Chapter Text
Arthur was unbelievably cold.
They were well underground by now, deep in a system of caves near Camelot's western border. The warm, earthy smell in the upper caves had given way to a sharp mineral tang and then to the present icy nothingness. A damp chill worked its fingers through stitching and seams, clung to Arthur's limbs and clawed at his lungs.
If there were a giant feathered serpent guarding the Marchlyn Hoard (Uther had proclaimed the idea so much peasant superstition, meant to keep children away from the caves), then Arthur could understand why it hissed steam and spat hot coals. It would have to, just to keep from bloody well freezing. At least Arthur had a bit of bulk to protect him; he could only imagine how cold Merlin must be. Or rather, he could have imagined, but hadn't the need, given how loudly Merlin's teeth were chattering.
"Remind me again what you're doing here, Merlin? You were given leave to go home to Ealdor for the harvest festival. Morgana insisted. She put in a good fortnight's nagging on your behalf, you ungrateful wretch."
The chattering stopped, and Arthur heard a loud huff just over his right shoulder.
"I'm making sure you don’t blunder into a rock formation, knock yourself out and die of exposure before we find this treasure the king is so keen on having, sire."
Morgana really had been pestering Arthur for the past two weeks. It wasn't that Arthur needed convincing that Merlin deserved some time off, but rather that he had been reluctant to broach the topic with Merlin, afraid to see the eagerness on his face at a chance to get away from Arthur and Camelot. He had been thrilled when Merlin had quietly declined in favor of accompanying Arthur on this quest, but he hadn’t breathed easy until Merlin's meager belongings were piled beside his and they were poring over the map of the caverns.
Arthur grinned. Quests were so much more fun with Merlin along, and the best ones were when it was just the two of them, like this. Arthur was beginning to suspect that Merlin felt the same, given the elaborate reasoning he often employed to ensure that they traveled alone. This time it was some arse-backwards logic about how the knights would actually attract bandits, rather than dissuade them.
"Good of you to worry, Merlin, but hardly necessary. You heard Geoffrey. The legends say the treasure is destined to come into Pendragon hands."
"Yes, but not until – "
"Destined, Merlin. You can’t go messing about with destiny, can you? Besides, if there is any blundering to be done, I'd wager my best horse that it will be done by you. I’ve stopped counting how many times you've trod on my heels. And is it even possible to die of exposure underground?"
"Fine. You'll freeze to death then. Or get parboiled by the Marchlyn Wyrm."
"We've been over this, Merlin. There is no wyrm. Though I'm starting to wish there were; I think we could both do with some hot coals right about now."
Arthur heard Merlin suck in a sharp breath. Honestly, he was so easy to frighten. No doubt Merlin's forehead was wrinkled with anxiety, his lips gathered in an unhappy pout. All at the mere mention of a mythical beast.
"Careful what you wish for, sire," Merlin said softly. "And I may be a bit clumsy, but you're the one who is always winding up unconscious."
Arthur stopped and looked back over his shoulder. The torchlight gave Merlin's face an ethereal quality, and Arthur's next words came out much less fiercely than intended. He'd been having that trouble a lot lately.
"Only when you go assaulting my royal person with lumps of wood."
"What? Oh, but that was… that was to preserve the sanctity of your bachelorhood. And that was only the one time. All the other times you – "
"All the other times? All what other times, Merlin?" And then Arthur was sorry he'd asked, really sorry, because Merlin raised the hand not holding the torch and took a deep breath, and Arthur just knew Merlin hadn’t sussed that that had been a purely rhetorical, you'd-best-keep-your-gob-shut-if-you-know-what's good-for-you sort of question and was preparing to count off Arthur's embarrassments on his fingers.
"One: Stalking the griffin. I… er… Lancelot told me he found you out cold with a rock for a pillow. And let's not forget that day you were supposed to fight the Black Knight. That's two."
"What? You can’t count that. Gaius drugged me."
"Yes, well, if you had listened to reason he wouldn’t have had to. Three: The Labyrinth of Gedref."
"Drugged again! And to spare your life, I might add. Merlin, you can't – "
"Four: In the Questing Beast's cave, though technically that should be four and five, as first you were knocked out from the impact, and later succumbed to its poison."
"Poison, exactly!" Arthur said. "It's hardly my fault that I was poisoned."
