
He managed a nod. 'You're probably right. I didn't think he was serious about any of them.' Yet now he thought about it, Arthur had been busy, lately. There had been no idling about in front of the fire with a goblet of wine and fewer evenings in each other's company. It seemed that if he wasn't at council, he was entertaining various guests, and unease drifted through Merlin like bonfire smoke, sharp and stinging.
'Speaking of the court and its secrets, I'm afraid yours has been discovered.' Moira tilted her head gently, indicating something at Merlin's back. He did not even have time to turn around before a heavy, familiar hand settled on his shoulder.
'Spending all my money again, Mer-lin?'
'You've got plenty of it,' he retorted, turning to Arthur with a grin. 'I thought I'd share with Moira.'
'How kind of you. Good morning, Moira.'
'Your Majesty.' She gave a beautiful curtsy, though she did not bother to hide the knowing mien to her expression. 'I'll have the books taken to your chambers, Your Excellency.'
'Thank you. I'll just –'
'No. You're coming with me.' Arthur's hand curled in his tunic, scruffing him like a misbehaving dog. It did not matter that he was king these days, when it came down to it, Arthur could still be a bossy prat. 'You shouldn't be out in the marketplace. If Gaius sees you, you'll regret it.'
'I'm fine!' He was certain his protest fell on deaf ears, and he did not miss how Arthur eased him around gently, rather than dragging him about as was his normal way.
'You're limping.'
'– Mostly fine.'
'You're a stubborn fool, but if you're really better, than you will be able to attend council tomorrow. And the feast in the evening.'
Merlin freed himself from Arthur's grip. Perhaps if they weren't in the middle of a crowded marketplace with more than a hundred witnesses, Arthur might have made him fight for his freedom. He still delighted in putting Merlin in a headlock whenever he got the chance. If there had ever been a day when Merlin's power had given him pause, it was lost in the distant past. Now, however, he chose a more dignified route, letting Merlin go and settling for walking back towards the castle at a steady saunter.
'What feast?' Merlin tried not to wince as he navigated the familiar, worn cobbles. Perhaps his ankle was not quite as recovered as he had hoped, because even with the spell bracing it beneath his boot, it grumbled its protests at the uneven ground.
Arthur gave him a look. 'What do you mean "what feast"? I ordered it a while ago. You were there.'
'I probably wasn't listening.'
'So, same as usual then?'
'Is it for anything in particular, or is it another chance to show off?' He tried to watch Arthur out of the corner of his eye. It was part of the court's expectation to have frequent banquets. It displayed the wealth of the kingdom and kept morale high. There did not have to be any special occasion. Yet Arthur's lengthy silence offered little in the way of reassurance.
Now that he looked properly, tension bracketed those lips and pinched his eyes. A faint furrow creased his brow, there and gone again, and his reply, when it came, told him nothing at all. 'Do I need a reason to throw a celebration?'
'No, I suppose not.' He considered mentioning the gossip, but the words sat in his mouth, as unspeakable as stones. He did not know how to curl his voice around them, not when the idea of Arthur's answer made his belly ache. He thought of the ladies who had come to court for the summer. Uther had always tried to marry Arthur off to other royals, thinking of cementing alliances. Arthur himself, it seemed, entertained potential brides from the lower nobility instead, though Merlin hadn't believed he'd been in earnest.
It had all been about appeasing the council, hadn't it?
'Are you all right?' Warm fingers rested on the back of his wrist, easing the swoop and shimmer of his fretful concerns. Once, in the distant past, Arthur probably wouldn't have noticed his unease. If he did, he would have bashed Merlin on the shoulder in rough comfort. It was years of solid friendship that made him more gentle and, unfortunately, more observant.
'Yeah, of course. A bit tired, maybe.' It was a stupid excuse, one that held very little water, but he prayed Arthur would take it all the same. He didn't know what was going on in his own head; he had no idea how he could possibly begin to explain it to Arthur.
He just needed some time, that was all. Something to help him figure out the bubbling morass of disquiet that had taken up residence where his heart had once made its home. It was almost like one of his "funny feelings", except for once it wasn't the kingdom or Arthur in danger. Instead, it felt as if there were something hidden out of sight – some fundamental truth he had ignored for far too long.
'Well, I'll let you have a day with your precious books, but I really do need you back at council tomorrow. If nothing else, when Morgana takes your place I worry she's going to set people on fire.'
'They probably deserve it.'
Arthur's lips twitched, amusement sparkling in his eyes. 'Perhaps, but it would deeply impolitic, and you know as well as I do that things are already strained. I cannot replace many of the old lords as swiftly as I would like. Not without risking stability.'
'Maybe a little instability would do the court some good,' he grumbled, shaking his head as he heard Arthur sigh. It was a debate they'd had before, and Arthur remained as stubborn in his refusal as the first time.
