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"Give yourselves up," Arthur says, mouth set with grim-lined determination.
He is breathing heavily, the air is too cold. The druid girl, Kara, as Arthur remembers, is hiding behind the tree trunk, only her eyes visible off the top, wide and desperate as she looks at Mordred. Arthur doesn't want to think about Mordred anymore, another one to lie, Pendragon, he thinks, only vaguely angry—soon you will be all alone.
He senses Merlin coming and standing behind him, and something in him settles, his head feels a little lighter.
"Let her go," Mordred says, finally. His voice threatens to tremble, but it is strong enough for this plea, this last time. "Let us go. We will leave Camelot and never return. You have my word. Please."
Arthur can only offer silence, stoicism.
Mordred looks away, to the Knights.
"Gwaine?" he asks, voice strained. "Leon?"
Arthur feels sick. Despite the cold, his palm is clammy—he is making the right decision, this girl is dangerous, she committed treason, she killed innocent men, she follows Morgana—
I have spent my life on the run because of my beliefs and seen those I have loved, killed.
"Merlin?" Mordred tries, eyes shining, and Arthur hears Merlin's barely suppressed wince. It's enough to make him look at him, and again, again, again. Think back to when Merlin had asked, I fear you're wrong, Arthur.
From the corner of his eye, Arthur sees Merlin shake his head, a tiny, regretful motion. Like Merlin's approval would make any difference anyway. But Mordred's breath hitches, before he seems to gather himself again—
You're breaking his heart. You'll lose his trust. Think again.
Percival, creeping behind Mordred, is almost in swinging distance. Arthur locks eyes with him once, looks back to the girl.
What of the bond between the knights?
Percival steps to Mordred, and the boy is doing something, too, staring down and back up, with an odd sort of intent—
What of the bond between the knights?
You'll lose his trust.
"Percival, stop!" Arthur yells, and the man does, immediately, hand half-raised. Mordred spins around and stumbles back a step, eyes huge and confused. He looks back at Arthur.
"Arthur..." Merlin murmurs, but this is Arthur's cowardice and Arthur's problem and Arthur's consequences to face.
"Go," Arthur says, raising his voice, "Go, Mordred."
"S-sire?" Mordred stares, bewildered, as Kara grasps his wrist with one pale hand. "I— "
"If I ever see you in Camelot again," Arthur says, forcing his voice to remain calm, firm, "I will not hesitate to kill you. Now, go."
Mordred seems to be frozen in spot, and Leon and Percival shoot Arthur incredulous looks.
"Mordred," Kara whispers, standing up and that snaps Mordred into action. She looks at Arthur warily, as if she can't quite believe it, as if she thinks it's a trap. "Come."
Mordred swallows, and nods tightly, eyes still on Arthur.
"I will not forget your mercy, my Lord," Mordred vows, his tone fierce yet so very contrite, and then he turns around and walks, hand interlinked with Kara's.
Nobody stops them.
Arthur watches until they've disappeared into the trees, and then, grits his teeth and turns back. He doesn't know what to say, how to explain, a king must not rule with his heart, and he's let someone who murdered his men go, blatantly against his own laws, his own principles—
He feels a pat on his shoulder, and blinks to see Gwaine, a strange expression on his face—something that on anyone else, Arthur would call respect. But Gwaine doesn't do that.
Arthur looks at him and waits, for a question he cannot answer, a discussion he doesn't want.
"You're a good man," Gwaine says instead, quietly, and pats him again, before joining Leon in the front. Arthur doesn't quite understand, his own thoughts are in too much of a whirl, but he thinks: maybe none of these men would betray him. Not again, not one of them.
Merlin stays by Arthur like always, silent.
(x)
"We did not find them," Leon announces at large, when they reach back. His eyes give away nothing. "Sir Kay? Sir Cador?"
"No, Sire," Kay and the other knights with him shake their heads. "No sign of them in the east. Nor the west."
"My Lord, if I may," Cador says, slowly. "They may have used sorcery to escape. The—the druid girl, she certainly practiced it."
The fire crackles in the abrupt silence.
"Perhaps," Arthur allows, when he can unstick his tongue long enough to speak. "But I'm afraid we don't have the men nor the time to spare for this. Morgana is a bigger threat, and we are at war. We cannot afford to prolong the search."
He glances at Leon then, once, and wonders when they all became better at lying than speaking the truth.
"I suggest you all retire for the night," he says, and makes his way to his chambers, Merlin at his heels.
(x)
Merlin does everything more gently that night—undresses him slowly, holds his armour more carefully, takes his boots off himself—as if Arthur is going to break any moment.
It makes Arthur want to break something.
"You did the right thing, Sire," Merlin says, because he can't simply let things go, he never understands when to shut up.
"I did the cowardly thing," Arthur snaps, and then it all comes out in a flood, because Arthur is apparently just as idiotic as Merlin, "I was weak, and foolish—and I— "
Merlin watches him, eyes free of judgement.
Arthur thinks about that more than he should—Guinevere's eyes would have held pity he couldn't tolerate—but Merlin's are simply clear.
"My father was wrong about a lot of things," he says, willing his voice to not rise with the overwhelming panic he feels sometimes, "but he wasn't about this. I trust the wrong people because I am weak, and I make the same mistakes again and again. And even after it all, I couldn't do it—couldn't—"
Lift my sword. Couldn't kill him.
"You have a good heart, Arthur," Merlin says, softly. "Don't blame yourself for that. You saved two lives today, and that doesn't make you weak. It just makes you who you are."
Arthur glances at him.
"A great king," Merlin says, and smiles, oddly muted, atleast for him. "And a better man."
In some ways, it's alarming how much calmer the words make him feel. Trusting too much, again. It's just Merlin, he thinks, then. Merlin isn't someone to be wary of, will never be.
Arthur's glad.
His father would think him pitiful, to be grateful for a servant by his side. But he is, more than he'll ever admit to himself, and much more than he would ever admit aloud.
After Guinevere's return and Agravaine's betrayal, they had found a bracelet in the dungeons, and Gaius had said, so very simply: I fear Guinevere was enchanted, my Lord. This bears all the marks of a love spell.
