Chapter Text
Merlin had kept one secret since before he could remember. His magic had manifested when he was only an infant—making things dance about their little hut and turning his mother’s hair grey with worry.
“You have a great and beautiful gift, Merlin,” Hunith had told him so many times, warm palm pressed to his pale cheek. “But you must keep it a secret. You mustn’t use it.”
And he hadn’t, mostly. Still, it was as if the wild magic in him resented being stifled, hidden away, and it took some form of revenge when Merlin turned ten. It was always a possibility, as Hunith was a Changeling herself—a soft, grey dove—so they weren’t really surprised when Merlin shattered the kitchen chair and sent his meagre supper flying across the room when the Change took him. The form he took though, that was his magic’s revenge, because in Hunith’s kitchen sat a creature about the size of a sheep dog, with charcoal scales, the occasional gold one glinting in the firelight, and when he coughed, smoke rose towards the ceiling.
His mother wrote to an old friend in Camelot and his response was just as damning as she feared. Changelings might not be particularly popular in parts of Albion, but only from magic came a magical shift. Plus, all the real dragons were gone—almost all—so if anyone were ever to see a dragon, if they found out it was Merlin… there was only one conclusion to be drawn by anyone informed on the subject.
So at the age of ten, Merlin had gained a second secret.
He wouldn’t lie and say that he didn’t occasionally feel resentment towards other Changelings, like Gwen, who, even though it was no great fate in Camelot, could at least exercise her shift every couple days without sneaking around, without hiding in the shadows of the forest in the middle of the night. He just wished there was one thing about him that he didn’t have to hide, and Arthur complained when he was late bringing his breakfast, but he’d like to see how spry Arthur was if he’d had to make the trip out past Camelot’s walls and back in the middle of the night twice a week.
But, as always, Merlin had borne his lot with all the grace in him. Unfortunately, not every one of his kind were content with their treatment in the world. Not everyone was willing to wait for things to change.
“Arthur… I hear something,” Merlin said, reining in his mare, feeling the dead pheasants that Arthur had shot bump against his leg—to his disgust.
“I’m sure you hear many things with those goblets you call ears,” his highness, Prince Arthur said with a self-satisfied smirk as he ignored Merlin’s warning.
But Merlin heard the sound of running and he saw the broad brown shoulders of a bear only seconds before they were overtaken.
“Arthur!” he shouted and this time Arthur heard the urgency in his voice, wheeling his horse around.
Then a bear, a wolf and a great hound barrelled onto the road. Both horses reared so violently that even Arthur was thrown from his saddle. Merlin landed heavily on his arse as Arthur rolled gracefully to his feet and drew his sword. The horses bolted.
The canines reached them first; before Merlin could even think about getting to his feet. Arthur slew one with a side-step and slash, footwork carrying him another step. Then he twisted and the tip of his sword plunged into the second’s heart. He really was a stunning warrior, Merlin knew- but often forgot.
But now his back was turned and the bear was almost upon him. Merlin’s breath caught as he foresaw Arthur’s impending death for what felt like the millionth time. The words were on his lips before he thought to put them there, magic surging to Arthur’s aid.
“Heall éagwund!” Merlin whispered, hand out.
A stone from the path shot through the air, smacking forcefully into the bear’s eye. It roared in pain and stumbled, giving Arthur all the time he needed to bring his sword down on its neck.
They stood there—well, Merlin sat—chests heaving for a minute in the aftermath. Three very human bodies lay still on the ground around them. If they’d had any doubt that the attackers weren’t Changelings, it had dissipated. Changelings always shifted back in death. Merlin looked at them a little sadly, wondering what had driven them to this.
Arthur turned to look at his manservant.
“Did you throw that pebble?” he asked, brow furrowed.
Merlin flushed. Damn. He’d hopped that the pebble had hit its mark before Arthur got his eyes on the bear. No such luck for Merlin.
“Yeah,” Merlin lied, pushing himself up off the ground.
“You’re rubbish at anything even mildly related to hand eye coordination,” Arthur said and Merlin refused to look him in the eye.