'You know why I can't do that. Making sweeping changes to Camelot's laws was dangerous enough. If I tore up the council by its roots and replaced them, I would risk a rebellion, and I will not –' He held up a hand to stem Merlin's argument. 'I will not use magic as a weapon. Not unless I have no other choice. Just because we have power doesn't mean we should wield it without thought. It was you who taught me that.'
Merlin sighed, rubbing at the skin between his eyes. In truth, he could not argue against Arthur's firm stance on that. He had always feared that sorcery would only be accepted once more in Camelot because of the martial advantage it could offer. The challenge with any power was knowing when to use it. Perhaps he could make Arthur's current council leave their posts quietly with a quick spell or two – force them to slink off to their estates and clear the way for fresh blood – but it would set a dangerous precedent.
'They would think me a weak monarch, and they would be right.' Arthur stopped, the hand on Merlin's arm turning him gently so that they faced each other. Here, in the castle's courtyard, there were fewer people to overhear them. 'No, I'll deal with the council. It will just take time. And if I could spend a few sessions a week without my beloved sister looking as if she is eviscerating them with her gaze, it might go a bit more smoothly.'
Merlin smiled, admiring that face he knew better even than his own reflection. Things had changed, when he had become court sorcerer. He could not very well be the figurehead for all magic in Albion and beyond while continuing in his role as Arthur's manservant. The strict rules of the nobility would not allow such a contradiction, and it was Arthur himself who pointed out that it sent a bad message: as if magic itself was only there to serve the king.
And so it was that Merlin had sacrificed his chores. Most were no great loss, but he couldn't deny how he missed rousing Arthur from bed in the morning, cajoling him back to wakefulness with teasing and jibes and stolen sausages. He missed watching Arthur roll over amidst his pillows, the blankets revealing his bare chest and the breadth of his shoulders. There were no more quiet evenings spent in soft conversation, just the two of them against the rest of the world.
Now, Merlin was more than a sorcerous manservant, and it seemed the business of court followed them wherever they went. Their friendship remained, strong and stalwart. Yet here he stood, mourning its loss even while it lived on.
'I'll be there,' he managed at last, swallowing hard and pinning what he hoped was a convincing smile on his face.
'Good.' Arthur cleared his throat, stepping back and tilting his head towards the castle. 'Now go. And rest that ankle of yours.'
'Of course, Sire.'
Arthur rolled his eyes at the use of his title, disrespectful as always on Merlin's lips. For a moment, they grinned at each other, not a king and his court sorcerer, but just Merlin and Arthur. Yet it could not last, and Merlin watched him turn away, trying to ignore how something in the pit of his belly pulled and ached at his absence.
It was hardly a new feeling. He had grown accustomed to ignoring how he felt whenever he looked at Arthur. He had polished his devotion until it was an ornament he could admire rather than a sharp, burning urge that might sunder him in two. Except now that smooth surface was growing thorns once more, cutting at his heart as his mind wobbled fretfully.
Hobbling up the staircase towards the rooms Arthur had gifted him, he slipped through the chamber door and breathed a sigh of relief. The air folded around him like a warm cloak, all familiarity and comfort. His magic was always with him, but there were some places in the castle that it seemed to pool and linger.
These chambers were one such location, and it was not the large windows nor the ridiculously sumptuous bed that soothed his nerves. Instead, it was his own power curling around him, gilding his skin and running comforting fingers down his spine.
Out amidst the court, he was always being watched and judged. Most of the time, he could not bring himself to care – but today was different. Moira had uttered one harmless bit of gossip about a ring, and it was as if Merlin's flesh had been flayed from his bones. His beating heart was left open and vulnerable to the world, and he did not know how to shield it from the fist of hurt that clenched around it.
To say he had been happy to ignore what he felt for Arthur would be an outright lie, but he had been content with his lot. Friendship was all they could ever have, but he had not realised how sharp and bright his own hope remained until today.
Now, it was too late to confess, and besides, what could he possibly say? He had admitted to his magic years ago, trembling and breathless, yet this secret seemed far bigger, somehow. Arthur may call him brave, but Merlin did not have the courage to speak of it, even in the solitude of his own chambers. Instead, the words sang their truth beneath his ribs, voiceless, but impossible to ignore.
I love him.
Merlin swallowed, shaking his head and cuffing a hand back through his hair. He couldn't do this to himself. What he had now, Arthur's friendship, magic returned to Camelot, the promised golden age steadily dawning all around them... wasn't that enough? Couldn't he be satisfied knowing that all their struggles were worth it?
A tap on the door interrupted the grim flurry of his thoughts, and he shifted away from the panel, opening it to see a couple of Moira's lads lugging a crate of books between them. He mustered a smile from somewhere and invited them in, thanking them both with a handful of coins. He did not miss how they looked around his rooms with open curiosity, taking in the desk and work bench covered in herbs and magical artefacts, the gleaming wooden shelves and the fire roaring in the large hearth. Yet there was no measure of uncertainty in their gaze, and Merlin took comfort in that as they bid him farewell.