It was simple, and yet it wasn't.
Because Arthur would have taken her back, gladly—she did not betray him, and that was enough for him—but she had refused.
"I can't forgive myself, Arthur," she had said, achingly apologetic, "I can't. And I know— " she'd looked at the bracelet, "I know now what Morgana did but I—I can't help but feel that it wasn't only because of her enchantment."
She had refused to give only a part of her heart and not the whole, and Arthur hadn't wanted any more explanations—and then it had only been Merlin.
Merlin, always there with a grin and an insolent greeting, with his juggling and bizarre luck with the dice, with all his jokes and his odd quirks and moods, behind Arthur and beside him.
Merlin who is—always there.
"Good night, Sire," he says, now, and Arthur gives him a slight nod.
(x)
"To reach Camelot, Morgana will have no choice but to cross the White Mountains," Arthur sets down the smaller map and unrolls it. "Now, the only pass that gives passage to an army that size, is here."
"I know it well," Percival says, after a moment of hesitation. "The path leads to a valley by cliffs on the other side."
"Then that’s where we meet them. Now we may be outnumbered, but if don't let them outflank us, then we can hold the pass."
"For how long?" Leon shakes his head, "Morgana has no care for the likes of men."
"But she still can't supply for an army that size indefinitely," Arthur says, "Not isolated by the mountains. If we can hold out long enough, she'll be forced to retreat. Percival, at what point is the pass at its narrowest?"
"Here," the man points at the map with a finger.
"And what do they call this place?"
"Camlann, sir," Percival answers. Merlin goes still next to him, and Arthur glances at him quizzically, before looking back.
At his men, at his family.
He is condemning them to war and this he knows, even as he knows that they have love that is worth fighting for.
Morgana had attacked the garrison at Stowell earlier, and maybe that was her first mistake. The Saxons had marched under Morgana's command, an army of thousands, fuelled with magic that they can't hope to challenge. But she doesn't have the men he does, those who fight with honor or loyalty—and Arthur thinks, even if you win, sister, who will you celebrate with?
He glances at Merlin again, who looks calm, blank once again. If we win, Arthur thinks, grasping at the thought, if we win, then—
"Then it is at Camlann," he says, aloud, looking away from Merlin, "that we make our stand."
(x)
"Arthur, what's going on— " Merlin trips out of Gaius's chambers and joins him on his way to the court, as is his wont. Impudence seems to be almost stitched into Merlin's skin. "The warning bells— "
"Sorcerer," Arthur informs him briskly, and Merlin only hastens his pace, the brave idiot that he is. "The guards tell me that he says he only wants to talk, says he has information that can help us."
"And so they let him in?" Merlin sounds incredulous.
Arthur adjusts his vambrace, walking faster.
"No, I did," he says, finally. Merlin gapes. "We've met him before."
"Oh, that's completely alright then," Merlin mutters, a tad too sarcastically. "It's not like any of them have tried to kill you or anything, of course not."
Arthur sighs.
"I've already made the mistake of not listening to this sorcerer once before, Merlin. I'd rather not repeat it. His name," Arthur tells him, "it's Anhora."
(x)
"Well," Arthur says, because the face of the man, cloaked and old, only brings back memories that he would rather not remember. Leon and Gwaine flank him on both sides, and Percival and Elyan stand behind him. Arthur knows it's pointless, though, because the man can vanish into thin air. "Anhora. I'm here. You may speak your part."
"I have come to deliver a message," Anhora says, voice ringing into the hall.
"Like you did, all those years back," Arthur nods, grimly. If he brings news of another curse on Camelot, Arthur knows he wouldn't be able to bear it. "Let's hear it, then."
"You cannot win against Morgana without sorcery," the man says, without preamble, and oh yes, Arthur does want to run him through where he stands. The door behind them opens a creak, and Gwen slips inside, stands next to Elyan. "You may think your army will stand, but I know it will not, not without magic on your side."
"It doesn't matter, old man," Gwaine snarls, one hand white on his sword hilt. "We stand together and we fight together and we do it for Camelot and our honor. If we have to die for it, then so be it."
Arthur's mouth quirks, and he thinks maybe it is pride. His men don't look devastated, nor worried about the outcome or Anhora's prediction.
They look angry.
"Then you will die, and soon," Anhora tells him, just as peacefully as one would if they were talking about the weather. "Mortal blades are no match for Morgana's powers."
Arthur exhales and doesn't speak. They don't have any choice in the matter, no alternative.
"And there is only one who is," Anhora continues, a smile touching his face.
"One?" Arthur sits up, wary.
"Only one sorcerer who is more powerful than Morgana," Anhora explains, his gaze cutting through the hall. He has everyone's full attention, for they have all seen Morgana's powers and for somebody to have more than that, it is worrying. "The most powerful, you could say, the greatest sorcerer to ever walk this earth."
"I see," Arthur says, voice carefully controlled. He can sense Merlin from the corner of his eye, pale and tense. His boot makes a clickclickclick noise against the floor. "And you think that without him, we will lose Camelot."
"I know so, King Arthur," Anhora replies, and he is still looking amused.
"And what makes you think that any sorcerer like that would ever help Camelot?" Arthur shakes his head, grits his teeth.
"For he already has," the man replies, simply, like this isn't a shocking revelation for Arthur. "And because he will continue to do so. But this message is for you, young King. You must allow magic by your side. It is the only way."
There's a short silence, filled only by Merlin constantly tapping his foot on the cold stone.
"This sorcerer," Arthur settles on, finally, because he will do anything for Camelot and ultimately, there isn't any choice here either. They need all the help they can possibly get. "What is his name?"
"He goes by many," Anhora says. Merlin's tapping goes from anxious to absurd, and Arthur resists the urge to snap at him. The man really has no sense at all. "But we call him Emrys."
"Emrys," Arthur repeats to himself, "meaning... immortal. And Merlin, will you stop that infernal tapping—!"
Merlin blinks and presses his foot down, cheeks coloring red.