“I guess I just got lucky,” Merlin said, flashing an innocent smile at Arthur.
Arthur narrowed his eyes, mouth a hard line, like he wanted to say something else, but changed his mind.
“Just go fetch the horses, Merlin,” he said sharply, as if it were Merlin’s fault they got attacked by Changelings.
“Yes, sire,” Merlin said mockingly as he turned towards the woods. “And you’re welcome for saving your neck… again…”
The last parts were grumbled under his breath.
“What was that, Merlin?” Arthur’s sharp voice cut into the back of his head.
“Nothing, sire,” Merlin said without remorse.
♛ ♛ ♛
“You’re being unreasonable, Father!”
The Hall was crowded, as it usually was in the evenings when Uther held court and supper. It was deadly silent as it always was when Uther fought with one of the young nobles in his charge. It used to only happen with Morgana, but right now it was his son shouting at him, standing on the red carpet before the high table; and Morgana who sat uncharacteristically quiet and pale-faced at the table.
Arthur’s eyes blazed in frustration.
“They attacked you, Arthur,” Uther said, still retaining the surprise that his voice always carried when his son defied him—before it turned to anger.
“No—they didn’t. A wolf, dog and bear shift attacked me, and they are dead,” Arthur denied. “You cannot just ban Changelings from the court! They haven’t done anything wrong!”
Uther’s mouth was set in a hard line and the heavy crown on his head seemed only to deepen his scowl. Arthur regretted telling his father of the attack. He should have known that Uther would overreact.
“They can’t be trusted, Arthur. They are infected with sorcery,” Uther pressed. “They are dangerous!”
Arthur sputtered.
“So is a sword! I’ve been attacked with those time and time again, but you haven’t tried to ban them!” Arthur said, gesturing wildly around to the many blades that he could see strapped to hips in the room. When Uther’s eyes showed no signs of changing, Arthur looked for help. “Morgana! Tell him he’s being unreasonable. You surely agree?”
Morgana had been staring resolutely at the table, and when Arthur called her name, she jumped so badly that her goblet of wine spilled over the table. A servant rushed over to clean up the mess.
“I-I’m sorry,” she said, flustered, but then steadied herself. “But Arthur is right. The Changelings in our court have done nothing wrong, and I will never forgive you if you remove my handmaiden from me.”
Her voice strengthened by the end, and Gwen, who was standing next to Merlin by the door, kept her gaze subserviently to the ground. Merlin, of course, was watching the proceedings with sharp eyes; he’d never picked up court manners, but Arthur couldn’t let himself be distracted by his manservant in that moment, or what appeared to be a mix of worry and pride in his face. Arthur looked at his father beseechingly.
“They didn’t choose to be this way, Father. They are just as loyal as any in the court,” Arthur said, begging his father to see reason.
Uther looked at him with hard eyes. Finally he spoke.
“Fine… but I will not tolerate their kind putting you at risk,” he said imperiously.
“Of course,” Arthur ground out, forcing himself to take what he could and not provoke Uther further. “Thank you, Father.”
Uther narrowed his eyes and leaned back into his chair.
“I don’t see why it matters to you so much,” he remarked.
Arthur’s spine was stiff.
“They are our people, too. Like I said, they didn’t choose to be the way they are,” Arthur said. “They are afflicted with magic, against their wills.”
Uther huffed a breath through his nose, as if he didn’t agree—though even Arthur himself was growing to doubt the last part about it being an affliction. But it seemed to appease Uther.
“They’re tainted,” Uther murmured and a muscle in Arthur’s jaw twitched.
“May I go now, Father?” he said, low and clipped.
Uther made a dismissive gesture and Arthur turned and stalked off without hesitation, at least keeping his temper until he was out of the Hall. He felt Merlin follow behind him. He wanted to break something—the priceless vase ahead of him in the corridor looked like a prime target, but breaking things would only validate Uther’s opinion that Arthur was some naïve child.
Arguments with his father ended, without fail, in one of two ways: defeated desolation or explosive fury. Today’s result was obvious.
“You did the right thing, Arthur,” Merlin said, soft and sure from behind him.