"No one said it was your fault," Merlin said, tilting his head to one side, "but it still counts. Now, where was I? I've run out of fingers. Oh, I know – six: Riding into that tree branch. Seven: The night you thought it would be a good idea to drop in on the tavern in disguise to find out, and I quote, 'how my people amuse themselves, of a feast day,' and wound up losing a battle of wills with a small cask of Bogrim's Winter Ale, all for the sake of your pride."
Arthur felt his cheeks go hot at this, largely because that one had been his fault – allowing himself to be goaded into a drinking contest with that bear of a woodcutter had not been not one of his finer moments – but also because, the morning after, he'd been plagued by the feeling that he'd been loose with his tongue as well as his hands as Merlin had bundled him back to the safety of the castle. Not that Merlin had ever mentioned the incident until now.
"Merlin, about that night – "
"And, for the grand total of eight," Merlin continued hurriedly, "last month when you swooned away in your saddle after showing off for that kelpie because you were under the mistaken impression that crown princes thrive solely on honor and glory and not ordinary things like water. I'd say that is rather a lot of unconsciousness, even for a 'royal person' such as yourself."
"For the last time, Merlin," Arthur said, "I did not swoon, and if I ever hear that you've even hinted as much to anyone at court I will have my next pair of boots made from your sorry hide. Furthermore – "
But Arthur never got to finish that sentence, because his ears were suddenly filled with a rumbling, roaring sound. He saw Merlin's eyes go wide and panicked in the torchlight before a gust of air blew the torches out. He felt the sting of sharp rock raining down like hail. Merlin cried out – something nonsensical, as usual – there was a brief glow in the dark, a strange pressure on his chest and then… nothing.
Arthur awoke to the inexplicable view of an arched ceiling of grey rubble just a few feet above his head. His back ached and his head felt tender, but he wasn't bleeding as far as he could ascertain. He rolled over, pushed himself onto his knees, and looked around.
The first thing he noticed was that he was trapped in a circular chamber of rubble, four or five feet high and thrice that across, almost eerie in its perfect symmetry and complete lack of mortar. The second thing he noticed was the surprising fact that he could see anything at all, given that the torches were nowhere in sight. Then, finally, Arthur looked behind him and noticed Merlin, propped up against the far side of the chamber. His face was streaked with dust and tears. His legs were drawn into his chest, one hand clenched white-knuckled around his ankle. And the other hand – the other…
Arthur swallowed. Merlin's other hand rested on the floor of the chamber, palm up, fingers splayed, and above it hovered a sphere made entirely of light – a bright, blue-white, familiar light.
In that instant, everything fell into place. And far from feeling angry or frightened or horribly betrayed, Arthur suddenly felt all his life's burdens lift. For Arthur had been right. He did have someone looking out for him, only it wasn't a guardian angel, as his father had suggested, but Merlin. The often awkward, occasionally wise, frequently rude, ever loyal, and now undeniably magical, Merlin.
"Merlin," Arthur said, gazing at the ball of light in wonder. "Merlin. You." Not knowing what else to say – how to even begin expressing what he was feeling – he tore his gaze from the sphere of light to look at his face.
Then he saw the terror in Merlin's eyes, the tension in his limbs, and Arthur's burdens came crashing back down. His guardian angel was a sorcerer. His father killed sorcerers. The fact that this particular sorcerer was also Arthur's personal servant, about whom he fantasized almost nightly, did nothing for his case. His father already thought them over-familiar; he would only see bewitchment. Arthur looked away. He felt as if he'd taken a sudden blow to his gut.
"Arthur," Merlin said, his voice raw, as if he'd been screaming. Or crying. "Don't… just, don't say anything yet. We need to get out of here. I couldn't do it by myself, not while you were – "
"Unconscious," Arthur said, daring to look at Merlin again. He tried a smile, but obviously mangled it, as Merlin only looked more stricken.
"Yes. Once we're back on the surface, I can explain, or – or I won't say anything, if you like. Just please, please just let's get out of here. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this thing stable."
Arthur had been trained to keep calm in a crisis, to tamp down his emotions and assess the situation with a practical eye, so he sucked in his gut (hoping that would put paid to the discomfort there) and looked directly into Merlin's eyes.
"What do you need me to do?" he said. He counted the look of relief on Merlin's face as a triumph.
Arthur welcomed the ache in his shoulders, the strain in his back, the scraped hands and bruised knees he acquired as they tunneled their way out of the chamber. As his entire worldview had just been sent arse over kettle, it was good to know that rock was still rock, even when it was magically supported and illuminated.