"Indeed," Anhora replies, with a maddeningly knowing smile. "Immortal. Emrys isn't an ordinary sorcerer. He is a warlock, a son of the earth, the sea, the sky, born of fire. Magic is the very fabric of this world, and Emrys is its hope, his destiny foretold by a prophecy spoken centuries ago. Emrys doesn't just have magic. Emrys is magic itself."
"Lord," Leon mutters, exchanging a look with Arthur. It is awe, and it is concern.
"Where can we find him?" Arthur asks, and beg him for his help? He can feel his men's eyes on him, as if questioning whether they would really go to battle with sorcery by their side. "How do we find Emrys?"
"He will find you himself," Anhora answers, because nothing is ever simple when it comes to magic. "But the time is now. The prophecy must be fulfilled and it can only be done by you, Once and Future King, and Emrys, by your side— "
"Once and what?" Gwaine interrupts, flatly. Arthur can't even muster up a glare for him.
"The Once and Future King," Anhora says, "you, King Arthur. The greatest king that will ever be, the one who will be remembered for all of time. The king who will bring about peace and the golden age of Albion. It is you who will unite Camelot with magic, you who Emrys serves, you who will accomplish what your ancestors couldn't. Take heart, King Arthur, for if you listen well, the Battle of Camlann is yours. Magic has been waiting for this moment and now it is time."
His gaze travels to Arthur's left once, before he looks back.
"It is time," he repeats, gravely, and just like that, in less than the blink of an eye—he vanishes.
(x)
They can only wait, Arthur realises, after almost an hour of pacing. They can get their men ready and they can plan more and more—but in the end of it, they can only wait for Morgana's next move, for Emrys.
They dine together that night, the Knights and Arthur, and Merlin serves them the same way he's always done.
His hand shakes when he pours the wine.
"Merlin?" Arthur glances up at him, and he looks awfully pale, eyes like he isn't really here, like he's somewhere far away, all alone. "Are you alright?"
"What?" Merlin blinks, and then nods, quickly. His smile is wry and wistful, but he nods again. "Yes, of course. I'm fine. I'm—I'm great."
"Yes, that's the exact face we all make when we're feeling great," Gwaine says dryly, and with that, he tugs the bottle out of Merlin's hands and pulls up a chair from the corner, almost manhandling Merlin into sitting. "Really, Merlin. What's the matter? You've been acting strange since Anhora came."
"No, no," Merlin reassures, horribly false, this man can't keep one tiny thing secret, Arthur thinks, "I'm just, uh. Worried."
"We all are, Merlin," Leon says, gently.
"Yes, but it's different because— " Merlin breaks off, scrubbing a frustrated hand across his face.
"Because?" Arthur prompts.
"I—I can't," Merlin says, after a long moment. "I just can't. I'm sorry."
"We leave for Camlann tomorrow, Merlin," Arthur says, slowly. "If you don't want to come with— "
"No!" Merlin blurts out, immediately, "no, of course not! I'll be there, of course I'll be there. I'm just—I can't explain." And then, he scoffs and mutters, "besides, you'd all die without me there."
Arthur can't help his laugh, amused and fond—almost too fond.
Gwaine thumps Merlin on the back, and Elyan makes some joke about Merlin being their good luck charm, ungainly as he is—and suddenly, Arthur feels more at home than he has in a long while, something warm glowing in his chest.
(x)
Gaius and Gwen travel with them.
The Knights set up camp in the woods, and Arthur watches Merlin help Gwen mixing something in the bowl, one hand sifting the firewood.
And he wonders again why Merlin looks like that, older than he is, worried—scared, even. He looks beautiful in the flickering light still, his neckerchief blue and so very familiar to Arthur.
They reach Camlann by the same evening.
Arthur's sitting on the table, watching the men go into their tents, watching night fall.
"Arthur?"
He startles a little, and looks back to see Gwen standing there, her brow furrowed.
"Yes?" he clears his throat, when she doesn't say anything. "Is something wrong?"
"Is it?" she asks, and takes a seat next to him, still frowning. "What are you thinking about, Arthur?"
"What if I've made the wrong decision?" Arthur asks, looking down at the table. It's worn and wooden, it has seen too many battle maps and plots. "What if Sir Leon was right? Perhaps we should've made our stand at Camelot."
"Arthur, if I may," Gwen asks, and Arthur waves a dismissive hand, "Your plan is brave and bold, and it is our only chance of defeating Morgana once and for all."
"But that isn't all, is it," Arthur sighs. "Anhora, and the whole—prophecy. The sorcerer."
"He's meant to help us, Arthur," Gwen says, with a smile that still manages to make him feel lighter. "Perhaps he will come and perhaps he won't. But I believe in you, and I believe in Camelot. The future isn't written in stone, and one man's words don't alter the strength of an army."
Arthur nods, even as Gwen looks at him, thoughtful and fierce—a queen in her own right.
"I have never for a moment doubted the wisdom of your choices, Arthur," she continues, "and you must not either. Have faith in yourself. Because if there's one thing I know, it's that you will always do the right thing, for the best of Camelot."
"Thank you, Guinevere," Arthur manages, after a moment, and she takes her leave.
(x)
"—Arthur. Arthur, wake up!"
He jolts in his sleep, and blinks in the darkness. He can make out the dark outline of the figure near his bed and he looks instinctively for his sword—
"It's just Merlin, calm down," the absolute idiot says, his voice still a hushed whisper.
"Merlin," Arthur sighs and sits up, and he can now see the ears and the brown jacket. It's still rather dark outside, and he remembers saying very explicitly that he wanted to be woken up at dawn. A cold chill runs down his spine then. "What is it? Is it Morgana?"
"No, no," Merlin says, and his voice sounds somewhat different, almost wet. Like he's been...crying. He ignores that. "I just need to talk to you."
Arthur blinks, indignant, and glares at him.
"You're such a complete buffoon, Merlin, it's a wonder you're still alive," Arthur huffs, as he pushes off his covers, he's going to kill him. "You really could not wait to talk till the morning?"
"I'm sorry, Arthur," Merlin says, and he really does sound awful sorry. "But no, it can't wait. If—if I wait any longer, I'll lose my nerve."