Magic was no longer feared in Camelot. A few years ago, he would never have believed such acceptance was possible. Couldn't he be content with that?
A sigh escaped him as he bent to rummage through the crate, his fingers passing over glossy leather covers and trailing over beautifully bound spines. He made a point to read each new text Moira uncovered, not just to improve his own learning, but to properly categorise them and append any appropriate warnings. Merlin firmly believed that magic should be shared with Camelot's people, both the good and the bad. How else could they learn from the mistakes of the past?
It was that hope that led him to encourage Arthur to better educate his townsfolk, teaching them to read, write and do basic sums if they so desired. The council had hated that idea, but Arthur had seen the wisdom of it. That was what had mattered most to Merlin: the subtle, warm approval in those blue eyes. It would take time, but eventually he hoped Camelot would become known for its learned scholars, as well as its military might.
Once he was finished checking the books, he would put them in the library for anyone to pick up and explore. For now, however, he set them carefully on his own bookshelves, reading the titles as he went and losing himself in the familiar comfort of ink and parchment.
He whiled away the afternoon in his task, frequently getting lost amidst the pages as new secrets of magic unfurled their petals before his eyes. Someone brought him dinner, and he ate it thoughtlessly, eager to get back to the task at hand. He did not have time to read each volume in its entirety, but he skimmed them, fascinated.
By the time he reached for the last book in the crate, the long, summer evening was well underway. The solstice approached, and true night was a brief affair. It was already later than it looked, probably not too far off the midnight bell, and Merlin grimaced. If he wanted a sharp mind for council and the feast that followed it, he had best get to bed.
Scooping up the last little volume, he frowned down at its cover. It was a soft slate blue hide, lovingly dyed, but he had no memory of asking Moira to pack it. Had she given it to him by mistake? Just like the other volumes he had bought, he could feel the whisper of magic folded away within its sheaves. It drifted over his fingertips and curled around his knuckles: a soft, friendly touch.
He parted its covers to take a peek at the contents, frowning at the blank pages that met his gaze. They skimmed past in a flurry of creamy white, and it was only at the heart of the volume that he found a single line of neat script staining the parchment.
Honesty is the best policy.
He blinked, frowning in confusion and looking up when a knock on the door announced the arrival of Peter with a jug of hot water. After the first, fraught weeks of Peter's service, they had come to a mutual agreement. Merlin had no real need of a manservant unless he required help getting into his finery. His magic meant he could summon practically anything, from meals to a steaming hot bath. Yet it was Peter who kept his rooms tidy and his various papers in some sort of order. That was where his real purpose lay, and they had struck up a balance.
At the start of the day, he dragged Merlin from his bed, and when night fell, he apprised him of the next day's schedule. He also saw to it that Merlin actually remembered to get his head down on his pillow, rather than reading through until a new dawn.
'Good evening, my lord. His Majesty bade me to remind you that council begins not long after the morning bell and asks that you are not late.' Peter set the ewer down, his iron-grey hair gleaming silver in the candle-light and his affable face fixed in a rueful smile.
For his part, Merlin doubted that Arthur had been so formal in his request, nor so polite. More than once, Arthur had threatened to drag Merlin before his lord councillors in his sleep tunic if he was not dressed on time. One day, Merlin genuinely feared he'd make good on his promise, and he would have to endure the withering glares of the lords of Camelot dressed in nothing but a bedsheet.
'Thank you, Peter.' There was no point in arguing against the use of his title. "My Lord" was an improvement upon "Your Excellency", and it had taken weeks of complaining to get Peter to compromise that far. Merlin knew when he was beaten. 'Now tell me, what exactly can I expect, since the Lady Morgana's been occupying my seat for so long?'
'A necessary substitution while you recovered.' Peter busied himself putting away endless amounts of laundry, somehow managing to give Merlin the side-eye without even once glancing in his direction. True, he had not been the best patient while his injured ankle went about mending itself, with a little help from his magic. It had required more time with his feet up than Merlin could recall experiencing in his whole life. Peter would politely describe him as stubborn. Gaius was less kind and had no qualms about calling Albion's greatest sorcerer a bone-headed fool.
'The council is currently embroiled in an ongoing debate over the Mercian border incursion in the winter, as well as making pointed comments about His Majesty's betrothal prospects.'
'What about the Mercians? Arthur was talking about a new treaty.' Merlin washed his face with warm water from the ewer. He would far rather speak of their troubled borders than acknowledge the notion of an engagement. He kept his back turned towards Peter, but he heard his thoughtful silence well enough.
'The lords are less than amenable to talk of peace. They have professed the belief that it shows Camelot is lacking in strength.'
'No, it shows the lords are lacking in common sense,' Merlin grumbled. 'I'll have to see what I can do.'