At first, Arthur wondered if Merlin was holding back, afraid to reveal the extent of his powers, but it soon became clear that Merlin was exhausted. He helped only when the boulders were too massive for Arthur to shift, asking Arthur to look away (and though Arthur was burning with curiosity, refusal would have felt like a terrible violation of Merlin's privacy) as he reduced them to a cascade of pebbles with a command that sounded like a parched man trying to swallow dry bread.
It occurred to Arthur that Merlin's magic might be of a finite quantity in his body, like blood, and that the effort of sustaining the light and keeping the rock from collapsing on their heads could be draining him dry. Arthur redoubled his efforts. If Merlin – clearly afraid for Arthur's life, but with no thought of his own preservation – could give his all, then Arthur would as well.
Once they were clear of the cave-in, Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. He soon realized, however, that he was a fool to think everything would be easier just because they could walk unimpeded.
The glowing sphere sailed gamely on, lighting their way back to the surface, but Merlin flagged, stumbling over the uneven ground. He was favoring his left ankle. Arthur offered his arm, but Merlin flinched away, supporting himself on the cavern walls instead. He remained silent as well, apart from the occasional whispered command to the sphere when they came to a juncture. Arthur had about a hundred questions that he longed to ask, but he sensed that Merlin would neither hear nor answer him at the moment and thus kept his own, increasingly anxious, counsel.
At last the chill receded, and Arthur could smell the organic scent of growth and decay once more. They were nearing the mouth of the caves. Arthur looked at Merlin to see if he had noticed, but he trudged along like a spent horse, head down, feet dragging. Arthur sidled close and, when he could see the warm shimmer of daylight up ahead, placed a hand on Merlin's shoulder.
"We're here, Merlin. You can… you can stop now. Or let it go. The light."
Merlin looked up then, and he seemed so lost, so foreign that Arthur almost let him pull away (as he was obviously trying to do, albeit feebly). But his stubbornness was familiar enough, as was the smell of his sweat and the dark swirl of hair at the nape of his neck, so instead Arthur grasped him by both shoulders and pulled him close, back to chest. He felt the faint vibration of Merlin’s body when the ball of light returned to Merlin’s outstretched hand and unraveled there in a swirl of blue and white sparks.
When Merlin subsequently collapsed, Arthur was there to catch him.
Just inside the cave entrance, there was a thin layer of soil and decaying leaves, allowing moss to flourish on the stone. Arthur lay Merlin down on the ground and pressed an ear to his chest. His heartbeat was regular, if faint. He seemed paler than usual, but he was still breathing. If Arthur had to guess, he would say that Merlin was in a deep sleep. Every so often his eyes would move rapidly beneath his eyelids, or his fingers would twitch.
Arthur removed his own jacket and folded it into a pillow for Merlin's head. He looked down at him for several long moments. Then he turned and walked out of the cave.
The cave mouth gave onto a rocky terrace that sat a few feet above the surrounding forest floor. Arthur chose a smooth spot warmed by the dappled afternoon sunshine and sat down, dangling his legs over the edge of the terrace. He needed to think.
In a rush of insight Arthur saw that, if actions truly spoke louder than words (as Father and Morgana were always telling him), then the question of what to do about Merlin had already been asked and answered many times over. He'd already chosen Merlin, long ago, when he'd seen Merlin coming towards him across the crowded marketplace and given in to the overwhelming urge to call out to him, to make him turn around – to make him mock, smile, beg, fight – to do anything other than walk away.
And he'd kept on choosing Merlin nearly every day since then.
He had trusted Merlin. He had even (grudgingly) taken his counsel. He had defended him, lied for him, and fought alongside him. He had disobeyed direct orders from his father, proving himself willing on more than one occasion to risk his life and honor for Merlin.
And, on one memorable afternoon by the sea, he had downed a goblet of what he'd thought was poison; what was more, he'd done it gladly, knowing that his people would be saved and that Merlin would be there among them, safe as well, holding back neither his opinions nor his smiles, irritating and endearing himself in equal measure to all who spent time in his company.
Clearly, going by his own actions, Arthur wanted Merlin alive and in his life. The thought of sending him away was as unbearable as exposing him as a sorcerer. The only option, then, was to convince Merlin to remain by his side, and to do that Arthur got the feeling that he'd need to spill some secrets of his own.
After admitting that, the rest was comparatively easy, as it was only a matter of thinking through the details and the strategy – the what-ifs, the to-what-extents and the hows.