“I know that,” Arthur snapped, without looking at Merlin. “I’m tired, sore, and desire a bath.”
They turned down the corridor that housed his quarters.
“Of course, sire,” Merlin said with a notable lack of sarcasm that Arthur thought might have something to do with the pride that had glowed in Merlin’s eyes when Arthur stood up to his father.
It brought a new round of flush to his cheeks, even as his bad temper persisted.
Arthur stripped his own mail and clothing off as Merlin began to ready his bath. He shed down to his trousers and crossed to his window. He folded his arms over his chest and looked out over his kingdom, a mix of worry and frustration clawing in his chest. With each passing day it seemed he understood his father less. With each passing day his succession drew closer and he longed for the days when all it seemed he had to worry about was winning the next tourney, and not whether or not he was making the right choices, whether or not he’d be a good king—whether his people were suffering.
Arthur was only mulling things over for a few minutes before Merlin said his bath was ready. He spun to see Merlin moving away from a full and steaming tub. A vein throbbed in his temple and his mouth opened and closed. Arthur was furious gain, but for a completely different reason.
Was Merlin soft in the head?!
How stupid did he think Arthur was? He may never have made his own bath in his life, but Arthur knew one couldn’t prepare a pot of hot water in the time it had taken for Merlin to prepare his bath. Arthur didn’t want to deal with this right now. This was the last thing he needed.
“Arthur?” Merlin asked, the prince’s chain mail in hand, realising he hadn’t moved.
Arthur snapped his mouth shut and stalked to the tub. He dropped his trousers quickly and stiffly, then stepped and dipped into the tub in one motion, trying and succeeding to make a large amount of water slop onto the floor—but then he yelped loudly.
“It’s hot,” Merlin deadpanned from across the room.
“Too hot!” Arthur shouted, face thunderous, scooping a large block of soap from the floor and chucking it into Merlin’s ear, which only succeeded in reminding him of the precise trajectory of Merlin’s pebble from that afternoon.
“OW!” Merlin cried, dropping Arthur’s armour and cupping his ear as he glared murderously.
Arthur’s glare dared him to say something. Merlin clearly thought better of it.
You see, not small on the list of problems that plagued Arthur’s life was his sorcerer of a manservant, who seemed for all the world hell-bent on exposing himself.
Yes, Arthur knew about the magic. He’d known since Ealdor. He’d accepted the village boy’s lie because he was dying, and he’d saved Arthur’s life. On the ride back, Arthur had seriously considered ordering the guards to arrest Merlin as soon as they crossed the beyond the city walls—but he’d had the whole journey back to think and he couldn’t ignore the fact that Merlin had saved his life, too, and not just once. He thought about it perhaps being a ploy to gain his trust, but then he realised how many branches had fallen on his enemies, how often they tripped when they charged him. He remembered the strange book he saw on Merlin’s bed once when he’d gone by Gaius’ to look for him, and Arthur came to a conclusion.
Nobody who was plotting against him would be so spectacularly bad at it. Merlin was far too stupid to be working against him—and swallowing poison for Arthur seemed like a marvellously poor method of killing him.
And it was Merlin, the worst servant ever with his big ears and dumb smile. He could never mean any harm to Arthur.
So, until this point, Arthur had turned a blind eye to his servant’s petty magic tricks.
It was a good plan, in theory.
Except Merlin seemed determined to all but flaunt it in front of him!
More branches fell and more pebbles flew into his enemies’ eyes and Arthur’s bed sheets stayed unreasonably warm when he did something Merlin seemed to approve of in the cold winter.
He made Arthur want to strangle him.
“I want you to polish my armour tonight. It’s got blood on it,” Arthur commanded instead.
“It does not!” Merlin said from where he’d been folding Arthur’s discarded clothes, eyes accusing.
“And I want you to muck out the stables and bathe the horses first thing tomorrow,” Arthur fired back.
Merlin narrowed his eyes and turned to the wardrobe to get Arthur’s sleep clothes.
“Fine, you great slave driving bully.”
He dodged the second lump of soap, grinning triumphantly at Arthur, who swore he saw a gleam of gold in his eyes.