'I believe the Lady Morgana spoke with great wit and passion on the subject, more than once. They were... less than receptive.'
Merlin sighed. He could understand Arthur's hesitance to rip the council up by its roots. A kingdom could only bear so much change in so short a time. He had prioritised the return of magic over the ease of his own rule: another sacrifice he had made for the sake of his people.
There were plenty in court who both respected Morgana and shared Arthur's view of the future, but to act in haste could make the lords revolt, and that was the last thing they needed. For once, Arthur was right, slow was the way to go, even if they all chafed against the constraints of Uther's old guard.
'Thank you, Peter. Anything else I should know?'
'Only that Gaius bade me to give you this.' He set a vial down on Merlin's bedside table. 'He said, and I am quoting, so you will have to forgive me: "Tell that foolish boy to drink it all before bed if he doesn't want to be limping like a hobbled horse tomorrow, and he is to consider the taste of it a punishment." My lord.'
Merlin pursed his lips as Peter offered an apologetic bow, though he did not miss the faint sparkle in the man's eyes, as if he were amused by Gaius' ire. 'I suppose I deserve that. Good night, Peter.'
'Good night, my lord.'
Sleep did not find Merlin easily. He felt as if he dabbled about in the shallows of slumber, rather than succumbing to the depths. When he did finally fall asleep, it was only to be rudely awoken by the abrupt cacophony of broken pottery.
Merlin jerked upright in bed, blinking stupidly at Peter, who stood holding the handle of the ewer. The rest of it was in pieces on the floor, and his breeches were splashed to mid-thigh with water.
'My lord! Please forgive me, I –' Peter gesticulated with the porcelain in his grip, looking mortified by its betrayal. 'It just –'
'Broke.' Merlin nodded, blinking blearily around his chambers and glaring at the sun that already streamed through the gap in the curtains. 'Don't worry. It's happened to me, except the jug I was holding was full of wine, and it fell in King Uther's lap. I thought he was going to have me beheaded.' He winced as Peter paled to the colour of new parchment, as if he believed such a fate may lie in his own future. 'Please, don't trouble yourself. It was time to get up anyway.'
He flicked his fingers towards the mess, watching shards of pot fit back together The cracks vanished before the water peeled itself from the floor, cascading upwards in a glittering veil to fill the ewer once more. Peter stood stock still, waiting for the spell to finish before he cautiously set the jug to one side.
'Thank you, my lord. I did not mean to offer you such a rude awakening.'
'I've had worse,' Merlin promised, wincing at the stiffness in his ankle as he limped towards the changing screen. The pair of them worked their way through their normal morning routine. Merlin dressed himself, since there was very little in his wardrobe he could not manage. Breakfast was a hurried affair, and he was so focussed on getting ready that he completely forgot about the extra book that Moira had packed in the crate by accident. It remained on his desk where he had left it, the colours gleaming softly in the summer sunlight.
'I need to talk to you.' Morgana's hand settled on his forearm as he made his way towards the council chamber, polishing off the last oat cake from a hasty breakfast and licking honey from his fingers. Merlin knew that particular tone of voice well. Morgana's abilities as a seer had improved in leaps and bounds as she gained control of her magic. She was a sorceress of considerable power, but her greatest talent still lay in reading the portents found in her dreams.
The long black coat he wore whispered around his ankles as he came to a halt, turning to face her without question. She was a vision in a dark green gown, her curls loose and caught back at her temples with pins. Yet it was her expression that caught Merlin's attention, not grim and pale, but a touch flushed and pinched with irritation.
'A dream?' he asked, smothering a smile when Morgana tossed her head like an irate horse. No doubt she would not appreciate the comparison, but she looked as if she were moments away from stamping her foot on the floor, petulant.
'It's ridiculous. I think I'm going mad!' She glared at him, but before long her expression softened. 'All I see is metal. Not straight like a blade, but curved. Silver, with gold woven across it. Vines, maybe? I can't be sure. I feel like I'm too close to see the whole picture.'
'That's it?' Merlin demanded, laughing when Morgana banged his shoulder with her curled fist. 'You normally have more to go on than that!'
'I know.' She gave one hand a dismissive flick. 'I've had it for about a week. What I see doesn't bother me. It's how I feel when I wake up.' She tilted her head, the look in her eyes neither coy nor amused. Instead, it seemed almost pitying. 'As if someone dear to me is grieving, and their pain could have been prevented if I only knew how.'
'Arthur?' He was the most logical person to be the centre of Morgana's concern. They had both been appalled by their parents' infidelity, but neither of them regretted the blood that bound the two of them.
'I don't know. Maybe. I thought perhaps if I told you it would move on, or change... give me more to go on. As it is, I'm not sure what it means.'
Neither did Merlin, not until he recalled Moira's rumour from the day before about Arthur commissioning a ring: curved, decorated metal. It was as if a sharp flint had lodged beneath his breastbone, loitering under the scar Nimueh's fireball had left in its wake.