Arthur heard Merlin wake, gasping and flopping about like a landed fish, but remained where he was. He wanted to give Merlin time to compose himself and to see what he would do. It wasn't like he had a lot of options, unless he was prepared to die a cave hermit or could turn himself into a bird and fly away, but Arthur still wanted to allow him the choice, to know that he came to Arthur of his own free will.
Wait, Merlin couldn’t turn himself into a bird, could he? Fly away without a word? Because that would be completely unfair. Arthur was frantically scanning the sky when he heard tentative footfalls. Relieved, he looked over his shoulder.
"Come sit," he said.
Merlin came and sat, lowering himself gingerly and copying Arthur by dangling his legs over the edge of the terrace. He placed Arthur's jacket between them. Arthur looked at it and frowned. He picked it up, shook it out and shrugged his way back into it. Then he scooted over so his thigh was flush with Merlin's. He heard Merlin draw a sharp breath, and he turned his head to look at him.
"How are you feeling?"
And that was clearly not what Merlin had been expecting, as he shot Arthur a suspicious look.
"Um, okay." Then, as Arthur continued to study him, he added, "Ankle's sore and I'm a bit tired, but okay."
"Well, good. Because I wouldn’t want you to do yourself a permanent injury trying to surpass my record."
"Your… record?"
"For most times unconscious. In fact, I’d much prefer it if you withdrew from the competition altogether. After all, you've only got two times to my nine now. I think we can agree that that is pathetic and you've no hope at all of catching me up without bribing my knights to let you take their place in the lists. And that, oh faithful servant mine," Arthur slung an arm around Merlin's shoulders and leaned in close, "will never happen. Am I right?"
Merlin looked downright confused, but he let out a shaky laugh. "No. I mean, yes, right. But – "
"Not to mention," Arthur went on, his lips mere inches from Merlin's ear, "that it seems the contents of your head are rather more special than previously imagined, so I'd appreciate you taking good care of the vessel."
"Arthur, what – ?" Merlin pulled out of Arthur's grasp and turned his body to face him. His eyes were open wide, his lashes wet, his cheeks flushed pink beneath the grime and tearstains. "What are you saying, exactly?"
Arthur couldn't help himself. He reached out and touched his thumb to Merlin's forehead, just between his eyebrows.
"You are a sorcerer?"
"Yes." Merlin seemed to want to say more, but he held his tongue, held his breath and waited.
Arthur slid his thumb down the bridge of Merlin's nose and across one cheek, smudging the dirt there and pressing lightly at the prominent bone before settling his hand at the side of Merlin's neck. Merlin blinked, and Arthur felt his pulse race. He waited for Merlin to flinch or pull away, but it didn't happen. If anything, Merlin sort of leaned into his hand, as he often did when Arthur touched him, and Arthur realized that this was not the ordinary submission of a servant or sparring partner, and never had been. Which meant that Arthur had been a blind fool twice over.
"There is so much more I want to ask," Arthur said, "and believe me, we will be having words about everything that has happened since you pitched up in Camelot. But I only have one question, for now." Arthur shifted himself so that he could place his other hand on Merlin's neck as well, thumbs resting in the hollows just behind his ears, fingers splayed along the expanse of pale skin. "Are you my sorcerer?"
Arthur may have missed Merlin's, "Yes," amidst the rush of released breath, but his, "Of course, Arthur," was unmistakable, as was his, "Always."
Then there was the slight mix-up when Merlin went to kiss Arthur's ring just as Arthur was angling for Merlin's lips, but they sorted it out with a minimum of insults, and Arthur was finally able to make it quite plain that what he wanted from Merlin was not mere fealty but something far greater. He wanted Merlin’s trust and his affection, freely given. He wanted all the stupid made-up words, all the smiles, all the botched hunting trips and ridiculous adventures. He wanted never to be lied to again and never to be feared. And last, but certainly not least, he wanted to fall asleep stroking his skin, not his stale neckerchief.
He must have mumbled something to that effect just before they broke apart, as Merlin began to laugh, quietly at first, but soon building to something that bordered on hysterical.
"What?" Arthur said, stung. "What's so funny?"
"You," Merlin gasped out between laughs. "Me." He waved his hands between them. "Clothing."
Arthur looked at Merlin, then down at himself, and, granted they were both filthy and flushed and covered in scrapes, but he didn’t see anything that warranted such hilarity.