What could he possibly need to tell Arthur that scares him so?
"You complete girl," Arthur says, instead of voicing that thought, and walks out into the light of the burning torch, dragging Merlin along. It's even quieter here, they can't hear anyone else, no snoring audible. "Speak, now."
Merlin seems all the more terrified. Before Arthur can do anything about it because what is he so scared of, he turns to him and says, "I'm sorry, Arthur. I'm really sorry."
But what have you done that warrants all this—
He takes two steps back from Arthur and lifts up both of his hands. He looks at them, palms cupped. And then he—and then he—
He speaks.
It's strangled and strange and terrible, and while Arthur cannot speak this tongue, he's heard this before. But, but. But that's just not possible at all, that is impossible because Merlin isn't—
His eyes glow gold, and Arthur can hear his own breath leave him in a gasp, the choked noise that he makes as he realises, the ringing in his ears that accompanies it all—
But beyond all that, he can hear Merlin still, and see him.
His eyes glow and then return back to their usual clear, usual-normal-Merlin and he lifts his palms up to the air—something blue flies out.
There's a small fluttering noise, and Arthur blinks to see a blue butterfly in the air, flitting by.
"I— " Merlin breaks the silence, his eyes only on Arthur, and states the obvious. "I have magic. I've—I've always had it."
The butterfly flies to Arthur, and Merlin makes an aborted sort of motion, as if to stop it, but Arthur doesn't move. The butterfly simply settles on his shoulder, peaceful.
So close to him, something made with magic.
Its wings seem to glitter in the light.
Arthur feels like the ground he's standing on his shaking, like he is falling, and—
"I was born with it," Merlin says, quietly, evenly.
—anchor, always an anchor, Merlin.
"All these years," Arthur breathes out, and when Merlin flinches, he feels no vindication, only emptiness. Here he'd been thinking that they were friends, closer than any have ever been. And Arthur hadn't even really known Merlin. "You've lied to me all this time."
"I didn't want to," Merlin says, his eyes are too bright. He wipes them with the back of his hand, sniffs. "I didn't want to, but I had no choice. I—I had to."
"There is always a choice," Arthur says, but they're hollow words and maybe Arthur's eyes are stinging, too. He still holds it all in, the flood of accusations, of the hurt he feels.
"No, please," Merlin insists, "you don't understand. I—I'm— "
Arthur waits.
The butterfly flaps its wings once, and he feels the light breeze, before it flies up and then away.
"I'm," Merlin's shoulders fall, defeated, and he looks up at Arthur, as if willing him to understand. "Arthur, I—I'm Emrys."
And Arthur feels like he's falling again, he flinches and jerks back.
What hurts the most is that he believes him immediately, as if his mind still thinks that Merlin never tells him anything but the truth, as if his word is always good enough, except it's not anymore—Merlin has lied and lied and then lied some more—
"Leave," is what Arthur can manage saying. "Leave me, I don't want to see you, just— "
"I can't, Arthur, I'm sorry," Merlin says, mouth twisted in something that's bitter and apologetic both. "And even if you don't—don't trust me or see my side of things—it. It's okay. But I will still need to be by your side, if you want to win this battle."
Arthur had, for the sliver of a moment, forgotten about that.
"And for that, I had to tell you," Merlin nods, mostly to himself. "I had to."
"Did you also have to lie?" Arthur asks, and it's not a question. Merlin swallows convulsively.
"You need me, Arthur," he tries, "you need my help. Camelot needs my help. Once this is all over, I...I'll leave, then. But don't ask me yet, not now, for I can't abandon you."
"Ask you to," Arthur echoes. "Because I can't really tell you to do anything, can I. You're," —the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the— "you're supposed to be more powerful than. Than Morgana."
Merlin, just Merlin. Emrys.
"I would do anything you told me to," Merlin murmurs, like he hadn't even really meant to say it. "But I know all you want is to keep Camelot safe, and I can give you that."
Give you that.
"Nobody needs to die, Arthur," he continues, "I can help, hold off most of Morgana's army. Nobody, no good man, needs to die tomorrow."
Arthur's clenches his jaw and looks away, but Merlin isn't done, not after all his lies, after—after everything.
He grabs Arthur's wrists with trembling hands, but he himself is so shocked at the touch that he can't even yank them away—and, and then Merlin kneels, Emrys kneels—at Arthur's feet, bright eyes intent and certain, locked with Arthur's.
"Our army may be smaller than theirs," Merlin says, "but that's only in numbers. What they really have is magic, and believe me when I say this, it isn't even a fraction of what I have."
Arthur flinches—how powerful must he really be to say all this with so strong a conviction—but Merlin doesn't stop, not even when Arthur tries to pull his hands away.
How much has Merlin lied about—
"Morgana's power is their weapon," Merlin says, eyes shining with determination, with desperation. "Let me be yours."
And something in Arthur thinks, maybe Merlin hasn't lied about what matters the most. His heart, perhaps, still believes in Merlin, still wants to believe in him.
He is kneeling and Arthur thinks he will never find one as loyal as Merlin.
There is always a choice, he'd said. And Arthur looks at him, his servant, his friend, his world—and. And he makes his own choice.
He steps closer to Merlin—who makes no move to stop him, but looks wary all the same—and pulls him up into his arms.
Merlin stumbles over his own feet when he stands, almost falling onto Arthur.
"I trusted you," he says, and Merlin remains rigid, trusted. "Tell me I wasn't wrong to do it, Merlin."
"You weren't," Merlin says, breath hitching, with a painful amount of relief, "you weren't. My magic, I use it for you, Arthur. Only for you. Everything I have, everything I am, it's only for you."
"Then," Arthur swallows, and there's something important about this moment, something that makes his chest ache, "then, I believe you."
"Oh, god," Merlin says, and then he is crying in earnest. "Thank you, thank you, Arthur— "
"Shut up," Arthur whispers, which of course only makes Merlin cry more, he's never been any good with orders—can you love someone you don't even know—he is warm in his arms, he is at home, at one with Merlin, with his magic—he is not his father.