'Are you all right?' Morgana turned to face him more fully, her eyes widening in alarm as she stepped closer and lowered her voice. 'Merlin, what's the matter? You look like you're going to be sick!'
'It's nothing. I ate breakfast too quickly, that's all.' The look Morgana gave him suggested she didn't believe him for a moment, and he pressed on before she could hound him about it. 'I really need to get to council. The lords are irritable enough without me being late. If I find out any answers about your dream, I'll tell you.'
Painted red lips pursed tight, and Morgana's grasp clutched at his coat sleeve, making the gold embroidery at the cuff sparkle. Yet, before long, she let him go, stepping back with a knowing look. Once, she might have pressed him for answers, but she had learned the fine art of patience. It made her formidable, and Merlin did not dare underestimate her.
'Whenever you're ready to tell me what put that expression on your face, I'll listen,' she promised, mustering a smile when he offered her a single nod and a quiet murmur of farewell.
Her prophecy haunted him all through council, twisting in his guts like snakes. He barely responded, even when asked direct questions, too lost in the whirl of his own concerns for more than blunt disagreements with the worst of some of the lords' prejudices. He could feel the weight of Arthur's gaze upon him – stolen, worried glances – but it was not until the interminable squabbling came to an end that he spoke to him directly.
'Don't rush off,' he ordered. 'I need to talk to you.'
'I have to –'
'Merlin.'
He subsided, knowing it was useless. Various lords would wish to bend Arthur's ear, catching him alone to try and push their own agenda. It was tempting to slip off and hide himself away. It would be easy enough to claim he was incredibly busy with something obscure and sorcerous, but he knew all too well that court was a delicate balancing act. When magic returned to Camelot, it changed everything, including how people looked upon the power of rule.
Arthur was the king. He had the crown, the throne, the bloodline... but when it came down to it, a sorcerer could usurp him in the blink of an eye. It left Merlin occupying the unenviable position of trying to seem both strong and subservient. He could not leap immediately to Arthur's every command, as that made it look like magic was under the control of a Pendragon – something that did not sit well with anyone, least of all Arthur himself. Nor could he be too disrespectful of Arthur's authority, not without stirring up whispers about a revolt.
In truth, they were united – him and Arthur – but the trick was making sure the rest of the court believed it.
'You will win yourself no favours.'
Merlin scowled across the table at Lord Massam. He had been younger than Uther when he gained his place on the council, but he still had a good twenty years or more of seniority on Merlin himself. Steel grey embellished his dark hair, and the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes suggested he had a sense of humour, though Merlin had never seen any evidence of it. Uther had made his family rich. If Massam had sense he would align himself with Arthur: obsequious. Instead, he seemed to go out of his way to question his edicts and stir up resentment.
And he was certainly no fan of magic.
'Perhaps it is your humble beginnings that make you so naive,' Massam spoke through a cruel grin, his voice low enough that it would not carry to Arthur's ears. 'The lower classes are there to serve us. That is how it should be. They do not need to read or write. They need only get their hands dirty and pay their taxes. Still, I suppose it is asking too much for the bastard son of a peasant to understand that. Do you even know who your father was?'
Merlin fought not to roll his eyes. Massam's bile was nothing new. He was the kind of man who liked to chip away at others, crumbling their foundations. He bullied many weaker minds on the council to enhance his own support and power.
'He was a dragonlord,' Merlin replied at last, pinning a vague smile on his lips and maintaining eye contact. He did not stare, but offered a lazy, indifferent blink. 'His ability to control dragons came to me when he died. I hear your estate has suffered a drought this year, my lord. How unfortunate. It would be terrible if a fire broke out.' He lifted one eyebrow. 'You could lose everything.'
The blood drained from Massam's face. Those eyes widened with fury, and Merlin saw how his hands curled into fists atop the table. Yet they had both spoken quietly enough that there were no reliable witnesses, and while Massam may be a lord, his reputation preceded him. He liked to stir up trouble, which at least meant any accusation would be met with doubt.
Arthur would know the truth, of course. He understood that putting Merlin in finery didn't make him any less feral. Still, he would be able to wave it away as a misunderstanding if Massam chose to complain.
'One day' – the man hissed, his dark eyes crackling with spite – 'you will get what you deserve.'
'Lord Massam!' Arthur's voice rang out through the room, which had steadily emptied until only a handful remained. 'I hate to interrupt, but I have urgent business to attend to with my court sorcerer. Excuse us?'
Arthur did not wait for a reply, his hand at Merlin's elbow steering him away with familiar force. He could feel those eyes boring into his back, but he ignored it. Massam was a lord losing his grip on power, and everyone knew it. Yet rather than gracefully admitting defeat, he seemed determined to make everyone's life difficult. Something would have to be done about him eventually, and probably quicker than Arthur would like.