"What?" he repeated crossly, grabbing Merlin's hand.
When Merlin finally calmed down, he rubbed Arthur's fingers almost shyly and said, "Did you never wonder what became of your shirt that night we went to the tavern? The old brown one, that you used to like so much?"
"I assumed I'd sicked up on it. That you had burnt it or something as you hadn't been able to stomach washing it. Why?"
Merlin smiled. "You stripped it off and flung it at my head just before you passed out. And as you'd been so… well, friendly all evening and it smelt so strongly of you – not to mention that nice smoked boar we'd had for supper – I just took it. And, er, kept it. For sniffing like, when I felt lonely."
"Merlin! That's… I don't know what that is, but it isn't normal."
"Says the man who keeps a moldy old manservant's neckerchief under his pillow. And likes to stroke it." Merlin waggled his eyebrows.
Arthur opened his mouth to tell Merlin to shut up, but then he remembered that he now had another way to achieve the same effect. He grasped Merlin by the front of his shirt and hauled him in for another kiss.
"Moldy old sorcerer's neckerchief," Arthur whispered as he pulled away.
"I may be a bit ripe," Merlin said, sniffing at himself, "but I'm not moldy. And I'm younger than you."
Arthur laughed. "But you are, in fact, a sorcerer."
"Oh, Arthur," Merlin said softly. He pressed his forehead to Arthur's. "The way you said it – the way you say it – I never dreamt…"
"Merlin, if you're trying to give me the power to read your thoughts, it isn’t working. You're going to have to finish one of those sentences."
Merlin huffed out a laugh. He pulled back and wrapped his arms around himself, looking out into the forest. "All this time, all the different ways I imagined telling you, or you finding out, all the different ways I imagined your reaction, I never dreamt you'd say it like that."
"Eh, still not following. You never dreamt I'd say what like what?"
"Sorcerer," Merlin said, turning back to face Arthur. He had tears in his eyes. "You say it like it's something," he fluttered his hands about, searching for the right word.
Arthur had several in mind, but he kept silent, wanting to hear what Merlin would say.
"Well, you don't say it like your father does, at any rate. He spits the word out like it's filthier than offal, lower than the heels of his boots."
Tears were running openly down Merlin's cheeks. Arthur captured Merlin's hands and pulled him in close, stroking the back of his neck. "Never," he said. "I never would. Understand that I love him, Merlin, as my father and my king, and that I must strive to be worthy of him. But I don't strive to be him. I want to be – I will be – my own man."
Merlin said something with great feeling then, but it was muffled against Arthur's shoulder and Arthur couldn’t make it out. Given that most of the things Merlin said with great feeling were highly uncomplimentary, Arthur blissfully settled for ignorance.
They remained like that for a time, in an awkward half-embrace from the waist up, then broke apart as if by mutual consent, both of them surreptitiously wiping their eyes.
"Speaking of the king," Merlin said, "what are we going to do now?"
"Ride," Arthur said, glancing at the sky, then at Merlin. "I want to make it back to Camelot by nightfall." Now that Arthur had tasted what might be possible between them, he didn't want to waste any more time.
"What about the Marchlyn Hoard?"
"What about it? We haven’t got it, have we, so no sense hanging about."
Merlin began to play with the hem of his shirt, worrying it between his thumbs and forefingers. "You know," he said, "there may be another way into the caves, from the lake on the other side of the ridge. That should bring us in beyond the cave-in. We could always camp here tonight and ride there in the morning."
"Bugger the hoard," Arthur said fiercely, pushing himself off the edge of the terrace. Spending another night camping under the stars with Merlin was tempting, but it would only be a delaying tactic. Arthur wanted to start out with Merlin as he meant to carry on, and that meant carving out a space for this – whatever it was – within the walls of Camelot itself. He turned round and faced Merlin.
"We'll tell my father it wasn't where the maps indicated it would be, and that the cave-in happened on our way out."
Merlin sighed. "Well, thank goodness for that. I think I've had enough of caves to last me a lifetime. Plus Gaius and I are fairly certain…" Merlin flashed Arthur a guilty look.
Arthur raised an enquiring eyebrow. "Yes?"
"We suspect that the hoard is cursed. To prevent anyone but a legitimate seeker from finding it."
"According to Geoffrey, I am a legitimate seeker," Arthur said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Any male of the Pendragon line – why are you rolling your eyes, Merlin? You saw the words for yourself, there on the parchment."
