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Most people imagined that discovering Merlin’s magic would be a dramatic moment: lightning splitting the sky, prophecies echoing across the land, destiny weaving itself into a tapestry of awe and fear.
But the knights of Camelot?
They found out gradually, like men watching a squirrel steal their lunch for the fifteenth time and finally realizing: This creature has no natural predators because it IS the predator.
Leon was the first.
He wasn’t proud of that. He hadn’t asked for it. He’d simply been standing behind Merlin when a bandit fired an arrow at the man’s head.
What happened next was not logical. Nor was it physically possible.
The arrow curved mid-air—curved—did a polite little loop, and shot backwards into the archer’s own foot.
Leon stared at Merlin.
Merlin stared at the arrow like it had personally betrayed him by being obvious.
“Oh look,” Merlin said weakly. “Archery’s… dangerous?”
Leon, who valued his continued existence, nodded slowly.
“Very.”
They never spoke of it again.
Gwaine’s encounter came during what he would later call The Great Invisible Snake Incident.
Enemies were charging. The knights were outnumbered. Merlin tripped—of course he tripped—and mumbled something that made the air shiver.
Then the attackers started screaming.
And running.
And swatting at invisible serpents biting at their ankles.
“Merlin,” Gwaine said later, bracing an arm around the young man’s shoulders, “my friend, my sunshine, my favorite disaster… did you make invisible snakes?”
Merlin blinked innocently. “What? No. That would be strange.”
“Right,” Gwaine agreed, patting his back. “Terrifying. But strange.”
They both pretended this was normal.
Elyan found out in the most Elyan way possible—quietly, politely, and while desperately trying not to die.
He was disarming a bandit when another crept up behind him. There was no time to turn. No time to shout. No time to—
A tree branch snapped off, accelerated like it had been shot from a ballista, and smacked the bandit so hard he flew into a bush.
Elyan stood there, panting, staring at the unconscious man.
Then at the branch.
Then at Merlin, who was leaning on the nearby tree, looking at it with a casual innocence that fooled no one.
“These woods,” Merlin said solemnly, “are very aggressive.”
Elyan decided the woods were welcome to be as aggressive as they wanted.
Percival, being very strong and very observant (a combination more dangerous than people realized), connected the final dots.
A rockslide should not occur on a clear day.
Rocks should not choose a target.
They should not flatten only the enemy coming at Merlin while leaving the rest of the knights untouched.
Merlin should not look relieved about it.
And yet.
“Merlin,” Percival said afterward, voice gentle as if speaking to a wild animal. “If… hypothetically… you were different from most people, you’d tell us, right?”
Merlin laughed nervously. “Different? Me? I’m as normal as they come!”
The rock responsible for saving Percival tumbled down a second time and stopped inches from Merlin’s boot, like it wanted to argue.
Percival took that as confirmation.
He also took it as a warning.
By the time these separate incidents were pieced together, the knights of Camelot had silently forged a list of survival commandments:
-
Never sneak up on Merlin.
(Gwaine once tried. The resulting gust of wind flung him into a puddle. A deep one.) -
Pretend his explanations are valid.
If Merlin says the forest is “moody today,” the forest is moody today. -
Compliment him frequently.
A happy Merlin meant fewer accidental explosions. -
Bring him food.
Hungry Merlin? Worse. So much worse. -
If he wanders off alone, DO NOT FOLLOW.
“Self-preservation,” Percival said gravely. “We don’t know what we’d see.” -
If Arthur insults Merlin, change the subject immediately.
For everyone's sake.
One night around the campfire, Arthur grumbled, “Sometimes I worry Merlin might be more trouble than he’s worth.”
The knights collectively froze.
Leon choked on air. Elyan subtly shook his head. Percival elbowed Gwaine so hard the man nearly toppled off his log.
“Arthur,” Leon said carefully, “Merlin is… extremely valuable.”
“Yes,” Elyan agreed hastily. “Vital, even.”
“A national treasure,” Gwaine added. “A blessing upon this kingdom. Irreplaceable.”
Arthur stared at them. “He forgot my boots in a pond this morning.”
“We all make mistakes,” Percival said loudly over the chorus of panicked shushing.
In the shadows, Merlin was feeding the fire, pretending he didn’t hear them, but his smug little smirk said otherwise.
But the truth was: they liked Merlin. They liked him a lot.
He was loyal and brave and kind, and if he was also a secret walking disaster with terrifying powers he wielded like a feral street cat?
Well.
They’d seen what happened to people who crossed him.
And they were very happy to be his friends.
After all, in Camelot there was no one better to have at your back—and absolutely no one you wanted as your enemy—than Merlin.