Chapter Text
The sun hung low over the hills of Ealdor, casting long golden streaks across the harvested fields. Dust clung to the air as children ran through the village, squealing with laughter, while their parents hauled in the last of the season’s yield. It was a quiet place, tucked away in the far reaches of the kingdom—so quiet that the presence of a royal procession caused hearts to thud and whispers to spiral like wildfire.
Merlin crouched behind a crooked wooden fence, peering between the slats with wide, curious eyes. He wasn’t supposed to be out. Hunith had made that very clear. “Stay indoors,” she’d warned, brushing a hand through his unruly dark hair. “King Uther is not a man to take kindly to... differences.”
Differences. The word echoed in Merlin’s head like a secret bell tolling in the dark.
He wasn't just different because he was an omega—though that in itself was enough. Most male omegas were rare and precious, whispered about in cautious tones in places like Ealdor. But Merlin? He also had magic. Wild, untamed, whispering-to-the-wind magic. He’d only just started noticing it: the way the world trembled slightly when he was frightened, how his skin tingled when the wind shifted wrong, or how objects sometimes nudged themselves without being touched.
And now the king—the king who outlawed magic—was here. In his village.
Merlin’s eyes flicked to the open road. Soldiers rode in first, stiff and cold in polished armor. Behind them was a lavish carriage drawn by black horses. Uther Pendragon’s royal crest gleamed in the sunlight, announcing his arrival louder than any trumpet.
A boy rode just behind the lead guards—fourteen, maybe, with golden hair like autumn wheat. He held himself upright, proud, but his youthful face wasn’t hardened like the others. Not yet. Merlin recognized him instantly from the gossip whispered in Ealdor’s tavern—Prince Arthur.
“Is that him?” whispered Will, Merlin’s older friend, pressing in beside him behind the fence.
“Yeah,” Merlin said softly. “That’s Arthur.”
“Bet he’s got a sword made of pure silver or something,” Will muttered, eyes narrowing. “Probably thinks he’s better than us.”
Merlin didn’t answer. He wasn’t so sure. The prince looked... curious, maybe even a little bored. Not cruel. Not yet.
The village gathered in the square, murmuring like bees. Hunith tugged Merlin from the fence and gently guided him to stand at her side. He kept his head low, subtly pressing his scent blockers tighter against the inside of his tunic. The small cloth, soaked in herbs, helped mask his natural omega scent. Hunith had taught him to wear it whenever they left home.
The King addressed the villagers in his stern voice, thanking them for their harvest contribution to Camelot. Arthur sat astride his horse, surveying the crowd like someone trying to memorize every face.
Merlin didn’t look up at first. He knew better than to attract attention.
But something made him glance up—and for the briefest of seconds, Arthur's gaze met his.
Blue eyes, sharp and startlingly clear. Merlin’s breath caught.
Arthur didn’t look away. He tilted his head slightly. A flicker of recognition—or interest?—crossed his face.
Merlin felt his stomach twist and dropped his gaze immediately.
Later that day, Merlin sat by the river, his bare feet splashing in the cool current. The others had gone home, but Merlin needed the quiet. He liked the way the wind played here, how it seemed to sing in a language he almost understood.
He was twisting a strand of grass around his finger when the underbrush rustled.
Merlin froze.
A figure emerged from between the trees.
Golden hair.
Blue eyes.
Royal red cloak, slightly dusty at the hem.
Prince Arthur Pendragon.
Merlin scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over his own legs. “S-sorry, I didn’t mean to be here—I’ll go.”
Arthur raised a hand. “No—wait. I was... just walking. I saw you by the water.”
Merlin stilled, unsure if this was a trap or just strange royal behavior.
Arthur tilted his head again, eyes narrowing. “You live in the village?”
Merlin nodded, clutching his tunic nervously. “Yes, sire.”
Arthur wrinkled his nose. “Don’t call me that. I get enough of that from my knights.”
Merlin blinked. “What should I call you, then?”
Arthur hesitated. “Arthur’s fine.”