"Don't suppose you noticed the borders then?"
"Borders? Of course I noticed the borders. We're well within – "
"Not Camelot's border's, Arthur, the borders of the map. All those symbols written round its edges."
"The chicken-scratch? I thought it was one of those fiddly things scholars do when they have too much time and ink."
"It was a prophecy," Merlin said, a smile playing round the corners of his lips. "Written in runes. False seekers will not return from the caves, at least not sane or whole, and even a legitimate seeker won't find the treasure before the appointed time. According to the Great…er, well, according to Gaius' calculations, now is not the appointed time. You can't claim the hoard until you're king."
Arthur sighed. "And neither of you thought to mention this to my father?"
"Would he have listened if we had?"
Arthur shrugged and Merlin made a disgusted noise.
"Arthur, you saw the way his eyes lit up when he saw the map. He'd just been handed the key to something he'd previously thought was only a myth; Geoffrey said he'd been seeking such proof since his boyhood!"
"But still, Gaius should have said something."
"Gaius did urge caution, but what else could he do? Can you imagine what would have happened if he'd told your father that, based on my reading of the secret magical language on the map, this quest was likely doomed to failure?" Merlin made a head-chopping-off gesture, then pantomimed doing something very disgusting to the decapitated head.
Arthur sighed again. "All right, I see your point – no, really, Merlin, I do, and you can stop that now."
"Well then."
"Well then, indeed." Arthur ran his hands through his hair. He paced a bit in front of Merlin, then hoisted himself up on the little ledge again at Merlin's side, drumming his heels against the rock.
"So," he said, turning his head to look at Merlin, "you would give up a full belly and the sight of your esteemed mother to accompany me on a quest you knew to be pointless?"
"Pointless and dangerous."
"Aha! So that's why you insisted on coming. Assumed I'd need magical rescuing? Mistake me for a distressed damsel? I am lovely, I know." Arthur nudged Merlin in the ribs with an elbow.
"Um."
"And, no doubt, why you didn't want the guard tagging along. Fewer knights to knock out, eh? Fewer wildly improbable stories about falling tree branches or invisible bandits?"
"Something like that."
Arthur studied Merlin's face closely. "There's still something you're not telling me."
Merlin blinked slowly, then looked directly into Arthur's eyes. "Would you believe me if I started prophesying things about our grand destiny? We'll be legend, you know. As long as we stay together. And you always listen to my advice."
Arthur shook his head, laughing. "Fate's not that cruel. Try again."
Merlin looked down at his hands. When at last he spoke the teasing note had gone from his voice. He sounded tired.
"I'd rather be with you, Arthur. I'd rather be with you than anywhere else. Even if you don't need saving from cave-ins and curses and magical creatures."
Arthur stopped drumming his heels against the rock. "Even if you could be home in Ealdor, stuffing yourself round a bonfire, without fear of being executed?"
"Especially then." Merlin smiled ruefully. "I'd only think of the last time we were there. About you. And Will."
Arthur looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I am sorry about what happened, Merlin. But Will died saving my life, and I’ll always honor him for that."
It hurt Arthur to speak of such things, but if Merlin could stand it, then so bloody well could he. And then he thought of something. The odds of having his life saved on separate occasions by two different insolent, yet brave, young men of Ealdor within a year had to be slim, but what were the odds that they both had magic? He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Oh God, but Will wasn't… that was you." Arthur glanced at Merlin.
Merlin blinked, nodded, and looked at Arthur as if he were especially dim. "Well, yes."
And Arthur had stood there while Will's body burned and lectured Merlin on being friends with sorcerers. He really was an insensitive prat, wasn't he? He'd have to start making it up to Merlin. Preferably tonight.
No one would think twice about Arthur ordering a hot bath and heaps of food upon returning from a quest; nor would they question his insistence that Merlin stay up half the night in attendance. And door bolts – as everyone in the castle except Merlin knew very well – were there for a reason.
"Merlin, I'm – "
"But Will's only part of it," Merlin broke in. "Ealdor is no longer home, not really. Camelot is home now. You… you're…" Merlin scrubbed at his face with his shirtsleeves and looked away.
Arthur allowed himself a small, private smile before leaning in and giving Merlin a solid, manly shoulder nudge. He pushed himself off the ledge and started towards the tree where they'd tied their horses. "Come on, you. Shift your lazy magical arse. It's a long ride home and I fancy shooting something tasty on the way."