'What's so urgent?' Merlin asked as they stepped out into the large hallway beyond the council chamber. Arthur's hand fell away, and he tried not to miss the warmth of his palm where it had steadily bled through the fabric of his sleeve.
'Getting you away from Lord Massam.' Arthur offered him a wry, sideways smile. 'Don't think I didn't notice the two of you snarling at each other.'
'He's an ass. That's not it, though. You ordered me to stay. You said you needed to talk to me?'
'Right.' Arthur cleared his throat, and Merlin didn't imagine the way his stride faltered, as if he had stumbled over his own uncertainty. 'Yes.'
Except that seemed to be all he had to say on the matter. A thick silence descended, and the unease that had taken up residence in Merlin's guts clenched tight. More than anything, he was abruptly certain he did not want to hear whatever Arthur wished to speak of – something, no doubt, about the rumoured ring. Desperately, he wished for some small magical calamity: an incident that didn't kill anyone but would require his immediate attention.
His mind whirled as they passed the bottom of the main staircase, trying to come up with a way to orchestrate such a distraction. He was so lost inside his own head that he didn't realise he had passed too close to the bottom step, not until he bashed his sore ankle against a sharp corner of marble. The pain shot through him like a crossbow bolt, stealing his breath. He managed a thin curse, which became a squeak as he found himself scooped up in a pair of strong arms.
'You are useless,' Arthur chided, striding towards the nearest doorway and shouldering it aside, revealing a small, comfortable chamber. He settled Merlin in the chair by the fireplace before he could muster a protest. 'One of these days you will learn to watch where you are going. Stay still.'
He dropped to one knee, removing Merlin's boot as gently as he could and peeling off the sock, hissing in sympathy at the swelling and the new bruise blooming amidst the old. 'I thought Gaius said it wasn't broken?'
'It's not. I'm fine.' Maybe it would be more convincing if he didn't say it through clenched teeth. Either way, it was clear that Arthur didn't believe a word. He looked up at Merlin, the fond amusement curving his lips tempered by an expression of genuine sympathy and a healthy dose of doubt.
Merlin sighed before adding, 'It's not broken anymore. My magic fixed the bone, but the rest of it...' He could walk on it well enough, but it had a tendency to swell in the evening, and the skin remained tender and hard in a way that suggested his body was healing. 'It really is all right. Can I have my sock back?'
For a moment, he thought Arthur was going to carry him to the healing rooms. Never mind that he had just scooped Merlin up like a damsel in the middle of the castle halls where anyone could have seen. No doubt the servants would be twittering about it for weeks, and he resigned himself to a smirk or two from Peter that evening.
'Why do you never look after yourself?' Fondness softened Arthur's voice as he grabbed Merlin's sock, his fingers warm around his calf as he eased the wool over the injury. 'Camelot will not fall apart if you take a few days off.'
Merlin scoffed at that, because past experience told him otherwise. 'I already spent two weeks practically confined to my rooms on Gaius' orders,' he pointed out, trying to ignore the slow, dizzy heat that threatened to spread through his veins wherever Arthur touched him.
He liked Arthur like that, on one knee but far from penitent. It meant he could look down into that much loved faced, admiring the freckles that dotted his nose and the first faint lines the years had pressed into his skin. His body wanted to sway forward, and his lips buzzed with the desire to claim a taste of that smiling mouth: sharp and shocking.
It was enough to make him blink, shifting back and looking away as he tugged his foot out of Arthur's grip and reached for his boot. 'Besides, you were the one who said you needed me at council, remember?'
Arthur hummed. 'What was Lord Massam saying to you?'
'Nothing important,' he lied, returning his footwear to its rightful place as his ankle ached and throbbed. 'Stop avoiding the question.'
'Right.' Arthur glanced away, looking towards the fire that jumped merrily in the hearth as if he were searching for something amidst the embers. He needed a shave, Merlin noticed idly, admiring the golden glint of a few days' stubble on that strong jaw. In fact, now he looked closer, there were subtle signs of disarray, as if Arthur had been too busy to take care of himself. He was still handsome, there was no denying that, but he appeared troubled, and Merlin's heart gave a guilty little swoop.
'Arthur, what's wrong?' He leant forward in the chair, resting one hand on his shoulder and bending close, the better to keep whatever answer he received from going further than his own ears. It meant he could make out the noise when Arthur swallowed, tight and nervous. He looked straight into that blue gaze, far more searching than it had any right to be. Bizarrely, it made Merlin feel as if he were letting Arthur down, failing him in some way he couldn't comprehend.
All around, the air pulled taut with expectation, and Merlin's magic fluttered beneath his skin, whispering its warning. It was nothing dire, merely the feeling that there was something important about this moment: a fork in the road.
And when Arthur pulled back with a dismissive shake of his head, Merlin feared that some decision had been made before he even realised he had a choice.