“And clean up this water,” Arthur added lastly, and then proceeded to ignore Merlin completely.
But now even the hot water wouldn’t loosen the knot of anger and unease in his chest.
Uther might just want to banish Changelings from the castle, but he would see Merlin burned alive if he ever discovered his magic.
♛ ♛ ♛
Merlin left Arthur to brood in his bathwater. He was always impressed with Arthur’s ability to turn any affection Merlin had for him sour in only minutes. It was as if he had a sixth sense that told him exactly when Merlin was beginning to believe he wasn’t a complete prat and then sought to rectify that gross misperception.
And yet, when Merlin paused at the door and looked back to Arthur, his eyes were downcast, golden hair curling from the steam. His naked shoulders were rounded, bare of any armour and the sense of protective loyalty came flooding back. Merlin knew that he was the only one who saw Arthur like this. He was the only one who Arthur let see him with his guard completely down.
Merlin turned away, shutting the door quietly and beginning to walk down the corridor. So lost in his thoughts, Merlin almost ran straight into Gwen.
“Oh! Merlin!” she said, stepping back.
She was carrying a phial in her hands and her brows were knit.
“Gwen! Sorry,” Merlin said, and then noticed the worry on her face. “Are you alright? You’re not worried about what Uther said today, are you? Arthur would never let him—”
“No! I mean, I know. It’s not that,” Gwen assured him. “It’s just… Morgana.”
Merlin cocked his head to the side.
“Morgana?”
Gwen started a bit, as if she realised that she’d said something wrong.
“I mean Morgana’s nightmares,” Gwen amended. “I just went to Gaius for a sleeping draught.”
She held up the phial as if Merlin needed proof. The manservant frowned.
“Right… she has seemed off lately,” Merlin said, remembering her spill at the table earlier.
Gwen stood up straighter and glanced quickly over her shoulder as if she were worried that someone would overhear them.
“No, Morgana is fine,” Gwen said, quietly, waving her hand and giving Merlin a weird smile. “She’s just tired—which—speaking of…”
She held up the sleeping draught and Merlin’s brow furrowed, but he stepped aside.
“Right,” Merlin said.
He watched her walk quickly down the corridor and wondered when everyone had gone a bit mental.
The moon was already high in the sky when Merlin made it under the boughs of the trees outside Camelot. He didn’t stop walking until he could no longer see the torches on the walls of the castle. Then he untied the neckerchief from around his throat; he undressed, folding his clothes carefully and placing them on a log. Gaius had given him a look of supreme disapproval when he’d returned from the forest the first time with dirt all over his clothes from where he’d left them in a heap on the ground.
Stark-naked and bare as Arthur in his bath, Merlin stepped to the centre of the clearing, pale skin milk-white in the moonlight. Then his thin form disappeared, and it was a much more common kind of magic than Merlin’s usual sort, if it was magic at all. A new shape loomed in the night, dark as shadow and bigger than the largest draught horse. A heavy head rose slowly on an arched neck as two blue eyes gazed up at the stars hung in the black.
Merlin dug his claws into the soil and, like the unfurling of great sails, he spread his wings. He stretched them deliberately, first straight out and then up over his spine, until he felt the tips touch gently together. He stared up at the moon, and then folded his wings.
Merlin dropped his head, murmured a spell that would hide his tracks and then traipsed deeper into the woods.
♛ ♛ ♛
Arthur was alerted to their company when his knights stood up straighter, despite the harsh drills he’d been putting them through which had left their chests heaving and sweat breaking on their brows. The prince turned to see Morgana crossing the yard with Gwen. A blue cloak was tucked over Gwen’s folded arms and Morgana wasn’t in her usual clothing, but instead wore a magnificently fine mail shirt, sculpted armour around her middle, vambraces on her arms and breeches with loft leather boots.
“What are you doing here, Morgana?” Arthur asked as she strode confidently towards him.
Gwen went to go and stand by Merlin where he was posted near the practice swords. They smiled and greeted each other but Arthur was focused on Morgana.
“I’ve been cooped up in the castle, and your knights gifted me this lovely armour for my seventeenth birthday, and now I am near eighteen and it has barely seen use,” Morgana said brazenly.