He is weak and he can't rule alone and he thinks he still belongs, Merlin is still his man.
He is still just Merlin, isn't he.
Arthur doesn't even complain about Merlin wiping his nose on Arthur's shirt, not even a little bit.
"If you're my weapon," Arthur says, quietly, after Merlin's breath has evened out a bit, "then I am yours, too. Tell me what to do."
The look that Merlin gives him makes him think, maybe he isn't the only one in love.
(x)
Merlin doesn't go back, after that.
He stays, and they sit side by side, thinking, mulling, talking. There are five years worth of things Arthur doesn't know, five years worth that Merlin simply explains. Mary Collins, the wyverns, the Disir. The griffin, the dragon, Nimueh. His father. Dragoon. A reverse healing spell, Morgause. The Dolma. Poison, Alator, Torture, Julius Borden. Poseidon's trident. Lancelot's shade. Will.
Courage, strength and magic.
All of them are shocks and none of them really are—when you talk to a stranger, you don't know what to expect.
"Does anyone else know?" Arthur asks, thinking of Gwen, of Gwaine. "About your—magic."
Merlin smiles, shakes his head.
"Only Gaius," he says, checking Arthur's reaction. He doesn't exactly have one to offer, and so he gives a simple nod. "My mother knows, obviously. Will knew. And er. Lancelot knew," he says, to Arthur's surprise. "He found out, when—the first time he came to Camelot. It never... never changed how he saw me."
Arthur wants to give him similar reassurance, tell him he trusts him like he's never trusted anyone before. But he is not as good a man as Lancelot was, and he can't bring himself to, after all.
"You're a braver man than any I know," Arthur says, instead, for it is true and it makes Merlin flush pink. There's this look in his eyes, like he still can't believe this is happening.
Arthur can't, either, in some ways.
Show me something, he says.
"Like what?" Merlin asks, simply.
"What can you do?" Arthur looks at him.
"For you?" Merlin gives a weak laugh. "Just about anything."
For all that he's laughing, he sounds solemn.
"You'll have to tell them all, now," Arthur says, and Merlin nods, hesitating just a bit.
"You took it well," Merlin says, with a shrug, "so I don't care if nobody else does."
Arthur feels the vexing, and persistent urge to touch him. It's getting worse every second. He settles by bumping Merlin with his shoulder, by telling himself to breathe.
"Don't worry about that," Arthur says, aloud. "They will see you don't mean any harm to them." I'll make them see.
(x)
He doesn't really need to make anyone see.
Gwen's gasp is soft, the hesitant chink of Leon's sword is almost muted. Gwaine's hysterical, incredulous laughter, however, is the loudest.
"Wait, wait a moment," he says, like he hasn't decided between crying or laughing and in the mean time, is attempting both. "All that talk about son of the sea and son of fire and fabric or something—magic lord— "
Merlin looks mortified, and the flame-dragon that he'd conjured in his hand disappears.
"You're him?" Gwaine settles on laughing then, "for the love of god, Merlin!"
"That means you're," Leon clears his throat, standing awkwardly, with his sword only half in the scabbard. He keeps looking at Arthur, as if taking his cues, for Leon has grown up in Uther's Camelot and Arthur understands his hesitation better than most. "You're immortal?"
That hadn't come up when they were talking. It had somehow slipped Arthur's mind, he realises, turning to Merlin, who's face is starting to resemble a tomato.
"Sort of?" Merlin says, like the gormless idiot he is. "I mean, er. Yes. I am—um. Immortal?"
Gwaine pauses for a moment, blinking, and then, laughs even louder, one burst from clutching his side.
"Merlin," Gwen says, after a moment. "We understand why you didn't tell us earlier."
"And we're with you," Elyan confirms, with a nod, and when Merlin smiles, it makes Arthur feel just a little bit too warm. "Always."
"As are we," Sir Bors says, fiercely, and Arthur has known the man since they were children—he is frightened but he is ready, and he will fight. There's fighting, and then there is fighting—he means he will shed blood today and he will laugh about it later.
Percival raises his sword, inclines it to Arthur and by extension, Merlin.
"We will serve you with pride, Sire," he says, quietly, and Gwaine raises his sword, too, then Leon and Elyan—and then the men who have been watching them, all good men, the finest soldiers of Camelot, and Arthur is proud of them all. As Sir Kay raises his sword and the twenty men in his charge follow, and Sir Bors and Sir Bedivere and Sir Gareth, who is older than most here and looks disapproving but raises his sword still—
Arthur raises his own, he raises Excalibur, and feels some stillness in the air, despite the number of men gathered.
"Tonight...we do battle," Arthur says, and he doesn't feel every part the king he is to be someday, but it's enough. "Tonight we end this war, we end a war as old as the land itself. We don't fight against sorcery, we fight against tyranny. We fight against greed and spite and we fight against malice. Not all will greet the dawn, some will live and some will die. But each and every one of you fights with honour, and with pride and you will be remembered for that. For not only do we fight for our lives, we fight for peace, we fight for the future. For the future of Camelot. For the future of Albion. For the future of the united kingdoms." He raises his sword higher, "For the love of Camelot!"
"For the love of Camelot!" they yell, and he sees them all, proud and vicious and loved. From the corner of his eye, he sees Merlin smile at him and exchange a look with Gaius, and it is all worth it.
(x)
Morgana stands on the edge of the cliff, watching. Arthur can't quite believe it has come to this—half a decade earlier, they had been laughing on moonlit walks—but here they are, and Merlin stands next to him and they face Morgana.
The Saxons are beating their shields.
Arthur takes a deep breath, and glances at Merlin, who nods: ready.
"On me!" he screams to his Knights, and they charge.
Arthur sees Morgana lifting her hands up and starting to speak, and it takes all of his will to focus on the men instead—Merlin will take care of Morgana, trust him, trust him, trust him—and then he hears her distant shriek, muffled under the clash and clang of the swords and shields.
Arthur side steps a Saxon, and flips over one, cuts down another. Ducks an attack and kicks the bearded man in the chest. He topples over fast, and Arthur moves, yelling and leaping over the bodies—
"You," Morgana's scream is so loud that even over hundreds of men, even over a battlefield this large, it rises. It rises, clear and raging. "You're him! You're EMRYS!"