“Arthur,” Merlin repeated, tasting the name. It felt strange on his tongue.
Arthur stepped closer, arms crossed loosely. “You’re not afraid of me.”
Merlin swallowed. “Should I be?”
The prince gave a wry smile. “Most people are. Especially when they know who my father is.”
Merlin glanced away. “I know.”
Arthur followed his gaze to the river. For a while, neither spoke.
Then Arthur said, “You were the only one who didn’t bow.”
Merlin turned sharply. “I—I didn’t mean to be rude—”
“I didn’t say it was rude,” Arthur cut in. He sounded thoughtful. “Just... different.”
Merlin’s shoulders tensed.
“I like different,” Arthur added quietly.
That surprised Merlin more than anything.
“You do?”
Arthur shrugged. “Everyone at court is the same. They all talk like they’ve memorized a book and smile like they want something. You looked like... you wanted to be anywhere else.”
Merlin gave a tiny laugh. “I did.”
Arthur smiled, and for a moment, they were just two boys by a river. No kingdom. No magic. No scents or dynamics that could change everything.
They met again the next morning.
Merlin was climbing a tree to fetch a runaway chicken for old man Brannick when Arthur passed by with two knights. The prince raised a brow, amused.
“That’s one way to hunt.”
“It’s a chicken,” Merlin called down. “Not a deer.”
Arthur laughed, and his knights gave each other a look. Merlin flushed, climbing down faster than he should have.
Arthur fell into step beside him as they walked back through the village. “You don’t act like an omega.”
Merlin stumbled. “What?”
Arthur smirked. “Your voice. Your posture. You don’t lower your head, and you’re not soft-spoken.”
Merlin tightened his grip on the basket. “Should I be?”
Arthur paused, then shook his head. “No. I like it.”
Merlin’s cheeks burned.
That night, Merlin told his mother everything. Or almost everything.
“He’s not what I expected,” he said, lying on the straw pallet they shared.
Hunith sat beside him, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “Neither are you.”
She hesitated, then added, “You must be careful, Merlin. The prince might be kind now, but his world is... dangerous. You have secrets you must protect.”
“I know,” Merlin whispered. “But he’s not like Uther.”
“No,” she agreed, eyes sad. “But he’s still his son.”
The third day of the royal visit brought a feast. Tables lined the village square, and music echoed off the wooden homes. Arthur sought Merlin out before the sun had fully set.
“Walk with me?” he asked, voice unusually quiet.
Merlin followed him through the fields, the stars beginning to wink into view.
They talked for hours. About court life, about village life, about how different their worlds were. Arthur admitted he hated being cooped up in Camelot, surrounded by expectations. Merlin confessed he sometimes dreamed of running away, of finding a place where he could be free—not just as an omega, but as someone with power he didn’t understand.
He didn’t say the word magic, but it trembled on the edge of every sentence.
As they sat on a fallen log, Arthur leaned back, arms propped behind him.
“I’ve never had a friend I could talk to like this,” he said.
Merlin swallowed. “Me neither.”
Arthur turned his head. Their eyes met again, just like the first day.
“I’ll be king one day,” Arthur said suddenly. “And I think... maybe I want to do things differently.”
Merlin’s heart skipped. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe I won’t rule like my father. Maybe there’s another way.”
Merlin didn’t dare to hope. Not yet. But for the first time, he imagined a future that didn’t feel like a cage.
The royal party left the next morning.
Arthur stood tall beside his father, but his eyes searched the crowd.
They landed on Merlin.
Merlin gave a small nod. A promise. A goodbye.
Arthur didn’t smile, but he didn’t look away.
As the procession rode off, Merlin pressed a hand to his chest, where a strange warmth had settled.
Something had shifted.
He didn’t know it yet, but that meeting would change the fate of Albion.
And one day, many years later, when Arthur finally discovered the truth—about Merlin’s magic, about his scent, about who he really was—he would remember Ealdor. The river. The fields. The boy who never bowed.