Arthur squared his shoulders.
“We are in the middle of training,” Arthur said.
He knew anything she was here for would be disruptive—but honestly it was already too late for that. His exercises were doomed the second she walked out on the practice field.
“And I came out here to spar,” Morgana said with a smile. “It seems like it falls in the same vein, doesn’t it?”
“I’m not sparring with you, Morgana,” Arthur said, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I didn’t ask you to spar. I’ll admit… you’re not the same little boy I pushed into the dust when you were twelve,” Morgana said teasingly.
Arthur bristled and his eyes widened.
“That did not happen!” Arthur said and then turned to his knights. “That did not happen.”
Morgana simply laughed.
“I’ll spar a few of your knights,” Morgana continued, ignoring him and making Arthur scowl.
Arthur was about to give her a hard no. It was inappropriate, they weren’t children anymore and she couldn’t just waltz into official training sessions of the knights of Camelot.
Then Sir Aled snorted.
He was one of Arthur’s newer knights, all of whom had passed the exams by the skin of their teeth and at his father’s stern warning to go easy on them because their fathers were important to the stability of the kingdom. Arthur had been furious for weeks.
Clearly, Aled found it laughable that Morgana might be able to hold her ground against him. Arthur’s mind was made up in a moment.
“Fine,” Arthur said; it would be good for them to get knocked down a few pegs.
Morgana’s eyebrows arched, and Leon chuckled, too, except Arthur knew he wasn’t laughing at Morgana’s prospects. He knew what had brought the dark cloud of disapproval to Arthur’s face, and he knew what the knights were up against.
“Really? I expected you to throw a fit. I guess you are growing up and becoming less of a pigheaded child,” Morgana said and then turned to Gwen after Arthur gave her a cold smile, muscles tightening the corners of his eyes. “Gwen, could you bring me a practice sword?”
“Sir Aled, you will spar against Lady Morgana first.”
The knight spluttered as Gwen happily strode out to place a blunted sword in Morgana’s gloved hand. Arthur caught Gwen shooting Merlin a chastising look as she approached Arthur’s laughing servant. Leon at least had the decency to stifle his amusement as he led the younger knights out of the way.
Morgana let her sword swing around in an easy circle, stretching her wrist as Aled held his sword low and uselessly. He chuckled nervously, torn between bravado and discomfort. He really didn’t know what was coming.
Morgana swung. Aled shouted.
Arthur sighed heavily as his knight hit the ground.
“Merlin,” Gwen said chidingly when he laughed openly as Morgana knocked the third successive knight to the ground, but she was fighting a losing battle against her own smile.
“Oh, come on. You think this is as brilliant as I do,” Merlin said as the clang of steel echoed around the training field.
Gwen didn’t respond, but she kept her fingers knit in front of her and didn’t deny it.
“Honestly, though, should Morgana really be exerting herself so much?” Merlin asked, feeling the hot sun on his neck and not envying the knights in their armour. “Gaius says her nightmares are still going strong.”
Gwen frowned as she watched Morgana and then looked up at Merlin.
“Really, I think that might be why she wanted to do this so badly. Perhaps the fresh air and exercise will do her good. No, need to steep in whatever haunts her,” Gwen said sadly. “She’s got so much weighing on her…”
The last part was murmured as she watched Morgana level her sword low to Ivor’s neck. Merlin wasn’t sure that he was supposed to hear that last part, so he kept his mouth shut.
“Arthur, do you have any knights who can even manage to swing their swords at me?” Morgana said brashly as Sir Ivor scrambled out of the dust as soon as Morgana pulled her sword away from the hollow of his throat.
Arthur scowled and snapped at Ivor to get back into line. Morgana scanned the knights, a little sweat on her brow but otherwise no more worse for wear than when she’d started. Her eyes settled on Leon and she smiled, and he smiled back.
“Sir Leon?” she asked.
Leon looked to Arthur for permission and grinned when Arthur gave a curt nod.
“It would be an honour, my lady,” he said sincerely.