'It's not important.' Arthur rose to his feet, and now there was nothing genuine about his smile. It was a hollow little curve, devoid of joy. 'I'll see you at the feast.'
'Wait, what –?'
But he was already gone, the corner of his resplendent cloak vanishing around the threshold. Merlin listened to his receding footsteps, his hands falling uselessly into his lap. He did not know what Arthur had wanted to say. Perhaps he never would. All he knew was the sad, solemn hum of power in his bones: his magic telling him that some unknown opportunity had slipped through his grasp.
And there would be no going back.
The feast was a chaos of bright garlands and good food. Magical lights took the place of candles, gleaming like stars brought to earth. Everyone was in their finest: velvet and silk, glittering stitch-work and sparkling gems. It had not yet reached the raucous part of the evening, where people were lost to merriment between the wine and the dancing. Instead, they were all still seated, enjoying their meal.
Or at least, that was what Merlin was trying to do. Except he kept going over that moment earlier in the day – the look in Arthur's eyes, all hope and dread; his abrupt withdrawal; the odd, sticky surge of his magic...
'Are you well?' Gwen's soft question curled in his ear, and he forced himself to smile in her direction. As Lady of the Household, she was sat to his right at the high table. Once she and Lancelot were wed, he would join them, but for now the knights were held slightly at remove, revelling in their own camaraderie.
Instead, Merlin found himself sat between Gwen's ferocious compassion and Morgana's quick wit. Arthur was on Morgana's other side, involved in quiet small talk with one of the visiting lords. There had been no time to corner him and encourage him to speak of whatever he had bitten back earlier in the day. Besides, a feast was hardly the place for a private discussion.
'A bit tired for feasting,' he said by way of an excuse. 'Sorry, I should at least try and make conversation.'
'That's all right.' She rubbed a hand against his shoulder, leaning closer in steady companionship. Gwen always had made friendship easy, and he sagged against her a little, remembering times when they'd been the ones serving at the feasts, rather than sitting at them. 'It can be a bit much, even now.'
Merlin hummed, pulling himself together. At least Gwen and Morgana were easier to speak with than many of the lords and ladies. They chatted about the upcoming festivals and the troubles of the servants. Merlin made Gwen blush and laugh by speaking of when she planned to make an honest man of Lancelot, and Morgana kept them entertained with occasional salacious bits of gossip she's either overheard or seen in her scrying bowl.
They carried on like that through three courses, and it was only when the last plate was set aside that Arthur got to his feet, lifting his voice to be heard over the throng. Soon enough, the room fell silent, everyone hanging on their king's word as he spoke of a celebration of Camelot's prosperity and looking to the future. Yet this time, there was more to Arthur's rousing speech. Merlin saw it in the way he shifted his weight, moving to stand behind the man to whom he had been speaking and offering a courtly smile to the young woman next to her lord father.
'I also wish to take this opportunity to announce that Lady Aveline of Spirehold has graciously agreed to my offer of courtship. I hope this is the beginning of a new chapter for Camelot, and for myself.'
He had known it was coming, but the words still hit Merlin like a blow to the chest. The sound of applause hid the sharp hiss of his inhale. He steeled his spine, forcing himself to clap along and hoping his expression didn't betray the fresh bloom of pain that had flourished within him.
Perhaps if he had not been sitting next to Gwen, no one would have noticed, but she had known him for far too long to be deceived.
'Oh, Merlin.' She kept her voice low, her face turned towards him. Not another word was uttered. They weren't necessary. He had never told Gwen of his feelings for Arthur, but it seemed she saw them anyway.
'I'm fine.' He cleared his throat, trying not to sound too strained. 'Why shouldn't I be?'
Gwen said nothing, resting her hand on his arm: all subtle, unbearable sympathy. He almost wished he could recoil from it, but there were too many watching eyes. At his other side, Morgana took a sip from her wine cup before turning to him with a rueful expression.
'I suppose that explains the dream. A ring for a betrothal.'
Merlin swallowed hard, dredging his voice up from the broken pieces of himself. 'Maybe he's in love with her?'
'Love?' Only Morgana could make a scoff both discreet and lady-like. Her earrings sparkled as she shook her head. Around them, the fluting music of the bards helped them hide their conversation. 'I don't think love has anything to do with it. Spirehold is a huge stretch of land on the Mercian border and has ties to Bayard's family. This is political. It stops his idiot lords calling for war and helps to solve the problem of growing unrest.' She turned her wine cup in her grasp as if admiring the pattern embossed on the metal. 'It takes courage for a ruler to marry for love. More, perhaps, than even Arthur possesses.'
Merlin did not answer. He couldn't find the words, nor a steady voice with which to speak them. He had always thought he would be stoic when this day came. Regretful, maybe, but resigned to it, able to weather the storm, because he would still have Arthur's friendship. He had never imagined that his heart could feel as if it had been split in two: a fatal wound to all his happiness.