And thunder rumbles in the distance, roaring and sudden, and lightning flashes across the sky.
The battle, Arthur thinks, as he feels the white flash in his peripheral, has begun.
He looks to his side as he runs across, and Merlin is—
Not on the ground.
Merlin is not on the ground, he is floating, flying, and it's not just his eyes that glow gold, it is his whole body, emanating light, heat.
"This is your last chance, Morgana," Merlin says, and oh god he sounds different. His voice is dark and rough and ethereal, in some sense—and Arthur knows he means every word he says. It isn't loud, but it carries, rolling over the field like the thunder that Arthur suspects Merlin is the cause of. "You know it as well as I do. It's written in the stars that I am to be your doom and it's today that it will come true." A pause. "Give in."
"Never!"
Arthur winces then, having almost gotten slashed by a sword, because he's been looking at Merlin. He feels a sudden flash of heat across his face, and he squeezes his eyes shut—
When he opens them again, the whole battalion of Saxons in front of him has fallen.
He looks at Merlin, who's raising his arms, who is directing lightning at the Saxons, this is Emrys, and Arthur can't lie, this is more power than he's ever thought anyone could have. Merlin commands the skies, he controls the earth with a snap of his fingers.
"Leon!" Elyan screams somewhere on his left, and Arthur pulls his eyes away from Merlin to run and help. "The dragon—!"
A lot of things happen at once. The dragon, for it is indeed one, a white dragon—comes flying above the ridge, its wings flapping and hitting men—
"Aithusa!" Morgana calls, eyes widening, as Merlin turns to the dragon.
A strange sequence of sounds escape him, guttural, like tremors. Gravel-deep.
And Arthur watches—awed, shocked, captivated—as the dragon rises above the field, harming none, and then it flies away, head bent in a bow, to Merlin. Dragon-lord.
Lightning strikes down another group of Saxons, and another—
"Arthur, sire— " Leon is hobbling towards him, his leg spouting an arrow. Arthur immediately puts an arm under his shoulder, walks him to the medical camp. Gwen is running around, seeing to the injured, and Gaius is treating a man writhing on a bed in the back.
"Guinevere?" Arthur asks, and Gwen passes him a smile that is grim, yet proud.
"No mortal wounds yet," she assures, and then rushes to help Leon. He drinks from the waterskin lying nearby on the table, and then, ducks out of the tent, spinning his sword. His wrist is barely sore, and yet he is sure he has never killed as many men as he has today.
"Sire!" Percival calls, the moment Arthur is outside, "Sire, they're coming from the— "
But he doesn't quite hear his words, because he doesn't need to—not over the roar of the Saxon army that's travelling from inside, from over the ridge of Camlann.
There must be a passage there, Arthur realises, a hidden path, and in the same moment, he realises this too: if the Saxons aren't stopped, Morgana will outflank them.
And they will be trapped here, as good as lost.
Merlin and Morgana are still fighting, although they are on the ground now. Morgana's bleeding from her head, and she seems to be walking oddly, but Merlin only looks just a bit tired, his face screwed up in concentration, as he summons fire in his hands.
"We'll take the ridge ourselves," Arthur says, and quickly gathers a unit of fifty men or so.
Percival and Elyan are with him, and they charge.
The Saxons are much more than they appear, Arthur realises, in the heat of the battle.
He ducks and rolls and cuts down more men than he's ever done, quicker and harder and faster—and yet, it is not enough, they are still outnumbered.
He glances down at Merlin and Morgana, and they've realised what's happening, too. Morgana seems to be laughing, a cruel, broken parody of what she used to be, and Merlin's hands are glowing, red-orange fire balls collecting in his palms—like liquid gold, growing bigger and bigger.
He swings them up and towards Morgana, who tries to duck, but she underestimates its range and she is sent hurtling into the stone wall behind her.
And then Merlin is coming running to Arthur's side—
Just as Merlin's about to reach, the Saxons start falling, thuds and clangs of swords echoing from the back. Arthur shoots Merlin a confused look, but Merlin just shakes his head, shocked.
The Saxons in front of them are still charging, but the ones behind them are—
"I didn't do that," Merlin whispers, mostly to himself, but Arthur hears it anyway, "I didn't— "
Arthur watches another line of Saxons fall. Merlin—Merlin didn't do that. There is lightning crashing upon enemy lines, but Merlin isn't controlling it, which has to mean that there is someone else—
"This is impossible," Merlin exchanges a look with Arthur, his eyes blue and wide and bewildered, looking like he's just Arthur's servant again. "Nobody has this much power, nobody should be able to do that— " the except for me remains unsaid but Arthur hears it anyway.
Another line falls, and Morgana screams as she stands up, dirt sticking to the blood on her forehead, walking towards them—
"Oh," Merlin breathes out, as if in realisation. Arthur looks to him, just as his face breaks into a smile that is shocked and knowing all at once, "Mordred."
Arthur hand on his sword stills, his mouth dropping open and—
"Mordred is a—?" Arthur asks, just as the left of Morgana's army seemingly collapses—
"He was born into it," Merlin says, and raises his arms, his eyes turning golden once more. "And you let him live."
I will not forget your mercy, my Lord, Mordred had said.
"His honor is that of a Knight's," Merlin says, albeit wryly, and Arthur feels a corner of his mouth quirk up, unintentional and odd.
(x)
Their win is anticlimactic, in a way.
They know they have won when the Saxons begin to retreat, when Arthur dispatches two hundred men or so, to drive the advantage home. They know they have won when Gwen comes out of the tent, and there are tears in her eyes—they are all okay, they're all fine, Gaius says they will all live—
Through the noise and the smoke, Arthur can only make out Merlin's voice, and he talks about a mortal blade and about poison, he talks about blame and hatred and destiny.
The mist clears with Morgana's gasping screams.
They know they have won, when Merlin drives a sword into Morgana's heart, when he says, Goodbye, Morgana, when she falls like a mortal, flesh-and-blood.