He stepped forward and took a practice sword from a squire. Merlin knew that Leon could hold up against Morgana, and also wouldn’t pull his punches. Gwen told him that Leon had been taught swordplay in Camelot right alongside Arthur and Morgana; he knew better.
The sound of Leon and Morgana’s steel meeting rang out with a new tone, notably different from the previous bouts right from their first swings. They moved quickly. The knights looked a little shocked but Leon, Morgana, and even Arthur wore satisfied smiles.
Leon was stronger but Morgana was just as quick as the red haired knight, and knew how to use the environment to her advantage, consistently putting the sun in Leon’s eyes. They moved closer together, and then Morgana danced back out of Leon’s pressing range. He darted forward with a solid swing and she sidestepped, just barely deflecting a blow. Leon fought like a wolf. Morgana fought like a hissing tomcat.
In the end it was Leon’s endurance that won him the fight. Morgana was panting a few minutes in, and her blows became erratic. The grins were dropped from both their faces as she fired off a series of blows they both knew were her last cards to play. Leon stopped them, scarcely, and knocked the sword from Morgana’s hand.
Morgana’s chest heaved as she looked at the practice sword lying in the grass, but then she relaxed when she realised that it was much too far away to make a dive for it. Her seriousness cracked and she curtsied to Leon, who chuckled and bowed back, sweat slipping down their faces.
“So, anything else on your agenda today besides playing squire to the Lady Knight of Camelot?” Merlin asked conversationally.
“Not much actually. I’m sure there will be a bath in order after all this, but Morgana gave me the evening off,” Gwen said contentedly. “What about you?”
Merlin rolled back and forth between his heels and toes.
“Oh, just some gathering for Gaius after I get Prince Smelly-britches into his bath,” Merlin said.
Gwen looked at him and let out a confused laugh.
“Prince Smelly-britches?”
Merlin raised his eyebrows and looked at her, mock-serious.
“I assure you, he has earned that title, Gwen. Seriously, for how often his clothes get washed… hoo,” Merlin said, making Gwen dissolve into half-suppressed giggles.
“Well, would you mind if I shifted and came along?” Gwen asked after she steadied herself. “I’ll carry the baskets and you can vent about… Prince Smelly-britches all you want.”
Her brows dipped even as she sort of smiled at the term, which just made Merlin’s eyes crinkle in amusement.
“You’re welcome to,” Merlin assured. “Though I can’t promise anything good about the state of your ears if you do. Lately, Arthur had been particularly—”
“Merlin!” Arthur’s bark cut in. “Quit gossiping like an old maid and get over here or I’ll have you running my dogs this evening.”
“Delightful,” Merlin said with a sarcastic smile as he turned away towards the prince.
“I just don’t know what I’ve done to deserve the recent resurgence of prattishness!” Merlin complained as he plucked mushrooms from the grass atop a hill outside Camelot.
Merlin placed the mushrooms in the saddlebag that was slung over Gwen’s back. Her shifted form was a forest pony, bay and graceful, and she wore a purple ribbon around neck whenever she was shifted. It wasn’t an uncommon practice for Changelings to don some sort of token. While others of their kind could easily spot the difference between a true animal and a shifted Changeling, Normals had more trouble. And it wouldn’t do for Gwen to be harassed by some villager or guard thinking she was an escaped mare.
“I mean two days ago, he had me muck out the knights’ stables. Not just his stables, the knights’. He sent the stable boys home early,” Merlin said, and though he didn’t say, it had been particularly annoying and hurtful because that same day Merlin had magicked away the bed bugs that had somehow infested Arthur’s chambers; but no thanks were given when he reported their absence, of course not.
Gwen flicked her ears and gave Merlin a pitying glance.
This wasn’t an unusual arrangement for the two of them. Gwen liked to come out beyond the walls to exercise her shift and Merlin liked the company, even if their conversations had to be one sided. Changelings could talk to each other through shift speech, a sort of telepathy that one could master with varying degrees of success, but only in shifted form. So, mostly Merlin just chatted aimlessly and Gwen listened like the saint she was.