The rest of the feast passed in a haze. He forced himself to go through the motions of civil discussion with those who deserved it, and tried to pretend it wasn't deliberate that he was deep in conversation whenever Arthur glanced his way. To leave early would raise eyebrows, and he could not bear the thought of such scrutiny. Instead, he lingered, pinning a smile to his lips and forcing himself to stand strong, even when he ached to huddle and hide.
At last, the dancers began to grow tired and the music shifted, its pace slowing as the night thickened. The midnight bell was a distant note, and Merlin penned in a quiet sigh of relief. He had drunk more wine than he ought, not that it had done him much good. At best, it had only blunted the sharpest edges of his uncertainty and muffled the cries of his heart, all the more shrill for being so unexpected.
What a fool he was, for believing his own love could be something benign and ornamental, put on a shelf and forgotten. Now he had no choice but to let it wither and to bear the pain of its passing. Here, amidst the sparkling crowd, he felt out of place, and he wasted no time in making his escape.
Of course, he should have known it would not be that easy.
'Merlin, wait!'
Arthur's voice rang out along the hallway, and his stride faltered. Part of him longed to pretend he had not heard him, but it would be a bold-faced lie. He had never run away from Arthur before, and despite everything, he was not about to start now.
'Was there something you needed, Sire?'
Perhaps it sounded more spiteful than he intended, because Arthur stopped short, spreading his hands in faint appeasement. Anyone would think Merlin had turned on him with a dagger in his grasp, and it took him a painfully long moment to realise that the shadows between the candles in the corridor had thickened, mere gloom becoming something far more threatening as his magic roiled under his skin.
Clenching his teeth, he tried to get himself under control, smoothing the turbulent whirl of his emotions and pressing them down deep into the meat of himself. Gradually, the light returned, reflecting in the blue of Arthur's eyes. He eased forward a single step, as if unsure of his welcome.
'You're angry.' He said it as if he were tasting the words, but if he hoped for any hints from Merlin's expression, he would not give him the satisfaction. Various people had nagged him about the need to don masks in front of the court – to control his features and not wear his heart on his sleeve. He had always hated the idea of dishonesty, even in the name of diplomacy, but right now he was happy to banish any hint of his sorrow and hide behind a shield of studied indifference.
That was better than acknowledging that anger was only one of the many things that coiled in his guts, aimed far more at himself for his own cowardly stupidity than at Arthur and his potential bride.
'You took me by surprise, that's all. I had not realised you were seriously considering your marriage prospects.' He pursed his lips tight and swallowed hard, not wanting to ask the question that burned within him but unable to hold it back. 'Do you love her?'
Morgana had scoffed at the notion, but Merlin needed to hear it. If Arthur's heart was truly won then that was something he could bear. He had sacrificed a great deal for Arthur's happiness, and he could do so again.
Yet the look on that face said it all. He had watched the shroud of duty descend upon those features more times than he would like to admit. He had witnessed Arthur put aside his own desires for the sake of his people and his kingdom when it was demanded of him. This was no different.
'A man can learn to love, I think.' The tiny hitch of Arthur's shoulders made him look younger – not the ruler of the realm but a prince once more, trying to do what was best even as his father told him he would never be enough. 'It's good for Camelot.'
I don't give a damn about Camelot. I care about you!
Merlin clenched his jaw, biting back the words that seethed in the hollow of his throat. There was no point in arguing. Arthur could be as stubborn as a mule when he wanted to be. Besides, what could he possibly say? Was he meant to confess what fluttered in his own heart – his love a bird with a broken wing still seeking the freedom of flight? Even his optimism had its limits. This was not a fairytale, and there would be no happy ending for them. A king needed a queen and heirs of his own blood.
Camelot made its demand and, as always, Arthur answered.
He could not stay here, the two of them staring across the narrow expanse of the castle corridor as if it were a chasm. It felt as if, in little more than a day, the tight weave of their friendship had disintegrated into fraying threads. He could not let them break, but nor could he stand here and put on a convincing performance of indifference.
'Good night, Sire.'
He heard Arthur's sip of indrawn air, as if he meant to call Merlin back but thought better of it. That was just as well. His ankle throbbed as he practically fled, seeking the sanctuary of his chambers. Merlin felt as if he dripped blood with every step, raw and uncertain in a world made anew, and he closed the door behind him, blocking out the castle as he slumped against the wood.
The sob that escaped him was a tiny thread of sound, little more than an embellishment upon the air. He did not wail. It was too big for that, too much, all the more painful for being unexpected. Not Arthur's betrothal, but his own reaction to it. It was as if all the nebulous uncertainty of the day had crystallised into a blade.
Worse, he had no one to blame but himself. He had never told Arthur how he felt. It had always seemed like a step too far, and now it was too late.
Tomorrow, he would pick up the pieces of himself and find the strength to bear the scars of it. He would be the friend Arthur needed, and he would pretend that was enough.
Tonight, he mourned.