Arthur knows he's won, when Merlin, with all his power and all his magic, finds Arthur in the crowd, and falls on him—completely spent. And he knows they've won, they've certainly won, when the men around them whisper in a worshipful sort of wonder about sorcery, when everyone starts to talk about Emrys and King Arthur.
(x)
Merlin sleeps through the night and the next day, drifting awake in between, when Arthur or Gwen feed him, gently massaging his throat to make him swallow.
He blinks awake once, and clutches blindly at Arthur.
Arthur tries calling Gaius, but by then Merlin has already mumbled something about dragons and fallen asleep again.
"The battle took more out of him than ever before," Gaius explains, quietly. "I don't think he has ever had to push his limits so much."
Arthur spends the next two days by Merlin's side, or walking along the ridge with Gwen or Leon. Gwaine flits around, but he's mostly half-drunk. He'd ridden out after the battle and from the nearest tavern, gotten two full crates of bottles.
Says it's a week of celebration.
They've sent most of the men back to Camelot, and only a few remain behind, the injured and their close friends, for Gaius thinks it will be wise to heal before they start exerting again.
Merlin heals, and Arthur thinks.
He has too much time on his hands, time to think about his father and about Morgana, time to think about magic. About the druids, about Mordred, about finally repealing the ban on sorcery.
"I think I'm going to leave," Gwaine says, without any preamble, sitting next to Arthur on the crooked slope. "For some time, I mean. Go and find my sister, maybe."
"The evil old toad?" Arthur remembers, raising an eyebrow.
"And ugly, too," Gwaine nods, sagely. Perhaps he's had more ale than he's letting on. "Although most people are, compared to me."
Arthur laughs, shaking his head. They sit in companionable silence, for a little while.
"She's not," Gwaine says then, his tone more solemn than his smile. "She's not ugly. Beautiful, really. Too much. She could charm the pants off anyone, even when she was very young. Always knew how to take advantage of her beauty. I sometimes used to think it's her special type of magic."
Arthur looks at him.
"I think she'll be glad to see me," his eyes slip shut, with a quiet laugh. "But she won't tell me that. I won't, either."
Arthur remembers Morgana, unwittingly and predictably, and then they sit in silence again, watch the sunset over the hills.
"You worried, Princess?" Gwaine asks, when the sky starts becoming darker, "about Merlin?"
Always. He's on my mind all the time. Constantly. Like an itch I can't get rid of.
"Not really," he says, and in his opinion, it's casual enough. "Gaius says he'll be fine."
Gwaine snorts and glances at Arthur with an irritatingly smug smile.
"I see," he says, more mockingly than Arthur would like. "Figured it out, have you?"
"Figured what out?"
"The sort of friend you've got in Merlin," Gwaine says, simply. "He lives and dies for you, he does."
So do I, for him, Arthur thinks, but doesn't say.
"Arthur?" Gwen calls, coming over just as night falls. He looks up, and she smiles, a small, fond thing. "Merlin's awake."
It takes an immense amount of control not to run right over to the tent but Arthur manages. Gwaine doesn't, because he doesn't care about pesky things like that—because he hasn't grown up with Uther and the thought of rejection doesn't phase him.
He darts inside like a mad man, and he's already sitting by Merlin when Arthur enters, slowly, mannered, appropriately.
Merlin's sitting up, grumbling about the vile taste of Gaius's potion, his hair mussed up and a stray eyelash on his cheek.
Arthur can't help but smile.
Maybe it's just Arthur, but he feels like Merlin's ears are drooping. His eyes are clear and wide, and a part of Arthur wants.
He doesn't speak, though, he just waits for Gwaine to finish off rattling his questions and comments, from are you sure you're alright enough to sit up, mate? all the way to: there was barely a scratch on you, oh great Emrys and you've still been sleeping since fifteen days!
"Fifteen?!" Merlin squawks, after that last gem, and Gwen glares at Gwaine.
"Just two, Merlin," she tells him, with a calming smile. "Relax. Eat this."
She hands him a bowl, slowly, and when his grip is firm enough, she puts the spoon in the stew.
"Thanks, Gwen," Merlin says, and that's when he spots Arthur.
Arthur is not sure what he's expecting, but it isn't Merlin's face suddenly lighting up like that, with enthusiasm that's almost child-like. He isn't expecting Merlin to invitingly pat the space next to him.
"Arthur, sit!" he exclaims, and Arthur grins back at him, joy flooding his chest warm. "Erm. I mean."
He reigns his smile back in, but Arthur thinks he's seen enough. He goes and takes the offered seat, and they all talk, like they haven't been at battle since so many days.
Like they aren't surrounded by blood-stained beds.
They talk like friends, like family, like they are sitting in a meadow, or in a camp by the fire, laughing at little things.
Not that Arthur would ever admit it, but Gwaine is rather funny, and Arthur can't bring himself to be annoyed at him for his ridiculous anecdotes when they make Merlin laugh like that.
It's odd, really. Gwaine says something funny, and Merlin laughs, bright like the sun, but then he looks at Arthur—as if to make sure he's smiling, too.
As if he wants to see Arthur happy.
Only once do they talk about the battle, and that is indirect as well.
"Mordred didn't come," Arthur says, because, because he feels like he should have, he... should have. Not fought from the shadows. "After the battle, nor during."
"You told him not to," Merlin replies, frowning over his stew. "You said that if you ever saw them again, you would, um."
Oh. Arthur's throat feels dry.
"Maybe I can send a message, somehow," he says. "Tell him that after the help he offered, overturning his exile is the least I can do."
Merlin eyes him for a moment, as if he's deciding whether to object or not, and then finally, he looks away and nods.
"I'll tell him," he says, simply, and Arthur doesn't ask how. He thinks they're rather beyond that, the hows and whys of Merlin's powers. He thinks they're beyond a lot of things like that, especially why would someone with as much power as you serve someone like me?
And like most things with Merlin, Arthur isn't brave enough to ask.
(x)
"There's just one more thing I have to do before we go back to Camelot," Merlin says, as they're packing everything. Gwen and Gwaine are folding the sheets that can be washed and throwing the ones that can't, Gaius is keeping away his vials.