“He’s an ass, completely and totally—and I hate him,” Merlin said with a huff, remembering how long it had taken to get the manure out of his clothes.
Gwen nickered though and gave him a look and Merlin sighed heavily, shoulders slumping.
“Alright, I don’t hate him… and I know he’s not an ass all the time—but that’s what makes it so confusing! Half the time it’s like we’re friends, and we are… of course we are. It’s clear that he… cares, but the rest of the time it’s like he’s punishing me for something,” Merlin said, looking out towards the walls of the city. “He thinks I’m an idiot.”
Gwen stamped her foot a little and nuzzled Merlin’s shoulder.
“No, Gwen. He does… it’s okay though.”
And it was. It had to be. He’d taken advantage of that assumption too many times to begrudge it. The foolishness Arthur, his father, everyone, perceived, it was a shield. Who would guess that Arthur’s idiot manservant was a great warlock? Not Uther, that was for certain.
Gwen stepped away, and huffed a little through her nose, too delicate to be called a snort, though it was definitely an equine sound of disapproval. She rolled her eyes and shook her head.
Merlin continued to pick mushrooms.
♛ ♛ ♛
When Arthur’s perfectly good plan to turn an eternal blind eye to his servant’s forbidden habits went completely to hell, it was of course Merlin’s fault.
Arthur was hunting, Merlin in tow—just the two of them. Arthur had been preferring it that way more and more lately, even if Merlin was a bloody awful hunting partner and always managed to find a stick to step on. He told himself it simply added an extra layer of difficulty and kept the hunt interesting.
Out in the woods it was easier to breathe. It felt less like he had boulders on his chest; and the weight on his tongue was lifted, too. He talked, and mostly Merlin just listened, as if he knew Arthur just needed an outlet. Occasionally he did respond, though, thoughtfully, and sometimes passionately—and Arthur almost never called him an idiot when he did. Sometimes in the forest they genuinely laughed together, without the castle walls looming around them and Uther’s heavy presence bearing down upon them.
Sometimes, though he’d be turned into a toad before admitting to it, Arthur even hazarded to ask Merlin’s counsel.
“You watch me train them, Merlin. What are your thoughts on the new knights?” he asked as they picked through a fern grove, Merlin walking behind him with a crossbow.
At this rate they were probably scaring off any game in the extended vicinity but that was never the main reason for these outings anymore, was it?
Merlin carded his fingers through the soft, pale-green fronds that waved around their hips.
“Berwyn is strong but he’s slow. Aled is arrogant. Alwyn and Ivor flinch when anyone comes at them with a sword, and Hefin is dumb as a sack of rocks,” Merlin said, stepping on a particularly loud branch and snapping it in half. “And all of them except Huw are as prattish as one can expect from nobility. You need to get yourself some commoners, sire. You might have better luck.”
“You know my Father would have you hanged if he heard you talk about nobility like that,” Arthur said in spite of the quirking of his lips as he ducked under a young maple tree.
“But then who would bring you breakfast?” Merlin said, unbothered.
The thing was that Arthur didn’t exactly disagree with any of Merlin’s assessments of the new knights—especially not after that horrifying display led by Morgana he’d witnessed the previous week—and sometimes he did think he’d rather have some men who actually wanted to be knights for the sake of the people of the land, instead of ones who were sent to Camelot to try and gain favour for their rich lord fathers.
“Probably someone competent,” Arthur replied, only to hear the huff that always accompanied Merlin’s eye roll and smile.
Arthur jumped when he felt a hand on his back.
“Merlin?” he asked, but when he looked behind him, Merlin’s gaze was roving the forest.
Dappled sunlight filtered through the trees and turned the sea of ferns and saplings into an ocean of rippling spring green.
“Do you see some—”
He did. Arthur knew exactly when Merlin saw the thrown knife, the prince’s gaze as focused as it was on Merlin’s face, where spots of lights danced on his cheekbones and his scanning blue eyes almost looked emerald as they snapped wide and he screamed Arthur’s name. And he moved.
Arthur saw Merlin’s back; there was a wet sort of thump.
“Merlin!”