"What?" Arthur asks, from where he's sitting and tying his laces.
"Kilgharrah," Merlin says, as if he expects that to make any sense to Arthur at all. Apparently so, because after saying that, he slips out of the tent.
Arthur blinks and follows.
When he reaches the clearing Merlin's standing in, he starts chanting, in that voice that always makes Arthur flinch, no matter how badly he tries to hide it. It's deep, like something ancient.
It isn't something he fears, it's just—unsettling.
There's a ringing silence when Merlin finishes, and then the flapping of wings—giant bloody wings—and a dragon, the dragon lands in front of them.
Merlin had told Arthur in short about how the Great Dragon hadn't actually been killed, but Arthur certainly hadn't needed proof in this form.
"Kilgharrah," Merlin says, with a sad sort of smile.
"Merlin," the dragon speaks, in a rumbling, raspy voice—and good god, this dragon TALKS.
"You were wrong," Merlin says then, because he doesn't fear death at all apparently. Arthur wants to shake him and tell him that that's not what one says to a dragon when one wants to live. "About Mordred."
Mordred again—
"Maybe so," Kilgharrah seems to concede. "Destiny works in strange ways, Merlin. Nobody really knows the future."
"That's rich, really," Merlin scoffs, "considering everything I've done until now is just what you said was my destiny."
"And it was, for you have done them. You have been tested by fate, young warlock," Kilgharrah pronounces. "And you have come out on top. The magic you performed a day ago was remarkable indeed."
"You were there?" Merlin asks, confused.
"I felt it, Merlin," Kilgharrah says, and if a dragon could smile, this one certainly was. "I felt it run and course through me, wild magic, of the likes I haven't felt in a thousand years."
"Oh," Merlin says, endearingly surprised, and flushes, looking rather shy. "Great. This is— " he blinks at Arthur before looking back, "this is Arthur."
Kilgharrah hums, uncomfortably thoughtful.
"Erm," Arthur clears his throat, feeling embarrassingly tongue-tied but in his defence, this is a dragon. "Yes."
"You have come a long way," Kilgharrah says, peering at him as if he's wondering whether to slow cook Arthur or a quick flame would do. "Much farther than your father ever did, or could hope to do."
"Well," and Arthur is sick and tired of saying this, really, "I'm not my father."
"Indeed you are not," the dragon steps back a little, and inclines his head, with what Arthur would call respect, if he wasn't so shocked. "This is, however, only the beginning. There is much work to be done still. Albion will take years to grow and flourish, but this I can say now: you will be remembered, always and forever, two sides of the same coin—Emrys and his King."
His king.
Merlin's smile is shaky, but real.
"It has been a privilege to know you, young warlock," Kilgharrah says, and bows to Merlin, deep. "And an even greater one to be a part of your story, that will live long in the minds of men."
With that, he unfolds his wings, and pushes off into flight. Arthur watches him become a tiny speck in the sky, and then, disappear.
"Arthur," Merlin starts, a little nervously, as they start walking back, "uhm. Can I ask for a... a favor?"
What kind of favour, Arthur wants to ask.
"I don't think I have any right to deny you anything I could possibly give," he replies instead, honestly. "What is it, Merlin?"
"Er," Merlin says, "I was wondering if I could have a—a pet."
"A... pet?"
"Yes," Merlin nods affirmatively, offering nothing else.
"Merlin," Arthur sighs. "What kind of pet?"
"Is that really so important?" Merlin asks, breezily.
"Is it, by any chance, a dragon?" Arthur insists.
"She's only a baby!" Merlin huffs.
"She?"
Merlin doesn't reply, just gives him a cheeky sort of grin—one that makes it really hard for Arthur to not just grab him and lean—
He presses his nails into his palms and glares instead.
Merlin must see something in his expression and so, he makes a run for it—Emrys, most powerful warlock to ever walk this earth—him, he runs, shooting another impish look over his shoulder.
Arthur dashes after him.
He catches up near the fences, throws an arm around Merlin's shoulders, scoffs something inane about you really need more training, can't run at all and ruffles his hair.
One glance at him, and Arthur's grinning.
He would have let go, at this point, it's what he always does—rough-housing, horseplay, various other incomplete words that don't linger as much as Arthur would like to—but then Merlin's grin falls into something soft, unguarded.
It's Merlin's fault, really.
Merlin's fault, for he looks at Arthur's lips first, he does, and Arthur's throat feels very dry and he swallows and maybe it's Merlin who leans in first, but it's Arthur who closes the half-inch between them.
It's Arthur who presses, slowly, almost tenderly—it's maybe a little more than a second or two and maybe Arthur wouldn't even remember what it felt like, later.
He'll remember his heart pounding, will remember thinking he's making a mistake, will remember the cold split-second of when he's certain he's made a mistake.
He'll remember his arm around Merlin, graceless.
Merlin, who, for a moment, is completely still.
He's like a feather against Arthur's lips—light, brushing, you've slipped up—and then, suddenly he's pushing back.
Arthur hadn't anticipated that, the sudden pressure against his lips, Merlin straightening up like that, standing taller. He's gangly in a way that Arthur isn't—taller, too, maybe and he busies his hands like he has thought about this before, like he knows just what to do. Merlin's hand reaches up to curl around his nape, the other one pulling him closer, a finger slipping through the top of his shirt—
Arthur parts his lips open, and hears Merlin's slight gasp.
It makes him pull back just a bit, makes him search Merlin's face for a sign, any sign. Half-lidded eyes fixed on Arthur's own, jaw trembling. His cheeks are pink: he looks lovely.
"Arthur, I— " Merlin breathes.
"You want this?" Arthur watches as close as he can, wants to see even a flicker in his eyes that doesn't seem okay, for he is still a king and they are both still men and—
But Merlin nods, eyes wild and bright and then he holds Arthur tighter, closer, flush.
—for now, they're perhaps just boys in the woods.
"Gods, Arthur," he whispers, and kisses Arthur once, like a quiet affirmation, like proof. This is my love, your love, our love, and it is in the little things too. "I always have."