Merlin’s body toppled into Arthur as the knight instinctually took the crossbow from his hand, lowering Merlin to the ground. He saw the shadow in the woods now, tracking it with his eyes as he loaded the bolt, raised the weapon and fired. He shot and felled the man who had tried to kill him.
The one who had felled Merlin instead.
Arthur turned back to where his manservant lay amongst the ferns, not bothering to check if the assassin was truly dead or not. Merlin’s eyes were open but his face was pale and his chest shuddered up and down as he gasped in what was clearly excruciating pain—probably having something to do with the blade half buried somewhere in his lower ribcage.
Arthur’s knees hit the dirt beside him.
“Merlin! No,” Arthur said in denial as the red flared around the wound like his own cape unfurling.
The knife fell to the dirt as Merlin’s ribs and rapid breathing expelled it, but then the blood only came faster.
Arthur ripped the neckerchief from around Merlin’s throat and pressed it to the wound. Merlin cried out violently, trying to arch away from the agonising pressure.
“No, no, no,” Arthur rambled and blue eyes found blue.
“You have to get me to Gaius,” Merlin said.
Arthur felt warm wetness against his fingers and there was no way that Merlin would make it out of the forest, let alone back to Camelot. Merlin was going to die. That was a fatal wound. The thought was almost hysterical.
He hadn’t realised he’d been shaking his head back and forth.
“Right,” Merlin said breathily, as if he knew what Arthur had been thinking.
He let his eyes close.
“No! You don’t just get to die for me—who said you could die for me?!” Arthur all but shouted at Merlin, lightly smacking his cheek until Merlin’s eyes opened again.
Arthur’s fingers were red and left stains on Merlin’s face and this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Merlin might once have laughed at Arthur’s ridiculous claim of control over life and death, but instead he just coughed up blood.
Once again Merlin had put Arthur’s life ahead of his own, as if Arthur had needed more proof that just because Merlin had magic—magic!
The thought hit him with the force of the entirety of Camelot’s cavalry.
“Use your magic!” Arthur blurted.
Merlin’s eyes snapped open wide.
“What?!” he gasped.
Desperation seized Arthur. Everything was turning red with Merlin’s blood, and his face was twisted in pain.
“You heard me!” Arthur shouted. “Can your magic heal something like this?!”
Panic was in Merlin’s eyes and even immobilised with agony it still seemed like he was trying to move away from Arthur.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I—Gaius—” Merlin stammered, body shaking, from fear or impending death Arthur wasn’t sure.
“You will be long dead before Gaius sets one eye on you unless you use your magic!”
“Arthur, I don’t—”
Merlin’s eyes slipped in and out of focus, and Arthur snapped, something in him splintering like castle doors before a battering ram.
“Merlin, use your blasted magic to save your miserable life!” Arthur barked. “That’s an order!”
Merlin froze for a second, and then he feebly lifted a hand to push Arthur’s out of the way, soaked neckerchief and all. The blood flowed freely and Arthur could hear his own heart pounding in his chest, as if it was the traitor spilling Merlin’s blood into the dirt.
Merlin’s trembling hand hovered above the wound and his scarlet stained lips quivered as if he meant to speak but the words were caught in his throat, or maybe it was just his own lifeblood blocking the way. His eyes were locked on Arthur’s.
“Merlin!” Arthur said urgently and the young man gasped, like breaking from a trance.
His eyes snapped to the wound.
“Ágíeme!” he whispered.
Gold. Merlin’s eyes turned bright gold. Not the strange gilded shadow Arthur had thought he’d caught in the reflections of Merlin’s eyes before. No, Merlin’s irises flared like the sun into a gold brighter than all the coins in Camelot’s coffers. Arthur’s breath caught in his throat.
The bleeding stopped; the Helios-rings in Merlin’s eyes faded, but neither of them moved for innumerable seconds. The harshness of their hoarse breathing was the only sound. Even the birds seemed to have gone quiet. The colour started to return to Merlin’s cheeks.
Arthur collapsed back into a nearby log, throwing an arm over his eyes, feeling Merlin’s blood drying on his hands.
Swearing he could hear the beating of a sorcerer’s heart.